If You Were an Award, My Love
"If You Were An Award, My Love"
by Juan Tabo and S. Harris
If you were an award, my love, then you would be a Hugo™. You’d be a big one, five feet, ten inches, the same height as human-you and twice the height of Regular Size John Scalzi, You’d be made of brass, and wood and plastic, and difficult to take on an airplane as carry on due to enhanced security precautions. Your eyes wouldn’t exist, because you were a rocket, stupid.
If you were a Hugo®, then I would become Taller, Stronger John Scalzi so that I could spend all my time with you. I’d bring you raw chickens and live goats, if you were into that kind of thing. I’d make my bed right under the trophy case, in the basement where my wife lets me sleep. When I couldn’t sleep, I’d sing you lullabies.
If I sang you lullabies, I’d soon notice how you were still a statue. You’d just sit there, because you were still a statue. When you thought I was asleep, you’d still be a statue, and I would still be Taller, Stronger, John Scalzi.
If I were still Taller, Stronger John Scalzi, I would rage against Puppies, Sad and Rabid, and my friends the League of Social Justice Warriors would rally to fund new research into defeating Puppies. Money would flood into the World Con. Biologists would try to figure out how to give rabbits jaws with big sharp teeth. Then I would know that I lived in a world of magic where anything was possible and a story with no fantasy and no science and very little fiction could be nominated for a Hugo©.
If we lived in a world of magic where anything was possible and a story with no fantasy and no science and very little fiction could be nominated for a Hugo™ then you would be an award, my love. You’d stand for everything progressive and PETA© and transgender and carbon-neutral and GMO/peanut free and latina and pro-Palestine and LGBT friendly and you’d miss the Soviet Union in a melancholy kind of way. Your Social Just-Us Warrior supporters would intimidate your foes effortlessly through coordinated campaigns of doxxing and public hateshaming. Whereas you—fragile, lovely, human you—must rely on threats and intimidation and troll-like slow-writing George R. R. Martin.
A Hugo©, even a large one, would never have to end up in the hands of John C. Wright or Jim Butcher or Steve Rzasa or Vox Day because they are insufficiently progressive, and are likely soaked in gin and malice. A Hugo®, my love, would eschew gin and malice and instead be soaked in Grand Marnier® and love©. A Hugo™ would bare rocket engine and liberal pedigree and they would cower. They’d hide in the Internet instead of crashing our party. They’d grasp each other for comfort and shout “Remember Heinlein and Campbell” instead of seizing the ballot and not letting anyone at all but the Puppies vote for the nominations and would then vote again in a completely democratic process on the nominated works as we slipped in the pools of our aggregated tears.
If you were an award, my love, I’d teach you the scents of those men. I’d lead a large herd of rabbits to them quietly, oh so quietly. They’d laugh, and probably not be scared since they are feelbad hurtspeak people. Your nostrils would flare as you inhaled the night and then, with the suddenness of prey, you’d run and cry. I’d cry, too.
If I cried, cried, cried, I’d eventually feel shame. I’d promise to change the Hugo rules so no one could ever do something like that again through voting. I’d avert my eyes from the newspapers when they showed photographs of the Hugo nominees, just as they must avert their eyes from the newspapers that show my crying face. How reporters adore my face, the face of the writer with his half-written acceptance speech, tickets to Washington, green chiffon bridesmaid dress. The writer who sits by the bedside of another writer who wrote about tribbles and is hurtbad because our insular community is not now sufficiently insular for my taste.
If you were an award, my love, then no one could take you, and if nothing could take you, then I would be externally validated as my persona requires. I would bloom into the most beautiful Socially Just Warrior Flower. I would stretch joyfully toward the left. I’d trust in your shiny brass and wood to keep you/me/us safe now and forever from the feelbad hurtspeech men, and the tally of the ballots and the internet, and the shuttering of my empty trophy case.
UPDATE: I just what can't words wow just wow....
UPDATE 2: Yeah, we're going to need a bigger harpoon.
by Juan Tabo and S. Harris
If you were an award, my love, then you would be a Hugo™. You’d be a big one, five feet, ten inches, the same height as human-you and twice the height of Regular Size John Scalzi, You’d be made of brass, and wood and plastic, and difficult to take on an airplane as carry on due to enhanced security precautions. Your eyes wouldn’t exist, because you were a rocket, stupid.
If you were a Hugo®, then I would become Taller, Stronger John Scalzi so that I could spend all my time with you. I’d bring you raw chickens and live goats, if you were into that kind of thing. I’d make my bed right under the trophy case, in the basement where my wife lets me sleep. When I couldn’t sleep, I’d sing you lullabies.
