End of the WorldAt 3:30pm this afternoon, give or take a few minutes, the world is going to end. Now, I know to some of you this is going to be a bot-of-a-shick, but you all should have known that it was bound to happen sooner or later. Well, for some of us it is "Later", for you who will be caught unwares, it is "Sooner".
Now, just stop those tears and wailings about what can be done to stop what has already been set in motion. It's time to take a good look at your life. Okay, so some of you had better not look too hard, especially you, Laura. Yes, you know what I'm talking about. Now, as I was saying, pick yourselves up off the floor and let's get something straight. You have until 3:30pm this afternoon to do anything you want. Got that? Did you hear me right? Yes, I can see you did. Let me just repeat, though I said, you can do ANYTHING you want. After all, there isn't going to be anyone left to tell you what an idiot you have been, or that what you have just done is against the law.
Six O'ClockAt six o'clock this afternoon, my foot was twisted. Although it is only 12:44pm, I know it has already happened, because it's very similar to an occurence that happened to occur to H. G. Wells at the turn of the century. Unfortunately, his is a more intriguing story than mine is. However, it went like this, and please, while I am relating this, don't eat those berries. They give me a rash. Thank you.
There will be a bird, the same one that will fly into a truck five years from now, who will be chirping in the tree outside. I'm allergic to that ree. But, only when roses are in bloom. Perhaps that is the reason for the kleenex up my nose. No matter. The truck will be going 80 miles per hour when the bird hits it. Of course, the only thing the driver will be aware of is the flashing red light upon the state troopers car. The state trooper is a family man with no kids and a wife who left him 14 years ago. He is not in a good mood.
So while the bird is singing, I fall out the window when I
SaturdaySaturday. Hmmm. As saturdays go, this was the saturday-est. Of course, that doesn't mean to say that today isn't saturday, because it isn't. Are you tracking what I'm saying? No, you're not listening at all. In fact, I would have to say that you are a lot like my Uncle Edolphus Pestimeir the XIV, the XV, and the XVI. He was an unusual man, but we forgave him after his tragic death ended his illustrious life in 1947. That was fourteen years before I was born and twelve years after my dog, Facelift, ran into a truck and rearranged his molecules.
Now, where were we? Ah, yes. Saturday. I have never liked saturday. They last far too long and as soon as they are finished they slide you downwards at a crazy tilt right into the four or five worst days of the month . Mondays. My Uncle Edolphus Pestimeir the III, the IV, and the V, earlier mentioned in a paragraph you haven't read, was cursed on a Monday. Blue Monday, he called it. That was the day he married my Aunt Ana Stalinagravis. She
Say What?She caught her eye just as it drifted over her cup of coffee. Blushing, Mirine tucked it back into her eye socket and blinked a few times. Nasoor's smile sparkled like burnt sugar. He found Mirine to be such a delight, that such trivial things as just happened really didn't bother him. Picking up the cooked egg on his plate and slinging it across the restaurant toward the kitchen, he offered Mirine a handful of wine. Mirine sipped delicately just as the waiter caught the tossed egg.
"Monkey dung! Snorkeling gravel humpers! Grinding sempre fidelis odalisques!" The waitress snapped the order to the four-eyed cook who mumbled each item to himself just as he placed a fresh order upside down on the floor for pickup.
Nasoor had taken Mirine to the Snide Wittershunks Cafe twice before; it was a pleasant spot with not too much noise, and good food that was really cooked and not squirted out of a food prestidigitator. Mirine was gnawing on a piece of bacon rind as Nasoor considered his words ca
My Right FootI've lost my foot before. It never strays far, thankfully, but it's still annoying when one wakes up from a blissless dream involving Paris Hilton and Bella Abzug and said one finds the aforementioned foot off on its own.
This morning was no different than any other, with a few exceptions. The dream involved George Bush, tomatoes, and Orville Reddenbacher. I'm going to have severe migraines and ear fungus for the next five years after that dream. Anyway, I decided that I needed something much stronger for breakfast than coffee and Cheese Whiz. So I was fixing myself a chocolate milk and bourbon over scrambled eggs when I finally noticed that I was listing rather precariously to the right.
