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hieroglyph

Sumerian Cuneiform and French Fries

A new post from Sir Darius Higginnbotham, the Duke of Rodents, in whose castle I dwelt with thefistofgod back in Nacogdoches, Texas, when I was going to SFASU.  He's thinking about his legacy.

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My, how the time scurries away. It has been several generations among those of my kind since the days when THAT and THE FIST OF GOD lumbered about my sanctum, gnawing on blocks of Velveeta, as they stared, hypnotized, at a strange glowing box with wires coming out of it. Long hours they spent, wrestling with its plastic tentacles.


Where are they now? The giants come, the giants go, and we hear no more of them. I really don't give a damn, but I do miss the NUTELLA in their laughably constructed 'traps.'


As for me, well, I've been thinking about my legacy.  I've decided to compose my memoirs in Sumerian cuneiform, since, being the oldest surviving script, it appears to have the staying power this weighty material deserves. (It's also easy to chew the symbols. Not as many parabolas as in the giants' script.)

These are what the giants use to write.  No use to me.


I have no faith in the persistence of the hairless giants' glowing boxes as a repository for all that I wish to bequeath to future generations.  Casting about for a material to withstand the ravages of time, I discovered, among the many leavings of our current herd of giants, a strangely shaped carton with orange and white stripes. The writing on it said:


SINCE 1950. WHATABURGER. Just like you like it.® THERE'S ONE NEAR YOU


Odd, but not excessively so. The giants leave many strange things in their big, dumb wake. But inside, ah, inside... there I found what I had been searching for.



Somewhere there are more of these excellent writing tablets.


There were three of them. I thought perhaps they were... food of some kind? But, no, following the ancient law of Neophobia, by which my kind have weathered the vagaries of fate for untold generations, I let them sit for a few days.


Nothing happened.


Even the ants ignored them. They were as unchanged as the walls and floors of the great structure. I dragged them back to my lair and placed them in a corner.


That was months ago. I have sired several generations since then. That herd of giants left the land they call Esses Ayf Yoo to take up a quest that is traditional among their kind, a rite of passage for their young, whence they search for some mythical land called WERK. They never return, but it makes no difference, for others replace them, stupidly dropping great riches everywhere they tread.


Like these three SINCE 1950s. These are the medium on which I will gift my message to eternity. I have already chewed symbols into two of them, marking all 4 sides with tales of my youth, memories of my mother, and the Great Poisoning that nearly eradicated us. Soon, I will have filled the third one. I must find more, for I have so much more to tell.


There is one thing that gives me hope... these words: THERE'S ONE NEAR YOU


And so, soon I will venture outside the confines of the great structure in which all my fellows dwell, out into the land of Esses Ayf Yoo, a dangerous realm where the giants tower unimpeded, a place no rat has ever been foolhardy enough to scurry.


Is it madness? Yes. But I must go.


I will look for the orange and white stripes and when I find more SINCE 1950s, I shall bear them home with me, enough to finish my opus. I expect I will need at least 20.


I will chew into them the symbols that will pass on to those who come after me all that I have seen and learned, for I am old now and do not wish to have all my memories and knowledge die with me.


Most of all will I render the knowledge I have accumulated about the habits and customs of this strange race of giants whose appearance has brought us both terrible troubles and great wonders, the greatest of all being that rare nectar they guard so jealously—except when they are trying to kill us—NUTELLA. There WILL come a night when we figure out how to get the damn jar open and when that day comes, I wish to be remembered as the one who prophesied it.


(Chewed into SINCE 1950 #3, this 7th night of the 30th moon since the coming of NUTELLA, by Sir Darius Higginbotham, Esq., scribe and scholar of the Giant-Plagued Wily Ones of the land of Essess Ayf Yoo. )

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Do not go gently into that good night. Leave your scratch marks on that tightly closed lid.