Do you remember watching Conan’s last episode? They showed a bunch of clips from his past episodes. They all involved him, and they were all hilarious Conan moments. Jay Leno’s last episode? Apparently there were no funny Jay moments, so they showed a bunch of clips of Rodney Dangerfield’s standup and dumb people answering questions on the street. Thank God they’re giving him another show, right? Right.
Addendum: The musical guest is James Taylor, the blandest musician of all time. How fitting.
Outside of our hotel, my siblings and I witnessed something special. Ten cats were sitting outside, not moving, just staring at the wall of the hotel. Just staring. I tried to get a pic of it, but they ran away. It reminded my brother and me of Neil Gaiman’s A Dream Of A Thousand Cats. Tonight, the cat revolution began. Sure, we interrupted it, but soon the cats will rise again. And it will be adorable.
So I know The Dance has been a bit off the norm the past few days. Don’t worry, I’m still funny. But, you know, blogs imitate life (or something like that) and it isn’t always great being a Joke Guy, so…
My Grandpa Mike passed away in the middle of the night several years ago. It was incredibly jarring and I miss him greatly, although it was not as physically, emotionally, or mentally draining as my current situation, in that I have gotten 8 hours of sleep in the last 64 hours and we have taken my Grandma J. off life support (her wishes and ours) and have been watching her circle the drain for the past 5 1/2 hours. Yesterday was Grandpa Mike’s birthday.
My Grandma J. used to make wedding soup all the time. It was delicious and was one of the several-to-many meals I associate with her. As I also haven’t had much food these few days, I just came back from the hospital cafeteria. The soup of the day today is wedding soup. I didn’t get any because it looked like shit.
Moving on to the cute…
Maybe 8 hours ago my family and I were sitting around reminiscing (like ya do) and my dad, uncle, and aunt were all talking about stories from when they were kids. Some samples are…
My Dad: Remember when I was a kid and a Buick hit me while I was crossing the street? There was a dent in the hood from where it hit my head. I flew literally 20 feet in the air and fell to the ground. It would have been cool if I broke my leg or something, but I just scraped my knee a little. I got like one day off of school. That sucked.
My Aunt: ”Remember when I got a perm and one of our neighbors’ crappy daughters put their cat on my head and it shit all over my hair? The next day I went over to their house, grabbed the cat, and swung it around in circles by the tail until her mom chased me home with a broom.”
My Uncle: ”Remember when I accidentally set our neighbors’ garage on fire?”
My sister, my brother, and I looked at each other for a minute and came up with the following…
"Remember when we were little and mom wouldn’t let us eat in our rooms, so we snuck out late at night, grabbed some fruit, and ate grapes and apples in our rooms?"
"Remember when we would sit down together and read quietly?"
In my brief access to the internet, I wanted to share something real quick. My grandparents got in a horrible car accident last night and I’m now in Pennsylvania to be with my family. My grandfather is in okay shape, physically. My grandmother is currently in a coma and had to have her head shaved in order to perform surgery. When told that they needed to shave her head, my grandfather quietly responded, “But she just got her perm done…” Seriously, what a sweetheart.
The Curse Of The Moongician And Other Tales To Tell ‘Round Midnight
Sorry, Dashboards. This is long…
The Mask Next Door
Everyone hates masks. At least, that’s what Warney thought. Warney was a bit on the hate side of most things, actually. So much so that he even hated people who hate masks.
"What a complex character we’re dealing with," thought the narrator as he pat himself on the back. How wrong, he was, though. Warney was, in fact, so not complex that I could probably predict what happens in the entire story.
I predict that Warney will meet someone that just moved in next door. The person next door will act very mask-like and will say things that a mask might say. It will turn out that the person next door is actually a mask. Warney will hate this new neighbor almost most of all. I say “almost,” because someone else will probably move in to the house on the other side of Warney’s house and that person will hate masks even more than Warney. This new person will be named Garren or something stupid like that and Warny will hate Garren so much (because Garren hates masks and Warney hates people who hate masks) that he will temporarily forget about the mask that happened to live next door. Garren and Warney will eventually get into a fistfight and Garren will win. The mask will take pity on Warney and nurse him back to health. This will change Warney’s view of masks, which will make him hate people who hate masks even more than he previously hated people who hate masks. Warney and the mask will team up to take Garren down. They will end up killing Garren, and as Warney looks up to give the mask a high five, he will find that the mask is gone and (perhaps) was never really there. Warney, freaking out, takes in a deep breath and gets a whiff of the inside of a mask (rubber and sweat). Yes, Warney was a mask the whole time. The end.
The narrator put his head in his hands, clearly frustrated with the accurate prediction of his story’s eventual plot. “Fuck,” he thought, and picked up his in-depth outline. Quickly, he tore it up and started from scratch.
The Living Mask Or Whatever
Everyone enjoys a good mask. Warney knew this, which is why he one day wanted to open up his own mask shop. He was only thirteen years old, though, so he had to settle for working at Garren’s Scarin’ Ya With His Masks Mask Shoppe. Every day after school, Warney would hop on his roller bike and pedal all the way to Garren’s and help out in any way he could. Normally this would involve pricing masks or throwing out old masks. Today, he had a much more interesting job…
“Warney!” exclaimed Garren. “Right on time!”
