Sumo-Eier?!?

[Dr. Dralle]

hehe! sehr schön!
ich wandele den podcast grade in eine audio-datei.
da können wir aussschnitte draus verwenden!
die englischsprachigen tictacs wird es freuen...

[MMC]

Habe festgestellt, dass man auch youtube Videos als Sources angeben kann. Hier ist also der ultimative Podcast zu Banaltopia Folgen 1-24:

https://www.buzzsprout.com/2424880/epis ... nload=true

Hier noch zwei weitere fruehere Versuche mit gemischten Quellen:

https://www.buzzsprout.com/2424880/epis ... nload=true (Boell, Bruening und Folgen 21-24)

https://www.buzzsprout.com/2424880/epis ... nload=true (Boell und Broening)

Jetzt ist aber erstmal genug. Die Folgen auf buzzsprout, uebrigens, self-destruct nach 90 Tagen... Also besser downloaden fuer die Nachwelt und so weiter.

[Dr. Dralle]

ich habe es archiviert!
und sie haben recht: das IST definitiv spooky!

[MMC]

Eventuell auch einfach mit einer simplen Animation (Sam und Kiki?) auf youtube hochladen. Fuer die neue Reihe 'Banalotopia Meta Talk'?

[Dr. Dralle]

Eventuell koennen wir den Beethoven in irgendeiner Zwischenszene verwenden?

es gibt jetzt die rubrik "warren dunn spielt beethoven"
Klaviersonate Nr. 17 d-moll op. 31 Nr. 2 (Sturmsonate)

[Dr. Dralle]

Eventuell auch einfach mit einer simplen Animation (Sam und Kiki?) auf youtube hochladen. Fuer die neue Reihe 'Banalotopia Meta Talk'?

das wäre auch was für die "banalotopia-shorts"

[MMC]

Eventuell auch einfach mit einer simplen Animation (Sam und Kiki?) auf youtube hochladen. Fuer die neue Reihe 'Banalotopia Meta Talk'?

das wäre auch was für die "banalotopia-shorts"

Aeh - ich dachte 'Shorts' bezieht sich auf die Laenge der Videos; nicht so sehr auf die Laenge der Hosen? Siehe auch: Wolle Hose kaufen?

Apropos - Da ich ja jetzt die Video Sourcen hochgeladen habe, kann Kollege NotbookLM auch Englische Uebersetzungen produzieren, z.B. von Folge 1 (und fragen Sie mich nicht, wie da der Scholz hinzugekommen ist!?). Brauchen wir sowas? Desweiteren habe ich dann ChatGPT gebeten, das Transcript im Stile von Jane Austen umzuformulieren. So wird das was:

Here is the rewritten text in the style of Jane Austen:

---

**"I am at a complete loss to account for this misfortune. The contraption ceased to function entirely, and upon my attempts to restart it, a red light appeared in the front—a singular occurrence, truly. To add to my predicament, I have not the faintest notion of my precise whereabouts. Behind me stands what I can only describe as an old spaceport, while before me lies a road bordered by the sea. Pray, can you or your associates derive any benefit from my presence here? What was I intending to say... Ah, yes—my engagements for the day are numerous, and I cannot linger indefinitely in expectation of assistance from one of your younger colleagues! Moreover, I must declare that I am entirely indifferent to whether this conversation is being recorded."**

**"Indeed, whatever you suggest. But is this not a jest of some kind? You cannot mean to trifle with me so! I have already provided my flight reference number no fewer than three times, and yet you persist with your nonsensical inquiries about... what was it, the ‘dream of 74’? I cannot abide it. Today, I resolve to think no more, to concern myself no more; my thoughts have decidedly retired for the day. Yes, indeed, with PVP—precisely. And after that... well, no, not *that*... perhaps, but—oh, never mind. It is simply the way of things. And I must ask: has your newspaper truly advised the consumption of insects? Ridiculous! All I desire is to partake of my crispy fried langos, with mustard aplenty, and to do so in peace, undisturbed by the persistence of Jehovah’s Witnesses. How long must I endure such vexations?"**

