Synopsis:
The basic outline of the book is a mixture of types of writing, which is then put through a slightly strange humour mixer. Though I mostly intended it to be a short story and novella type, it is more a mixture of humorous material. Basically it's just funny stories and bits of mangled imagery and silliness. You really can't categorize it. It is what I would call horrendously broken but happy to be.
Short note about myself:
Not much to tell really. I just like writing silly stories and live just like a normal 17 year old kid. My inspirations for writing are John Lennon, Andy Griffith, Dr Seuss, J.D. Salinger and Oscar Wilde. I'm pretty normal trust me, nothing like my stories.
P.S: There are only 17 pages in all. All the more reason the publishing costs won't break the bank.
Enjoy: R.s
A Ryan Stegman Novella about nothing but and if only everything. Maybe some stories, poems, books, recipes. Whatever comes out of it I'll be happy. A rare short glimpse into what could be the most interestingtillingable read you ever have. Even if it's less than 20 pages.
Through the Past, Looking and Furnituretales of me (or you).
Confused yet? I sure am.
11/16/2013 (date when looniness begins)
Back-word
Hello dear readers. Seeing as you were so enchanted about this novelilpip and you actually picking up the cover of it I'll assume you will want to know what it contains and what the point is. Well I clearly (or unclearly) say the point of the book is…..well….whatever you want it to be. May it be said I'm not accountable for your use of this book, sandwich or sand stealer in anyway. This contraption contains the einterwokings of my mind as laid to paper. I do have a knack for comedic miss spellings, (my English teacher would agree). I hope to make you entertained, scared, laugh, smile, dig deep, uncork the cord, sleep, hungry, fascinated, walk, run, hop sideways, confused and many more feelings and getting's about.
The contra-contraptionionala is divded/into/parts/to/make/each/section/stand/out/or/be/unique/like/the/godawful/teenager/i/am. I mean really a 16 year old writing a book. Come off it, you would have to be loonier than me on the evening I actually decided to write this thing. (My spellcheck is having a hard attack). I shall not keep you, my dear readers, waiting any longer but do remember this is my silliness written down on paper not yours so please please me and don't not steal. Borrow. Without further a doo doo I present to you the hopefully award-winning, spellbinding, in his own write:
Through the Past, Looking and Furniture tales of me (or you).
Part One: Oats or Oats?
Our bedazzled book begins with a story. A lovely little story I like to to teu call. The man with one leg shorter than the other or as it is known in France: L'homme dont la tête était anormalement élevé, mais aussi sorte de petit d'une manière mais pas dans le mauvais sens, comme une célébrité, il est une sorte d'accord de façon. Look it up you will die. Also known in Japanese as: Yuiitsu no ashi to te no tame no baketsu o motte ita otoko ga sentaku o shite, chōshoku no tame no kare jishin no hahaoya no shibafu ni suwatte yoru ni detekita.
The meanings are in the back.
Our story begins one fine summer morning in the back yard of a Scottish farm where Mr and Mrs man are discussing the King of England over a nice warm cup of Spanish trail mix. (which usually involves a sea biscuit and a nargle or two (JK. Rollin' will get it)
"Martha I'm telling you the king of England doesn't have this problem" yelled Warren. "Yes but he is perfectly capable of putting two shoes over his head for a good laugh 'ennit" rebottmed Martha. "O woman if you knew how much candy I have saved up over the years you wouldn't be so bugly underdressed". Warren jumped to his foot and hop singed away. He was a sad man. Fighting with several of his chickens caused him much distress. This man had a rare condition called leggity-blemin-romanitinaryasays which meant one of his legs was bigger than the other. This made his poor fuzzy life a little romantic. He hop singed to each of his flower whackers in the garden and cordially invited several queens on his way there. When he arrived to the place he was going (it was a well, apparently he had some fondness for wells because…..I don't wanna give plot detailleeosis) he stuck his larger leg inside the well and kicked something. Something big, edible and tangible. It was feberishly long, longer than a cow sign, bigger than a talkative snadddywhich he once meet during a meeting between him several dishwashers and a jaargan (big greasy hamburgers that are cold, but not so cold you can't hug them). As he pulled it up there it was. A snozzwang or was it in a philoprofitable term called a lid.
The end? Or was it ? was the lid evil? Was the lid colourful? Who nose
I don't nose
Maybe you nose
Because I don't.
Knoews.
PRAT TWO: neither berry foosball here nor wear?
Well done!
If you have survived the first part I would hug you, mush you, roll you up in a carpet and fly around the sea. If you finally understand this book you will have a whoopieie of a good time. O? right here are the Meanings for the frenchee and the yapanese: the French: The man whose head was abnormally high, but so small a way, but not in a bad sense, as a celebrity, he has some sort of agreement. The Japanese:
Now what wers I talking about. Ahh yes well done here is a poem about Wonderman. (He's not a she and me wrote it for thee) Hugh hey!