“As always, Mr. Garren, sir,” Warney said as he tied up his roller bike to the roller bike stand Garren had installed when Warney started working at the store. “Any new masks in today?” he asked.
Garren smiled. He would ordinarily enjoy watching as Warney excitedly tried on all the new masks and invented voices and back-stories for each of those particular masks.
“No new masks today,” Garren had to tell Warney.
Warney’s face fell. What was he supposed to do today, then?
“What am I supposed to do today, then?” Warney asked.
Garren smiled again. “I have something exciting for you today, Warney,” he said, and gestured to the back room. “It’s time you became an integral member of the Garren’s Scarin’ Ya With His Masks Mask Shoppe family.”
“Do you mean-“ Warney began, his eyes widening.
“-Yes.” Garren confirmed. “It’s time you started making masks of your own.”
Warney jumped with Glee. Glee was another young mask-enthusiast who worked at the shop. He gave Warney a high five and shouted, “We’re going to The Show, Warney!!!”
Garren grimaced. “Actually, Glee,” he began. “Only Warney will be joining me today. In fact, you’re fired. Your work with the masks has been sub-par at best.”
Glee lowered his head and slowly walked out of the store without another word. No one ever saw Glee again. That is, of course, until the Moongician’s curse was lifted. It’s not foreshadowing if you just say it, right? Okay, didn’t think so…
When Glee was gone, Garren turned to Warney.
“Now,” Garren started, “It is time that you grow up and become a true mask.”
“Er… A true mask maker, I mean,” Garren corrected himself, quite suspiciously.
“I won’t let you down, Garren.”
Garren smiled. “I know you won’t,” he said. “Now you’d best be off to home if you want to get enough sleep for tomorrow.” He stopped suddenly. “In fact, I want you to skip school tomorrow. Fake sick. Sleep in as much as you can. You will need your rest for what you are about to endure.”
“Endure?” Warney asked, confused.
“Just a figure of speech,” Garren explained.
“What will I have to endure?” Warney pressed.
“Goodnight, Warney. Or should I say… Garren…” Garren said with a meaningful look.
“SHOULD you say ‘Garren’?” Warney asked.
“Yes. You now take on the title of Garren.”
“Wait, so Garren wasn’t your name?” Garren Warney asked.
“No, my name’s Ted.” Garren Ted replied, and paused. “Garren? That’s retarded.”
“Yeah, I guess so,” Garren Warney sadly agreed.
“Like ‘Warney,” Garren Ted said.
“You’re mean today, Garren,” Garren Warney pointed out.
“Please, call me Ted,” Garren Ted said.
“Can I leave, Ted?” Garren Warney asked.
“Sure. See you tomorrow, Warney,” smiled Garren Ted.
“Don’t you mean “Garren”?” Garren Warney asked.
“No. That’s my name. You’re Warney,” Garren said.
“So why did you-”
“-I like jokes.”
“Fine. Garren, NOW can I leave?” Warney pleaded.
“Sure thing, Garren.” Garren (Ted?) replied.
“So now my title is Garren again?” Warney (?) asked.
"Yep,” confirmed Garren Ted. "Like I said, me likey jokes."
“Whatever you say, Ted,” Garren Warney muttered.
“WHO THE FUCK IS TED, YOU LITTLE SNOT!?!?“ shouted Garren. He turned to the corner of the shop and set his eyes on the push broom.
“Please,” Warney muttered, not at all liking the turn this encounter seemed to be taking.
“Yes…” Garren whispered as he walked over to the corner. “Push broom.”
Warney’s eyes darted across the room, assessing whether or not he could make a run for it. By now, of course, Garren had returned with a push broom in tow.
Garren swung the push broom as hard as he could and smacked Warney right across the face. Warney fell to the floor and Garren glared at him.
“Why did you just call me Ted, Warney?!?!” Garren screamed and glared at Warney.
Warney spit blood onto the floor and looked up at Garren, who glared at him and stepped on his femur.
“I was confused by your joke about our names Garren,” Warney screamed as his femur snapped. The pain was unbelievable. He wiped blood from his mouth. All the while, of course, Garren was glarin’.
“What do you mean, ‘joke’?” Garren asked.
“That little joke where you said my new name was Garr-“
“-I HATE JOKES!!!”
Garren swung the push broom at Warney once again, this time hitting him square in the chest. Warney puked pretty instantly.
“You will pay for this insubordination, Warney,” Garren warned.
“I feel like I already have,” Warney pointed out, wiping blood and vomit from his mouth.
“Interesting theory…” Garren muttered. He ran his fingers across his chin. “You are free to go.”
Warney got up slowly. His body ached and his head throbbed, but he was elated at the opportunity to leave this awful place.
“See you tomorrow to make that mask?” Garren asked nonchalantly.
“Yeah,” Warney said as he limped to the door. “Probably not. You just beat the shit out of me and I’m fairly certain you wanted to turn me into a mask.”
“You’re a wise, boy, Warney,” Garren whispered. “See you tomorrow.”
“I don’t think you heard me. I won’t be coming back tomorrow.” Warney left the building.
“See you tomorrow, Warney,” Garren whispered, even quieter this time.
Later that night, the police showed up at Garren’s Scarin’ Ya With His Masks Mask Shoppe to find an empty warehouse.