My right foot was gone.
I sighed. This day truly had not started well. The morning paper crashed through my kitchen window and as though I was on automatic pilot I shot the paper boy between the ears. I decided to leave him out for the neighborhood kids to find instead of burying him out back. I had t
My Eyes Are PeelingJan sat down upon the frog and pondered the lint in the palm of her hand. It was a gift from Jones, the lint that is, not her hand. She got her hand from the ParaTechnical Institute of Prosthetic Limbs and Intuitive Burping.
The lint was feathery, a bit grey, but not terribly unpleasant. The frog disagreed with Jan's thoughts, but then, the frog had always been contrary and contentious. World War III would never have broken out if the frog hadn't gone and squirted tadpoles into the Prime Ministers tea. It was the Boston Tea Party all over again, but this time we lost, hence the United States of Britain.
Jones had been walking down the street when he was hit by the train that rearranged his limbs into a more interesting configuration. The lint had been right in front of his eye and he snatched it up, again the lint, not his eye, and pocketed it. A few minutes later the EMT popped Jones' eye back into his head, only backwards. This little mistake gave Jones a new insight to his thoughts
It Is Ugly And Must GoTaren glanced down at the tips of his Oxfords as they were the only thing safe to stare at for the moment. Unfortunately for Taren, staring at ones feet while running away is not conducive to one's safety. This, Taren was discovering very quickly as he ran skull on into a street lamp.
The damage to the street lamp was minimal, but there was a faint impression of Taren's knotty head upon the smooth, metallic form of the street lamp. Had said lamp been sentient, it would not have hesitated in squashing Taren into a well-deserved lump. It wasn't sentient, so the street lamp had to settle with flickering its pool of yellow light in distressed annoyance.
Taren knew he needed to get up and begin that activity he had been possessed of before flesh met metal met asphalt. Lying on his back, staring obliquely at the stars above (those in the sky, not the ones gadding about in multi-coloured splendor about his brow) and sighed deeply. Maybe this would be where he stops. Maybe this would be the pl
The Horse Was
A badly written piece of faux-inked nonsense masquerading as great literature by Jayne d'Arcy. Blame her brother, Jim, for being the sweet, precocious child he was who mangled his best friend's name into Ronny Gumfarm. Enjoy!
Ronny Gumfarm tweaked his nose, sneezed and coughed for a second time. The horse over in the next stall stomped its hooves and neighed in annoyance.
With a shrug of his thin shoulders, Ronny Gumfarm plopped his overly articulated skeleton down onto the nearby bale of hay, and picked nervously at his teeth with his pinky fingernail.
It was Jolene Bombashoot's fault.
Ronny Gumfarm sighed as a thoroughly goof-sodden expression sogged over his freckled, narrow face.
"Jolene " he breathed and coughed for a third time. This time the irritated horse kicked the wooden slats of its stall sharply with its hooves. Ronny Gumfarm was rather too far gone thinking of the plush Jolene Bombashoot as he sighed, coughed, and sneezed.
The Little Explorer
Tissoe was two days old! And, his mother had let him go outside to explore all on his own. Not one of his many brothers and sisters to bother him, he had the entire, great wilderness that was the outdoors, all to himself.
He wasn't too good at flying. Not at first, anyway. He bumped into something that had wonderful smelling, white blossoms that spilled pretty yellow powder all over him.
If he could giggle, he would have.
His wings all a-buzz again, he careened slightly downwards, caught an updraft that carried him over a wonderful patch of grass blades that tried to stab him, and maybe, well, just possibly, he did laugh as he caught a wonderful updraft that carried him away from the blades of green. He buzzed past a blur of yellow and black stripes hearing a rumbly tumble of words cautioning him to be a careful youngster.
Tissoe tried laughing again. The breeze helped and up he went and breathlessly landed on the flat perch of a yarrow pad. He wiggled his proboscis in irritation and f