The Last to Comment Wins
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SRB
:Simple Russian Boi:
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Winning currently winning currently winning currently winning currently winning currently winning currently winning currently winning currently winning currently winning currently winning currently winning currently winning currently winning currently winning currently winning currently winning currently winning currently winning currently winning currently winning currently winning currently winning currently 
Anonjohn20
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?
SRB
:Simple Russian Boi:
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Anonjohn20
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?
SRB
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Anonjohn20
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No, but he's rushin' to report translations.
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I'll see myself out.
SRB
:Simple Russian Boi:
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Santaisblue
Had to switch to elves after the civil war.
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Ayyyyyy we passed 1500 pages
Tempokai
The Overworked One
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I'm the southern neighbor of yours.
SRB
:Simple Russian Boi:
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Huh. Now I'll think about you as a weeb from Kazakhstan.
Tempokai
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“Thus Spoke Zarathustra: A Book for All and None (and Some Very Confused Children)”
by Dr. Friedrich Seusszsche
In the mountains, all snowy, quite chilly and high,
Lived Zarathustra, a strange-looking guy.
He stayed there alone with his goats and his shoes,
And thought Big Ol’ Thoughts while avoiding the news.
He pondered and paced and he stroked on his beard,
He thought, “People down there are terribly weird.
They talk of good morals and duties and rules,
But all of those folks are just well-dressed-up fools!”
Then down from his cave with a hop and a skip,
He packed a small lunch and began his long trip.
“I'll teach them,” he said with a sunshiny grin,
“The Übermensch way that comes bubbling within!”
CHAPTER ONE: The Market of Moo-Moo
He came to a town with a festival going,
Where jugglers and dancers and monkeys were showing.
And folks gathered ‘round for a thing called “The Tightrope,”
Which, oddly enough, was a metaphor. (Quite dope.)
“Oh people!” he shouted, while waving his hat,
“You talk of your virtue, but what’s up with that?
You're stuck in your herd, in your moral-shaped bubble!
You’re walking through life with no passion or trouble!”
Then a man on a rope, walking high, full of dread,
Slipped off with a squeal and fell down on his head.
Zarathustra just stared and said, “Well, he’s dead.
But at least he tried flying, unlike you instead.”
CHAPTER TWO: Of Camels and Lions and Babyish Things
“I give you three beasts,” said the wise mountain man,
(While juggling some apples and frying a flan),
“The first is the Camel, who bears and obeys,
He carries your guilt through the bleak desert haze.”
“But next comes the Lion, who roars, ‘I say NO!’
To rules and to masters and nonsense below.
He chomps all the tablets, he kicks down the shrine—
But even the Lion must change with the time.”
“The last is the Child,” he then said with a smirk,
“He’s playful and wild and doesn’t do ‘work.’
He’s yes-saying joy with a voice full of cheer,
He says ‘Let there be meaning!’ and poof! It is here!”
CHAPTER THREE: The Madman in the Daylight
He met a Madman in broad light of day,
Running ‘round shouting, “God’s gone away!”
He held up a lantern, though the sun brightly burned,
And cried, “Look what you’ve done, kids! God is adjourned!”
The townsfolk all chuckled, “That guy is a loon.”
But Zarathustra said, “He just spoke too soon.
You’ve killed your own God with your boring old reason,
Then dressed up your guilt like a moralist season.”
“You say you believe, but you’re empty and sad—
You fear your own freedom and call passion bad.
You’re fish on a rock. You’re birds in a net.
You’re slaves to your comfort—and worse, you forget!”
CHAPTER FOUR: On the Last Man (Who’s Kind of a Dud)
“Behold!” he declared, “The Last Man is here!
He wants no more war, no more pain, no more fear.
He’s cozy and clean, with a nice pension plan—
But oh! What a dull and pathetic wee man!”
He sips on his soup and he naps in his chair,
He never climbs mountains, he wouldn’t dare care.
He plays with his gadgets, he’s smug and he's slow,
He says, ‘Isn’t meaning just bad for the show?’”
“He wants not the stars, nor the fire within,
He giggles and yawns at the might-have-been.
He’s safe and he’s sound and he’s lived quite long,
But he’s never once danced to his own rebel song.”