“Looks like it’s been abandoned for years,” said Sgt. Lemurs.
Officer Jomathy Taylorb glanced up at the Sergeant and shook his head.
“Fuckin’ kid,” Jomathy began with a sneer. “Must have beat himself up and called us up just to get attention or something.”
Sgt. Lemurs nodded. “Stuff like this happens all the time, rookie,” he said. “Kids make up these silly stories so they can get popular on ViewTuber and FriendPlace.”
“Either that or we don’t investigate properly,” Jomathy pointed out with a laugh.
Sgt. Lemurs joined in and they both had a good chuckle.
“Ha ha ha ha ha!” came a third, much more sinister laugh.
Sgt. Lemurs and Officer Taylorb looked around.
“Did that push broom just laugh with us?” Sgt. Lemurs asked.
“I don’t think so, sir,” said Jomathy. “I don’t think it would have a motive.”
Sgt. Lemurs looked Jomathy up and down. “You’re gonna be a good cop one day, rook,” he said and jabbed Jomathy playfully in the shoulder. “Motive. That’s cop stuff.”
“The end,” the narrator thought about writing. He reread the story and shook his head.
Through The Looking Mask
People feel certain ways about masks. Warney certainly felt a very specific way about masks. He had a friend named Garren, who had a similar or differing opinion on masks. They were the best of friends, and together they would attend Masquerades (as well as Mask Parades). One day they met a mask that taught them an important lesson about being yourself. Then it made them go insane and kill each other. At one point during the story, they had to solve a riddle together.
So this is a song I wrote and recorded two or three years ago. I was going to turn it into a music video that chronicled the events of the song and maybe had an unfrozen bear playing a guitar at the end. I still might, but I listened to it again today and I realized the incredible low appeal of and demand for something like this. It struck me as something that would be just cute, in that the most common response to a viewing of the video would be, “Oh, that’s a cute video.” It was kind of discouraging at first, but I realized that even though I may never be in one of those popular scum pop or even regular popular rock bands (although I actually will), I can still make stuff like this. And when/if I ever have kids, I will be able to write them songs that they will love for at least the first ten years of their life. Maybe longer if they can tolerate The Bernards.
This concludes Dr. Mister Cody’s segment of “Dr. Mister Boring.” I am now going to go write a spooky story.
"Mr. President, we’ve got to do something about this horrible squirrel rickets epidemic,” said Mr. President’s aide, Salma Talons. ”People are panicking and I, myself, am afraid that I might be coming down with a bad case of squirrel rickets.”
"That’s absurd, Salma," Mr. President asserted. "What do you know about squirrel rickets?”
"I know about a great many things, Mr. President."
"Well, what do you know about?" Mr. President asked. "Squirrel rickets?"
"Mr. President, I spent four years at NASA. I think I know a little something about squirrel rickets."
Mr. President looked to the only window in the room. ”The cool night air will clear my head,” he muttered.
Salma furrowed her prominent brow and shook her head as she watched Mr. President open the blinds to the only window in the room.
"Mr. President," she said. "I don’t think exposing ourselves to the infected outdoors is such a wise choice."
"Nonsense, Ms. Talons. It’s that kind of thinking that’ll get you sent back to NASA. We can not catch squirrel rickets simply by opening a window. Please," he whispered. "The cool night air is just a single pane away now."
Mr. President turned to Salma and stared at her with intensity. ”I started this,” he told her. ”Now I’m gonna finish it.”
Mr. President jarred the window open and a rush of cool night air came into the room. Salma was sweating now, and she took in one last deep breath and held it in. I ain’t gon kitch no aminal diseez, she thought.
Mr. President took a deep breath of his own, enjoying the cool night air. He exhaled and took in another breath because he enjoyed the first so much.
"You know, Ms. Talons," he said as he noticed Salma slowly passing out. "I’m breathing the air just fine and I don’t seem to have squirrel rickets."
Salma considered this, which distracted her from holding her breath, and she ended up taking a breath.
"Mr. President," she gasped as Mr. President closed the window. "You saved my life."
"It was nothing, my dear," Mr. President said and shot Salma in the chest. She flew back into the wall behind her. Blood began to pour into the room from her body, and Mr. President calmly walked to the window.
He looked back at poor Salma. Blood was now all the way up to his knees, and he would need to leave quickly. She was, after all, going to pop once all the blood was gone.
"Farewell, Ms. Talons," he muttered. "At least you won’t have to go back to NASA."
Mr. President, now up to his neck in blood, once again opened the window. The cold night air mingled with the warm human blood until they both really got into it and started fucking. Mr. President jumped out the window, landing comfortably on one of the several moon bounces he had ordered for an occasion nothing like this. They were supposed to have been for his birthday.
"Mr. President, you’re alive!" shouted Bretna Fapsey, another one of Mr. President’s aides with an amusing name. "Thank our many Lords and Saviors!"
"I’m fine, Bretna," Mr. President told her. "Just got a bit of a mess to clean upstairs, that’s all."
"I’m just glad you’re okay," she said.
She reached into her pocket and handed something to Mr. President.
"Here, have some pork products," she told him.
Mr. President took a big ‘ol bite out of the pork products. He, of course, quickly came down with a severe case of squirrel rickets, but it was okay because it turned out to just be human rickets.
