Let's Overdramatize!

Little writing exercise here. Pick something mundane you did today and write the overly dramatic description of it. Follow with what really happened.
I will start.

He roared into town, the storm at his back. Lightning flashed and ukuleles wailed as he skidded to a stop. His boots clocked inexorably to the door.

What really happened: I was riding my motorcycle and listening to my iPod. I got home just ahead of a thundershower and a piece by The Ukulele Orchestra of Great Britain was playing just as I parked and ran up the steps of my porch.

They departed base with some trepidation; while it had been quiet lately, a storm was said to be brewing on the horizon and people could get hurt. . .badly. A quick reconnoiter revealed no hidden assassins, but they opted for a less-traveled path in order to foil any nefarious plans. Checking carefully for enemy convoys, they shoed manfully across the treacherous main route, narrowly missing being attacked by wild cats on the other side. Two miles later, after a successful patrol, the daring duo climbed the sheer face in front of them and arrived back at the base, exhausted but satisfied that the world was a safe place for at least one more day.

Translation: the forecast called for sprinkles, but we went for a walk, crossed the main street with the walk sign, gave a kitty a scritch, walked up the mild slope at the end of the street and came back home.


Eating the corpse was what they planned in the first place. Setting ablaze their portable furnace, they charred the flesh of the dead before consuming.

They also had hot dogs and lemonade

A noxious gas filled the air. Discord and dismay ensued. Questions were raised about the wretched offender - releaser of odors so horrid that breathing the surrounding air unfiltered was nearly unthinkable. Inquiries were raised as to whether or not a death had occurred in the orifice from which the smell emanated; however, there was insufficient evidence to conclude anything with certainty.

I can tolerate Honey Boo Boo. :frowning:

The world rolled by on its merry path to hell as I moved my mouse-wheel.

It was blamed on the four-legged snarling drooling beast of a single-headed canine guarding the gates of hell.

Outside, dark clouds loomed and thunder rumbled ominously in the distance. With considerable trepidation, I inserted the plug into the outlet and the monster machine roared to life. The dogs fled in terror as I slowly pushed the roaring beast across the floor.

What really happened: it rained. I vacuumed.

Also, Bulwer-Lytton.

As darkness suffused the sky and the few who braved the elements scurried for cover the terrifying sound of the great beast’s eldritch cries were heard throuighout the land. O god, I moaned again. We are doomed to another night of unrelenting horror. Will no brave warrior dare to step forward and slay the creature?

Neighbor’s wretched little dog which barks for no reason at all started tuning up for another hour of yapping outside my bedroom window.

The writers of old, I realized, had been right. To entrust one’s happiness - one’s passion - one’s soul - to the cold machine; no good could come of it. And now, as the horrifying sound reached me, I felt the bile rise in my throat, felt the summer breeze turn cruel, felt the future I’d hoped to have be replaced by harsh reality. And why would I be optimistic? Why would I hope, hope for a better outcome, after all the suffering? Let it be remembered: the computer will never triumph above the human heart. Alas, it is too late for me. Far too late . . .

Translation: Pandora played a song I didn’t like.

Today, I was involved in a five car automobile accident that killed two people and shut down a major highway for several hours.

And by “involved” I mean I was one of the drivers who had to take the detour route.

“Good Lord, man! What happened to you?!?!” cried Excelsior, to handsomeharry. “Are you alright? Quick, Collins! Call the medics, and maybe, just maybe, they have something that can help pull handsomeharry through!”

IRL: “Wow, you look like you had a rough night. Somebody’d better bring hh some coffee to help him get through the day.”

Slowly, slowly, I struggled, flailing, to rise to the surface, leaving the darkness behind and wincing at the cold air and the bright merciless light. Even so, I wasn’t safe. I found my footing and slowly stood up, shivering, full of fear and trepidation. I heard a growling before I beheld the awful beast in the distance. It approached slowly, stopped and glared. Snarling, waiting to be placated and fed. I took a deep breath, put one foot in front of the other and did what I had to do…

Translation: woke from a deep sleep to a cold, bright groggy morning-after. Grumpy husband toddled in, home for the weekend, asking I cook him bacon, eggs, and home fries. I put on a sweatshirt, took some aspirin, and hauled my sorry ass down to the kitchen, made some coffee, and dug out a frying pan from the cupboard.

