Once upon a time there was a little boy named Chuckie. One day Little Joe was listening to REM when he realized that he couldn't find his religion. He tried to retrace his steps. He checked under his bed and in his backpack. He even checked the lost and found at school. No religion at all.
He was walking home feeling all bad about himself when he met none other than Tom Cruise.
"Hey, Chuckie," said Tom Cruise.
"Hey," said Chuckie. "My grandpa liked you in that plane movie."
"You look down, Chuckie. Is anything wrong?"
"Well, Mr Pilot, I've looked everywhere and I can't seem to find my religion."
"Well, what did it look like?"
"Well, gosh..." Chuckie thought and thought, but he couldn't remember.
"Well, did it look like this?" Tom Cruise asked, pulling out his copy of Dianetics.
"Yes," Chuckie said, "maybe. It had a book involved with it somehow."
"Well, I can't give you my copy," said Tom Cruise, "but I could get you another if you get audited."
"Then I'll get audited," said Chuckie, "I'll get audited and never listen to REM again."
"That's great," said Tom Cruise with a smile. "I just need five thousand dollars."
"But I don't have five thousand dollars," Chuckie exclaimed. "I'm just a little boy!"
Tom Cruise smiled, sliding a benevolent and nonthreatening arm over Chuckie's wee shoulder. "Well, lad, maybe you can come work for me."
"Gosh," said Chuckie. "What would I do? Clean windows? Whitewash fences?"
"Do you like cars?" Asked Tom Cruise.
"Gosh, do I," cried Chuckie.
"Do you like buses?" Asked Tom Cruise.
"Gee, they're my favorite," Chuckie bellowed.
"Then you can work on my luxury Scientology fleet! Forever!"
"Uh, what?"
"I mean for the summer. For the summer."
And this is how Chuckie finally found out that Scientology is a fat load of bunk peddled by overpaid Hollywood brats. Unfortunately, he couldn't do much about it because he was under contract for a million billion years. It was entirely Chuckie's fault, of course, as he should have had a lawyer, which just goes to show.
THE END
Wednesday, February 29, 2012
Monday, February 27, 2012
The Interactive Tale of Little Joe's Internet Experience
Once upon a time, there was a little boy named Little Joe. Little Joe was a bright little boy who liked nothing better than to spend a good hour on the internet. One day he was blogging about Sticky Bear when an instant messenger window popped up.
"Little Joe," cried the messenger, "I am a unicorn!"
"Gee," tippity-typed Little Joe, "a unicorn!"
"A magical unicorn named Gummipants! Of the Rainbow Skittle Forest!"
"Gosh!"
"I need your help, Little Joe! If you do not help me, none of the Rainbow Skittle Forest Unicorns will survive!"
"Oh no!"
If you want Little Joe to help the unicorns, see option A. If you think Little Joe should abandon the unicorns and get a damned Job, see option B!
A. "Sure I'll help!" Tapped Little Joe.
"Then all I'll need is your mommy or daddy's credit card number!"
"Hmmm..." typed Little Joe, "what will you need that for, Mr Gummipants?"
"By maxing those cards out we can secure five kajillion acres of unicorn habitat, Little Billy!" Gummipants reasoned. "That's enough for five unicorns to sit around eating hamburgers!"
"That makes no sense," Little Joe typed. "I think you are a scammer and I am going to report your firewall's telephone number to the Google police."
"That's OK." Gummipants replied. "I was just distracting you while Sticky Bear snuck around to the back door!"
"STICKY BEAR???!1" Little Joe typed excitedly, so gassed up about finally being able to meet his childhood hero that he let the 1 slip in. If you think Little Joe should rush forward and embrace his childhood hero, see option C. If you think Little Joe should bend over and kiss his underage buttocks goodbye, see Option D.
B. Shame on you! It's because of narrow-minded, unicorn-hating jerks like you that 10,0000 acres of prime unicorn habitat are lost every second. Did you know that in the time it took you to read this, 24 unicorns died, that in the time it took you to read THIS clause another 13 got addicted to unicorn laxatives, and that by the time this sentence became a run-on abomination a further 32 found out that one of their unicorn parents had an affair? Next time suck it in and choose option A. Shmuck.
C. STICKY BEAR!
SWOOP!
RAAAAAAAAAAAAAWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWR
OMIGOD NO!!!!!
RIP! SHRED!
RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!
OOO OOO OOOO!!!!!!!!!
RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAR! *SNORT*
MY SPLEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEN!!!!!!
D. CRASH!
NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!
RAAAAAAAAAAAAAWR!
POKE! TEAR!
WHYSTICKYBEARWHY???!
GRAAAAAAAAAAAAAWWWWWWW!!!!!!!!
EVICERATE! TINKYWINKY!!!!!!!
OK THAT FELT KINDA GOOD!
ROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!
A LITTLE HIGHER PLEASE!
"Little Joe," cried the messenger, "I am a unicorn!"
"Gee," tippity-typed Little Joe, "a unicorn!"
"A magical unicorn named Gummipants! Of the Rainbow Skittle Forest!"
"Gosh!"
"I need your help, Little Joe! If you do not help me, none of the Rainbow Skittle Forest Unicorns will survive!"
"Oh no!"
If you want Little Joe to help the unicorns, see option A. If you think Little Joe should abandon the unicorns and get a damned Job, see option B!
A. "Sure I'll help!" Tapped Little Joe.
"Then all I'll need is your mommy or daddy's credit card number!"
"Hmmm..." typed Little Joe, "what will you need that for, Mr Gummipants?"
"By maxing those cards out we can secure five kajillion acres of unicorn habitat, Little Billy!" Gummipants reasoned. "That's enough for five unicorns to sit around eating hamburgers!"
"That makes no sense," Little Joe typed. "I think you are a scammer and I am going to report your firewall's telephone number to the Google police."
"That's OK." Gummipants replied. "I was just distracting you while Sticky Bear snuck around to the back door!"
"STICKY BEAR???!1" Little Joe typed excitedly, so gassed up about finally being able to meet his childhood hero that he let the 1 slip in. If you think Little Joe should rush forward and embrace his childhood hero, see option C. If you think Little Joe should bend over and kiss his underage buttocks goodbye, see Option D.
B. Shame on you! It's because of narrow-minded, unicorn-hating jerks like you that 10,0000 acres of prime unicorn habitat are lost every second. Did you know that in the time it took you to read this, 24 unicorns died, that in the time it took you to read THIS clause another 13 got addicted to unicorn laxatives, and that by the time this sentence became a run-on abomination a further 32 found out that one of their unicorn parents had an affair? Next time suck it in and choose option A. Shmuck.
C. STICKY BEAR!
SWOOP!
RAAAAAAAAAAAAAWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWR
OMIGOD NO!!!!!
RIP! SHRED!
RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!
OOO OOO OOOO!!!!!!!!!
RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAR! *SNORT*
MY SPLEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEN!!!!!!
D. CRASH!
NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!
RAAAAAAAAAAAAAWR!
POKE! TEAR!
WHYSTICKYBEARWHY???!
GRAAAAAAAAAAAAAWWWWWWW!!!!!!!!
EVICERATE! TINKYWINKY!!!!!!!
OK THAT FELT KINDA GOOD!
ROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!
A LITTLE HIGHER PLEASE!
Wednesday, February 8, 2012
In Which a Character Almost Gets his Comeuppance, but then Ends up Not Getting it For Some Reason or Other
Professor Tomkins was a real jackass. He liked to look down girl’s blouses and tank tops in class, and openly put down the boys in front of them.
“Do you know why the artist employed negative space in such a singular fashion?” He would ask, to which the students would shake their heads. “It’s because all the boys in this classroom have tiny wankerdoodles. It’s a scientific fact.”
He was mean to all the boys, but especially Chuckie, who was fat. Professor Tomkins didn't like fat people. “This answer may have made sense if you weren’t so damn fat,” he wrote on one of Chuckie’s papers. “I find your argument compelling,” he wrote on another, “but you are totally fat.”
One day Chuckie died for some reason. Professor Tomkins didn’t really notice, or care, until he saw yard sale signs posted all over campus. Chuckie’s mother would be selling his stuff.
“Gee,” Professor Tomkins said, “for a fat kid, Chuckie sure had lots of nice stuff.”
It was only a few block’s walk over to Chuckie’s mother’s house. It was one of those split-level structures that were so popular in the 1980’s. “It’s typical,” he said to himself. “Fat people don’t usually have a multitude of stairs.”
Chuckie’s stuff was laid out on totes and orange crates and a card table on the front lawn. His mother sat on a lawn chair in a green sun dress. She was also obese and barefoot and was using a beaten tv tray to hold her cash box, calculator, and tear-stained Twilight novel. It figured, Professor Tomkins huffed to himself, digging through Chuckie’s CD collection. Fat people always read twilight. It’s because they wanted to become vampires and lose weight. After wiping the hoho crumbs off a few Ricky Martin albums, he moved on to Chuckie’s furnishings.
“Oo,” he exclaimed. “Look at this mirror! And it’s only five bucks!”
It was a very strange mirror, in that it was made entirely of a specific sort of mahoganny used only to Filipino blood magicians, and was decorated entirely with their most blasphemous and lurid symbols of necromancy and dark magic. It reflected him back as a man that was younger and much more sexy, but who also worked at B Dalton’s. How would such a morbidly obese person have found such a thing? How would he have bartered for it with his sausage fingers? How would he have afforded it with the ridiculous amount of tuition required to bankroll Tomkin’s salary? Tomkins was not sure, but he had to have that mirror.