"Actually…" realized Mr. President. "That’s probably much worse."
I was thinking about The Bernards’ highly “anticipated” EP The Joke Went Too Far today. Our producer has been renovating his studio, and they are still working on it slowly, so our material won’t actually be available for another couple weeks. I do, however, think this song rocks and want to share it with the world. This mix is actually like two months old, but I hope someone can find joy in it anyway (Jordan, you don’t count).
The Curse Of The Moongician (And Other Tales To Tell 'Round Midnight)
The Bloody Kid
After the dance, Evan would be… well, we’ll get to the dance. Right now Evan was walking to school. It was his first year of 7th grade, and he hoped he would not need a second year to finish. He had completed all of his previous grades in the normal amount of time, but you never know when things could take a turn, especially in Rape Town, which was full of spooky ghosts.
This day’s ghosts were quite helpful on Evan’s walk to school. He was advised the route he should take to school, should he want to avoid the school bullies and some of the more surly ghosts. He made it there without any scuffles and he even found a dollar that wasn’t haunted, thanks to the least surly of the helpful ghosts.
It should probably be mentioned that the “dance” mentioned earlier and the title “The Bloody Kid” are not references to Carrie. This has nothing to do with Carrie.
Evan walked through the front double doors of St. Specterbeard’s Middle School and was immediately hit with a sigh of relief. No ghosts could walk the halls of St Specterbeard’s without first being deleted from existence, thus really not being able to walk the halls at all. The ectobarriers lining the walls, pipes, windows, and doors were provided by the St. Specterbeard Middle School and Research Center down the street, so you know they were state-of-the-art and virtually impenetrable.
Evan arrived at his locker and thought about the helpful ghosts from his walk. He was certainly lucky on this day, as most ghosts he or really anyone encounters were surly at best. He wondered if maybe they were actually playing a trick on him, and he would soon be hexed or at the very least embarrassed by one of their common ghostly pranks that end up killing people. He couldn’t blame them, though. If he were a ghost, he would want to make more and more ghost friends until there were no more living people and there were only ghosts. This is just what all of the townspeople suspected the ghosts wanted, but they would never say it out loud (so as not to tip off the ghosts). The ghost problem was certainly the main problem plaguing Rape Town, although it was not the only one. One of the many others was the horrible horrible bird problem. They seemed to be raping a lot of the local dogs, who couldn’t help but be upset by it. The dog owners, of course, were really just more worried about the ghosts, so it was not often addressed. And, really, how would they even know about it? The dog would bark out instructions on how to understand dogs and then the owner would follow them and then the dog would bark out the incredibly scarring memory of it getting raped by some asshole bird? That seems like a lot of work and highly unlikely to boot.
No, wait! So he goes to school, you find out no one likes him and they treat him like shit, they end up pulling a prank on him at the dance that ends with him going crazy magic insane and-Okay… it’s pretty much like Carrie only instead of pigs’ blood it’s human blood. And then at the end they all apologize to him, he discovers a power to heal others, no one dies, and he gets to kiss the homecoming queen, who turns out to be a demon with a brain for a head.
"Hey," said the stoned gentleman to the narrator on his midnight excursion to the delicately-nicknamed ‘Kroghetto.’ Were the narrator a stereotyping person, the narrator would have stereotyped this particular stoned gentleman as a "thug," evidenced by the fact that his hoodie went down to his awesome kicks, his arms were completely hidden underneath his hoodie, and he had what seemed to be a permanent scowl on his face, which was hindered only by the fact that his face also seemed to be almost unrealistically high at the time.
"Do you have a dollar?" the stoned gentleman asked.
The narrator looked at his fellow shopper with confused irritation. After many years of living in whatever city this particular narrator lived, he had encountered countless people asking him for money. This, however, usually involved him being out on the street, not inside an actual place of business. Never had it occurred to him that if he did not have any money, he should just go to the store he wanted something from and hope that the other patrons could spot him.
"I actually just have a card, man." Said the narrator truthfully. "Sorry," the narrator lied.
The narrator continued down the aisle, picked up a bag of cat food (for dippin’) and not 36 seconds after his enlightening conversation with the stoned gentleman down the aisle, he arrived at the self check-out. He began scanning his items in the manner one would scan their items.
"Hey, do you have a dollar?" a familiar voice asked at a nearby scanner.
"No, I’m sorry," the girl being asked replied. "I’m using a card."
The narrator scanned his last item and heard the familiar voice ask, ”Hey, do you have a dollar?” from remarkable proximity.
Looking up and to the right, the narrator’s eyes met the eyes of the stoned gentleman, who was standing not a foot away.
"What?" asked the narrator, attempting to give the patron a moment to remember what had happened two minutes and forty-three seconds ago.
"Do you have a dollar?" the man asked again.
"No, I have a card," said the narrator, pointing to a nearby aisle. "I’m from over there," he told him.
The stoned gentleman did not look to where the narrator was pointing, although he did blink, which could perhaps be mistaken for a response. He proceeded to walk off aimlessly, although whatever aim he didn’t have was apparently still true, because moments later the narrator heard, “Hey, do you have a dollar?”
"No, I just have a card," the narrator heard as he paid for his groceries with the card he brought with him because he knew he was going to the grocery store to buy things.
