WC: TOASTER Update [17/01/22]

From The Universe came A Palpable Subject Matter. Then, through the murky darkness of that same deranged mind, The Universe decided that it would be amusing to create several quintillion perfectly rounded disks of zero real thickness to spin betwixt the vast swathes of nihility.

The recently established Inquiries Council for The Reclamation of Space bickered, and oft bickered at great length, about this inexpedient display and what it all was supposed to mean. Since even the most subdued of these altercations never quite seemed to lead to a satisfactory consensus, in addition to the prevailing sense of intrigue which regularly presented itself outside of the confines of the cramped office (someone losing their keys, for example): else hazarding rehashing the same arguments in perpetuity, the whole thing was more often than not delayed until the following week. Then, one day, after the three-thousandth prematurely adjourned meeting of the council, one passing celestial clump of a highly evolved species of mould descended from the great sun Zars decided that enough was enough. The whole of intelligent life felt enervated by the inadequacy of the Council’s continual proroguing of the inherent logistical issues space travel now presented. Something had to be done.

This being has long been referred to as ‘Lord Vomit’, or simply ‘LV’, in the asseveration of the final epilogue of that world which we will subsequently chronicle; that said, it is interesting to note that the appellation of ‘Lord’ here bears no actual significance. It is also interesting to note that once, through a series of clerical errors due to this clepe, Lord Vomit was whilom formally invited to join the Council. The singular ‘they’ refused, attesting that they had no real interest in galactic affairs, but not before stating for the record that they steadfastly and frequently opine their belief that the Council is internally corrupt and seeks only to eliminate the beauty of any universe to which it lays claim. Perhaps due to this fact, an inquest has recently been opened: an inquest which should once and for all ascertain whether the use of ‘Lord’ as a forename or sobriquet is admissible. Haply, this may be what incited the star-born child to individually stamp on each of the six and a half quintillion or so perfectly symmetrical disks until one did not collapse in a puff of logical disapproval.

This Fortuitous Disk, or ‘Frisbee’ as it was hereinafter, was hurriedly given the provisional name Planet—after the soft rock band—and the business of passing confusing and ineffectual guidelines on its geography, taxonomy, and etymology could begin.

Vomit had done it: they were very pleased with themselves. In sooth, they were so ecstatic with the discovery that, by the time a celestial birthing party was dispatched from The Great Naming Commission on Salstock IV to see what the hell was going on this time, Lord Vomit had already let slip of the Frisbee: now eternally in motion, and eternally out of reach. Howbeit, this is all in the past; or the future, depending on your own experience of time. The present is bleak: that much is clear.

We have scoured the annals and muniments from times of yore in the hope of providing clear and concise answers to the following: A) How one unstable two-dimensional cross-section of an unhappy three-dimensional Earth managed to worm its way into The Universe’s practical joke, B) How it was scourged into semi-existence in the wake of the indent made by The Boot, and C) How the events up to this point produced such abhorrent life forms as the Homo sapien. To these questions, our efforts were to no avail. However, what we did find or, more specifically, what specimen we did find was perhaps more shocking and politically charged than we could have ever anticipated. Eventuating our crusade, we can only conclude that every flaw inherent in the reign of the Homo sapien was coerced into this 5’9” male Caucasian specimen as we see no such ill-tempered manners in the contrasting Earth-hominids on Planet today. This family does not include the aforementioned personage as, in the wake of The Boot, his mind and body diverged so far beyond what is widely considered ‘the natural limit’ that he has become the singular aberration to biological classification. Suitably, he experiences reproductive isolation from all other lifeforms. He is also incredibly inept at interpersonal relationships; that is to say, as the preponderance of this book was compiled concurrently with his mind-numbing antics, the literary quality and congruence of our recollection may be commensurate with our social surround.

His survival in the face of what one could only assume to be his day-to-day life is a mind-boggling three to the five million, three hundred and twenty-six thousand and one to one against. Three to the five million, three hundred and twenty-six thousand and one to one against. Per day. And rising, I might add. He appears to be a true anomaly of The Universe who, against infinitely improbable odds, has never routinely been blown up, executed, or run over as predicted by countless baffled statisticians. The primary partitioning variables appear to be sheer pot luck and a gun. This gun he keeps fast around his middle inside a pair of Lunchbox Shorts. The 99.9th recurring percentile: his name is Eugene Melton.

His political incorrectness you will learn, but presently we would like to draw your attention toward a few particulars that we have either overlooked or forgot to mention in the book, which may help you gain a more nuanced understanding of his character: Eugene has a dolphin tattoo on the anterior of his left ankle—although he may attest that it is a shark, he is very much in denial of the former detail; Eugene also possesses a large, star-spangled, pattern on the right-hand side of his back—contact with the lowest star will result in Eugene exhibiting some Lordosis-like behaviour; Eugene habitually wears yellow sandals beneath any of several brightly coloured socks or tights; Eugene has a cherry flavoured Ring Pop on his left forefinger; Eugene enjoys wearing either of his two pairs of sunglasses—however, this is not a dress requirement; Eugene lives in an underground bunker, environed by a knee-height stone bailey; Eugene cannot swim without the aid of a woggle.