If I sang you lullabies, I’d soon notice how you were still a statue. You’d just sit there, because you were still a statue. When you thought I was asleep, you’d still be a statue, and I would still be Taller, Stronger, John Scalzi.
If I were still Taller, Stronger John Scalzi, I would rage against Puppies, Sad and Rabid, and my friends the League of Social Justice Warriors would rally to fund new research into defeating Puppies. Money would flood into the World Con. Biologists would try to figure out how to give rabbits jaws with big sharp teeth. Then I would know that I lived in a world of magic where anything was possible and a story with no fantasy and no science and very little fiction could be nominated for a Hugo©.
If we lived in a world of magic where anything was possible and a story with no fantasy and no science and very little fiction could be nominated for a Hugo™ then you would be an award, my love. You’d stand for everything progressive and PETA© and transgender and carbon-neutral and GMO/peanut free and latina and pro-Palestine and LGBT friendly and you’d miss the Soviet Union in a melancholy kind of way. Your Social Just-Us Warrior supporters would intimidate your foes effortlessly through coordinated campaigns of doxxing and public hateshaming. Whereas you—fragile, lovely, human you—must rely on threats and intimidation and troll-like slow-writing George R. R. Martin.
A Hugo©, even a large one, would never have to end up in the hands of John C. Wright or Jim Butcher or Steve Rzasa or Vox Day because they are insufficiently progressive, and are likely soaked in gin and malice. A Hugo®, my love, would eschew gin and malice and instead be soaked in Grand Marnier® and love©. A Hugo™ would bare rocket engine and liberal pedigree and they would cower. They’d hide in the Internet instead of crashing our party. They’d grasp each other for comfort and shout “Remember Heinlein and Campbell” instead of seizing the ballot and not letting anyone at all but the Puppies vote for the nominations and would then vote again in a completely democratic process on the nominated works as we slipped in the pools of our aggregated tears.
If you were an award, my love, I’d teach you the scents of those men. I’d lead a large herd of rabbits to them quietly, oh so quietly. They’d laugh, and probably not be scared since they are feelbad hurtspeak people. Your nostrils would flare as you inhaled the night and then, with the suddenness of prey, you’d run and cry. I’d cry, too.
If I cried, cried, cried, I’d eventually feel shame. I’d promise to change the Hugo rules so no one could ever do something like that again through voting. I’d avert my eyes from the newspapers when they showed photographs of the Hugo nominees, just as they must avert their eyes from the newspapers that show my crying face. How reporters adore my face, the face of the writer with his half-written acceptance speech, tickets to Washington, green chiffon bridesmaid dress. The writer who sits by the bedside of another writer who wrote about tribbles and is hurtbad because our insular community is not now sufficiently insular for my taste.
If you were an award, my love, then no one could take you, and if nothing could take you, then I would be externally validated as my persona requires. I would bloom into the most beautiful Socially Just Warrior Flower. I would stretch joyfully toward the left. I’d trust in your shiny brass and wood to keep you/me/us safe now and forever from the feelbad hurtspeech men, and the tally of the ballots and the internet, and the shuttering of my empty trophy case.
UPDATE: I just what can't words wow just wow....
UPDATE 2: Yeah, we're going to need a bigger harpoon.
Labels: Hugo Award, SJW
62 Comments:
Ah, where's the like button when you need it....
10/10 - Would nominate for a Hugo.
If Rachel Swirsky were a dinosaur, my love, she'd be a Fattysaurus.
I suddenly feel dirty.
Triggered
Ick.
Fattysaurus
Why invent new ones, when there's perfectly established nomenclature?
Brachiosaurus
Brontosaurus
One of them speculated to have the airholes for breathing on the top of its head, not the tip of its nose, in order to allow it to breathe whilst standing underwater, so to relieve its bones of carrying all that weight, and only coming out of the water to feed off land plants.
I loved my "was ist was" (what is what) research book as a boy. It is difficult to find the same level of scientific depth today for 5-8 year old children, it's as if publishers don't trust the intellect of children anymore, just because the current crop of young adults is dumbed down nowadays.
*books not book
Had many of those as a boy, including about the moon and the Saturn missions, another one about the solar system including tables of radius, mass, distance to sun (both aphel and perihel, plus average), duration of "planet year" (ie time of full circumnavigation), and so on. All metrics given in both absolute measures (eg, millions of km) as well as in relative Earth-multiples. I knew the entire table by heart, just like the dinosaur stuff.
O, and no child back in the day would have dreamt of using the infantile "dino" abbreviation.