(In Bulwer-Lytton style)

Camouflaged in black, he stumbled down the hill in the inky darkness, carrying the torch loosely by his side. The last words of a bad joke hung in the air, framing an apt commentary on his mission. Slowly, with exaggerated care, he lowered the object to the ground. His wobbly stance caused the torch to spiral in a seemingly endless quest for it’s target. Finally a flame burst forth, hypnotizing him. It lingered near the ground, never growing, never shrinking - a confused fire with no purpose. He bent over it, convinced his breath could ignite the failing flickers of the flame.

Watching my drunk neighbor setting off a firework, thinking “Thank God that one’s a dud.”

I stared at the pile, suddenly filled with misgivings. I had read about sociopaths. They just didn’t CARE. They didn’t have ability to. I realized, grimly, that I shared that trait. I would never be able to choose correctly, but choose I must, even though my choice would surely reveal my secret to those around me. I had no choice, for not choosing was an even worse choice.

I heaved a heavy sigh and went with the beige shirt with the tan checkerboard stripe pattern, because it hid stains well. I had no idea if my choice was wrong or right, maybe the light blue shirt would have been a better choice. I didn’t know, because I just didn’t CARE. I was a man. And my wife was woman. She would know. She would know.

Thouands of years ago, ancient Peruvians heard the sound, and knew what it meant: that the beast grew hungry again, and must be satiated. And now, all these years later, I suddenly heard the same high-pitched noise. That noise, I realized, that only meant one thing - that I had to satisfy the ravenous hunger of the beast, or know its wrath!

I stumbled to the chamber where the sacrifices were kept, and opened it with a creak. But, the creature heard! And he let out another cry that could only be uttered by his kind! My search in the chamber took on new urgency, for if I could find nothing to stop him… no, I could not allow thoughts of what would happen, if I failed in my search, distract me. That outcome, THAT result…No. Unthinkable. I swallowed involuntarily and searched on.

This? No, he will not accept this… This? No…wait! THIS is a suitable sacrifice! A flash of triumph flashed across my face; but the pleasure was short-lived, for I knew the final steps lay ahead. I headed over to the chamber which, for now, was sufficient to contain the creature. I pulled on the latch…all the while, HE was staring at me. Then I carefully placed the sacrifice down upon the ground and removed my hand while the creature was thankfully distracted by the new item in his prison. He stomped over to the helpless red sphere…and chewed right through it with his powerful jaws, adapted over millennia for this dark purpose. The red innards of the sphere spilled out onto the floor, but were quickly gobbled up by the creature. I watched with amazement as the violent act turned the jaws of the creature red, but he did not stop until the sphere was no more. His incredible hunger had at last been satiated - for now.

My task was completed. But in the back if my mind, I knew it was not over yet. It would be mere hours before the sound returned to haunt me, and the cycle would be completed once again. Again, as it had several times a day since the creature chose my house as a base to unleash his campaign of sound and fury upon the world.

Translation: My guinea pig squeaked for food, and I gave him a cherry tomato.

I awake late that summer morn, the day following the annual celebration of the vanquishment of our so-called oppressor, and ponder whether my fellow countrymen and I are truly better off…I select my attire for the day: long trousers of a rough woven material, designed to protect my legs from disease-carrying vermin; a backless, waterproof foot-covering kept in reserve for today’s activity; and, finally, the colorful undergarments of my people. I leave our humble–yea, much scorned–abode of aluminum and journey to an ancient, separate building which houses the tools of my ancestors. Taking up one such item, a trowel made in the old style of wood handle and metal blade, I kneel upon a cushion of foam before a mixture of river clay and the leavings of equine companions, the latter being of such rarity in these times that I had been forced to exchange a portion of my hourly wage for a preset amount of said product. Into this mixture I set the embryonic flowers, currently misshapen, bulging spheres which offer little hint as to the delicate beauty they will eventually offer. Meanwhile, the eldest of our feline companions keeps close watch for avion intruders, as well as for the opportunity to add his own leavings to the soil mixture.

