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Past Dense: Teb Cebtl reflects

by Robb Hibbard Modified: April 18, 2013 at 1:45 pm •  Published: April 10, 2013

Today, I am completely bereft of any thoughts, or inspiration, for this project. Given, the same was the case last week, and the week before, and the week before that, even; still, I’m clearly running out of options. At some point, it’s possible that I’ll have to begin screeding about aesthetically odd felines; or start posting photos of celebrities with naughty bits drawn on them, then lose a ton of weight, stop drawing the naughty bits, and become a celebrity myself; or pretend to have an opinion about which sports team is better than which other sports team; or share information whose so-called value stems only from the fact that I viewed it on social media, or found information about it while performing an unrelated Google search.

Teb Cebtl has chosen not to reveal his full identity.
Teb Cebtl has chosen not to reveal his full identity.

I seriously considered posting a series of eye charts with no contextual information. Then I thought about posting an old paper I did on John Barth’s “The Sot-Weed Factor.” Then I realized that posting either eye charts or an old paper I did on John Barth’s “The Sot-Weed Factor” could betray certain emotional attachments I hold, and thus render me vulnerable to the stinging rebukes and criticisms of a well-educated, stylishly snarky readership. And I simply don’t consider myself mentally strong enough to bear such withering abuse.

The only means available to address this quandary I find myself in? Well, this week, I’ll create an entirely fictitious timeline detailing the development of this text, which will, in the end, serve as most of the text itself.

The Fabulous Freebirds, legendary anti-heroes of Mid-South Wrestling and, coincidentally, three of the world's top translators of ancient Coptic Christian texts.
The Fabulous Freebirds, legendary anti-heroes of Mid-South Wrestling and, coincidentally, three of the world's top translators of ancient Coptic Christian texts.

11:37 a.m.: Prospects for a narrative titled “Billy James Hargis and Wayne Coyne Wrestle at Long John Silver’s” likely wouldn’t be good. Requirements: Background information on Billy James Hargis; willingness to endure mild spite from certain members of the theologically-inclined readership; a schematic of the typical Long John Silver’s kitchen; singlets, one white with angel wings embroidered on the back, and the other off-white, fake-blood retardant; a glossary of legitimate wrestling moves as defined by Mid-South Wrestling circa 1984; thousands of colorful balloons. The stakes: The loser cleans the grease traps. The result: Unknown.

12:49 p.m.: What’s worse? Hoping something awful happens so you’ll be needed, or hoping nothing happens so you’ll be wanted? Would canvassing Oklahoma City neighborhoods and asking various residents this question eventually get one humiliated, or would it eventually get one served a nice helping of some sort of pecan-themed treat? Both, perhaps?

Mmm, pie. But what's with the junebugs on top? Did someone run out of crust?
Mmm, pie. But what's with the junebugs on top? Did someone run out of crust?

1:09 p.m.: Pure semantic synesthesia. These words stink. Let’s not descend into venery, however.

1:25 p.m.: I once knew a guy who, at 35, lived on nothing but Spam, cottage cheese, and vodka. Not many people can say that. Not many people can say “synesthesia,” either; at least, not without having heard it first. Anyway, I bet the dude’s planted now.

1:41 p.m.: Don’t let anyone tell you that hand sanitizer with aloe tastes like a margarita. It’s really more of an absinthe flavor.

2:20 p.m.: Pleasantly belching the Cyrillic alphabet.

Phonetically, the purest alphabet I know of.

3:04 p.m. Prospects for a narrative titled “Tertullian and Will Rogers Engage In Fisticuffs at the Automat” likely wouldn’t be good. Requirements: Background information on Tertullian; willingness to endure mild spite from certain members of the theologically-inclined readership; a schematic of the typical automat; singlets, one white with angel wings embroidered on the back, and the other off-white, plane crash retardant; a glossary of legitimate wrestling moves as defined by the NCAA circa 1928; thousands of colorful balloons. The stakes: The loser empties the mouse traps. The result: Unknown.

3:35 p.m.: What’s better? Hoping something needful happens so you can be awful, or hoping something wanted happens so you can be nothing? Would canvassing Oklahoma City neighborhoods and asking various residents the question eventually get one humiliated, or would it eventually get one served a nice helping of some sort of pecan-themed treat? Both, perhaps?

3:57 p.m.: Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Teb Cebtl, semantic synesthete. Belched any eye charts lately?


by Robb Hibbard
Senior Online Editor
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