There are four self scanners at this grocery store, so as the narrator walked away, he heard the question one last time. As the door whirred closed behind him, the narrator assumed they only had a card.
Slightly later on, the narrator arrived home and busted open a bag of tortilla chips and the bag of cat food (for dippin’). He set to work on recounting his adventure and, upon writing it all down, the narrator realized that he did indeed have exactly one dollar.
First of all, I think the above is the perfect slogan for twitter. I recommend they start using it. Also, I am considering getting a twitter account, because sometimes I have a minute, and apparently twitter is “sweeping” the “nation.” Whatever. I still don’t quite agree with what twitter’s all about, and if I really want to tweet, I can just use the new Facebook (TwitBook). However, I was looking around for possible twitter account names, just to see what was available. I checked for “ZombieLincoln,” because I would enjoy tweeting as ZombieLincoln, but apparently it’s already fucking taken. Below is what it looks like. I’m not yet sure if this is an utter waste of an awesome twitter account name, or the absolute best use of an awesome twitter account name. I’m leaning towards the latter.
I use this thing called Google Analytics. It basically lets me know information about this blog as if it were a website. It lets me know how many visits a day, what pages are visited, where on Earth the visits are coming from, etc. Not surprisingly, my top seller is Ohio. Analytics also tells you how these visitors arrived at the site. Were they linked from somewhere else, did they just type in the url, were they linked after searching on Google?
Below is a breakdown of all the Google searches that have led people to the Dance’s doorstep. They seem to fall into 4 different categories:
I don’t know why you searched for that, but it makes sense that it brought you here.
It makes sense that you would search for that, but I don’t know why it brought you here.
I know why you searched for that and, yes, it would bring you here.
Why did you search for that and how did you end up here?
Anything with the words “radiopants” in it I understand, for obvious reasons. However, I would assume that the only people searching for “radiopants” are those who have been here before and just don’t know the site address. So why search for “radiopantsdance tumblr?” The world may never know, although that assessment might really only apply to how many licks it takes to get to the “tootsie” center of a Tootsie Pop.
Can we talk about the “Beastiality” search? Obviously the “why” here is that the person wanted to wank to videos of people wanking animals, but as far as I can tell, I have no such videos or stories available on the dance. The closest thing I can think of would be my “MY CAT IS HILARIOUS LOLZ” video. Are people getting off on me fake laughing at my dumb cat? I like to think “no,” but a quick search of “laughing at cat porn” confirms that I am correct to think “no.” Also, the person in question only stayed on the blog for “00:00” minutes. Poor guy. I hope he finds what he’s looking for, but really, I don’t.
Someone did a Google search of “Marvone.” A quick search of my own has let me know that Marvone is someone’s myspace page, but it is primarily a street name. If you’re looking for Marvone’s myspace page, just search on myspace. If you’re looking for Marvone Ave, shouldn’t you probably put the state in the search, too? Otherwise you’ll get directions to Marvone St. in Yemen, which assumedly doesn’t actually exist. ”Marvone” is also the name of a character from my story The Corpsey Creep of Crocodile Creek. If he speaks at all, I think he only has like one line of dialogue and it’s probably just “Hey Morgy, hey Borgy,” or something like that. Either way, this person also stayed on the blog for “00:00” minutes.
"youtube, obama celebration batman, ewok" is the best google search I have ever heard of. My blog, of course, contains many ‘news’ articles about Obama and Batman (sometimes both, actually). I also have some youtube videos. I don’t think I have used the word ‘ewok’ on here until just now, so I hope I get some more hits from searches for "youtube, obama celebration batman, ewok" from now on. I don’t know what the person in question expected to find from this, but I’m sure it was amazing. They definitely didn’t find it here, because they stayed on the blog for "00:00" minutes.
The Shock Shack Shocks Back: The Summer Before The Summer The Shock Shack Shocked Back
They called it The Summer Of The Boozin’ Car Parties. A more appropriate name would have been The Summer Before The Summer The Shock Shack Shocked Back, but they had no premonitions of the future or the title, so The Summer Of The Boozin’ Car Parties was acceptable. They did, after all, have tons of Boozin’ Car Parties that summer.
Their first twelve Boozin’ Car Parties were some of the most fun, because nothing specific went wrong. Their 13th, however, was THE most fun, because everyone got laid that night. The fourteenth wasn’t so great, because Eleanor The Guy got arrested, went to jail, and no one ever saw him again. One can only imagine what happened to him, or one need only pick up a copy of “Welcome To Terror Prison And Also Real Prison: The Eleanor The Guy Story.”
After Eleanor The Guy left, it was clear through simple math that the group was down by one and they needed a replacement friend. Auditions were held on Tuesday, call backs were Thursday, and when all was said and done and they were done saying it, no one was good enough, so they marched off to their car to get some booze with one less friend than they were used to.
“Where we heading?” asked the cheerful bottle of liquor as they exited the liquor store.
“The lake house or the cliff house or the beach house or whatever,” said Collars. His real name was Colin, but he hated people who wore a lot of collars.
“Hell, yeah,” said Daroline as she got into the back seat. “We’ll be safe there.”
“Speaking of safe,” Pierre pointed out, “let’s all put on our seatbelts,” and everyone immediately put on their seatbelts. “You know,” Pierre continued. “In France, we call seatbelts ‘baguettes.’”
