Dawson Filter as He Relates to Self Defence

“What do you want a meaning for? Life is a desire, not a meaning ~Charlie Chaplin” Dawson Filter saw descend from the sky in remarkably large, Styrofoam letters.

“That’s neat.” Dawson remarked; less eloquently, but closer to sensical than Charlie the Chaplin.

“Neat as the day’s length.” Sylvester verblessly replied. “How did we get outside?”

“Via our legs.” The rocker answered, equally verblessly; but without a second sentence to redeem his grammatical reputation.

“Sorry, I’m bad at reading between the lines.” Sylvester apologized.

“Eh?” The rocker inquired, hands, ears, and elbows at his sides.

“It makes more sense to them.” Sylvester explained, motioning to you.

“What ever is your name, musician of the rock and roll?” Dawson asked Babe Listowel, in a (spoiler warning) effective attempt to change the topic of conversation to one making him feel less like just another word on a page.

“Babe Listowel.” Babe Listowel justifiably replied. “Let’s go over to the Amazon Basin now.”

“How ever shall we do such a thing as this?” Sylvester and Dawson said in unison, promptly afterward hanging their heads in shame of their inexcusably existing behavior.

“On a boat.” Babe replied, pulling a steamboat from his tweed pocket. “This boat, if you enjoy such activities as getting specific.”

“On which body of water shall we float?” Dawson inquired, hitting his face via his hand as Sylvester motioned his head to the Atlantic Ocean which had just positioned itself directly to their left, to the dismay of everyone East of Saskatchewan (Fortunately, this transpired two years after this was written, giving you and your extended family simply a boatload of time to prevent getting dead).

“You can’t take that.” Sylvester notified Dawson.

“Take what from whom?” Dawson asked, in the earnest hope that Sylvester would respond.

Sylvester did, saying: “You hit yourself. You’ve to stick stuff up for yourself.” Dawson punched himself again. “Good revenge skills. Try to just work it out with you aggressor next time. You always end up digging two graves when you keep the cycle of anger spinning like that. It’s self defence, not hurting-people-fun-fest.”

Dawson saw with his eyes that Babe Listowel had already boarded his steamboat; and followed after, finding him to be, at the moment, more sane than Sylvester. Sylvester had a similar thought; but about fun instead of sanity; and also hopped into the boat, until it was a boat with three human beings in it.

“I see you’ve gotten some farcical little rakes for my fickle lanky hands.” Dawson told Babe, pointing to several distinctly non-rake posts. Babe Listowel looked to Dawson and nodded, knowing that this would be a fairly perfect response for the majority of remarks made by those in his company in the last seven minutes. He pushed a button on the boat reading “To be pushed for sailing purposes only”; and a pillar of steam wafted up from his watercraft. The craft picked up speed; and before long, short.

As Sylvester Denny, Dawson Filter, and Babe Listowel sailed, waves gently brushing up against the bow, followed by the stern, before being lost in a sea of water reminding them that they could never beat the system anyway, the Sun began to set; and the crew knew that now would’ve been an even neater time to have a large, Styrofoam quotation drift across the horizon.




Dawson Filter as He Relates to 1782

As basil leaves fell to the ground, glistening in the Utah Sun, Dawson Filter turned his torso forty-seven degrees counterclockwise to face Sylvester Denny, his partner in quest-tastic fun; and though the Utah Sun never shines in Regina, it existed just as much as if all the citizens of this planet all those of us who speak English call “home” had been staring their eyes at it all week, shifting Utah’s position every hour to compensate for physics.

“Was that Luther Gigee F. Mansete O’Finn worth his weight in time?” Dawson asked.

“Yes. He is a human being; and by extension, ought to be treated with boatloads of kindness ‘n’ respect.” Sylvester responded, his posture growing consistently better as he spoke.

“Did he know the true meaning of feelings?” Inquired Dawson; and promptly afterward, watched Sylvester signal “no” by shifting his head and surrounding ears back ‘n’ forth several times. Once Dawson processed the meaning of this motion, he asked “Shall we move to the next, then?”

“No doubt in my mind.” Sylvester stated, implying the verb “is” as he did so. Dawson again perfectly deciphered Sylvester’s words, and faced the computer; presumably to read the words on the monitor, as he read the words on the monitor. The words, some say, were “one”, “eight”, “hundred”, “seven”, “nine”, “four”, “five”, “two”, “four”, and “one”. Just as Dawson had transferred these words from the monitor to vibrations in the air, Sylvester converted these vibrations into head-messages, and then into telephone-finger-pushes.

“Hello, customer, it’s service time for you, here at The Wellness Warehouse.” Pat Bin said, via the telephone in her left hand.

