tincantheory

ull new transflations — Rosetta Stone hypothoses

Category: Miscellaneous

Write for Tin Can Theory

There’s a little tin can in all of us. In some, it’s a bit larger, like the big family soup kind. Still others are so ingrained and tuned to their inner tin can that boundaries seem to blur. We call these tin men–eh…tin people–and these people need an outlet, a can opener, if you will.

Don’t worry, it’s metaphorical.

How is your tin can? Have you spoken to it lately? It may be that you never knew it was there. Introduce yourself. Put your fingers to keyboard and bring it out to play.

Tin Can Theory is open to submission. It’s not easy work–you’ll know if you skim through. It’s a duty. A way of living. About what you see is about what we’re looking for, but with your twist.

Right now it’s just a man and his can. Shake us up. Mix us around. Show us what you’ve got.

 

If you’re interested (and it would be very great if you would happen to be interested), please submit work or questions to jerrontables@tincantheory.com. We’re not so much looking for a guest blogger, but more of a colleague who would post with at least semi-regularity. However, single guest post submissions are welcome.

 

One thing is for sure. This is bigger than a Jerron Tables. We are all here–all of us atumble in this great, big aluminum clanker, skidding down the pebbled pavement after one swell of a well-deserved swift kick.

Are you tin can enough?

 

‘course you are.

Broth of Man

Francesca opted to not. She didn’t know what to when and who to how. And where? But she knew it was cool. So she said she’d have two, please. And opted all the hot ones.

“Oh and extra Jimbo on the side. The biggest, the bester and est.”

Whom and whose? Wither whence? Hup two-three-four. Hup two-three-four.

Stand up! In the name of sexual activities–prenuptial penile proclivities. Promiscuous perversions, you sweet and sour pussycatimus cantankeronomous. Rubber Rhinoceros. Grab the the bull by it’s hornblower, you pantomiminous polymered butter hole. Read em’ and weeps. Whip. Weeps harder! Buggard!

You sorry sack of seed something, summers after spring cling. You all the other instances of neosporin spleen steam.

Ouch.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight.

I counting all my dates. I sleep when eyes awake. I bitter sack and ice my back when runny tummy ache.

“Francesca, you too much TVs. You glue your eyes to your demise and grope the silver screen!”

“Aww moms–your probs! You Calvinistic sobs. Your mind should grow and wrap around the sheets of bob and bob.”

“Which way?”

The can! The can! The way the world began. We made ourselves and somethin’ else and blah blah–

Squeeze the hand

Broth of man

I’m a Real Boy

What happens when the waters take me? The fluids. Just wet enough. When–ready! Like a sneeze. No, a rocket! 

Boooshhh!

Catch me. You can’t catch me. All you guys. My brothers. Where we find the–? What’s the winner get? We are exchanging! We are life. Rocket life!

All these sounds. Woosh! And these heart beatings. Liquid warmerings, running, gooshy–vibrato! The Airplane. Haha! I’m barrel rolls! I’m eh-eh-eh-eh-eh-eh-eh-eh! You take that and you catch my dusterings!

vvvvvvoooooooshhh!

Wahooo! HaHA! We’re cookin’ with fire now! Watch out for the wall! Left! Right! Left! Up! Move it!

Who’s the rotten egg? I am the first one. I am the king master manna! I can poke! I can poke poke poke! I can poke poke poke poke poke poke poke poke–

Hey what’s a–

AYYYYYIIEEEEEE!!!

Literal Translations of Tomorrow Nimcompoop Derived of Today Nimcomfreebirds (or Fake it ‘Til you Take it)

Where did you go?

We swept the streets a Nickleberg, spottin’ dimes, rubbin elbows and misconductin’ the pantomimes.

 

What did you do?

Somethin’. And sometime we did to ain’t. Paradox reslumber. Something inherent in nothing. Something like dust.

 

For when did you what for?

Three dollars. It didn’t really matter whose hand had the rubberdup. Iron grip. Velco and a panic attack. Always two steps away from rubbin’ under.

 

From whence did hence?

Baltimore, Boston, Burlington, Boxville, Biscuitcar, Bip. They came from all over. Blixbeeburg. But funny–and you never heard this from me–they never, not even just once, bummed their bumpers on broadway. Digestives too soak too long. Drink your cookie slop and coffee kiss.

 

And wouldya ‘gain?

What day is it?

 

Saturday.

No. Check no.

 

Monday.

Which one?

 

Even.

No.

 

Would car you could car you?

In little land of hammie can, little Libble scribble scribble. Little Tibble nibble nibble. And big, big Boturb soap and buckurb. In fifth of February I would lay the nap. Hope in sap. And bees.

 

If forty to thirty.

I would run the other way twice, do it again, then bloody beg my knees to do it the exact same only backward then. Give ‘er a good rub, I would. I would jip jap three Saturdays (thrice on the third) and every other Thursday of every quarter month.

 

Pantyhose.

Because if I am the king, then I bee the sting. Tell me. You catchin’ my direction? Am I tossin’ whatchafetchin’? Neosporin is bad, bad, bad for the breeze.

