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Marli •
8. 12. 2025 o 17:54
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Zakladám túto tému na (o)testovanie správania sa fóra. Použitím a Cieľom by malo byť/mať miesto na ľubovoľný test (napríklad linkovanie, citácie, notifikácie, blokovanie, atd. v podstate čokoľvek), nech 'nesmetíme' v iných témach offtopic príspevkami, pokusmi.
(úvodný impulz napr od https://www.mtbiker.sk/forum/o-hocicom/jazykove-okienko--19880?open=2148186#post2148186 )
Lepšiu/podobnú či rovnakú tému som nenašiel - ak admini nesúhlasia, môžete spojiť/presmerovať.
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THE GREAT AND GLORIOUS CHRONICLES OF THE SILLY BICYCLES OF BICYCLOPOLIS
In the wobbling, gear-grinding land of Bicyclopolis, where even the clouds commute on tiny pedal-powered puff-cycles, the bicycles have developed an unusual habit: they insist on behaving like very dramatic, very theatrical vegetables. No one knows why. Some think it began when a touring bike accidentally rolled through a Shakespeare festival; others blame a rogue unicycle who once tried to recite poetry to a basket of cabbages. Regardless, the bicycles of Bicyclopolis have become the silliest, chattiest, most melodramatic machines to ever spin their spokes.
Every morning, the bicycles gather in the Grand Roundabout—a circular plaza specifically designed to make tourists dizzy—and start their ritual warm-up routine. This involves squeaking loudly, loosening their handlebars with exaggerated yawns, and then doing synchronized rotations, chanting, “SPIN! SPIN! SPIN! FOR THE WIN! WIN! WIN!” The chants are sometimes off-key, sometimes alarming, but always enthusiastic. The townsfolk merely shrug; this is normal here.
One particular bicycle, Sir Wobbleworth the Third, claims to be the noblest road bike ever crafted. He wears an old scarf tied around his seat post and insists on greeting everyone with, “Good morrow, pedestrian! Kindly admire my superior aerodynamics!” Sir Wobbleworth boasts spokes so shiny the sun complains about the competition. Despite this, he has a disturbing habit of tipping over anytime someone compliments him. His pride is strong, but his balance is not.
Near Sir Wobbleworth resides a mountain bike named Chunky Tires O’Thunder, whose tires are so chunky they double as emergency trampolines for passing children. Chunky Tires O’Thunder dreams of climbing actual mountains, but since Bicyclopolis is entirely flat, he spends his days climbing stacks of pamphlets about mountains instead. He proclaims, “One day I shall summit the Paper Peak of Brochure Mountain!” and then promptly slides down the stack, giggling uncontrollably.
There’s also Whiskerbell, the pastel-pink bicycle with a basket full of rubber ducks. She claims the ducks are her “strategic consultants.” When someone asks what they consult on, she whispers dramatically, “Everything.” The ducks, of course, say nothing, but squeak ominously whenever Whiskerbell is about to make a questionable decision, such as attempting to knit a sweater for a traffic cone.
The silliest of all, however, is an electric bike named Zzzzap McZoom, whose battery is so excitable that he occasionally bursts into spontaneous karaoke. You might be walking peacefully when suddenly a voice belts from behind: “I WANNA RIDE MY BEEP-BOOP BICYCLE!” followed by electric sparkles and a two-wheeled moonwalk. Zzzzap McZoom insists this is completely normal behavior for any respectable e-bike, although the others disagree—mostly because he moonwalks into things.
Now, the bicycles of Bicyclopolis aren’t content with simply being silly. No, they strive for grand silliness, the kind that rattles bike racks and confuses squirrels. To this end, they created the Annual Unnecessarily Dramatic Tour de Silliness, a race so ridiculous that even spectators are required to wear silly hats. The rules are simple: ride dramatically, compete melodramatically, and finish theatrically.
Contestants are judged not by speed, but by flare. If a bicycle dramatically swoons when passing a pothole, extra points. If it performs a soliloquy to a passing lamppost, even more points. And if it manages a triple-pirouette handlebar twirl while reciting an ancient recipe for pickled turnips, it is immediately granted the Golden Gear of Giggling.
