Comments on: A Clever Invention (part one) http://www.joyfeed.com/2007/04/clever-invention-one/ we have accepted the terms and conditions Fri, 29 Aug 2008 04:54:06 +0000 http://wordpress.org/?v=2.5 By: Peter http://www.joyfeed.com/2007/04/clever-invention-one/#comment-27 Peter Fri, 18 May 2007 10:09:42 +0000 http://www.joyfeed.com/2007/04/clever-invention-one/#comment-27 Is he by any chance trying to deliver a cat? Is he by any chance trying to deliver a cat?

]]> By: ditdotdat http://www.joyfeed.com/2007/04/clever-invention-one/#comment-13 ditdotdat Tue, 08 May 2007 09:05:41 +0000 http://www.joyfeed.com/2007/04/clever-invention-one/#comment-13 You say that. Half the time he leaves a small red calling card, even if I am merely upstairs in the lavatory* or, say, just sitting in the kitchen reading other people's meanderings via the digital super-thing. I'm not saying I don't like the card; in fact I love it. In particular it has a combination of slightly unhelpful multiple choice options and blank spaces with which a sort of contorted poetic sentence can be constructed. The sentence contains coy hints as to what he wants to give me and why he didn't like to just go right ahead and leave it for me there and then. Once the card is left the proto-courtship can take two contrasting courses: 1) I can visit a cunningly wrought reproduction of an East German Stasi outpost, created by that Swiss master of grimy realler-than-real, Christoph Buchel. I wait in an unconvincing queue composed of stock characters from ITV's The Bill, and am told to come back later, after 1.45 PM, with a gas bill and a driving licence. No Sainsbury's Nectar cards or Forces IDs allowed, never mind that you don't get any utility bills any more because of saving the trees, well that's not my problem is it. 2) I can use my computer to request the man to bring the item again the day-after-tomorrow so that we can continue our little affair indefinitely or at least until my partner intervenes by catching him in the act, with his hands literally stuffed inside my gaping slot. *toilet You say that. Half the time he leaves a small red calling card, even if I am merely upstairs in the lavatory* or, say, just sitting in the kitchen reading other people’s meanderings via the digital super-thing. I’m not saying I don’t like the card; in fact I love it. In particular it has a combination of slightly unhelpful multiple choice options and blank spaces with which a sort of contorted poetic sentence can be constructed. The sentence contains coy hints as to what he wants to give me and why he didn’t like to just go right ahead and leave it for me there and then. Once the card is left the proto-courtship can take two contrasting courses:
1) I can visit a cunningly wrought reproduction of an East German Stasi outpost, created by that Swiss master of grimy realler-than-real, Christoph Buchel. I wait in an unconvincing queue composed of stock characters from ITV’s The Bill, and am told to come back later, after 1.45 PM, with a gas bill and a driving licence. No Sainsbury’s Nectar cards or Forces IDs allowed, never mind that you don’t get any utility bills any more because of saving the trees, well that’s not my problem is it.
2) I can use my computer to request the man to bring the item again the day-after-tomorrow so that we can continue our little affair indefinitely or at least until my partner intervenes by catching him in the act, with his hands literally stuffed inside my gaping slot.

*toilet

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