CHAPTER FIVE: Eternal Recurrence, Or, Round and Round Again!
“What if,” said our prophet, with mischievous glee,
“You had to live life for eternity?
Each sneeze, each regret, every foot you have stubbed—
Would play on repeat, like a sponge being scrubbed!”
“You’d marry that jerk. You’d rewatch that show.
You’d smell Aunt Gertrude’s weird meatloaf. Oh no!
Could you say yes to it all, every bit?
Even the time when your date stepped in—well, grit?”
“That’s the big test,” he proclaimed with a grin,
“To love all you are, and not just the win.
To say YES to life, every loss, every flaw—
And dance like a lunatic just ‘cause you saw.”
CHAPTER SIX: The Übermensch Breakfast Club
And thus he kept preaching to animals, folks,
To goats and to crows and to nihilist blokes.
He told them, “Don’t follow, don’t worship the past!
Don’t trust in the systems that were built to not last.”
“The Übermensch comes not with gold or a throne,
But with dancing and laughing and minds of their own.
They make up their values, they paint their own sun,
They walk where they please and they do it for fun!”
But the people just blinked and went back to their tweets,
And Zarathustra sighed, “Well, ain’t that just neat.”
So back to his cave he did wander once more,
Where he now writes philosophy children ignore.
THE END!
“Being and Nothingness and Something Quite Strange”
(A Sartre Seussical)
by Dr. Jean-Paul Seuss-tre
I am me, and you are you,
But what does that mean? I haven’t a clue.
You see, I am being—or so I suppose—
But the way that I be? Well, nobody knows.
I’m not like a chair. I’m not like a hat.
I’m not like a fish or a frog or a cat.
They are what they are, and they don’t need to try.
They don’t think, “Am I really just frog in this tie?”
But me? Oh, I’m different. I question. I lack!
I’m always behind me, a thought in the back.
I’m never just “is”—I’m always not quite.
I’m chasing my selfhood all day and all night.
CHAPTER ONE: Being-in-Itself (A Rock with No Feelings)
A rock is a rock. It just is what it is.
It never gets moody. It minds its own biz.
It doesn’t get anxious. It doesn’t feel doubt.
It doesn’t scream “WHY?” or go running about.
It doesn’t pretend. It doesn’t wear shoes.
It doesn’t drink wine or have existential blues.
It never says, “Hey, am I living a lie?”
It just sits in the sun and lets time roll by.
But we? Oh no no. We are NOT so composed.
We lie to ourselves, with our hearts half-exposed.
We are Being-for-Itself, that anxious, sad stew—
Forever pretending that we really are true.
CHAPTER TWO: Bad Faith, or “I’m Totally Fine”
I met a young waiter who said with a grin,
“I just serve the tables—I am what I’m in!”
But deep in his heart, he was quaking and sore,
For he wasn't a waiter. He was something more.
He played at the role, he acted the part,
But hiding beneath was a squishy ol’ heart.
He lied to himself with theatrical flair—
And we call that bad faith, when we just stop and stare.
“I’m not just a waiter! I choose what I do!”
But he acted as if life had stuck him like glue.
“Oh fiddle-dee-fate!” he would grumble and moan—
But freedom, my dear, means you’re always alone.
CHAPTER THREE: The Look, or A Stare Most Uncanny
Have you ever felt watched, just walking about,
When someone just sees you and flips you inside-out?
When you are no longer your own special scheme,
But someone else’s object? Their weird little meme?
It’s the look of the other, that stare like a dart.
It turns you from subject to mere shopping cart.
You were once the star actor in your mental play,
Now you’re just “Guy With Soup” in their own café.
It’s awkward and raw. It’s weird and it stings.
To feel like a thing in a world full of things.
But don’t run and hide, don’t go off the grid—
Just learn to exist like a free-thinking squid.
CHAPTER FOUR: Nothingness! Or... What Isn't, Isn't, Yet Still Somehow Is
Now let’s talk of nothing, a very strange beast,
It isn’t invited, yet comes to the feast.
You think of a cake, but there’s no cake in sight.
And poof! There’s a hole where you thought there was bite.