Wonderman was a woman
She kept people safe from harm
Until one day
She found an elf in her place
Reading terrible lines of poetry to quiet people
She tried to stop it but the all the elf could say was "it was me"
"It was me" he bellowed once last time till the chunk of his coat fell to the ground revealing what Floody (&) would call an Irish mis-matched Christmas
It shimmered on the rainbow he bought
Wonderman stopped the elf
Stopped the bad poetry and saved Christmas – Hooooray!
The next chapter is about a fiend, devilish, slightly egg looking, and sloppy nosed psychotic reacher-teacher!
PaRt 7 ¾: In which is a terrific part because it involves numerous recounts of bizarre coconuts, frog swappers, ladle bearers and rough duff.
…...
Sorry that PRAT seems to be singing…let me find another Uno.
Here we are:
The Tale of MaTTchew
This is arguably my favourite passage of written work I have ever done in the realms of Eanglsih. He speaks 20sisteenth languages and is fluent with gardening without hoses, while writing numerous self-help guides such as: 'Were o wehre is Mexico', 'My teu front teef' and 'Packbacking through wonderworld'. He is a hero to some a mischievous prince to others but most of all he is a lover of dance.
Mattchew was a pineapple shaped boy. His body never ended. If you found the end of one you would always find the beginning of the other. This made his getting abounds much too easy. There was one problem however. Hewas related to the lookatmytoadis group or mashbangs as he would call it. So one day he decided too leave the group and never come back at till the hibernation cooled off. CAN'T (reverse words) DNIF the ending insert film 6 NOW.
KEEP READING IT DOESN'T STOP!
SERIOUS!
NOT TOM FOOLIN!
You are almost loony!
You must like monty python!
And bad stories and jokes and writing of a certain nuture!
Python is an anagram for TyP-HON which is exactly what I (IS?) should do.
Here is a joke.
What did one schlep say to the other schleps?
I like all your collars! Are they indigo or nice?
Much like this book I believe some will dismiss as junk, garbage, bullspite or rampaging nonsense. They do not get it because they do not undersaand stupidity. Or humour. Or wars star (the original's obvs?). Most of them will not read it. It's too mainlake and on bed spread 9 (not jam). If you got that last joke you are so damn up the wall hipster than I.
Here look at this
*.*
*You did something a book told you. N I c e
Party 5: Meatball organizer or urangatang dicer?
By now this book probably doesn't make sense to you, but that's okay. It's perfectly asuccestible to be scared of what you do not know. For instance have you seen my cat George?
He is perfectly tall
O so handsome
And wears rather large rounded earrings
He doesn't usually run off but he seems to have a knack for chasing gozzsnatchers and willywags
Dreadful thing.
I digress.
I have numerous things to explain and be unexplained but all in good time perhaps it is time for another chapter smashing, dishwashing, hallucination egotistical story.
INSERT TOAD: Ingredients2 tbsps unsalted butter
1 lb sirloin (grassfed, cut into 3/4" pieces)
21/2 ozs seasoned (flour, with white pepper and kosher salt)
1 tbsp hungarian paprika (delicate sweet, Paprika-örlemény Csemege)
1 tsp paprika (hot Hungarian, optional)
1 bay leaf (fresh)
1/2 tsp lemon zest (fresh)
1 tsp chopped fresh thyme (and marjoram leaves)
1/2 tsp fresh rosemary (finely chopped, leaf)
1/2 tsp fresh sage
1 leaf rolled
1 tbsp flat leaf parsley (finely chopped)
kosher salt (to taste)
1 filet (small anchovy, packed in oil, chopped, optional)
1 sweet onion (peeled and diced)
1/3 cup celeriac (peeled and diced)
1 carrot (peeled and diced)
1 parsnip (peeled and diced)
1 potato (peeled and diced, red bliss used here)
1 heirloom tomato (large meaty, cut in half)
1/2 cup red pepper sauce (cooked, pureed sweet)
7 ozs vegetable stock (homemade)
1/2 cup dry red wine (consider Egri Bikavér, "Bull's Blood of Eger")
1 tsp grapeseed oil (for baking dish)
1 lb puff pastry (excellent)
1 yolk (beaten egg)
sour cream (dollop of, as garnish, optional)- PUT IT IN I DARE YA.
Whoops sorry about that. That is my recipe for Hungarian-Irish-ghoulish-pot-pie. How did that get in there? Bloody Nargles! Any way here it is?
"Alice and the tale of her two front teeth"
Alice awoke one morning to find a lady sitting on her bed.
She screamed at her but she did not move a muscle.
Suddenly she turned to her and said "I wish a fate on you much worse than a pocket of jelly babies"
The room spun around so fast her head grew two sizes up and then disappeared.
It was empty. Alice was nowhere. The woman was nowhere. All that was left was a card.
The card read "Gone Shopping".
