Portal:Literature
As the generally accepted definition of literature today hugs folktales to its warm bosom, we might well conclude that literature began with one frightened caveman grunting (see language) his fears to his fellows by firelight. This, however, would be wrong. Scurrying, short and bitter academics in dank bare cells have clinically proven that 'literature' is caused by writing down things which never happened and which afflict the reader with acute boredom , in some cases literally boring the victim to death.
Today, the study of literature remains a major academic discipline at nearly every educational institution around the world, often being the most heavily required class for graduation. This is because academics have declared that finding themes (which the author totally intended to put in the work) is far more important than learning first aid, basic home and auto repair, or how to do your taxes. However, there is one major benefit to the study of literature: without it, as many as half of the jokes in your favorite TV shows would fly right over your head. (See more...)
Nineteen Eighty-Four (also known as 1984) is a novel written by visionary George Orwell way back when men were traveling by horse and oliphant. It depicts a world of totalitarianism where an evil entity, known as the Party, ruthlessly rules over everyone and everything. It was originally written on holly wood tree bark and moose skin until someone discovered the magnificent work and published it when the technology became available.
For those of you who have not read the book, never mind this article, stop reading right now and go on with your lives. There's nothing to see here. This book doesn't exist, it never existed. Cleanse your memory, reboot yourself and don't forget to show up to work tomorrow. For those who did read the book, go back to Room 101 to get your electroshocks and learn to think like the Party wants you to. You'll eventually realize that 2+2=5. Right before the Party shoves you in a barrel full of acid and vaporizes you into thin air. At least they'll let you chose between mint and strawberry scent. (See more...)
Such woe, my bladder filled right to the brim
If but perchance I sought to take a leak
Yet now my pantaloons now stainèd swim
In urine which now dribbles down my feet!
If only to the loo I'd gone posthaste,
Such musings are the act of lesser men;
My fav'rite pair of leggings would not waste,
But truth be told, I'll piss my pants again.
I never learned to listen to 'ol Blad
My colon wretches yet I never poo
Now brown and yellow mix with tidings glad,
Instead of me relaxing on the loo.
Now no fair maid could ever risk a glance
They run away because I shit my pants!
How the man known as H. P. Lovecraft came to have an Uncyclopedia entry written about him is a fact of whose blasphemous origins we shall never be privileged to know. That it is written at all is miracle enough, for we live on a placid island of literacy in the midst of black seas of slobbering idiocy and it was not meant that we should use a spellcheck. The great unwashed, each mashing their keyboards in the darkness of their parents’ basements, have hitherto harmed us little in our blissful ignorance; but perhaps their random effusions have now conspired to create an article of whose utter, brain-blasting idiocy will send us screaming to our nearest Webster’s (or at least mildly tick us off).
Who wrote it though, is a mystery; for the following is a peculiar message that had suddenly and unexplainably materialized as an article on Uncyclopedia after an eldritch power failure of the website's server during a stormy night when wolves, ravens and cicadas alike were unusually persevering in a combined cacaphonic frenzy yet unheard of and a massive aurora borealis was observed all across the northern hemisphere. Not one among the living knows where the message came from, other than that the message itself hints at an origin so horrible and blasphemous that it is perhaps best left unknown. (See more...)
BOSTON, Massachusetts – Pushed up against a far corner of the wall and beneath a shelf of dusty books in the living area of a humble little one-bedroom apartment in Back Bay sits an old maple desk. Sunlight from a window casts upon it, illuminating dancing little specks of dust which settle upon its varnished surface like noble drops of morning dew. Posters of impressionist paintings line the walls above, peeling, poetically.
"You like this?" says the owner of the desk. "It's an antique. From the 19th century. I find old things rather inspiring. Makes me think about the sorts of people who once used them and all the stories their lives once told."
Alan McPherson, amateur poet and curator for a local Tupperware museum, spends almost nine hours a day here at this desk, thinking, dreaming, and doodling in his various journals, stopping only to eat and use the restroom. (See more...)
| “ | When one has weighed the sun in the balance, and measured the steps of the moon, and mapped out the seven heavens, there still remains oneself. Who can calculate the orbit of his own soul? | ” |
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