“May I have speech with Luther O’Finn?” Sylvester Denny began to say, and finished saying soon after.

“Ja, he’s just here chastising me for being hispanic.” She said, moving the telephone into Mr. O’Finn’s hand-palm with her hand, forearm, wrist, and shoulder.

“Hello customer, sorry about that. I keep telling her to get help; but she comes in here every day with the same genes. Anyway, can I help you?” Luther said, twirling his moustache.

“I was just wondering if you happened to know what feelings mean; but I thought you should know I’m not actually offended by hispanic people. I was sort of under the impression that no one was. I just thought that with your name being Luther Gigee F. Mansete O’Finn you’d have a better idea of the true meaning of feelings.” Sylvester said, completely unaware that the capital of Portugal is Lisbon, although no harm came to him as a result-this time.

“Well no one really is consciously; ’cause that’s all racist; but “hispanic” ends with “panic”, and not one person under the Sun doesn’t find that unsettling on a subconscious level.” Luther reasoned. “About your feelings thing, though, that sounded pretty good.”

“It kind of is.”

“I have an uncle, neat man; he goes on ’bout the meaning of feelings. I’d never thought much about it, he also thinks he’s the year 1782 incarnate; but I could set you two up fer a brunch or some such.”

“Neat. How do I contact him”

“His telephone number is all fives; he asked for it like that because he says that those are the last ten digits of pi; his email address is beefcake1782@email.com; and his face is a round thing, with a lengthy nose, probably about a foot or so, peach-yellow skin, and eyes to match.”

Sylvester turned to Dawson, and as he moved his lips, out of them he said “Dodecadawson, I do declare, the man of the answers is sitting next to you. I’ve garnered a description of his face from the latest Luther, and he’s a square-in-square-hole fit with the rocker to your left.”

“Are you sure?”~Dawson Filter

“Am I ever.” Sylvester said in response.

“Oh, I’m so happy I could blink!” Dawson said afterward; and following that life event, he turned to the rocker and asked “Would you happen to know anything about the true meaning of feelings?”

“Only when I’m in the Amazon Basin.” The rocker said; and as he spoke, Dawson and Sylvester turned their heads once more, both thinking “Boy, we sure should go on down to the Amazon Basin”. For the mind reading rocker of the hour, this was a tremendously neat experience, even more so because Dawson and Sylvester think exactly one octave apart; and he knew that they knew that with the Amazon Basin would come truth.

Spoiler Warning


They were all wrong.

Dawson Filter as He Relates to Fountains Of Youth

With his new found knowledge of the best search engine for all his business and personal needs, Sylvester Denny turned toward Dawson’s face; and, according to most accounts, asked “What ever  shall we Bing® first?”

“We should probably search up some people who sound like they know a boatload o’ facts about feelings’ true meaning.” Dawson responded, placidly.

“I guess, like, if my name was an anagram of ‘the true meaning of feelings’, I’d probably get asked about it a bunch, and grow weary of not being able to answer people that well, so I’d probably look stuff up to get all better informed up.” Said Sylvester, put off by Dawson’s placidity.

 “Neat idea. Let’s pursue that to the best of our abilities.” ~Dawson Filter, via speech.

The two male Caucasians sat in mid-to-deep thought for a considerable amount of time, trying to find anagrammatic names for “the true meaning of feelings”, when they were interrupted by the rock ‘n’ roll musician to Dawson and Sylvester’s right and left, respectively.

“I was reading your thoughts”, he said, “and I thought you should know that ‘Gigi’ can be spelled with a double ‘e’, instead of the second ‘i'”

“Oh, I feel happiness!” Squealed Sylvester, blinking between every-other syllable .

“Pernimius!” Dawson bellowed, lapsing into Latin in this moment of triumph. “What name have you found, waiter-boy?”

“Luther Gigee F. Mansete-O’Finn!” Sylvester replied, so giddily that he neglected to include a verb in his otherwise flawless sentence.

“The poor man.” The rocker lamented.

The computer’s keys submitted to Dawson as he bopped them; and shortly after, the name of the man whose name was the name of the man appeared on the monitor. Bing® took it gladly; and offered up a pleasant blue list of entries concerning everyone unfortunate enough to be named Luther Gigee F. Mansete-O’Finn. Of everyone in the restaurant, only two people had any idea that so many people had the name:a twelve year old girl who had shortly before made a multimedia presentation on the epidemic, and an eleven year old boy who was in her class.

“Let’s telephone ’em all.” Suggested the rocker, who seemed to believe that he had been inducted into the group by sitting with it for five hours.