“I didn’t know that,” said Colin from the driver’s seat. His real name was Randy, but he wore a lot of collars and Collars was clearly already taken. They would fight about it later and no one would be better off for it.
“It’s true,” Pierre continued still. “In France, most things can be referred to as ‘baguettes.’ It’s kind of like ‘aloha’ in that respect.”
“Or like how the only sound Eskimos can make is ‘snow.’” Daroline added. “My dad owns a lakeside autumn home in Eskimo City, Eskimo, and we go there every year to try to melt the tire swing.’”
Colin slammed on the breaks and turned around, his eyes wild with rage. “Would you guys shut the damn up? I’m trying to figure out where we are!”
Collars took a breath and spoke calmly and deliberately. “Listen, Col,” he said. “It’s been maybe eight paragraphs of mostly dialogue since we left the liquor store. We’re probably barely out of the parking lot.”
“That’s a good point, Col,” Colin replied. “But look!” Colin pointed out the many available windows to reveal they were in the middle of the desert. “Dessert?” Colin asked, and handed out some Crudcicles ™ to those who put out their hands.
“Thanks for the dessert, Col,” said Daroline. “But my god! We’re in the middle of the desert!” She turned to appease Pierre. “Or the middle of the baguette, as it were.” Pierre smiled.
Collars could not take it anymore. Not only was he claustrophobic, but he was deathly afraid of confined spaces, so he opened the door and got out. The wind whistled high that night. The sand quickly swept up into Collars’s eyes, and Collars hollered into the emptiness.
“SAND!!!” he shouted, and hopped back into the car. “We can not go out there. Too much sand.”
“Well, what do we do?” Daroline shrieked. “How did we even get here?”
It seems all too obvious now, because they were later told how they got there, but the four of them sat in silence for a good four minutes while pondering that question. Pierre was the next to speak.
“We have to go,” he said.
“Go?!?” shouted a clearly ‘roided up Colin from the driver’s seat. “Go where? We’re in the middle of the desert somehow!”
“We can’t just stay here. We’ve got to tell this place “aloha” and get out of here.”
Before anyone could agree or disagree, Colin stepped on the gas, which could probably be considered a form of agreement so I really should have said ’before Collars or Daroline could agree, Colin agreed by stepping on the gas,’ but I didn’t and there’s no going back now. Before Collars or Daroline could agree, Colin agreed by stepping on the gas.
“Great,” Daroline said like a bitchy little snot. “Let’s just go farther into the desert until we run out of oxygen and die. You know that sand deletes oxygen, right?”
“Of course I know sand ‘deletes’ oxygen, you bitchy little sn-“
“CRASH!” said the car as it crashed, sending no one anywhere because they were all wearing their seatbelts.
“Everyone’s fine,” they all said in unison.
In front of them was only darkness, and no one wanted to see whom or what they hit.
“We can’t go out,” muttered Collars. “The sand.”
“You’re gonna have to look sometime,” said the now slightly shook up bottle of liquor, “or we’re all garbage meat.”
Daroline pet the bottle lightly, trying to calm it. “One of you should look,” she said, “The rest of us will take care of the liquor.”
“No, we’ll all three look,” said the liquor bottle in Pierre’s voice.
“Pierre’s right,” Pierre said, “Daroline, you stay here and make sure we don’t end up somewhere ELSE we shouldn’t be. And take care of that bottle. We’ll have another boozin’ car party yet.”
Pierre exited the car. Collars and Colin followed suit. Daroline stayed with the bottle, which hit on her the entire time the guys were gone.
“Drink me, I’m liquor,” the bottle would say.
Outside, Pierre had assessed that the car had collided with what looked like a broken down shack.
“Well, how the crumb did it get in the middle of the road?”
“It must have just jumped in front of me!” Colin shouted, the veins pulsing under his skin in a really gross, ‘roided out kind of way. “Oh, shit… what do we do?”
“We should call the police,” Collars muttered.
“No way, man!” Colin shot back. “No FUCKING way! We gotta clean this mess up and get outta here is what we gotta do!”
“It might have family,” Pierre pointed out.
“Who gives a SHIT?!” Colin screamed. He seemed to get bigger as he got angrier. “What kind of shack has family or friends it really cares about? And not in a superficial way, either. And what kind of shack jumps in the middle of the street?”
“A shock shack!” said a raspy voice from behind them. ”You scared it.”
"Get away from us, old man!" said Colin, instinctually. Behind them was a hooded figure of the type you might find on the side of a desert road, just waiting to tell all it knows about shock shacks.
"You are in for it now, kids…" the figure continued, ignoring Colin. "That there is the most skittish shock shack I have ever encountered. And you four and your little bottle of liquor gave it the scare of its life."
"Well, we’re all REAL FUCKING SORRY, ya old coot," Colin growled as he angrily punched the air in front of him. "Maybe it should have looked both ways before it crossed the street."
"We actually are sorry, sir," Collars assured. "We don’t even know how we got in the middle of the desert. We’re just trying to drive around and get drunk."
"Well, I can’t help you with how you got here, buddy," the figure rasped, "But I can tell you that you better watch yourselves from now on. That there shock shack may be startled now, but it’ll get mad. And it’ll remember what you did to it. And then it’ll startle you to death."