You say, “Where’s my hat?” and you dig through your drawer,
And NOTHING is there, though you know you had four.
That “not” in your mind is where freedom begins—
It’s the gap in your soul where the choosing sneaks in.
So nothing’s not nothing, not really, you see.
It’s the absence that makes you the chooser of “me.”
Without it, you’d sit there, like moss on a stone,
But now you can leap! Or just cry alone.
CHAPTER FIVE: Freedom, the Curse You Didn’t Ask For
You're free, yes you are! Isn’t that just a treat?
You can choose how you laugh, and what socks go on feet.
But freedom’s not always a sweet cherry pie—
Sometimes it’s the reason you scream at the sky.
You’re not just your past or your résumé page,
You’re always becoming, at every stage.
You can’t say “I had no choice,” oh no no!
That’s just more bad faith in a fancy faux-bow.
You are condemned to be free, like it or not,
So choose something weird, or choose something hot.
But don’t you dare point at your past and go “See?”
Because YOU are the one who makes YOU be thee.
CHAPTER SIX: Being-for-Others, or: “I Can’t Pee with You Watching Me”
You’re walking along, just humming a song,
Then suddenly feel like you’re doing it wrong.
A stranger walks by and gives you a glance,
And now your whole selfhood is stuck in a dance.
You become a persona, a mask made of clay,
A you-that-is-them in a Sartrean way.
You blush and you stammer, “That wasn’t quite me!”
But too late! You’re a stranger’s weird memory.
So live with the Look, and learn not to cry.
You’re not just a shadow in someone’s mind’s eye.
You’re you-for-yourself, and also not that—
Existence is messy. Just wear a fun hat.
FINAL CHAPTER: Authenticity & Despair in the Hat-Store of Being
So what’s the big point, you might now inquire?
“Is freedom just nausea lit on a fire?”
Well, sort of, my dear, but also much more—
It’s being your self from your ceiling to floor.
Don’t act like a role or just follow the herd,
Or lie to your soul with each action and word.
Instead face the nothing, that void deep inside,
And live as if YOU were the one who has died.
Because you’re not fixed, you’re a dance, you’re a swirl—
You’re freedom in action, a thought-flavored girl.
So laugh in the void, let absurdity sing—
You are what you’re not, and that’s really something.
THE END!
“The Worlds That We Make and the Ways That We Spin”
(A Good-Seussian Tale of Epistemic Shenanigans)
by Dr. Nelson Seussman
I once knew a fellow who painted a chair,
But not with just color—he painted with air.
He painted with music! With whispers and puns!
He painted with gestures and big rubber buns!
I said, “That’s not painting! That’s not how it’s done!”
He winked and he said, “Well, it’s how I have fun.”
“You see,” he explained with a smile and a shout,
“The worlds that we make are what life is about!”
CHAPTER ONE: Worlds Aren’t Just Found—They’re Constructed, You Goose!
Some people will tell you the world’s just out there,
That rocks are just rocks and chairs are just chair.
They say that it’s simple—one world, neat and clean,
Like everyone’s reading the same magazine.
But Goodman says, “Wait! Let’s give that a flick.
What if the world isn’t solid and thick?
What if it’s shaped by the words that we say,
By the maps that we draw and the games that we play?”
So, worlds aren’t just there like a dog on a mat—
We make them, my dear, with a hat and a spat.
With symbols and stories and systems we hatch,
We build up our worlds like a mismatched cheese patch!
CHAPTER TWO: Five Ways to Make ‘Em (Pick Your Favorite Flavor!)
There’s more than one way to make up a world,
Let’s take out the toolkit and give it a whirl:
- Composition! Chop it up! Add some glue!
Take pieces of things and construct something new.
Like turning old socks into feathered giraffes—
Or mixing two chairs and a duck that just laughs. - Weighting! Decide what to count and what not.
Do we care more for gumballs or temperatures hot?
If I say, “Height matters!” and you say, “So what?”
We’re weighting the world with a subjective gut. - Ordering! Sort it! Arrange it with flair!
Put peanuts by planets and moons next to hair.
The way that we group things—by shape or by spleen—
Will tell you what kind of a world we have seen. - Deletion! What’s missing? What’s gone?