 

Pros and cons of sex men on sex women (three afternoons and sideways).

You bob it off it twists the same. Never ever. Wind up wrongsides. Flippant Shelly like harps amid the cold wind. Jilly Jilly. Time. You multiply the horny by irrelevance and see what kind of numbers you come up with. Never heard such muck. Kick ’em while their down and hug straight have ’em off again. Sure. But whose biscuits are you burnin? Look in the mirror. Spurn yourself.

 

Where does it all go and what is it all for?

Assunder.

Percy’s Lament

It was never really fully understood. Do it or don’t. Mutter the won’t. It wasn’t like the good ol’ days. It never would be. They used to strike while the iron was hot. Now they cool it off themselves and sit on it. Sit around the small talk and congratulate one another on good promises and futures well fanned. Save the baby. Force feed the whales. Jam slam crammit–just suckle the hams.

Kittens without spines. Tiny furred snakes. Limbs. Cutting through the grass. Chasing yarnballs on yarnbellies. Pretending to bite your hand. Limp in the extremeties.

It still isn’t understood. Less so than then. Every day the crashmen come. Hob and knob when the mind wears off. Injections of convenience. Disease. Space ages to wage worge. To burn from the inside. Tiny individual spots. Firestarters. Fire feeders. Pigeon eadders.

A gulfed a flamed. A gulfed a flamed.

Percy never had none. Committed. Two fly boys and a pastry stamp. No good for the worse. You think you got problems. Problems got a long way–forget it. You probably don’t even know what a thunder bug is.

 

Spine wrenching happiness installed the wrong way. A baker’s few.

 

Like you never thought. Like you never thought.

 

The acrid smell of sulphers. The smokes. Pwfff. One by one by one. Nightlights and nursery flares. Call to the wild. Call to the somesones for do something.

I cannot.

 

My hair is on fire.

Passing Time

It was like a dream on steroids, and roller skates. Like I could touch everything from here to there without leaving my lazy boy, without having to incline my torso. Everything on ball bearings. It was like 15 questions answered under the skin. Gooseberries and pumple bumps and men with clip boards and scarfs around their necks measuring each raised hair and the depth of my deer-in-headlights (11.2 lumens) and my guffaw factor (initial gasp x length of silence / number of vocal sputterings + magnitude of facial cramping (plus one and/or two modifier for any bladder or bowel relief–involuntary)) (157.96 mms).

And then I expired out the head. Where time was less like the melting of ice cream cones and more like a banana waiting to be peeled.

 

Silly, silly rabbits. Trix aren’t even for kids. They’re for spacemen. I am what I was. Peeled. My time–flat, open, excused. Vapor–poof–inhaled through the lungs of my children. Exhalations. A flat hand extended. I dribble dew like condensation on the glassed wall of the Creator peeping through. His eyes like my mistakes and heartache.

 

Then they put me at this desk and I type I type I type I type I type.

Right Outside the Follywood

When you thought for sure you were you wore the watcher’s eye.

We didn’t.

When did we believe our words were writing on the sky–

Flat.

When the world a stops the twirl because you go and die,

We all for tears and broken there the groundings where you lie.

Splits.

Fitzgibbon.

Mirror tell the sorry tale of where you’re gone to lie

And the special skin of harlequin goes yellow in the rye

 

Scraps.

 

Devon Hambrone in Springdale

***NEWS FLASH***

Pennapoka County, TN – 11:58 AM

At precisely 8:32 AM, Wanda Peters noticed a drastic change in the tune of the inner humishpere and the tweetage of her caged canary, Canardo Singerthy III.

“They’re usually both at a C or something. I don’t know, I don’t read music,” Mrs. Peters told APC News.

She was busy gardening when, suddenly, her ears pricked and the aroma of her begonias let loose the absolute choicest of scents.

“I wasn’t sure what it was at first,” she said, “but then I started tingling and I knew right away that it had to be an actor.”

It was an actor. Early this morning, the asphalt of our very own Springdale Airport was touched by the rubber soles of Actor Devon Hambrone–Me, You, and Her (2005), Beer Goggles 3: Acid Based (2007), ‘Til Seth do us Part (2009), Giggle-Toots (2011). The airport soon gave way to orderly chaos and utter exasperation. Women fainted and grown men in business suits channeled the screaming of their crazed twelve year-old daughters and nieces. 

 

Lucas Perkins, a mile away, recounts his experience:

“Last night I dreamed that an angel played by an actor told me that an actor would be joining us here in Springdale. It’s so beautiful and refreshing to have someone that can pretend to be another person here in our presence. The force this morning was very powerful. When I woke up, before I pulled myself out of the wall, I saw the image of Devon Hambrone and I felt at peace, despite that parts of the television were inside my leg.”

Lucas is scheduled to be release from the hospital Wednesday.

 

Six year old Harper Washington also had a premonition:

“Yesterday I saw Devon Hambrone’s face in the cheese on my breakfast potatoes. And then I ate my breakfast potatoes and I haven’t eaten lunch or supper or breakfast again or lunch again, because I’m still full. I’m not even hungry.”