I planted flower bulbs outside our trailer while wearing a tie-dye undershirt and jeans. The cat kept trying to turn the loose soil into an outdoor litter box.

I would, under more mundane circumstances, be the first to admit that reads can be wrong, but as I stand here, my gaze locked with his, I can find no shred of doubt anywhere: he will fight. It must be a particularly distant cousin of logic that tells him I’m the enemy here. Asking him to explain his thinking would be useless. I know my client well enough to know that. His reasons are his own, but frankly his reasons don’t matter anyway. Central Planning requires his torture, and my assignment is simply to help him bear it. My job wouldn’t change a bit if I suddenly knew why he resists me.

This torture session, much to my annoyance, has actually stayed to its original scheduling. If Planning could have delayed it by even forty-eight hours, I would have had a much easier week. Hell, these things get bounced around by months all the time… but not for me, I guess. So, here we are, session well underway.

“Agony” is too strong a word for his current condition. “Severe discomfort” is closer to the mark. The lances have been pressing in firmly for a while now, and his flesh should tear any moment. I’m told this is the worst part – the build-up rather than the eventual rending. You’d think I’d know, having gone through the exact same torture protocol myself, but we have a way of suppressing such memories. As far as I’m aware, no one remembers their pass through the process, despite Planning’s requirement that everyone (with extremely rare exception) go through it.

The entire system is bizarre. If some race of extraterrestrial voyeurs were to look down at our civilization’s inability to rid itself of this exercise, what would they think? We’ve gone from stone tools, to fire, to pack hunting, to agriculture, to animal husbandry, to the industrial revolution, to electrical grids, to telephony, to the automobile, to modern medicine, to home computers, to the ability to summon information out of thin air onto a handheld device that can even read that information to you if you so wish… yet we somehow have remained slaves to this excruciating protocol? “That’s bonkers,” they would say. “Fucking bonkers.”

The first move is mine. As I pick up my tools – and I’m well-trained in their use, even if I don’t understand the chemistry involved – I can’t help but try giving off a sense of fellowship, an unconscious gesture that will in practice do squat. Indeed, the instant I move in to begin my work, he strikes violently at my right arm with his left. I anticipate this fully, revealing my first advance to be a pump fake. I pull my hand away and quickly return it back, coming in behind his passing blow. He immediately pulls his head far to the right so that it’s tucked behind his now finished left hook. On the whole he’s outmatched, but his speed and dexterity are still formidable. Without delay, I reach under his arm, hoping his view of the injector will be blocked while I use my free hand to feign an approach from above…

Damn! Surely that should have worked.

After a seeming eternity of thrusts and parries, I contemplate giving up. It’s his torture. I’m only trying to help, and if he so violently refuses my efforts, what can I do? After a point, the cure becomes worse than the disease, and that’s as much a failure for me as anything. If I can’t deliver in th…

An opening! Whether it was blind luck or whether my thoughts interrupted the cadence of the battle just enough, I don’t care. His hands are defending all the wrong trajectories, and his mouth is opened just wide enough. In a flash, the package is delivered. He tries desperately to remove it before his body takes it in, but my aim was true. The inside of the cheek is a perfect location, and he can’t do anything about it now.

I pack up my gear. We’re both calmer, happier now. His torture will continue. I can’t stop that. But at least he’ll suffer less, for a time.

My 12-month old son has some molars coming in. It hurts. He doesn’t like me giving him children’s tylenol through the little syringe thingy, even though he actually likes the taste and it makes him feel sooooo much better.

She opened the door and stared into the room. The hustle and bustle of humans, despite the late hour, made her nauseated. The hum of giant machines and stench of chemicals added to her despondency. Yet she had to walk through the crowded, smelly dense area to a quiet, small, calm room where she would get some relief.

While walking home from work, I stopped at the 24 hour Laundromat to use the bathroom.

With trepidation I approached the gaping maw of the shiny white beast. I fed it as much as it would take; and left it to it’s digestive process. Later I hung it’s leavings in the scorching heat of the noonday Sun.

IRL: Monday is laundry day!