Fin

Editor's Note: It seemed fitting to write an epitaph for the News of the Roundtable. I procrastinated for a while, but, now, here it is.

There was a fake newspaper of gloriously classy proportions, and its contributors abandoned it. The rest is details. (Or is it all details? But no matter, for that is merely a detail, too.)

But before we begin with them, we should offer Our thanks to the loyal and brave ShatzMaster3000, also known as JKFA. When others abandoned the News of the Roundtable, even when I did, Mr. Shatz was still there. It is no coincidence that, besides for this, the final articles for the News were made by this stalwart contributor.

I was a late-comer to the News; I spent most of my fourth-period-friday-lunches doing decidedly unclassy things in the reading room (mostly reading old Science Fiction novels and making Year of the P----- signs). I was recruited as a fashion columnist - obviously, I am far more fashionable than anyone else I know. My skill at providing classy fashion choices is only surpassed by, well, everything.

(Fashion tip of the day: Spiderwebs are rarely fashionable accessories. Try wearing hats instead.)

As the varied Fiends and Associates (I, for one, always felt more an Associate of Fiends than a true greenblooded fiend.) stopped being high schoolers and began being international (or at least interstate) expatriates, the News was obviously and adversely affected. But when the Master of Shatz and I, with assistance from 'WickedJumbo,' a redhead* who is studying at a barrel-making institution, and a particularly wise oracular potato, the News of the Roundtable: Online Edition was established. Accessible through the Al Gore's new glorious International Webbing, NotR: Online promised to increase clasiness a hundredfold. Despite a small pool of literary contributions and a complete and unfortunate lack of monetary contributions** NotR: Online managed to keep pumping out articles for a total of six months and 48 articles.

So. Our thanks to our contributors. To those of you who could contribute but didn't, I pronounce you thrice-accursed, mostly because, when I am cursing something, I don't get a chance to make it thrice-accursed (I average about 1.2-times-accursed) and I really wanted to. (To those of you who couldn't contribute because of what you were doing at your respective and indubitably honorable Institutions of Learning abroad, you don't even need to be excused - and in many ways, I envy you.)

We stand here at a crossroads. We can, if anyone actually bothers to read this, bring NotR: Online back to its former glory. (Send to contributions, as always, to askthetube@gmail.com .) Or we can abandon this work. The choice, dear readers, is yours.

Either way, this is the end of an era. A small and utterly unimportant era, but an era nonetheless.

---

*: Not that he helped much.

**: And we don't need money to run NotR: Online. But we sure would like it.

---

Notes:

1. I had some statistics above, but accidentally deleted them. Fear not: hey are of no consequence.
2. I will tag this post, in addition to normal, appropriate tags, with 'Eldritch' and 'Gilgamesh,' mostly for the fun of it.
3. I still claim to be working on the Arash: Flying Bicycle game. At least in theory.

FIN

The Soundtrack to My Nightmares

The Soundtrack to My Nightmares was envisioned by the alleged "Shatzmaster 3000" after a certain English class. As no one actually bothered I writing it, I decided, hey, why not?

I spent about 30 minutes working on it while in the "Z-Zone," as that classroom was called. This thing is supposed to be a joke. Why can't you realize it is a joke? Why do you insist upon telling me that this is good!? This is not good! This is a bad poem! Not a good poem! Why did someone submit this to Kally-Oppy?! What is wrong with you? What is wrong with me? What is wrong with the world?

Without further ado, The Soundtrack to My Nightmares.

Far beyond the shadowed sea
of sleep, the nightmares torment me.
A faint yet haunting melody
echoes in my mind.

And in the Hall of Thousand Doors
(by locks unburdened since the wars)
I wander as the music roars
the soundtrack to my nightmares.

Arnold Schoenberg's corpse yet walks;
about 'Number Nine' a Beetle talks;
even a velociraptor balks
before the awful tune.   

I try to flee; I turn a knob,
(above, the vultures just wait and bob)
but my hands cannot do the job:
the door refuses to open.

Other portals respond the same,
I cannot but must play this grim game.
The only soul here bears my name
but it is fading.

But for the song there is no sound.
My life leaves me with a single bound.
But the music still plays, all around,
the soundtrack to my nightmares.