**"I still have the matter of fetching Ben and Candy from their daycare. And let me tell you, truck drivers impart most useful lessons in managing one’s affairs. Speaking of which, this country ought to provide the correct lottery numbers at long last! Furthermore, I must call upon certain offices to rearrange their interiors. Later, of course, I shall attend to the analysis of losses, calculated with a sustainability factor of 3.5, within the East Frisian downstream knowledge region, which, I believe, adheres to a sustainability factor of 2.0. And travel costs, I understand, amount to 1,315... weeks? Days? Am I right in addressing Dr. Krause? I confess, I have such a draft to discuss with him..."**

**"Ah, you are connecting me? Excellent. Now, about this draft—something concerning Jacob’s Day, I believe. Am I still addressing Dr. Krause? My thoughts feel scattered; I am quite beside myself. Indeed, I find myself seated near a most perplexing fellow—one Mr. Scholz, who appears to be in a state of profound slumber. It is a blow, low as it is, to my patience. Miss, surely you understand the sheer unpleasantness of my day! I found myself at what I can only describe as a ski jump situated in the wildest of locales—though it was not, I must say, the world’s end, one could certainly see it from there. There I stood, upon a desolate jetty, waiting, waiting, waiting for someone to come and retrieve me from that most miserable state of limbo."**

**"In the end, I could do little else but make futile phone calls. And you, how have you fared? Let me assure you, there is no need to burden yourself unduly with concern."**

---

Does this sufficiently capture the tone of Jane Austen?

[Dr. Dralle]

ich habe mal versuchsweise eine "Banalotopia_Shorts"-episode aus dem jane austen-text erstellt:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7QK1pn0stFQ

[MMC]

Das ist lustig! Hier Banalotopia 2 aus Agatha Christie's Feder:

The tale begins, as so many tales of intrigue do, in the dim light of a crumbling office tucked within the forgotten sprawl of Banal Utopia—a city teetering on the brink of anarchy and corporate ambition. It was here, amidst peeling wallpaper and the ceaseless wail of sirens below, that a most peculiar detective plied his trade.

“My name,” he began, with a wry, self-deprecating smile, “is Sam Cuddly Bunny. A name ill-suited to my line of work, I grant you. While the likes of Philip Marlowe evoke mystery and grit, ‘Cuddly Bunny’ inspires little more than laughter or pity. It’s a name that leaves criminals unfazed and clients skeptical. But names, as they say, can deceive.”

He leaned back in his chair, a relic of better days, and recounted his beginnings—days spent with The Suns Private Investigations, capturing wayward husbands in compromising positions. “Tedious work,” he confessed, “especially during the reign of that operetta dictator who called himself the Ki.Ka Tor. Do you remember him? A pretender to power, toppled swiftly by General Amnesty and his troops. A merciful coup, that was. But even the end of tyranny couldn’t halt the city’s descent.”

The city, Banal Utopia, now lay in the grip of three shadowy powers. There was TF Corporation, cloaked in impenetrable corporate secrecy; Land Blum Enterprises, purveyors of arms, narcotics, fast food, and, inexplicably, duvet cleaning; and MMC, a giant whose sleep implantology clinics dotted every corner of the city. “A triumvirate of corruption,” Sam mused, “each more treacherous than the last.”

Sam’s office occupied the 13th floor of a decrepit tower on 42nd Street, an address as unsavory as the man who leased it to him. “Waldo da Costa,” Sam said, shaking his head. “A name that rings false. The man conducts business with the Mythen and wears a gas mask at all hours. Why? I’ve no idea, but I suspect it’s better not to ask.”

It was here, in this den of disrepair, that a curious client appeared—a woman, clad not in the customary distressed elegance of a femme fatale but in a steel helmet that never left her head. “Kiki DeLorean,” she introduced herself, her voice steady, her demeanor unshakable. “Drives a Leopard tank through the city for the advantage it offers in rush hour.” She came to Sam with a plea: her fiancé, a man known as the Talking Robe, had vanished.

“The Talking Robe,” Sam echoed, his brow furrowed. “Jarek Moritz Schinski, by birth. A man whose verbosity was matched only by his beard. An odd moniker, but in this city, who’s to judge?”

The case was set. Sam took Kiki’s retainer and embarked on his quest, beginning, as was his custom, with a meal. He sought out the Old Docks and their singular delicacy—Kinderlange sausages, tinned and served with spiced rice. It was here he encountered The Gray One, an android of considerable resourcefulness and connections in unsavory circles. Over a shared meal, Sam broached the subject of the missing Robe.