"Death!" The hooded figure confirmed. "Next time, don’t find yourself mysteriously transported into this mysterious desert. Dessert?” the hooded figure asked, and held out some Crudcicles™ .
"At a time like this?" Pierre pointed out.
“The worst is over, at least for now,” the hooded figure told them.
Colin, Collars, and Pierre each took a Crudcicle™, and the hooded figure looked up at them.
“Although, if the worst were over ‘for now,’ then that really means the worst is yet to come,” he told them.
Colin, Collars, and Pierre each started opening their Crudcicles™.
“So, yeah,” the hooded figure said, “The worst is yet to come.”
“When will it get its revenge?” Pierre asked.
“In exactly one baguette,” said the figure, turning to walk away.
“How is that helpful?” Pierre shouted.
“It’s not supposed to be,” said the figure as it disappeared.
Chapter The Fourth: In Which Our Hero Sneaks A Bathroom Break
"Fuck that," thought the hatless gentleman as he began to pull his pants down. "Why would I order everything on the menu if I didn’t think I could-" The man stopped thinking as he realized he was talking.
"Think you’re sneaky, huh, kid?"
"Don’t worry, kid, I won’t tell. I like you."
"What are you, twenty-three?"
"Yep, twenty-three," replied Corporal Manager. He flushed the toilet and continued. "Like I said, kid, I’ll let you take this one break, but NO MORE," he warned.
"I mean, thanks, but how do you regulate that sort of thing? What if I sneak in and you’re not here?"
"I’m in here all the time."
"What about when you were at my table?"
"How is that possible?"
Corporal Manager smiled and said, “Let’s just say… I’m in here all the time.”
"You DID say that and then I asked how."
The hatless man heard the sound of Corporal Manager’s toilet flush again, although Corporal Manager did not give any indication he would be getting up any time soon.
"One bathroom break. That’s it. But ONLY because we think you’re the one from that legend we all believe in, by which I mean I hope you weren’t listening to what I just said."
"Good. Enjoy your one break."
"I get one break?"
"Jesus, I wish you were listening to the first part of what I just said."
"You said ‘good.’"
"Enough!" Corporal manager took a breath, trying to calm himself from the silly turn the conversation had taken. "Yes, you get one bathroom break. Make it a good one, kid."
Corporal Manager flushed again for emphasis.
The hatless man pulled up his pants, now unable to make anything happen even if he wanted to. Why go now when he hasn’t even finished half his meal? Better to power through and use his break when it REALLY mattered.
Of course, he should have taken his chance when it was offered to him, but he did not know of the events to follow. He did not know this would be his only shot at a bathroom break.
"Did I hear that?" asked the hatless gentleman.
"No," responded the narrator.
The hatless man, having only heard the narrator responding to his question and not all that jazz about this being his only shot at a bathroom break, exited the stall.
"I’ll take mine later, thank you," muttered the hatless man.
"Suit yourself," Corporal Manager gave as a verbal reply. "And tell the other me out there I say ‘hey.’"
"The ‘other you?’"
"Wait," said the hatless man as he looked around. "It’s getting silly, isn’t it?"
The hatless gentleman wiped a gland of sweat from his brow. The hatless gentleman reached under his skin and tore out one of his sweat glands. He pondered it for a moment and then returned it to its rightful place. The hatless man was right. It was about to get a little silly.
I just looked up at the tv during America’s Funniest Home Videos on ABC Family and saw the following:
A little boy and girl (both about 6 or 7-years-old) were at a wedding, dressed up in a little tux and a little pink dress. Behind them were two bushes that rose higher than either of the two kids. The boy was looking at the girl, who was looking at the ground (either already embarrassed or just shy). The boy, clearly nervous, began to swing his arms from side to side. He took a step closer to the girl and she took half a step away from him. He leaned over and kissed her on the arm. She immediately pulled away, crossed her arms, and began to pout. The boy stood for just a second and then, realizing what he’d done, smacked his forehead with his hands. The girl continued to pout as the boy quickly looked around, turned, and then disappeared into the bushes.
Well, it’s LOST Day, and in honor of those few non-LOST fans who “frequent” this site, it is time for yet another installment of the critically-ignored Curse Of The Moongician (And Other Tales To Tell ‘Round Midnight).
The Spooked-Out Mirror, Part 1
Forged from the souls of rapists, killers, and thieves, the Spooked-Out Mirror (deep down) really just wanted a friend. Someone to do his or her hair in front of it. Preferably, though, it would be nice to have someone rape someone else in front of it. The mirror’s powers are unknown and unmatched.
No one knows why it was made, or even how (especially how, but especially why). Since the emergence of the written word so many centuries ago, any reference made to the Spooked-Out Mirror has always been in an awed hush. The written word having the quality of an awed hush might seem quite impossible to you, but maybe you just don’t understand the Ghostly Sciences.
Aside from how the mirror was made and why the mirror was made (which are two things we do not know), what other things could we not know about the mirror? We could not know who made it, we could not know when it was made, we could not know where it was made, and we could not know what was made.
Last thing’s first: What was made? The Spooked-Out Mirror. Pay attention.