What didn’t we count when we made our new song?
If we leave out the shadows or sound of the breeze,
We make different worlds with surprising degrees. - Supplementation! Now add what’s not there!
Like unicorn fog or invisible air.
Stick wings on your sofa, or stars in your stew—
Because making a world means inventing what’s true!
CHAPTER THREE: All Worlds Are Right! (And That’s Kinda the Problem)
One man says, “Mountains are pointy and tall!”
Another says, “Mountains are flat after all!”
They’re not really fighting, they’re playing new games—
They're talking in worlds with completely new frames.
So which one is right? Who's lying, who's smart?
Well, Goodman just laughs and says, “That’s not the art.
Each version is valid, if it plays by its rule—
But don’t mix your maps or you’ll look like a fool!”
So facts aren't just floating like cookies in space,
They fit in some world with a custom-made place.
In one world, a sneeze is just something you do—
In another, it’s prophecy. (Don’t catch that flu.)
CHAPTER FOUR: Labels and Versions and Symbols That Dance
Have you drawn a dog that looked like a bean?
Or written a poem that made your mom scream?
Well guess what, my friend—that is worldmaking too!
You’re spinning new meaning from symbol and glue.
You see, when we speak, or we draw, or we write,
We’re not just repeating what’s there in plain sight.
We’re shaping, we’re picking, we’re cutting the clay—
To sculpt out a version of “what is today.”
And versions aren’t mirrors—they’re puzzles and plays!
They show us some things while they hide other ways.
A map isn’t land, and a word isn’t rock—
But used just the right way, they both give a shock.
CHAPTER FIVE: Art is a World Too (Weird, Wiggly, and Wild!)
Some say, “That’s not music!” when hearing a hum,
Or look at a painting and just see a thumb.
But art isn’t passive—it builds and it bends—
It takes what we know and it twists all the ends.
A novel can show you a truth never known,
A sculpture can whisper, “You’re never alone.”
Each work of creation, from rap song to fart,
Constructs a small world through the logic of art.
So don't scoff at dancers or kids in weird hats—
They might be worldmakers, not just brats.
FINAL CHAPTER: So What Is “The World,” and Where Is It Hiding?
Now here comes the kicker, the twist, the big clue:
There’s no single world that is perfectly true.
Just versions and visions, some sharp and some fuzzy—
Some smell like fresh coffee, some smell kind of mussy.
Goodman says clearly, while eating his toast,
“The real world’s the one that explains things the most.
But truth isn’t found in a bucket or box—
It’s woven through meanings like socks made of thoughts.”
So build up your worlds, don’t just sit there and pout—
Reality’s messy, and you help it out.
Now go make a planet from jelly and jam,
And tell all your friends that it’s certified glam.
THE END!
“Who’s Telling This Tale? (And Should We Believe Him?)”
The Rhetoric of Fiction Seussified
by Dr. Wayne C. Boof!
There once was a tale, not too short, not too long,
With a wizard, three ducks, and a talking ping-pong.
It twisted and turned, it thrilled and it shocked—
But WHO told the tale? And what doors were locked?
You see, every story, from grand epic quests,
To rom-coms where everyone sobs and protests,
Has someone who tells it—a voice in the shade,
And that voice, my dear friend, is a fiction charade.
CHAPTER ONE: The Narrator Parade! (Reliable? Or Full of Baloney?)
Let’s meet all the voices that shout in your ear,
The ones who say, “Once…” and then pull you in near.
Some are quite honest, with no tricks or schemes,
They tell you the facts and describe all the dreams.
But others? Oh no! They twist and they turn!
They lie and they cheat and let logic burn!
They’ll say, “He was noble!” while hiding the knife,
They’ll charm you with stories and ruin your life.
So Booth says, “Beware! Know who tells the plot—
Because some narrators are just full of snot.”
CHAPTER TWO: The Implied Author (The Phantom Behind the Curtain)
“But wait!” you now cry, with a gasp and a blink,
“If the narrator lies… then whose real thoughts should I think?”
Well, nestled behind every narrator’s tone,
Is someone not seen—but they're never alone.