“The Gray One,” Sam recounted, “fixed me with his unblinking camera lens and said I should look into a pop star. A former drag queen by the name of Freiland Tischlampe. She, it seemed, had ties to the Robe’s past.”

Before pursuing this lead, Sam paid a visit to the MMC Street Horoscope on Hessen Boulevard, a grim oracle dispensing cryptic truths for a fee. The machine, in its metallic monotone, warned him, “The Robe’s in deep trouble.”

“Trouble,” Sam muttered, stepping back into the night. “But isn’t that where the best stories always begin?”

[MMC]

Und George Eliott hatte sich Banalotopia 3 angenommen:

### A Day at the Beach in Banalotopia
**By George Eliot (in spirit)**

In the sprawling coastal expanse of Banalotopia, where the briny air mingles with the effluvia of its crumbling grandeur, the denizens of this peculiar city find their summer solace by the sea. The tides lap not merely against golden sands but at the foot of half-sunken streets, lending the city its wry epithet: “Gray Venice,” or more darkly, the “Venice of Horror.”

Among the dunes—where nature’s desolation finds curious companionship with human ingenuity—stands the beach café. A humble establishment, yet cherished for its famed tarte flambée and the regional pride, the "Dünne Lange Wurst." This sausage, thin as its name suggests, embodies the traditions of a city steeped in peculiarities and secrets, a fitting emblem of Banalotopia itself.

Not far from this culinary haven lies the daycare center "Pause Fisch," where Samuel Kundl-Haase, a man of scholarly bent, watches over his niece Kenny—Waltraud by her christened name—and nephew Ulf Sören, whom the family affectionately dubs Ben. Their task this day is a curious one: preparation for the truck driver’s exam, an undertaking that blends pragmatism with an odd measure of civic trivia. "Remember,” intones Samuel, “who advised on the match between Klopp and FK Talente?” A question that causes young Waltraud to furrow her brow more deeply than the boys, whose casual confidence belies their shared uncertainty.

Meanwhile, the salt-stained air carries the distant chants of the Patina Monks from the Temple of Saint Fermín. Clad in robes faded to match the sands, they wage a solemn protest against the culinary indulgences of their compatriots, advocating instead for a diet of insects as a moral imperative. This righteous crusade, though earnest, has drawn the ire of Landblum Enterprises, whose fortunes hinge upon more traditional fare. Their latest creation, the “Dübener Knack,” seeks to modernize the esteemed sausage legacy while retaining its hearty allure. Yet, even here, the tension between tradition and progress brews uneasily, much as the sausages themselves undergo their alchemical transformations.

The making of the “Dünne Lange Wurst” is itself a testament to the peculiar pieties of Banalotopia. In the salt marshes, the sausages are hung to cure, their pink sheen attributed to the inclusion of consecrated flamingo feathers during the smoking process. This ritual, known as the Brother Karl Amon method, owes its name to a Carthusian monk whose devotion to the craft was as fervent as his prayers. The fruit of the sausage finger tree, harvested only under a full moon, is burned to release its fragrant essence, imbuing each link with an elusive, almost mystical flavor. Whether the monks’ claims of soul transference are rooted in truth or allegory, the result is undeniably exquisite.

By evening, the day’s labors reach their culmination at the daycare. Waltraud, after a morning of struggle and an afternoon of steely resolve, passes her truck driver’s exam with a distinction that surprises even herself. Triumph begets opportunity, and the child—barely more than a girl, yet brimming with newfound purpose—finds herself gainfully employed. As she climbs into the cab of her first truck, her uncle looks on with quiet pride.

And so, life continues in Banalotopia: strange, tumultuous, yet filled with small victories and enduring rituals, each story adding its thread to the city’s patchwork of absurdity and resilience.

[Dr. Dralle]

hier ist die banalotopia_shorts-folge mit dem orginal-drehbuch von agatha cristie:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=StrDNn-TOOQ

[MMC]

Das geht ja Zack-Zack. Ich schaue mal spaeter, wen wir noch alles so als Autor verpflichen koennen.

