This Day in History
On Monday, August 15, 2016, you read this sentence. And then you read this one, noting it began with a coordinating conjunction. It could’ve been attached to the first sentence with a comma, but for some reason it wasn’t.
“Hey! I’ve never given two shits about grammar and punctuation before. I don’t even know what a coordinating conjunction is,” you say to yourself, and instantly regret your admission for fear you’ve just invited someone to tell you what a coordinating conjunction is. You’ve tried your whole life to forget everything about the 5th grade, and if that means not knowing parts of speech or how to divide with fractions, then so be it.
But then you recall something about the acronym FANBOYS, and just now, behind your eyes, you see a large stone tablet engraved with the words: “A coordinating conjunction with a comma can join two independent clauses.”
Before your mind can puzzle over what an independent clause is, you realize something isn’t quite right. Why the hell am I thinking about this, you wonder. You retrace your steps and inventory the events of the day so far. Sure, you’ve played with yourself a little bit more than usual, and the Wookie mask got caught in your zipper again, but you realize that things didn’t get weird until you started reading this blog.
It’s as if someone is putting thoughts and ideas into your mind. Thoughts and ideas that weren’t there to begin with.
For instance, up until this point, you don’t remember ever having heard of Serbian folk singer Ceca, but now you effortlessly hum the title track of “Ja Još Spavam u Tvojoj Majici.” What could it mean? Is she dead? Is she haunting you? No. Somehow you know she’s still alive, and then for a moment your heart flutters and your stomach lightens. Could she be your soulmate? You’ve heard about soulmates, but you thought they were a myth like the platonic fuck buddy.
“Wait a damn minute!” you say to no one in particular. “I don’t even speak Serbian.” Yet that doesn’t stop you from being moved by Ceca’s laments for love betrayed. If only there were some way you could verify your connection with the singer. You consider contacting her through Twitter or Facebook, but this post is less than one thousand words long, and there’s no way she could get back to you in time. There’s always black magick, but if you sacrifice a goat today, you’ll be smelling its burnt guts for the rest of the week.There has to be another way.
You realize if you’re feeling this connection with Ceca, and knowing things you shouldn’t know about her, maybe she feels it, too — but then you panic. What does she know about you that she shouldn’t know? Does she know about Tokyo and the diplomatic satchel you discovered on the body of the dead futanari? Impossible, but you must know for sure.
You google telepathy and find out it’s real. After taking a brief moment to center yourself, you align your chakras, keeping one hand in the Vedic mudra of Compassion for All Beings Even the Ones We Don’t Like. The other hand you keep on your mouse so you can still scroll and click as necessary. You check one last time to see if you understand Serbian, nope, and then focus all your will on projecting your mind into Ceca’s.
At first, all you hear are your own thoughts, and for a moment you’re not even sure you’re telepathing. But after a few moments the words, feelings, and images that make up your inner monologue begin to morph into something different, something foreign and squishy, until you can just barely recognize them as your own.
Only you’re not thinking in Serbian. At least you’re pretty sure your thoughts aren’t in Serbian. You don’t really know what Serbian sounds like except as it’s sung by Ceca, but even that you can’t quite be certain of since you’ve never heard it with your physical ears. You’ve only heard it with your brain ears, and right now your brain ears are telling you that your brain mouth sounds like a chicken, sometimes a sheep. Even now, as you scan this page in terror, you see the words, but all you hear in your head are the strident clucks and bah’s from a distressed farm, possibly a Tyson farm.
Is this how all of Serbia speaks, you wonder, but this only increases your admiration for Ceca who really makes it sound great in her music. In fact, you grow accustomed to thinking in chicken and sheep. There’s a certain efficiency in the language that’s absent in human tongues. A single cluck or bah might express an entire Frazen novel or 2–3 smaller, more interesting novels, and so with a single glance you’re able to take in this entire blog post. Reading the beginning, middle, and end all at once grants you a sort of omniscience that you’d never had before you started reading this post.
It seems so obvious to you now that you’d come here, as one of the first chosen, read the sacred words in this post, and then go out to shepherd the people’s of the world into the the Bionic Cult, teaching them to cluck here, to bah there, and when the effect seems appropriate, start sentences with a well chosen for, and, nor, but, yet, or so. Of course it was obvious, because on this day in history, Monday, August 15, 2016, you established the Bionic Church and its official language, Serbian.
As for Ceca, well, cluck cluck bah.
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Originally published at bionicprose.com on August 15, 2016.