Chuckie’s mother gave him an odd look as he brought it up. “That’s very strange,” she said. “I’ve never seen that before.”
“Typical,” he said. “Fat people always try to trick you and drive up the price so they can buy more KFC. WELL YOU WILL NOT FOOL ME. I will give you fifty dollars for this mirror and not a lard-coated nickle more, do you hear?”
“I’m not even sure it’s ours.”
“FIVE HUNDRED THOUSAND DOLLARS AND TEN PERCENT OF MY PAYCHECK!”
“What I’m saying is that I’m not sure it’s mine to sell...”
“FOR LIFE!”
“OK then.”
How clichee, Professor Tomkins thought. Fat people always caved at the first offer. They were not smart at all like him. He ran all the way to his office and asked his student aid to nail the mirror to the wall and go put something sexy on. When she refused he fired her and made a mental note to shred her transcripts. He then had a professor with less tenure nail the picture up and fired him too.
Frightening things began to happen after that. He got a student aid who weighed about 140, and when he threatened to fire her, she said she would sue and then passed gas. The walls of his office also started to bleed mucus, and not in a good, dadaist way, and a cold wind began to blow through his office.
“Those dumb janitors,” he said, “If they were smart and had a doctorate in art history like me they could take care of this problem, which obviously an air conditioning or the snot congestion filters on the roof..”
One morning he came in and a cold wind whistled down the hallway like the Andy Griffith intro in a minor key. His student aid was crouched under the desk, her hands white as a David Matthews concert. “Eraweb!” She shouted. “Eraweb!”
“Stereotypical obese people and your secret language!” He huffed. His muscles froze, a scream trapped in his throat. A steady, howling moan pierced by screams and perforated with sighs and groans and shit manifested in an icy blast. His desk was coated in frozen snot, his papers trapped under the translucent bubbly goo like flies locked in a plastic ice cube. His eyes followed the snot up the walls to the mirror. Coated with frost, one sentence was etched on its sworling, blood-red surface.
“I’d come out and do something really scary if I weren’t so damn fat.”
“Do you know why the artist employed negative space in such a singular fashion?” He would ask, to which the students would shake their heads. “It’s because all the boys in this classroom have tiny wankerdoodles. It’s a scientific fact.”
He was mean to all the boys, but especially Chuckie, who was fat. Professor Tomkins didn't like fat people. “This answer may have made sense if you weren’t so damn fat,” he wrote on one of Chuckie’s papers. “I find your argument compelling,” he wrote on another, “but you are totally fat.”
One day Chuckie died for some reason. Professor Tomkins didn’t really notice, or care, until he saw yard sale signs posted all over campus. Chuckie’s mother would be selling his stuff.
“Gee,” Professor Tomkins said, “for a fat kid, Chuckie sure had lots of nice stuff.”
It was only a few block’s walk over to Chuckie’s mother’s house. It was one of those split-level structures that were so popular in the 1980’s. “It’s typical,” he said to himself. “Fat people don’t usually have a multitude of stairs.”
Chuckie’s stuff was laid out on totes and orange crates and a card table on the front lawn. His mother sat on a lawn chair in a green sun dress. She was also obese and barefoot and was using a beaten tv tray to hold her cash box, calculator, and tear-stained Twilight novel. It figured, Professor Tomkins huffed to himself, digging through Chuckie’s CD collection. Fat people always read twilight. It’s because they wanted to become vampires and lose weight. After wiping the hoho crumbs off a few Ricky Martin albums, he moved on to Chuckie’s furnishings.
“Oo,” he exclaimed. “Look at this mirror! And it’s only five bucks!”
It was a very strange mirror, in that it was made entirely of a specific sort of mahoganny used only to Filipino blood magicians, and was decorated entirely with their most blasphemous and lurid symbols of necromancy and dark magic. It reflected him back as a man that was younger and much more sexy, but who also worked at B Dalton’s. How would such a morbidly obese person have found such a thing? How would he have bartered for it with his sausage fingers? How would he have afforded it with the ridiculous amount of tuition required to bankroll Tomkin’s salary? Tomkins was not sure, but he had to have that mirror.
Chuckie’s mother gave him an odd look as he brought it up. “That’s very strange,” she said. “I’ve never seen that before.”
“Typical,” he said. “Fat people always try to trick you and drive up the price so they can buy more KFC. WELL YOU WILL NOT FOOL ME. I will give you fifty dollars for this mirror and not a lard-coated nickle more, do you hear?”
“I’m not even sure it’s ours.”
“FIVE HUNDRED THOUSAND DOLLARS AND TEN PERCENT OF MY PAYCHECK!”