In Banalotopia 25 sollten wir auch die Shorts gebuehrend bewerben, in etwa Warren am Telefon:

"...ja; und da uns ja schon in der letzten Folge nichts Neues mehr eingefallen ist, veroeffentlichen wir jetzt Shorts; nicht die kurzen Hosen! Das sind so 1-Minute Schnitte von den vollstaendigen Videos; und dann auf Englisch. [...] Doch, doch 1 Minute passt schon. Da sind ja auch Trump-Waehler dabei, da ist das ja schon fast zu lange... [...] Die Uebersetzungen? Das haben haben wir outgesourced. Oder sagt man ge-outsourced? Ist ja ausch egal. Jedenfalls konnten wir einige renomierte Autoren verpflichten. Jane Austen, George Eliott, Agatha Christie. [...] Wie, die sind Alle schon tot? Deswegen waren die ja auch so guenstig zu haben. [legt auf] Bloedmann."

[Dr. Dralle]

einen hab ich noch:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5IRurgBXRa4
die verschollene folge von george eliot!

aber jetzt wende ich mich erst einmal wieder banalotopia 25 zu!

[MMC]

Rudyard "Jungle Book" Kipling hat sich Folge 4 angenommen:

"Do you hear that?" I said, the words falling into the silence of the vast plains. "The horse is dead. Gone and done for. And me? I’m stranded—twenty, maybe thirty miles from Banal Utopia City, if my reckoning holds true. Not that it matters. This isn’t about my driving. No, sir, this is about Indians. Arrows in the dark, swift and silent. No one told me they still roamed these parts. Can you come fetch me? No? Hah, just as I thought. Well, then, sit tight, and I’ll tell you a story to pass the time."

---

"Go on," came the reply.

"I will. It’s a tale of the desert. Of the gray, windswept city on the edge of nowhere and its stubborn, salt-stung people. There’s a town out here—barely more than twenty-five souls and their shadows. Years ago, they chose themselves a sheriff, a man named Vest. His badge shone like it meant something, though the land didn’t care much for law. With him stood his deputy, Holzer, a steady hand with a quick temper. Together they kept the peace—or tried to—but theirs was no friendship. The two couldn’t abide each other, though they shared the kind of hair that makes women sigh and men seethe with envy."

---

"For years, this fragile peace held, until the Colonel and his gang rolled in. A nasty lot, driving cars that coughed smoke and fire, straight out of some hellish workshop. They hit the town like a summer storm—chaotic and cruel. First, they found Holzer, tied him to a cactus, and painted him green. A joke, they said. But when they raided old Leonard Blum’s snack bar and roasted his flamingos over an open flame, the sheriff decided enough was enough."

"So, he arrested them?" the voice on the other end prompted.

"Arrested them, locked them in the old jailhouse, and dusted off his hands. But the Colonel wasn’t the sort to let his men rot behind bars. No, sir. He rode into town himself, all sharp angles and stiff pride, dressed in a navy-blue uniform, knee-high leather boots, and a cream-colored Stetson that seemed to mock the very dust it sat under. He strode into the square and challenged the sheriff to a duel, high noon."

---

"Did the town gather?" came the inevitable question.

"Of course. Folk always find time for a spectacle. Vest arrived first, casual as you please, in cargo shorts and a Smith & Wesson .44 with a gleaming Marconi grip. The Colonel followed, stiff-backed and stern, carrying a Magnum .357 with rosewood cross grips and brass flourishes—the kind of gun you’d expect at a gentleman’s funeral. They faced each other in the square, the sun beating down, the air so thick you could cut it with a blade. The town watched, silent as stone."

---

"And then?"

"The Colonel made his move, his eyes flicking upward for the briefest moment. And there it was—the strangest thing you’d ever see. A piano, suspended high above the square, rigged to fall. Holzer, grinning like a madman, had set it all up, sipping a beer from the saloon roof. With a crash like thunder, the piano came down, shattering wood and strings and scattering the duel to the wind."

---

"What happened to the sheriff?" came the question, almost hesitant.

"He laughed. A deep, ragged laugh, the kind a man carries for years before he lets it loose. The duel forgotten, the Colonel turned his boots around, his pride wounded worse than if a bullet had found him. The town, for the first time in years, had peace—though not from law or justice, but from the sheer absurdity of life out here."

---

The plains stretched silent once more. "And me?" I said, looking down at my boots in the dust. "I’ll keep my hands free for the gun. Let the music play for someone else."

[Dr. Dralle]

arf, arf! der ist auch gut!