All of these prelusive events have meant that, to this day, Planet has never received a legitimate name. Cerebrating on this now: the fact that the old ‘Earth’ namesake, derived directly from the Earth-hominids’ obsession with the patches of humus that they could move more freely on, has indirectly resulted in Planet having to thole one of Earth’s many names for itself in perpetuity, seems almost ironic. Don’t say we didn’t warn you: it is a narcissistic bloody Planet.

Please note that, heretofore, we have not been referring to Planet by its certified astronomical denomination—a Plane Of Real Thickness (or PORT)—for two important reasons: number one, ‘Planet’ is easier to remember, and number two, the embittered intern of The Great Naming Commission on Salstock IV, who regorged this fatal name to a now⸗deceased superior, was recently found out to be an unpaid assassin who revels in the physiological deterioration of all who assay to enounce this name. Ofttimes this affliction eventuates in the following order but, ultimately, always terminates in a total failure of the mind: the victim will suffer an infinite inflexion of the unsuspecting maw orifice and then the involuntary inversion of their lips before, finally, a closing mind-implosion.

As luck would have it, hominids are not the only bestial vestiges to roam the slightly embowed face(s) of the Frisbee; the preponderance of the Flying Disk’s population is Meat and the ascendancy, Meatball.

The Meatball has also had a rough transition to veritable 3D. On Earth, the Meatball—or ‘meatball’ as they were ignominiously homogenised before their emancipation by The Boot—was routinely ingurgitated as sustenance for the zoophagous Earth-hominids. Fortunately, their suffering was alleviated somewhat at the moribund of the Earth when, in one last Hail Mary against climate change, there was a slight but commendable increase in the number of Earthlings converting to Vegetarianism.

Today, the Meatball Family represents the aristocracy on Planet: partly due to their predilection for grandiose displays of opulence and stentorian voices but also as a consequence of the glaring power vacuum of the new world. After some topographical incoherency, the Meatball Family has at last perched on the political heart of Planet: Centrefold; the only ‘multi-lateral’ city—making use of the limited z-direction—with one elevated stratum piercing the low-strung clouds for the upper echelon to more prominently express their egregiously poor taste in architecture. Indeed, their vacuous design language has been so pervasive in this region that it may even appear connatural to the circumjacent sediment escarpment: making this precipitous bluff an accessibility crime to the eye and crus.

Centrefold, located on the centrefold of Planet, is an eyot of roundish proportions which girdles a port, (The Port Of) Port; an unnamed shingle beach; a borstal, Debtors’ Prison; a manor, the Meat Palace (owned by Meatball Sans, Judge of Fate); and a citadel, The Citadel (formally known as The Citadel of Meats). The upper and lower strata may be quickly traversed by an escalier, the Stairway to Sustenance.

Centrefold, however, is but one holm on Planet. It is bound by the circumambient diluvium freshet, The Gaping Slack (or, by its local pet name, Dubai), whose exceedingly shallow waters course through the top side of the disk and connect all of the disparate lands of the Flying Disk.

In our Plane-trotting journey, we will cover all of these realms—and their respective customs—but it would not be unwise to use this moment to afford you some auxiliary bearings in this world before the story can begin.

Briefly, there are eight realms in Planet—with one recusant region in heated debate. Down the middle, from one perspective: the paw-shaped archipelago of THE SAVAGE CAPITALISTS, the Counteroffer Continent (or CoC); the hammer and sickle monogram of Crimea; the prevenient Centrefold; TUP [see ³]; and Good Vibes Ahoy!, a skerry in the shape of a crescent. On the same left, a singular barren wasteland—Insulae de los Galopegos (Germania), and on the right, the Росси́йская Сове́тская Федерати́вная Социалисти́ческая Респу́блика (Russian Soviet Federative Socialist Republic); the conterminous Englaland; and finally The Salting Meat, an atoll with a salting lagoon of incredibly well-preserved minceMeat^TM (due to the salt) which borders Englaland and The Uncharted Provinces. Whether the precedent region is indeed a realm, or nobbut an unoccupied territory with no claims of sovereignty, is presently a moot point.

Please do not trust a single word Eugene says: especially the single words.

We hope that you might find some comfort or solace in the pages we have spent many a sunny afternoon wildly chronicling in a dark room.

x

Love,

The Authors

(1) Earth-hominids: Earth-hominids are all hominid flotsam from The Dark Ages or the Earth.

(2) https://preview.redd.it/7xjbburc4g061.png?auto=webp&s=65137068fa14ed6790d7fb37868cdeb822b35904

(3) ‘Face(s)’ as, despite the evincible existence of the B-side to Planet—Australia, we are morally contracted to refrain from commenting on the truth of the latter, in fear of upsetting any sufficiently advanced lifeform that takes a hard line on extreme belief discrimination. Due to the latter and the adage that correlation does not imply causation, we are unable to single out any one specific region on Planet that hinders the brevity of this sentence: although we may note that there is an unusually high concentration of individuals and collectives who believe that Australia does not exist in the Planetal prefecture of The Uncharted Provinces (or TUP)—an uncolonised free land of indigenous conspiracy theorists with access to high-speed internet and more liberal Fleshbook^TM content restrictions.