 

Attempts to speak with Devon have, to this point, been flouted by bodyguards and that ancient Egyptian force field set to protect the ARMKA (Alpha Race of Men Known as Actors). It is not known what he is doing in Springdale or how long he plans to stay.

 

We certainly hope it’s a while; reports of medical miracles have been flooding in.

“He cured my fibromyalgia,” says Luisa Fonseca, librarian at the Springdale Public Library (Leafy Branch).

And get this: Ronald Golly is walking.

“Hollywood be praised! Thank you, acting!” says Ronald, “It was a yawn from Devon–from Mr. Hambrone, and then his body guard yawned and the smell from that body guard’s breakfast toast jelly touched my nose. It was rasberry. Rasberry I can RUN to!”

 

The people of Springdale are certainly lucky. To have a little slice of Hollywood right here in our own backyard is something special–but take heed! Let us all exercise caution to ensure that Devon does not catch us napping. Wear your best clothes! Grab your little dogs! If you have recorded Carcrashian episodes, watch them! Take notes! May Hollywood guide us home and may we all reside there when we pass!

My Story (Parts I and II)

Read Part III

From my personal blog: http://jerrontables.tumblr.com/. I thought it might be good to explain myself a little more.

Part I

It’s not easy to do when you’re seven and your parents die in a Parisian car accident. The sign said arrêt, but they didn’t know what that meant. They didn’t speak French. Since then my life has been dedicated to translation, which is really convenient, because my life was already dedicated to translation anyway. They were on their way back to the states to make it in time for my early graduation from St. Mary’s Translation School for Boys. They didn’t make it. I was the only kid in a crowd of blue-robed men. I scanned the audience over and over. I walked the stage, accepting my forty diplomas (all in different languages) and found my teacher, Monsigneur Godot, waiting for me with the news.

I spent the night at the school, rocking back and forth and retranslating the Odyssey.

Part II

I rocked. I rocked and I rocked—lines of the Odyssey running through me. Man, I was sharp. Never had I worked with such speed, eloquence of style. The text took up space and I was Odysseus, venturing out on the lonely journey of my own life, the words my comrades. My mom. My dad. They were gone forever.

There was the overall pain of this realization. Loved ones lost. There was the first and bitter sting–pieces of myself that had never before spoken, wails of begging like captive birds.

Then there were the tiny, searing strings that hung from the blanket of my new life:

  • I would never, ever again have someone to make me lunch, someone that would not only do it because they had to and it was the right thing, but because I was their own.
  • I would never again, on this earth, feel that level of love. Where do you find it? Where does it live? It starts at the moment of conception as a belted elation on the highest mountain top and travels on the lightest of wings, ever upwards as each second conceives itself and melts away. They were probably with that love now, high above the rain, the noise, the thoughts of men.
  • Who could I share things with? Where were my confidants? It was me trying to channel my mom and dad, wondering, always, if I was right, trying to guide my seven year-old memory of them.
  • No more would anyone give teeth and nails in battle for me. I might find someone to die on my behalf, but I would never find anyone with the superhuman fire of fight for a beloved one—that capacity for selflessness and suffering. I would never find anyone to endure the torture, to morph with the light of passion from God and trump everything with the awesome cudgel of brass-knuckled parentry—darting and tearing like a blunt weapon with teeth.

These feelings were bigger than me. My colleagues were bigger than me. The language professors took me in, raised me as their own. I honed my skills. They made for me the sandwich of their learnings, spiced it with scholastic contempt for the world. I got it. I was watering before they planted the seed—ripples in the small ocean of my burgeoning life. There wasn’t much they could teach me, but I gathered some from each and mulled them in my mind. I pressed on. It was the first thing I could never translate, and so I let it be what it was.

 

Read Part III

Adam was a Good Idea

The First Man

God’s eye
Paints me.
Breathes and
Lives me,
Pokes and
Points Forth.
Body,
Mind,
Connections.
All in working order.

He is I AM.
I am
Scooter.

Millennia upon millennia, the curse of my curses branches from the seed of knowledge. My pain. My distance from God. Suffered from the very first. Horrid, the weakness of Eve.

And the weakness of Scooter is the weakness of me.

For what this rabid dance about race? My skin is different from your skin. Where is a difference that means something, that changes the way we can interact, that threatens you or me? Where is the seed that sprouts this malice? For whose sake if not Hate’s? The Devil is in us–but so is God. We are all born of the line of Scooter.

Dearest Eve,

I am really not happy with what’s happened. For one, you could have been bitten. I worry about you all day and–yep!–come to find out you’re playing with snakes. You may not know about them yet, but I named the things and I’ve seen them in action. I am not happy about your bold interactions with the unknown. Second, our entire line is forever doomed to suffer trenchant physical and mental pain. I’m not very happy about that, either. Well, it’s only a hundred years for us, or however long we live. What is life? What is death? I suppose we’ll find out in good time. This is all so weird!

Fruitfully yours,

Scooter

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