The mirror in question was made not two minutes after the creation of the Universe. It was also made not two hours after the creation of the Universe. In fact, it was made several eons after the creation of the Universe, around the same time The Three Weirdos were imprisoned for Improper Wand Usage and Pixie Rape (though really it was just the Pixie Rape (although REALLY the Improper Wand Usage had a lot to do with the Pixie Rape)). The Three Weirdos were sent to Gabblegore Dinderblot’s Magical Security Prison on the south ridge of North Gruntswood, which was just north of South Gruntswood Ridge.
The Three Weirdos, for those who are not well-versed in Historical Magicks, were Sniddlebee Dragonbrain, The-Wizard-Who-Used-To-Be-A-Frog, and Josh (The Necromancer). They were best friends since birth, because they were programmed to be so. Also they were robots a little bit. Back then, you see, everyone had a little bit of robot in them (and not just because getting fucked by robots was so popular at the time, which it was). Upon the birth of every child, it was tradition to implant a magickal computer chip into the central nervous system, just to keep everyone on their toes.
As the three grew up, the townspeople and townswizards and townswitches noticed there was something very off about them. The townswarlocks, however, had no inkling of such a thing, because they were always busy thinking of new uses for jam (“spreading” came up often). Maybe it was the way the Three Weirdos always tripped the Council of Elders when they walked by, or maybe it was their weekly newsletter (The Evil Sorcererer), but everyone (except the townswarlocks) knew what had to be done.
On the 13th day of the 13 Days of Hanukkah, the Three Weirdos were cast out of the small magicking town of Abracadabrica. Incidentally, during this time all towns were called Abracadabrica (except for North Gruntswood and South Gruntswood Ridge). That would all change years later once the Tribunal of Naming woke up from their comas, but just understand that when the Three Weirdos were cast out of Abracadabrica and later traveled to Abracadabrica, they didn’t just leave and come back to the same place. That would be stupid.
The Three Weirdos left Abracadabrica and shortly thereafter arrived in Abracadabrica. Sniddlebee Dragonbrain, the self-proclaimed leader of the three, explained to them that they could never return to Abracadabrica.
"Shouldn’t we leave, then?" asked The-Wizard-Who-Used-To-Be-A-Frog.
"He means the Abracadabrica we just came from, you fool," said Josh. He then turned to Sniddlebee in quite the foolish manner. "Right?"
Sniddlebee nodded. “We must make an oath,” he told them. He put his hand out and started to chant. After a series of magic and stuff, his hand suddenly became a glowing hand. Well, really it didn’t BECOME a glowing hand. He just put his hand out, it stayed a hand, and it started to glow. Either way, the other two Three Weirdos followed suit and now here we are. Three glowing hands on top of each other.
"We shall not return to the Abracadabrica we just came from," Sniddlebee began, "Until we have bettered ourselves."
The Three Weirdos swore on their glowing hands and, needless to say, they never returned to the Abracadabrica they just came from.
The years passed for the Three Weirdos as they did for all people: Each year took exactly one year, and then a new year-length year began. Their adventures were plentiful, and they did not learn lessons from any of them. There was their battle with the Demon Whales of Abracadabrica, their run-in with Billy The Cauldron, the time their band opened for The Incantationists, their pleasant tea-time with the Demon Whales of a different Abracadabrica, and the time that one Wyvern looked at them funny. Also there was this one time that Sniddlebee accidentally got Unicorn shit in his blood.
All of that, we now know, was just a precursor to the fated day when they decided to use their wands to rape that innocent little pixie, Starstar Star. I’ll spare you the gruesome details, but let me assure you, there are tons of gruesome details.
They were arrested and held in Abracadabrica, just north of Abracadabrica. Their trial was long, lengthy, and lasting. It was also drawn out, extensive, and thesaurus. It was so long, in fact, that by the time the Three Weirdos were sentenced, “Abracadabrica” was just one of SEVERAL names given to towns (not even including North Gruntswood and South Gruntswood Ridge). The Three were sentenced to nine (9) years imprisonment and were immediately shipped to Gabblegore Dinderblot’s Magical Security Prison in New Abracadabrica.
Upon arriving in the prison, the Three were immediately separated and kept apart both physically and magically. Also, they were pretty emotionally distant from each other during this period. And spiritually they just weren’t on the same level. Physically they were actually on the same level, just not in the same wing. The prison didn’t really have “wings,” but you know what I mean.
And this is where their tale ends, for I have clearly lost sight of the subject at hand.
Around the same time those three were put into jail, The Spooked-Out-Mirror was being forged from the very fibers of magic. Specifically, it was forged on a Monday (which we now call Magic Monday because magic was so involved). It was on the morning of that Magic Monday that the fabled and still mildly cursed Moongician set to work in his arts and crafts room and made the most mysterious mirror in the history of mysteries. Later that day, he also made The Spooked-Out Mirror.
Who? The Moongician
What? Made The Spooked-Out Mirror
Where? In His Arts And Crafts Room
When? Early Afternoon
And what happened to this mirror? Where is this mirror now? What power does this mirror possess, if any, and what would happen if it were to fall into the wrong hands (in the case that it does, in fact, have some sort of power)? I’m sorry to say, but that is a tale for another time, although it also might not be.
I could not get the name “Roger Federer” out of my head this morning. It just kept going and going and going, because it is so rhythmically pleasing. “Roger Federer” is the new “Cellar Door,” “Cellar Door” is the new old “Cellar Door,” and this post is the new post.