Knitting Like A Sailor

Wednesday, May 26, 2004

Little ditty 'bout Mar and knitzombies...

okay, here is the schedule of events-

I thought up a really cool on topic post for the comment section on Mar's blog (aka the knitting it, you'll find her)

I started writing out the really cool comments post in Word, which although simple, it took me most of the afternoon and evening. Two toddlers and a nine year old kind of slow things down, ya know?

Mar moves her blog to her new domain

I make my post to her old blog site, 13 comments for the post and one fairly philosophical post about making ribs doesn't make you a chef.

Mar's Haloscan comments, the comments I made my post in, go buh-bye.

Yup, zero. zip. nada. all gone. *sigh* since I still have the file I go and see about posting it to her new comments.

Hmmm...have to get a blog to post comments....

Since it's no longer on topic at Mar's blog, and I have this here space to fill anyway, here's the original comments post, enjoy.

Endless seas of knitzombies, rigidly marching in formation, fluffy crap swirling, to the tune of “Cast ON!! Yo LEFT (knit to the end) Yo LEFT (knit to the end) Yo LEFT (knit to the end) Bind off one, two, three, four, FUZZY SCARF!!” pouring from a tiny figure wearing a crochet helmet.
What has this world come to? Are we doomed to drown in crap? Scheduled to swelter in frippery that won’t breathe? Just as we give up on our last hope…? OOOOOEEEEOOOOOO ooo ooo ooooo…..ooooEEEEoooooo oo oo OOOOOO…..over the ridges we see her. Slowly emerging, the clean classic lines of a Fuzzy Poncho in traditional shades of Lime, Hot pink and …Wait just a durned minute Mar, I thought you were supposed to be our Savior, wtf are you doing? Going over to the Dark….
“ShutthefuckUP can’t you see I’m COUNTING??????!!!????”
Finishing the row and carefully tucking it away, she flings the crappy disguise off to reveal a design so breathtaking in its complexity our hearts surge with joy. It was merely a ruse!!! Tearing open a bag of swatches and scattering them to the four winds, she watches them sail over the troops.
“Look at how fine this is! There’s no way I could knit with it, and how would people know you loved them without the big lumpy stitches in their tube socks to remind them with every step?”
Shoulders slumped, she turns, prepared to climb down the slope, resigned to hunker down in her stash bunker and wait out this new siege upon the knitting community, when she hears, off in the distance, a lone voice cry
“WOW! That’s SOOO KEWL!!! I bet I could knit this, and it’d be so AWESOME with…”
Whipping around she squints over the glare of glitz and sees a teeny tiny figure hunched over a swatch, counting stitches and doing some rudimentary math in the dust.
Quickly a Fashionista drops a fizzbomb on the figure, entangling her in screaming neon sparkle, and medics drag her off.
“that’s IT, now I’m PISSED”
Mar reaches up and tugs on her expertly kitchnered shoulders. As they rotate around we realize that she’s wearing munitions belts, cleverly knitted in pattern to disguise them from the fashionistas. Reaching up under the back of her sweater she whips out her trusty 50 caliber pneumatic machine guns. “Bite me Fashionistas!!!” JJjjjj JJjjjjj Jjjjjjj n sssssssssssssssss Jjjjjj JJjjjjj Jjjjjjjjj n ssssssssss

As a unit the fashionistas turn and start lobbing Fizzbombs at her. Tattered skeins falling short, one big ball of Kid Seta went the distance. As Mar ducked she thought “That’s been wound on a ball winder, it shows thought and planning ahead…maybe there’s hope….”
With a loud Pflouf!!!! It hit her and exploded, proving itself to be just the outer strands of a Kollinette Kwik-Wrap. The shapeless mass quickly knitted her into its broomstick embrace and started seeking entry into her soul. She straightened, giving the Vile Wrap a chance to get a good grip. A fizz is heard, growing louder until with thousands of pops the bulletproof gauge of Hank 8 forces the wraps digestive juices back on itself and it fizzles into packing peanuts. Shedding peanuts like a newbie drops stitches, Mar turned, hands at her belt mounted sock keeper. Flipping the switches, the strands retract and an Aranmaster 3000 rolls up the rise.
Swinging into it’s Honeycombed seat (ridged for her…oh, wait, that’s a different story altogether) she starts firing needles, dpn’s, straights, and circular bolo’s, none of them larger than a size six. She twiddles some knobs and side compartments click open. With a smooth, well lanolined snick two cannons slide into place. Braced against the recoil, she pulls the triggers. BLATT BLATT the machine rocks. The front lines of the knitzombies fall, entangled in strings. Blissssssssssssss soft yarns froth forth, to entrap more. The tiny Crochet helmeted one in the distance, comfortable in her foxhole, squawks into a cell so covered in cozies it’s hard to believe it actually works any more, and a cadre of mini vans tear into range, tires screeching like acrylic on needles. The doors fly open and more knitzombies pour out. In the distance behind our Heroine we see miles of headlights, prepared to open the floodgates and let the crapola enrobe our savior, our last bastion of classic knitting.
Mar jumps down, pulls off her Dale hat and waves it, attracting their attention. “I don’t want to wipe you all out, we can get along fine! Just reach out and embrace knitting, push yourself beyond garter stitch and froufy crapola!”
”It’s too hard! We can’t do it! We don’t want to think!” the ranks chant back.
The Tiny Crochet Helmeted one jumps up from her fox hole and shouts
“That’s it my beauties! Let me give you my patterns, I will design your destiny and together we will travel the garter path, knit in the new summer colorway Forest Sprite!” *Vannaish hand flip* En Masse the zombies ooooooooooooooohhhhhhhhhhhhhh and reach for their credit cards. “That’s it my pretties” the tiny one croons “It’s sooo lovely, sooo sparkly, with it’s new technological advance of being corespun over brush curlers, it’s guaranteed to snarl on itself beyond repair, but that’s okay! It’s only ten dollars per yard, and the stole only requires 200 yards! You can knit it after dinner and still have time to review the Letterman tapes before lights out, but of course you’ll have to buy some of the new Diva © brand size 100 needles to work it up on!”
With a heavy heart Mar pushes the buttons that will bring the penultimate raining upon their heads. She waits as the machine begins to vibrate and hum.
”ssssssssssssssssssssssssssssSSSSSsszzzzZZZZZzzz ssssSSSSSSSZZZZZZZZZ SSSSZZZZAAAAABBBBBOOO-OOOO-OOOmmm!!!!” It echos throught the realm. Knitzombies crumple into dust, those further a field stumbling, clutching their eyes against its brilliance. The tiny Crocheted Helmet one cries “NOOOooooo….no one can learn to enjoy finishing! It’s Not Possible!!! I’m melting….melting….mel…..”
“Poor, innocent souls. May the knitting gods take pity upon their souls.”
Swinging back up into the saddle of the Aranmaster 3000, she pauses, and turns suddenly as we hear, faintly, “cough cough…cough…I think cough cough cough that it’s 5 stitches to … the inch…cough cough but it’s only a part of a stitch…..maybe I can’t….can’t….can’t do it after all….”
Whipping around she kicks the Aranmaster into gear and charges down the slope, one hand on the cables the other yanking out her uncozied, gleaming cell.
”QueerJoe? QueerJoe we have a live one, and she’s almost got gauge figured out! Round up the posse, we’re going to need a lot of dk! Yes, yes bring the color cards! And some size 3’s. Oh better make it 3, 4, and 5’s, and two’s just in case her knitting is tighter than a scared virgin on her wedding night. Oh and as long as you’re there could you pick up some of that Koigu that’s on sale? Something to match that skein you and I had the tug of war over last week……”