That’s the implied author—a sneaky ol’ ghost,
Not the real writer, but close to the host.
They crafted the choices, they built every scene,
They made it ironic or tragic or mean.
They never say “hi,” they don’t sign the page,
But their fingerprints linger all over the stage.
They’re the puppetmaster in literary clothes,
The one who decides if the villain eats crows.
CHAPTER THREE: Distance, My Dear! (Embrace or Disgrace?)
Now let’s talk of distance—that wonderful gap
Between what’s being said and what’s truly the map.
If a narrator says, “This guy is the best!”
But he kicks every duck, then he fails the real test.
The author may wink and say, “Don’t believe that,”
While the narrator brags in his villainous hat.
The distance is key—too close and you’re fooled,
Too far, and the reader feels cold and overruled.
So stories are dances, they balance and spin,
Between voice and intention, both out and within.
And when done just right? Oh, the subtle delight!
You don’t know you’re climbing until you reach height.
CHAPTER FOUR: Showing vs. Telling (Choose Your Weapon, Sir!)
Some authors will show you a frog in a fight—
Describe every leap and each croaky delight.
You see what he sees, you feel what he feels,
You smell all the dampness and touch all the eels.
But some just will tell you: “The frog was quite sad.”
They won’t show the sadness, just tell it like Dad.
Booth says, “Be careful, don’t pick just one lane—
Use both in good measure or drive readers insane!”
Show when it matters, and tell when it’s tight—
Don’t make us watch someone tie shoes all night.
CHAPTER FIVE: The Morals Are Hiding (But They’re Always There)
You might think a story’s just meant to amuse,
To juggle some fire or sing about shoes.
But Booth comes along with a wise, wiggly frown,
And says, “Every story has morals baked down.”
Even the ones that pretend to say “None,”
Are teaching you something with how they have fun.
Whether virtue is punished or evil is glam,
It shapes how we think, like a narrative jam.
So don’t say “It’s neutral,” or “It’s just a tale.”
Every tale’s a machine with a value-rail.
FINAL CHAPTER: So Who’s Really Talking, and Why Should I Care?
In fiction’s great forest, with paths that all twist,
Where dragons wear glasses and heroes get dissed—
You’ll hear many voices, all whispering true,
And some of them might be lying to you.
There’s the narrator, upfront with their charming facade,
The implied author, quiet, a narrative god.
There’s distance and morals and point of view tricks,
And showing and telling and subtle mind flicks.
Booth simply tells us, “Don’t swallow it whole.
Dissect every tale like it’s made of soul.
See how it was written, not just what it said—
Or you’ll miss the magician behind what you read.”
THE END!
“Why’d You Do That? A Motivic Mystery!”
(Kenneth Burke’s Grammar of Motives, Seussified)
by Dr. Kenneth Seusske
Why did you do it? What made you behave?
Was it you? Was it them? Was it something you crave?
Was it done in the dark? Was it done with a spoon?
Was it whispered by angels or howled at the moon?
Let’s figure it out! Let’s find the true source!
Let’s dig through the symbols and motives, of course!
Because meaning’s not simple, not easy, not flat—
It’s layered like onions inside a big hat.
CHAPTER ONE: The Pentad Parade (Five Questions to Ask!)
When someone does something, no matter how small—
Like painting a fish or knocking down a wall—
We ask these five questions, all proper and neat:
Like detectives in bowties with very large feet.
- What was the Act? What thing was just done?
Was it juggling jelly or shooting a gun? - Who is the Agent? The doer! The star!
Was it Grandpa? A goose? A fish in a car? - What was the Scene? The setting, the place—
Was it Mars? Was it church? Was it outermost space? - What’s the Agency? The tool or the way—
Was it typed on a phone or just shouted all day? - And what was the Purpose? The goal! The desire!
Was it done out of love? Or spiteful old fire?
With these five fine questions, you dig through the fluff—
Because human behavior is sticky and tough.
CHAPTER TWO: Dramatism! Or, Life as a Very Bad Play
“Why dramatism?” you say with a blink,
“I’m not in a drama—I just spilled my drink!”
But Burke waves a finger and gives you a stare:
“You’re always performing, you’re never quite bare!”
