Moving forward with Global-summit fiction

Need some intentional fun? Your wish is my genre ~

The rarefied air of Coprahaagendas swirled and separated into zones, like vinegar whisked into milk—an acrid miasma that puffed and seeped from the great building atop the hill.

There is only this one building in Coprahaagendas, but the singularity of this temple-high structure makes up for its loneness, not just by its prismatic colours that exceed our vision. The structure defies architecture. Figures and symbols cover it, as uncountable as they are unstill. They cling to, spring from, crawl over and maybe are every wall, ceiling, column, cupola, dome, grate, doorway, step and arch. Arms, wings, hooves, snouts, breasts, cunts and priapuses do everything imaginable, and more. Beings humanick and otherwise fuck and slaughter; lust and leer; look out and inwards, reach down and upwards—making and remaking this stupendous edifice into an evermore impossibility of unfathomability, to us.

Not that we would ever see this building, let alone Coprahaagendas. Our leaders have only just left Copenhagen.…

continued (with art by Marc McBride) in

"The Eye of Nostradamus Summit"

at Andromeda Spaceways Inflight Magazine.

and yes. I plugged this story the other day, but I'm doing so again, hoping that someone in that incredibly connected ScienceBlogs community will pick it up. Otherwise, my story will be doomed to be read only by the usual few people who read fiction—those who say "I'm a writer" or would like to—and this post will only be seen by my sometime two visitors max, or the stray person who finds this blog by asking questions. The best question of the past week is:

What is the percentage of men who don't eat bananas in public?

If only I were a scientist! I could study this and publish my results in PLoS. My mouth waters at the possible reward: an Ig Nobel.

The study would have to take into account men who don't eat banana cream pie if anyone's looking, men who blanch at forking the banana slices in a fruit salad, and men who are too shy to answer a question about b *****s — whether those b's be fat, stubby, blushing Lady Fingers or the longest, most symmetrically curved Cavendish. This question is not silly at all, because the supermarkets in Australia refused much of the crop this year because the bananas were too big. First, who complained? And what percentage of Australian censors were offended by the size and shape of these banned bananas?