A Story of Sorts... , a short story by Bob_banana. Date added: 2008-12-14. Times viewed: 867.
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- Intro: A short non-sensical and fictitious look on Sean Connery's youth and a critique of his role in Finding Forester
- Sean Connery was up to no good. His no deed poetic inspirations could have hurt many deviations that once came into the minds of his many unadulterated students. His semantics and probations did the most of his gruesome work a fair trade and his nonsensical line of thinking gave his point of view a rather illiterate approach to the whole issue. Red banners and silver linings fuzzy and spiky made most of us sheer with disgust. The ultimate goal of his useless faults brought shivers down the spines of the coldest roughest cowboys and girls. Black flocks of sheep untainted made a cry out for help whenever they saw Sean Connery near, walk towards them. Scared to death of his infamous might and wrath, running away their paranoid sheep brains rested at ease only after hours of psychological help, and most of them never did see the day of light or the darkest hour or any blood pumping through the veins of what was a hollow skull of an organic being but was now no more than a bump in space.
Most of his girlfriends never did have the capacity to see him for what he pretended to be. Because be he was nothing. Most of his hand gestures ultimately led to a series of inconspicuous dribbles verberating in his echoes in between his various tongues. His father was a liar and his mother was a smoker. Yes, his dad lied like a rug and his mother lit her next cigarette with the previous one. They had deer running through their halls. They were sad antelopes many of whom carried out dreaded efforts to escape and failed attempts to eat themselves. The glasses of the father tended to concentrate the sunlight on the books he said he read and make burn patches all over the furniture, which added to the burn patches of the cigarettes his mother dropped every time she was culminaly close to spontaneous combustion. It was a dangerous household to be brought up with, specially due to the lack of fire extinguishers. This unregulated excuse of a home made a stabing impression on the cub deer who all grew up to be successful drug lords. Low as the temperature of the house was his father would look you in the eye without blinking twice and tell the most horrendous bendings of like-truths. He would tell so many atrocities that by absolute chance some twisted themselves into an organic self-conscious entity which roamed the more palpable quarter of the earth, passing here and there over an unsuspecting customer. "Watch out for the flies!" they would cry. And they lied. THERE WERE NO FLIES! But all is well that ends well and the Connery's never understood this.
Enough useless bickering about those impeding liars. Back to Sean Connery: his white beard had little microscopic nests for amaebalous birds that flew in and out the different stories that drifted into his fathers not so sincere eyes and all Sean's acting made many the most of us quiver and the least of us exalt. Green prairie dogs and valley trees made the greatest of us emanate cascades of tears and basses and notes and tunes and holy ancient scriptures of guide lines for straight-to-video movie scripts. All the actors were a millimeters' away from beating each others' faces into their respective pulps. Balls and shatters thrown around like snowballs. The cry of the looser. White girls drawing doodle with their noodles. Nonsensical paradoxes limited by a vague understanding of the world as many of the youngsters' perspective of the take on Van Gogh's latest book by Robert de Niro's latest wife. Finding movies all to real or fake with fake musics and real troubles. All quite exuberating. He felt his breath fasten to his heart. Was he wrong? Did he take the wrong path along the way? He wasn't all that he was cranked up to be by himself. He refused to believe many things he felt were true. It was quite pitiful. The troubles he though he method-acted were in reality not all that bad. The chorus and angelious harmonies of the different semitones made no sense to the non-intelligent. He had NOT been a teacher for thirty years. He had been a filthy liar, actor. He reeked of cheese, or at least his writers did. Its sad to hear that a great artist has died but it is great to hear that some nonsensical lying son of a gun passes away to better blues. Of course I'm not talking about Sean Connery in the late tip of the hat-thirties. He was a believer. Like his father was a believer of lies. Great musical lies. Organic lies. Fire Lies. Tiny white lies and dark shadow lies. Majestic lies. Epic lies. Royal lies and thieving lies. Mending lies and hurtful lies. Sinful lies. Sunny lies and grey cloudy rainy lies. Smokey lies and sexy lies. Funny lies and addictive lies. Truly depressing lies and even admirable lies. Holy lies and pitiful lies. Eyeing lies and eerie lies. Conspicuous lies and helping lies. True lies and greedy lies. False lies and half-lies. Tormenting lies that he told his own wife, and his son, and his own father and mother, even at their most senior years when they knew, and he knew they knew, that he was lying, he lied to all his uncles and cousins and friends, he lied to every one that passed him on the street and every preacher that told him to stop lying, he even lied in his prayers to God. But he never lied to himself, or rather he lied to himself so ridiculously that he thought he himself was telling the truth. How he did lie about everything, about what he had eaten and what he had seen, and the places that he had been to and the places where he never was. About the movie he just saw or the game he just now came from. He lied about his house and his tupperware, he lied about the quantity of children he had and their names. He told every one that the people in his family who had died were alive and everyone who was living was dead. He lied so much people knew he was lying before he even began to speak. He even lied about what he was wearing at that very moment. He lied in blue, black and red. He lied to his own reflection in the mirror when he woke up and he lied to his pets. Early in his life people started realizing he lied so the truth was just the opposite of what he said. He became aware that people called his bluff so from the age of nineteen he started coming up with the most absurd and outrageous pieces of the pie lie one normal peasant could never had the misfortune of coming up with. He was a pitiful man with no sense shine, slowly he had no friends, then no family, then no wife, then his children left him, then his pets moved out, then the furniture started leaving, then the walls and roofs and floors unearthed themselves and flew away, then the grass and ground beneath him shook and eroded and sunk until there was just and empty void of nothingness around him everywhere he went. Like a big plastic ball were he was in the center and eventually the air got tired of his dirty lies and he drowned on emptiness. It was truly sad but no one missed him since he even lied about his own existence so people just thought that he wasn't.
And that was Sean Connery's dad, a short fellow and one hell of a liar.
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