During one unforgettable Tour de Silliness, Sir Wobbleworth attempted to deliver a grand speech about the destiny of road bikes. Unfortunately, mid-speech, a gust of wind flapped his scarf over his brake levers, causing him to drift sideways into a decorative shrub. The shrub applauded politely. Sir Wobbleworth vowed vengeance upon all foliage.
Whiskerbell attempted a performance with her rubber ducks that same year. The ducks were placed carefully in her basket, each wearing a tiny helmet. As Whiskerbell approached the judges, the ducks unleashed a perfectly synchronized squeak-chorus that echoed across the plaza. Spectators wept. Judges fainted. One pigeon declared it the finest art it had ever heard.
Chunky Tires O’Thunder attempted to leap over three stacks of pamphlets but misjudged the distance and instead crashed into a tower of souvenir postcards depicting sheep riding scooters. The postcards flew everywhere, making it appear briefly that the sky was full of postcards of scooter-riding sheep. It is widely considered the most beautiful moment in the town’s history.
Zzzzap McZoom attempted something described as an “electro-boogie-flip-spin-sparkle-swoosh spectacular.” The only notes anyone took afterward read: “It was loud,” “There were lasers but we don’t know how,” and “Someone needs to check the fire hydrant.” Despite almost knocking over a statue, Zzzzap was cheered wildly.
But the Tour de Silliness is not the only tradition. Oh, no. There’s also the Midnight Spoke-Jamboree, during which all bicycles gather to tell spooky ghost stories about flat tires appearing mysteriously in the night, chains that rattle even when the wind is still, and the terrifying legend of Old Rustbeard—the ghost bicycle who haunts unlubricated chains. If you listen closely during the Jamboree, you may hear Whiskerbell gasping dramatically or Sir Wobbleworth whispering, “’Tis but a squeak in the night!”
At sunrise, they perform the Ritual of the Great Grease, where they lightly dab each other's joints with fresh lubricant while chanting ancient bicycle proverbs such as “A clean chain makes a happy lane” and “Blessed be the pressure within thine tires.” Zzzzap McZoom once tried to replace the sacred grease with glitter, which made everything sparkle magnificently but caused at least eight bicycles to slide uncontrollably for several hours.
Now, once a year, the bicycles celebrate Pedalpalooza, a massive festival where every spoke is polished, every bell is tuned, and every seat is dramatically redecorated. Bicycles wear costumes ranging from “business casual handlebars” to “full disco wheel-plume extravaganza.” Last year, Sir Wobbleworth dressed as a noble dragon-bike, complete with flapping cardboard wings. Chunky Tires O’Thunder dressed as a boulder and spent the entire day insisting he was nearly indistinguishable from an actual rock.
Pedalpalooza is also famous for the Spoke-Symphony Orchestra, composed entirely of bikes rolling over different textures of pavement to create music. The cobblestone section performs percussion, while the smooth asphalt section provides sweeping melodies. Gravel contributes chaos. Zzzzap McZoom performs synth.
But beneath all the silliness, the bicycles of Bicyclopolis share a dream: to one day build a monument so magnificent, so silly, so wildly unnecessary, that future generations will say, “Why on earth did they build that?” This monument is called The Great Wheel of Wheely Wheeled Wonder, a gigantic decorative bicycle wheel taller than the tallest lamppost and wider than the widest pancake. It spins continuously, powered entirely by enthusiastic hamster-cyclists who pedal in tiny synchronized unison.
Construction continues year-round. Some days, Sir Wobbleworth inspects the site, proclaiming, “Glorious! Marvelous! Outrageously unnecessary!” Other days, Chunky Tires O’Thunder hauls more pamphlets for structural reference. Whiskerbell knits scarves for the hamsters. Zzzzap McZoom provides dramatic background music.