FIN, Bravoio!
Onword!
I told him not to do that but he never listens to me. It's just silliness. All he writes is creative jibbers. Is there no help for the boy? He is not an author he just a weeny-teeny-peeny schoolboy what would he know about books? A fair bit actually.
Purt 392 & 1/16.
Reflection: A self-jiving stab on the recount of the author.
Here we are. The ill-fated over stated part of the book where it gets deep. So deep you will get a cold from your mother and a hot sled machine from your own bed sheets. I will address some questions first.
Capital of Ireland
A: Too easy….Ecuador?
How many dogs does it take to fill a pool?
A: precisely and I mean so damn fine that even one turnip over a hair could count less. About 7.
So mister author, why did you do all this looniness? Why would you write a book?
A: Several reasons. To make myself happy, to help me be creative, to help me finally catch all my English aspirations lay them to paper for anyone to see. It is a tad frightening that you lay such personal details to friends and strangers alike, but it is also intriguing to watch their faces got from shock to confusion to happiness. Books can do that.
The next part is funnier…..i swear….. If it's not comedy gold then I'm not a Ravenous-pinecocnuttis-wizzlywashing machine or the quite large type.
The Night I Met "Paul McMartney"
I dreamt this:
I was walking around the Football stadium where they always played reggae music constantly. I mean CONSTANTLY. They never stopped. The one time they did many of the animals that usually barked started evaporating I don't know if it was the amount of fizz-wizzers in the air or the catapulting fish next door, whatever the reason, I was walking past it when I heard a particular unique voice.
The man was singing. Singing a song I heard before. A song I always played on the late night shift at the rudio station. "Helter Meltzer" was that song! I ran down the past the two big front doors of the stadium, that always looked and smelt as if it was plucked from a sunburnt farm with the way its legs crossed over and over again. As I was sprinting I was dumbly thinking of what a tale it would be to tell my friends about the time that I almost met him, the great man. Paul McMartney.
He was there. Big knee high booties, with bearnet stockings up yonder, with many different colours saturated over them. As I look further up I noticed more things. The oval shaped stomach patrolling both sides of his body round and round they go, above that two birds having a conversation regarding Aladdin and weather it was a truer story than the Jungle Book. That's when I finally got to the head of him. A mouth so small you could even see in the brightest sunlight, eyes like pools of Oktoberfest engulfing you as you swim deeper into them, his hair on the fritz like a lightning bolt seem to have jabbed him only on the head.
It was no doubt. It was him. Paul McMartney.
As I headed for him I was stopped by two guards carrying, unknowingly, two wrist watches that changed with every mood. "May I pass on through old boy" said I. Both of them stood there gawping at my question. They were so gawped they lost all contact with their own bodies and become transparent to the ceiling behind them. I approach Paul and it's clear he wants nothing to do with me as he starts to slightly turn a softer colour with each step I take. I start sprinting and by the time I've reached him, he is nothing but a speck on the floor.
The Slightly Banjoed 'Paul McMartney' gone in an instant.
Just like The Author's mind after re-reading that story.
CONCLUDED SUCCESFULLY.
Much like a prince too the courtyard.!
The next pert is a stort story.
The Tale of Billy-Bottomless and Half-a-job Harry
There was a small boy about the age of 6 who was born with a terrible problem. This boy was called Billy and he was Bottomless. His entire life he dreamed of having a bottom. So that one day he may sit down comfortably without sliding off the furniture. He worried all the time about his rare condition until he met his soon-to-be best friend, Half-a-job Harry. Harry was called half-a-job because….well….you guessed it! He did everything halfway.
"G'day Harry my names Billy" said Billy as he cheerfully shook his hand. "Hel Bil me nams alf-e-jo arry, cause I do ings unly n alf" causal talked Harry. They soon started discussing Billy's problem of being bottomless. "Alright harry if you can fix this you will be my besterest friend in the world!"
Harry laid his eyes on his back pants and with a wave of his magic fingers seven geese flew through the air. Pudding flying from every direction, tears of the neighbours bellowing as if they had never seen a more beautiful sight in their life. Smoke grew around the two lads and by a whiff of a hanky and a strobe of a wizard it settled. There it was Billy's butt in all its glory. "OH THANK YOU HARRY HOW CAN I EVER…Wait a second…It feels kinda funky". Billy stepped back from Harry. "WHERE THE HELL IS THE OTHER HALF OF MY BUM!" screamed Billy. "I only half-arsed it" Laughed harry. Just then a spaceship beamed up Harry for all his tomfoolery and sent him on a space picnic with Dame Edna.
The end.
Like the ending of an 'SNL' episode it is time for so solemn thank you notes.
Thank you to my buds and buddies. You are crazy eneath to read this.
Thank you to everyone else who I don't know and whoever picked this up. Thank you
To commemorate our great time together here is a picture of me and you together.
I laughed.