Life is a stage and your self is a script—
Even your silence is perfectly crypt.
Your choices, your language, your look and your tone,
Are part of a drama you’ve never quite owned.
We're all little actors, just making our case,
In symbolic action, all over the place.
We speak not just words, but ideas and rules—
Our grammar of motives is packed full of tools!
CHAPTER THREE: Ratios! Ratios! Which One is the Boss?
Burke says, “Let’s pair them, and see who’s in charge!
Sometimes the Scene looms terribly large.
A foggy old town makes a man act all grim—
So we say it’s the Scene that has power in him.”
But other times Agent is boss of the tale—
She’s bold, she’s brave, she’s biting her nail.
Her choices determine what happens next,
Like chasing a bear or sending a text.
Or maybe the Purpose has captured the show—
The goal pulls the strings and makes people go.
“Why did he run?” “Because he must win!”
“Why’d she bake twelve pies?” “To conquer her sin.”
These ratios matter—they shift all the weight,
They tell us who’s steering this big motive plate.
CHAPTER FOUR: Language is Action (Yes, Even That Tweet)
Now listen real close to what Burke liked to shout:
“Language is action! It’s not just mouth clout!”
To speak is to do, to write is to move—
To argue and gesture and signal your groove.
When someone says “freedom,” or “justice,” or “war,”
They’re not just repeating what’s been said before.
They’re shaping the world with a twist of the tongue—
They’re starting new dramas that haven’t begun.
So don’t say, “It’s just words!”—no sir, not at all!
Words build up cities and tear down a wall.
They carry our motives, they ripple and roll—
They’re not just hot air, they’re the script for your soul.
CHAPTER FIVE: God-Terms, Devil-Terms, and Rhetorical Juice
Now here's where it gets a bit spicy and weird—
We meet words so loaded, they must be revered.
Burke calls them God-Terms—the shiny, the pure!
Words like “Liberty!” “Honor!” “Justice!” for sure.
They glow with such power that no one says “No”—
They pull all the weight in rhetorical show.
And then there’s Devil-Terms, slithery and mean—
Like “Tyranny!” “Traitor!” or “Vegan Canteen!”
These terms don’t explain, they just make you obey,
They carry the motive and shape the whole play.
So next time you hear someone shouting with flair,
Ask: “What’s their God-Term? What’s floating in air?”
FINAL CHAPTER: There’s Grammar in Motives, and Motives in Cake
So why do we do what we do with such flair?
Is it cause? Is it chance? Is it time? Is it hair?
No, says our Burke, with his pen and his grin—
It’s all about motives and what world we’re in.
We act in a grammar, with clauses and cues,
We hide behind language and pick out our shoes.
To know what we’re doing, to see through the smoke—
We must ask these questions and give them a poke:
What was the Act?
Who did the deed?
Where was the Scene?
What tools did they need?
Why did they do it?
What purpose was served?
And how was the language all tilted and curved?
So next time your uncle robs ten candy stores,
Don’t just say “He’s nuts!”—ask about motives and scores.
Was it the setting? His tools? His dark plan?
Was he just a symbol-playing, candy-lovin’ man?
THE END!
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Justhetip...
...of the iceberg.
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Used to misread the name as Zarathrusta, once thought it was short for Zara-the-thruster.
JayMark
It's Not Easy Being Nobody, But Somebody Has To.
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Tempokai
The Overworked One
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Yes, this is the future now. Thank god that basic LLM can't do that, only mine did it properly lol
JayMark
It's Not Easy Being Nobody, But Somebody Has To.
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I'm hoping you're LLM is your brain, but if it's not, I want info.
Tempokai
The Overworked One
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if spending a year or two casually tweaking it until it gave the style I wanted counts as a usage of the brain, I can say that I made the tool usable. Too bad it's DOA for webnovel writing lol
JayMark
It's Not Easy Being Nobody, But Somebody Has To.
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- Jul 31, 2024
- Messages
- 1,667
- Points
- 128
Yeah, just my opinion but anything that examines the market scene in Zarathustra and ignores the role of the jestor is missing the point.
Though JTP had a great idea. Zara The Thruster would make for a great philosophical smut webnovel.