And so the silly bicycles roll on, day after day, pedaling bravely into the horizon of perpetual nonsense, squeaking joyously, dreaming ridiculously, and spinning toward their gloriously silly destiny.
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THE CYCLONIC CACOPHONY OF BIZARRE BICYCLE BABEL
Bicyloplopolis began at precisely thirteen o’clock on the day that didn’t exist but insisted on arriving anyway, wobbling through reality like a pancake on roller skates. The bicycles greeted it by honking their handlebars in seventeen different emotional languages, including "wistful squeak," "mildly panicked clink," and "existential ding." A touring bike named Flapjack Ferguson declared the new time unacceptable and attempted to reset the universe by inflating a tire in reverse. The tire disagreed and spun itself into a philosophical debate with a banana peel about whether spokes dream of spinning sheep.
And thus began the Great Sprocket Avalanche.
Sprockets rained from the sky, spinning in polka-dot spirals, waltzing with gravity before bouncing off confused pigeons. Each sprocket whispered secrets: “THE MUSTARD KNOWS EVERYTHING,” “LEFT PEDAL IS A LYING SCOUNDREL,” “CHEESE IS THE TRUE ENGINE OF DESTINY.” The bicycles absorbed these messages into their frames, becoming increasingly chaotic, vibrating at frequencies scientists described as “alarming but strangely rhythmic.”
Sir Noodlewhirl the Handlebar-Herald attempted to organize the bicycles into a coherent thought, but thoughts were in short supply that day. Noodlewhirl suffered a mild philosophical implosion when a passing breeze asked if he preferred soup or destiny. He responded “both,” but destiny had run out of spoons, and the soup union was on strike.
Meanwhile, the Gigantic Omnidirectional Mega-Bicycle, also known as G.O.M.B., rolled into town without bothering to materialize first. It simply declared itself present and reality agreed out of fear. G.O.M.B. had seventeen wheels arranged in a geometry forbidden by polite mathematicians, and each wheel spun independently at a tempo determined by the mood of the nearest cloud.
The clouds were feeling jazzy.
Thus the wheels spun in syncopated rhythms that caused the pavement to wiggle like a ticklish otter. A few potholes tried to escape, but potholes cannot run, and instead they became disgruntled puddles with opinions on modern architecture.
A chorus of unicycles gathered to welcome G.O.M.B. with a ceremonial chant:
“SPIN THE SPIN OF SPINNING SPINNERS
SPROCKETS HOWL AND CHAINS ARE SINNERS
WOBBLE WOBBLE WOBBLE WOBBLE
HANDLEBARS DEMAND A GOBBLE
OF THE NOODLE OF THE NIGHT
PEDAL FAST AND LOSE THE FIGHT
FOR THE TURNIP KING ARRIVES
ON A BIKE WITH EIGHTY-FIVE!”
Nobody understood the chant, not even the unicycles, who claimed they were possessed by the Spirit of Perpetual Pirouette.
Then came the Turnip King himself, riding a recumbent bicycle made entirely of aggressively sparkling confusion. The Turnip King wore a crown shaped like a bicycle bell that dinged in iambic pentameter. Every time it dinged, a nearby building questioned its purpose.
“BEHOLD!” shouted the Turnip King. “I BRING CHAOS! AND A STRUDEL!”
Everyone applauded the strudel. It glowed ominously.
Suddenly, a swarm of hyperactive tricycles zoomed through the streets, screaming “WHEEEEEEEEEE” at a pitch ty*****lly reserved for emergency whistles. Their wheels left trails of neon spaghetti that slowly crawled away in search of philosophical meaning.
A tandem bicycle named Snargleburp attempted to catch the spaghetti, but each noodle declared bankruptcy and refused to be captured. Snargleburp shrugged, then split in half out of frustration, becoming two independent bicycles. They immediately sued each other for emotional damages.
Above them all, the sky bicycle appeared. No one had invited the sky bicycle. No one even knew sky bicycles existed. It was forty feet long, shaped like an existential crisis wearing training wheels. It descended from the clouds making a sound like a kazoo gargling thunder.