“We should get their workplace numbers, so we seem less stalker-esq.” Sylvester said, improvising his final suffix.

 “That looks like a pretty workplace-y one.” The Dawson-Filter-est member of the fellowship said, pointing to the number reading “1-800-REALFUN”. He motioned for Sylvester to grab the telephone sitting in a ‘World’s Best World’ mug.  Sylvester did just as he was told; and proceeded to take the initiative to dial the number.

“Luther’s Fountains of Youth, how’s your day, and what can we sell you?” A voice from the telephone and beyond asked.

“May I speak with the manager?” Asked Sylvester, dodging both of the man’s questions.

“If I had to guess.” Replied the voice flatly.

“Is this the manager yet?” Said Sylvester, deciding to base his side of the conversation entirely on questions.

“Yes.” The same voice replied, just as flatly as before.

“What’s the true meaning of feelings?” Sylvester inquired.

“Your face.”

“Not enough letters.” Stated Sylvester, smacking his face as punishment for not asking enough of a question.

“Just buy a fountain, or hang up.”

“You hang up. I mean, why don’t you hang up?” ~Sylvester Denny

“I’m not allowed to.”

“You’re the manager.” Said Sylvester,  deciding to give up his question vow.

“But the book says not to hang up. Ever.”

“Thanks for the tip. This isn’t on my phone bill.” Sylvester told Lester, leaving the phone on the breakfast and midday snack shop counter. Remembering that he liked the shop quite a bit more than phone companies, he turned back to the telephone; and told himself that he had probably learned a valuable lesson from the exchange.


Dawson Filter as He Relates to Rock ‘n’ Roll

Sylvester Denny was not yet certain of the legitimacy of his new traveling companion as a person. He seemed obsessive (After all, who really cares about the answers to questions?), and Dodecadawson didn’t quite have the same sort of “pop” as real names tend to. Nevertheless, he held the key to Sylvester inheriting nothing from his great-uncle Barack; and so, Sylvester Denny was pleased with himself that he had accepted the man’s offer of adventure.

“Where ever shall we start?” Asked Dawson, poising his arms in a way which strongly implied that he wanted an answer.

“We should probably find good a search engine to, like, look up addresses and such. Or, like, if we wanted to know some trivia, for some guy asking us or something; or if we just wanted to know; and we didn’t know, or wanted to be sure, we could just type stuff in, and answers and stuff would pop out.” Sylvester responded.

“My sister owns stocks in Bing®, so I’m kind of into that.” ~Dawson Filter, 2016, when asked by Sylvester Denny his search engine of preference.

“That sounds pretty good. We should probably test it out first, though, just to make sure that their servers are stable and all that.” Said Sylvester, afterword, to which Dawson promptly responded:

“When I walked in here (here referring to Walter’z Breakfast and Midday Snack House), I thought I saw a computer next to the cash register; and the monitor had what looked to be Blackjack scores. Most computers just come with solitaire, maybe Minesweeper. They had to have downloaded it somehow; and the internet is currently the leading method of downloading software, so I figure  they probably have a connection.”

“I’m sometimes allowed back there, to fetch pens and such.” Sylvester said, with a look in his eye which seemed to say “I’m sometimes allowed back there, to fetch pens and such.”

“Neat.” Dawson Filter said, fully confident that this was a full sentence. He made a motion with his hand to signal Sylvester to walk towards, and behind, the restaurant’s counter. Sylvester Denny responded by turning his back to Dawson, as the first step in walking toward his destination of the counter. Opening the door to the most coveted place in the building, he reached down to scratch his left knee; and, while he was down there, he saw a button which read “12 Kicks”. Like any 5”11 man would have done, he pushed it. Immediately afterword, a banner fell from the ceiling, along with a wolf; a flower pot; a real pot; a rock ‘n’ roll musician; and an anvil, which landed on the wolf.

“Woooooooohooooooooahaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrrrrrggggxxxxxx” The rocker crooned, adapting Bob Dylan’s smash hit, “Blowin’ in The Wind”.

“Dodecadawson, I’ve just begun to experience fear, and it’s not stopping!” Sylvester cried, in an effort to alert Dawson Filter of his fear. Dawson ran to his side, and muttered some empty words of comfort before Sylvester’s field of vision faded to black.

He awoke to find Dawson sitting at the company computer, looking over his right shoulder, and saying “I was right. Bing® truly is the best search engine for all my business and personal needs.”

And so, in the year’s most subtle moment of product placement, Dawson Filter and Sylvester Denny discovered that there was more hope in their quest fo’ the true meaning of feelings than they had ever imagined in the previous six minutes.