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quislibetThe abandoned caves had been converted by some previous generation into a high-tech fortress, with retractable metal flooring covering the large pits. Now, in this time of crisis, we needed to make those caves a safe refuge once more, and to find the hidden and aging caches of weapons, our only hope.
I didn't like walking on those floors, knowing that only hastily reinforced sheets of rusty metal kept me from death at the bottom of some chasm. But there was no choice; outside, death was more certain: the enemy was at hand.
We found the crates of thermonuclear hand grenades, a product of scientific over-optimism in the middle of the previous century. The blast radius was larger than the range, at least when unathletic refugees like ourselves were forced to use them. I rigged up some sort of throwing device using a metal tube, which increased the range considerably, making it safer to use them -- never mind radiation problems; that was something we'd have to deal with later. Unfortunately, only the smaller grenades fit; you had to hunt around in the box for the ones that hadn't grown to full size.
Our salvation seemed to come in the form of an unnamed teenaged girl whose throwing arm might, in different times, have made her a baseball celebrity. She could lob the grenades right across the street into the enemy base to great effect. Once or twice a grenade didn't explode, and was thrown back at us; one landed only a few feet away. The girl picked it up in time and managed to toss it up into the air.
Almost instantly, we received from a messenger a copy of the Lynn, MA, newspaper, which reported that one of our pilots had been, moments before, caught in a nuclear explosion high above the caves. He had survived, but was captured by the enemy, his body grotesquely shrunken by the radiation, too small for his head.
And then, boys and girls, I woke up.
---
In other news,![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
subatomicsatan summarizes a contribution to the scientific side of "Baby Got Back" studies.
Incidentally, J. says I should do the Thong Song next, although she admits I could also make a trilogy of sorts with the help of Queen and Spinal Tap. Maybe even throw in that one Eddie Murphy song for a bonus.
Such talk assumes of course that I should actually do another song translation at all, but you know how it is with sequels, and anyway I have to finish a chapter about the Agrippinas by the end of November. And write up my Mage chron. and stuff.
And anyway how should one translate "My baby fits me like a flesh tuxedo / I like to sink her with my pink torpedo"?
I didn't like walking on those floors, knowing that only hastily reinforced sheets of rusty metal kept me from death at the bottom of some chasm. But there was no choice; outside, death was more certain: the enemy was at hand.
We found the crates of thermonuclear hand grenades, a product of scientific over-optimism in the middle of the previous century. The blast radius was larger than the range, at least when unathletic refugees like ourselves were forced to use them. I rigged up some sort of throwing device using a metal tube, which increased the range considerably, making it safer to use them -- never mind radiation problems; that was something we'd have to deal with later. Unfortunately, only the smaller grenades fit; you had to hunt around in the box for the ones that hadn't grown to full size.
Our salvation seemed to come in the form of an unnamed teenaged girl whose throwing arm might, in different times, have made her a baseball celebrity. She could lob the grenades right across the street into the enemy base to great effect. Once or twice a grenade didn't explode, and was thrown back at us; one landed only a few feet away. The girl picked it up in time and managed to toss it up into the air.
Almost instantly, we received from a messenger a copy of the Lynn, MA, newspaper, which reported that one of our pilots had been, moments before, caught in a nuclear explosion high above the caves. He had survived, but was captured by the enemy, his body grotesquely shrunken by the radiation, too small for his head.
And then, boys and girls, I woke up.
---
In other news,
subatomicsatan summarizes a contribution to the scientific side of "Baby Got Back" studies. Incidentally, J. says I should do the Thong Song next, although she admits I could also make a trilogy of sorts with the help of Queen and Spinal Tap. Maybe even throw in that one Eddie Murphy song for a bonus.
Such talk assumes of course that I should actually do another song translation at all, but you know how it is with sequels, and anyway I have to finish a chapter about the Agrippinas by the end of November. And write up my Mage chron. and stuff.
And anyway how should one translate "My baby fits me like a flesh tuxedo / I like to sink her with my pink torpedo"?
no subject
Date: 2003-11-04 09:06 am (UTC)How about this:
mea puella accomodat me similis vestito justo caronis
my sweetheart fits me like unto a formal garment of flesh
me iuvet eam cum missile submarino puniceo deprimere
it delights me to sink her with (my) pink underwater missile
I'm sure my translation is flawed... but I had fun doing it!
(I found your journal while wandering from link to link in friends' pages.)