tuba with a piece of tape on it.
tape with a piece of tuba on it
Bruce Springsteen's larynx.
Air for breathing
an autistic guitar
a mathematician
a tar
play a tuba drone
fast and bulbous
Do the mascara snake
Take your trousers off.
Play math
Pluck the trumpets and finger the harpist.
Eat a part of Bruce Springsteen's larynx, dipped in tar, and sing the first two lines of "Mary had a little lamb" 2375 times in a row, breathing air as needed.
a long, slow piss
The Unholy Citadel of 6ch
The curtains rise, and I gaze across the the Unholy Citadel of 6ch. This is the moment I've been waiting for. I grab my instrument and begin to play when I realize that I have no clue what a tuba drone is. Luckily, there is a piece of tape on my tuba, so I begin blowing on it to make fluttering paper sounds. The audience begins to get excited.
I hesitantly blow a few more flutters. This expends all air in my lungs, but luckily more air has been provided.
While taking a breath of this air, I look to my left. The performer beside me is holding a large roll of masking tape and piece of scrap brass. He hastily glances at me, his face a wordless appeal for help or advice.
I cannot help this kindred spirit - our battles are our own. Holding my tuba drone close to the microphone, I rapidly stick and un-stick the tape to it in what I hope is the correct rhythm.
Being careful not to let my trousers fall yet, I unzip and liberally apply mascara to my genitals.
It's awkward, as I haven't practiced this part, but eventually my penislashes flutter alluringly. I notice a tear form in the audience - it seems to be working.
The long, slow buildup has started, and I brace myself for the drop.
WUB WUB WUB WUB WUB WUB WUB WUB
I'm just a mathematician. I don't know how I ended up here. I've been holding this large roll of masking tape and piece of scrap brass since the beginning, completely confused about what to do with it.
But now, after seeing my fellow performer's gusto, his hypnotically swaying mascara-covered crotch, his fast and bulbous tuba drone, I am inspired. I know what to do. I throw the tape and brass into the audience and rip my trouser's off. They are shocked and fascinated!
I pick up a shy-looking guitar in the corner and begin to shred on MATH! Complex, Fibonacci rhythms! The golden ratio out to 100 digits in the form of notes! I shake my asymptote, never quite reaching 1. I branch out into more obscure sequences. Farey, Cauchy, even Thue–Morse! This guitar may be horrible at socialising but it's pretty good at numbers! Just like me! Oh, how glorious is the world of MATH.
I vigorously finger the harpist as she performs the titular act while taking off my trousers.
Honestly, what else were you expecting from me with this setup?
Then without trousers, I grab my keyboard and start playing 3 hours of drone.
I stand in the center of the stage, trying to avert my eyes from the mascara-covered organ to my right. I hold a part of Bruce Springsteen in my hand; he's always had a great set of pipes, and the Elitist Philharmonic was able to acquire his larynx, his pipe organ. I didn't ask how.
I slowly dip a chunk of larynx into the tar before me. The tuba player behind me drones ominously as I pull the now pitch-black organ from the tar. I know what has to be done, but looking at it now, I can't bring myself to consume this piping hot, tar-covered, legendary piece of flesh. I drop it on the ground and run crying to the exit, mumbling the first two lines of "Mary Had a Little Lamb" and breathing all the air I can.
The audience explodes with applause.
The musical performance is over, following the unplanned exit of the larynxist, but in his paroxysm he has used up more air than anticipated. The audience's applause is unabated, we'll probably have to remain on stage for another few minutes bowing. I look around at the harpist (who is finishing up the titular act), the tuba dronist, and myself. The harpist's smile betrays inner recognition of our predicament, which my mathematical training has long since fully analyzed. The tuba dronist is uncertain, his mental faculties suppressed by the adrenaline flow of the admittedly outstanding performance, but he will certainly realize soon.
There isn't enough air for all three of us. But there might be enough for just two...
"VORUDEMORTO!" cries the mathematician as he nervously plucks his trumpets. This brings us no closer to a solution.
And then we all suffocated.
Welcome back to DQN, your source for quality news, reporting live from The Unholy Citadel of 6ch following the premiere performance of 'a slow piss'. All the stars showed up to this night of experimental, avant garde noise pollution. Right now I can see Sirius, Vega, Polaris and Altair.
Due the suffocation of every performer due to unknown causes, recordings are in high demand. A scalper who was selling tickets outside is now attempting to sell cam rips burned on to DVDs for 400 dollarpounds each, however it appears that a team of lawyers representing Bruce Springsteen's larynx is threatening to sue; they claim that 70% of all royalties belong to the crooner's voice box.
Our sources say the piss was pungent, with a slight green tinge.
DOHOHOHO!