Another book about atoms and their elementary particles...
Unlike the award winner it was based on, I finished this. Also unlike the award winner it was based on, I was able to finish reading it without wanting to kill myself.
Epic. can this please be on the 2016 Puppies slate?
Oh my..
Well played good sirs, well played indeed.
This gave me some big laughs to wake me up this morning. Love it.
Paragraphs 4, 7 and 8 have missing punctuation at the end of it. Just to check it wasn't intentional, I doublechecked the original (yuck) published at Apex Magazine.
Franz Lionheart -
Why invent new ones, when there's perfectly established nomenclature?
Brachiosaurus
Brontosaurus
Neither of those magnificent reptiles grazed in Golden Corral.
But Fattysaurus Swirsky does.
If you give a hamplanet a cookie...
Did you know that, legally, Rachel Swirsky and Big Seanan McGuire aren't allowed to be in the same restaurant at the same time?
"I would cry TOO " not TO
But Fattysaurus Swirsky does.
Holy Obesities! You weren't kidding. These people are fucking freaks in literally every way. No wonder the guy looks scared, he probably thinks she might inadvertently devour him.
"I would cry TOO " not TO
I thought that meant Nate wrote it.
I laughed when reading the title. Thanks for that. Well, done.
That boy is one "o" short of an adverb...
She is on that paelo diet. The one where you eat dinosaur donuts all day and then wallow in the tar pits
The man scurried along the subterranean corridor beneath his double-wide, hastily navigating Coleman lamps and mounds of discarded chicken bones.
He paused at the door. His emaciated arm, raised to knock, paused momentarily.
"Should I tell her?", he mused, staring miserably at the handmade sign, rendered in colourful crayon and construction paper, saying "Rachel's Room - KEEP OUT!"
He sighed. "Better she finds out now than later, I suppose..."
He timidly rapped the wooden door.
"WHO DARES DISTURB MY NACHO FEAST?" boomed an indignant voice.
The man meekly slunk inside the chamber. It was hot and cloying, and so dimly lit he nearly tripped on the skull of a pizza delivery boy.
"It is I, Mistress! Forgive me, but I have urgent news!"
The Fatterwocky spat a cloud of Dorito dust in his direction and her bellies rippled in irritation.
She tried to sit up, with a gargantuan effort that made the man fear she'd pull the whole cavern down on top of both their heads. But mercifully, she soon gave up her grunting effort and fixed him with a serpentine glare.
When she spoke, her voice was low and dangerous.
"What could be so urgent as to justify interrupting my snack? You know how cranky I get when my blood sugar is low. Don't you, husband?"
The man shuddered.
"Mistress - it's your Nebula-award winning story..."
"YES?", shrieked the Fatterwocky.
The man was close to tears now.
"The--the bastard puppies," he spat. "They're writing a parody of it, Mistress!"
The Fatterwocky bellowed with rage.
"I WILL DEVOUR THEM!", she screamed, splattering the helpless man with a spray of saliva and nacho cheese.
"Yes, Mistress! You will grind their bones to make your burritos! You shall feast on their puppy flesh! You shall digest their wailing meatsacks in your beautiful stomachs for a thousand years!"
The Fatterwocky was suddenly mollified and aroused by the man's grovelling obsequience.
"Yes, I shall, husband," she cooed. "But you have done well in telling me. I will reward you with sexytimes. Get your scuba gear, now."
The Fatterwocky licked her lips, lasciviously.
The man shuddered again.
You've got it all wrong. I'm her pimp.
Hey, the basement is my domain.
If You Were a 1958 Plymouth Belvedere, My Love
If you were a dinosaur, my love, then you'd only be a snack.
*sniff*...that's...that's just beautiful. Definately Hugo award winning material.
Keep them away from my Grand Marnier. A splash of that nectar is the secret ingredient in my margaritas!
In #19:
" But mercifully, she soon gave up her grunting effort and fixed him with a serpentine glare."
serpentine should be elephantine.
If that woman thinks it's socially acceptable to look like that, she's been fed a lot of lies... as well as pizzas.
First XKCD, and now this. My morning is complete and it isn't even 9 AM yet.
Tom - I was thinking this.
VD - These people are fucking freaks in literally every way.
Between the hamplanets, the rape-dwarves, the rainbow haired she-twinks, the Andy Dick lookalike trannies, the creepy uncles, the NAMBLA supporters, and the crossdressing 6ft 2 ex-Marine fantasists, it's hard to tell the Making Light folks apart from a gritty reboot of The Addams Family.