It spoke:
“HONK.”
The ground trembled. A mailbox fainted. Five bicycles ascended into enlightenment only to discover enlightenment was slightly sticky.
“THE PROPHESIED HONK!” shouted a nearby scooter. “THE AGE OF UNHINGED VELOCIPEDES HAS BEGUN!”
The Age began immediately because reality had given up on pacing.
The Great Chainquake shook the land: chains rattled so violently that time loosened its lug nuts. Hours spilled across the streets, pooling into temporal puddles. Some bicycles slipped into next Thursday. Others fell backward into last Tuesday and returned with confusing souvenir t-shirts.
A flock of bilingual bicycle pumps swooped overhead, chanting pirate shanties in fluent octopus. Their leader, Captain Inflate-a-Lot, landed dramatically upon a park bench and declared:
“AVAST YE SPOKED SCALLYWAGS! WHO AMONG YE STOLE MY LEFT SOCK?”
Nobody confessed. The left sock continued a life of independent adventure.
At this moment the Wheelish Rift opened in the sky, swirling with swirling swirls of swirling swirliness. Through it emerged the ancient Oracular Bike Rack, which had foreseen all events except for those involving yogurt. It glowed with the light of ten thousand contradictory prophecies.
“THE FUTURE WOBBLES!” it shouted. “THE PATH FORWARD IS SIDEWAYS!”
Bicycles cheered.
Then everything turned sideways.
Gravity filed a complaint with the Department of Universal Stability, but the department was busy trying to stop refrigerators from attending ballet classes. Gravity gave up and leaned against a lamp post.
Now sideways, all bicycles skidded upward into the sky-plane, where the Celestial Bureau of Bicycle Absurdities held its weekly meeting. The chairman, a floating bicycle helmet named Helmut, greeted them warmly despite lacking a voice, or lips, or a functioning sense of tact.
“WELCOME NEW CHAOS-CONTRIBUTORS,” Helmut said telepathically. “TODAY’S AGENDA: CONFUSION, CONFETTI, AND THE QUANTUM HANDLEBAR INCIDENT.”
The bicycles applauded. Then someone detonated a confetti grenade made entirely of shredded instruction manuals.
Meanwhile, back in Bicyclopolis (or what remained of it after the sideways shift), a sentient puddle formed a union. The union demanded dental insurance despite lacking teeth. Negotiations stalled.
Chunky Tires O’Thunder (now made of jelly for no reason) attempted diplomacy but melted into a philosophical puddle himself. The two puddles formed an alliance and began chanting political slogans like “WE DEMAND EQUAL SPLASHES” and “DOWN WITH EVAPORATION.”
Above them, Zzzzap McZoom (now with five batteries and a mild identity crisis) declared himself “THE ELECTRIC EMPEROR OF ALL THINGS THAT BUZZ.” He issued a proclamation requiring all bicycles to hum at a specific frequency. Those who hummed incorrectly were lightly tickled by static electricity until they reconsidered their life choices.
A bicycle made of fruit attempted to participate but spontaneously became a smoothie.
Throughout this entire catastrophe, Whiskerbell’s rubber ducks had been absorbing cosmic nonsense like sponges. They swelled with chaotic energy until they glowed neon chartreuse. Then, as one, they ascended into the sky, quacking in eldritch harmony.
The ducks expanded into a Rubber Duck Constellation, rearranging the stars into the shape of a gigantic rubber duck riding a bicycle while eating a sandwich. Astronomers attempted to document this event but their telescopes turned into baguettes.
At long last, the universe, exhausted and slightly dizzy, attempted to reset itself. But bicycles refused. They demanded more chaos, more nonsense, more dramatic acceleration into illogical absurdity.
AND SO…
The cosmos bent, the galaxies hiccuped, the moon developed stage fright, and all bicycles everywhere shouted:
“WOBBLE FORTH INTO THE INFINITE NONSENSE! PEDAL THE IMPOSSIBLE! HONK THE INEFFABLE!”
And reality, defeated, simply let them.
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