Shibes Meadow - I love it! If Rachel Swirsky was a car, my love, she'd be Truckosaurus.
Upon seeing the image in the update, I instantly heard the cry of Godzilla (the old versions).
If you were Godzilla, my love.
Perhaps various versions of "If you were a dinosaur.." Could be nominated next year? How wickedly amusing to have all the nominated stories in the category be mocking versions of the real one.
Fat shaming, really? I feel sorry for the guy, any of us could have fallen into her orbit. I'm no SJW, so ya'll can do what you want, but I'll spend the rest of the day focused on the positive: the dark matter mystery has been solved!
Loved it. It was much better than Cats.
25. Tim June 05, 2015 8:40 AM
Keep them away from my Grand Marnier. A splash of that nectar is the secret ingredient in my margaritas!
the Zornarita
10 oz 1800 or good anejo tequila
5 oz Gran Marnier
5 oz Cointreau
1 can limeade
24 oz water
1 tsp sugar
1 fresh squeezed orange
She looks exactly like I thought she would, but that still didn't prepare me for the horror.
Oh, ack! Come on, Vox! I haven't even finished my first cup o' joe when I saw that thing beach itself on my desktop!
If Wright wrote a brilliant retelling of the original, then this is a perfect skewering and roasting of the original.
Her BMI is measured in acres.
Glorious
Is that an award or an extra large parfait she's receiving?
An eye bleach warning would have been nice. If she dropped that award I think it would start to orbit her as her mass is so large as to have its own gravity.
I'm a liberal professor, and my liberal students terrify me
by Edward Schlosser on June 3, 2015
http://www.vox.com/2015/6/3/8706323/college-professor-afraid
22 Shibes meadow. Well done.
That's no moon...
If they do go Noah Ward on everything Puppy related this year then this must be a 2016 Hugo winner.
No wonder these people have taken over our government - an area that large surely has its own Congressman.
She's so rotund, by default, she has T-Rex arms.
I get it now.
IT ALL MAKES PERFECT SENSE.
I am going slowly and have finished "Three Body". Do the SJW's realize that is a poison pill of sexism, racism, and closeted theism?
Life as a Boat
I walk into a room and what do I see,
Every head turning and staring at me
Not because I’m pretty, dashing, or stunning,
But because my girth in the wind is flubbing
Rolling and tossing like waves of the sea
Uncontained and completely free
Woe to me, the epitome of large
Others are canoes, but I am a barge
I’m tired of asking employees to go to the back
To pull that XXL dress off of the rack
The creek of park benches under my weight
Announces my looming expanse so great
The ground rumbles and rattles and quakes
When I lumber by and create my wake
If my fat was but helium in air I would float
But alas, only in water, for I am a boat
224 @ 30: "Perhaps various versions of "If you were a dinosaur.." Could be nominated next year? How wickedly amusing to have all the nominated stories in the category be mocking versions of the real one."
Here's one, from last year.
But ya gotta read the prior comments to get the penultimate punchline.
I suppose it's probably not eligible, though, because of the year...
New Rule: To win a Nebula, you must be as large as one.
Oh, sysadmn, that's just the kind of comment that wins you the internet today. Thanks for the laugh!
Another parody from that post.
I don't have enough alcohol to bleach out the image of that hamplanet.
Both of them strike me as being from another species.
When she hauls ass she has to make multiple trips.
This comment has been removed by the author.
Now I don't feel bad about my ripping on the "If you where" series.
First XKCD, and now this. My morning Actually there are some good tasting beers
? I feel sorry for the guy, any of us could have fallen into her orbit
Speak for yourself.
Gotta love that word, 'Hurtspeech'. Sounds like something a five-year old would mouth. " Mummy, Johnny hurtspeeched me all over the playground!"
"Here Dear, take your rabid puppy over to his house and let it bite his rump!!"
"All good now!!"
Yikes, BGS, the only thing I'm guilty of is (inappropriate) subtle humor. Everyone is making fun of the Nebula in the picture, right? The one the dude is gawking at? The one holding the award?
Nobel Peace Prize... Hugo... and ESPY...
All awards ruined by SJWs?
Quizzer W The one the dude is gawking at? The one holding the award?
Yes the picture on the cover of "If you where a tranny I still wouldn't be able to find a penis in your rolls by love" The hugo award winning story of what happens to women that eat multiple wedding cakes a week.
@Steve and others: I understand that you don't like Rachel Swirsky and If You Were A Dinosaur, My Love-I think that the story's pants, myself. But I don't think that you have to be blasting here for being fat. Leave her weight out of the criticisms and the equations.
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