“What I’m saying is that I’m not sure it’s mine to sell...”
“FOR LIFE!”
“OK then.”
How clichee, Professor Tomkins thought. Fat people always caved at the first offer. They were not smart at all like him. He ran all the way to his office and asked his student aid to nail the mirror to the wall and go put something sexy on. When she refused he fired her and made a mental note to shred her transcripts. He then had a professor with less tenure nail the picture up and fired him too.
Frightening things began to happen after that. He got a student aid who weighed about 140, and when he threatened to fire her, she said she would sue and then passed gas. The walls of his office also started to bleed mucus, and not in a good, dadaist way, and a cold wind began to blow through his office.
“Those dumb janitors,” he said, “If they were smart and had a doctorate in art history like me they could take care of this problem, which obviously an air conditioning or the snot congestion filters on the roof..”
One morning he came in and a cold wind whistled down the hallway like the Andy Griffith intro in a minor key. His student aid was crouched under the desk, her hands white as a David Matthews concert. “Eraweb!” She shouted. “Eraweb!”
“Stereotypical obese people and your secret language!” He huffed. His muscles froze, a scream trapped in his throat. A steady, howling moan pierced by screams and perforated with sighs and groans and shit manifested in an icy blast. His desk was coated in frozen snot, his papers trapped under the translucent bubbly goo like flies locked in a plastic ice cube. His eyes followed the snot up the walls to the mirror. Coated with frost, one sentence was etched on its sworling, blood-red surface.
“I’d come out and do something really scary if I weren’t so damn fat.”
Friday, February 3, 2012
The Cautionary Tale of Little Joe
Once upon a Time there was a Little Boy named Little Joe who liked to collect stamps. He also liked to play with slot cars and model trains, and had more bottle caps than any other little boy on his block! Little Joe also liked to make meth. It was a great hobby, and he met lots of interesting people!
One day Little Joe was walking down the street when he met Little Katie. “So,” Little Katie said, “I’ve heard you’re mixing meth too.”
“Gee, I sure am,” said Little Joe. “It’s darn fun. Funner than throwing sticks in the river!”
“You just do not take life seriously, Little Joe,” Said Katie, shaking her head. “My Daddy says that you should only be in things to be the best. And I am going to make the best Meth because he bought me extra special cough syrup!”
“Gosh,” said Little Joe,”it doesn’t have to be a competition.”
“Everything’s a competition,” said Little Katie with a smile. “I win at board games, and I win at jacks, and I’ll win at this too. And when I do win, I’ll break your knees.”
“Gee,” said Little Joe. “Gosh.”
Little Joe was a very sad little boy. He went home and lay on the couch and did not want to do anything. After a while, a scary movie came on. It was about a scientist who made a monster using lightning. That’s it, little Joe thought; there was nothing lightning couldn’t fix!
“Daddy,” Little Joe said, running into the kitchen where his father was reading the paper. “Can I have a twenty foot antennae that attaches to the roof of the house? With guy wires? Can I? Can I?”
“Well,” Daddy contemplated, holding his pipe with one hand whilst rubbing his stubbly chin with the other, “I don’t know why you would need that.”
“It’s for science,” Little Joe exclaimed.
“You loveable scamp,” Daddy said, rubbing the top of Little Joe's head in a non-threatening manner. “you probably want it for a ham radio or weather research station or something, don’t you?”
“Or something, yes,” Little Joe said.
“Well, run along and play then,” said Daddy. “You will get your 20’ antennae.”
Little Joe did gt his twenty foot antennae. Once it was attached, he had all the kids in the neighborhood over to watch him make meth. Even Little Katie.
“Look at my twenty foot antennae,” said Little Joe.
“Gee,” said Little Katie.
“Yeah bitch,” said Little Joe. “That’s how I roll.”
Just then a lightning bolt hit the antennae and his lab exploded. Everyone died.
There is a moral to this story.
Don't do drug, kids!
One day Little Joe was walking down the street when he met Little Katie. “So,” Little Katie said, “I’ve heard you’re mixing meth too.”
“Gee, I sure am,” said Little Joe. “It’s darn fun. Funner than throwing sticks in the river!”
“You just do not take life seriously, Little Joe,” Said Katie, shaking her head. “My Daddy says that you should only be in things to be the best. And I am going to make the best Meth because he bought me extra special cough syrup!”
“Gosh,” said Little Joe,”it doesn’t have to be a competition.”
“Everything’s a competition,” said Little Katie with a smile. “I win at board games, and I win at jacks, and I’ll win at this too. And when I do win, I’ll break your knees.”
“Gee,” said Little Joe. “Gosh.”
Little Joe was a very sad little boy. He went home and lay on the couch and did not want to do anything. After a while, a scary movie came on. It was about a scientist who made a monster using lightning. That’s it, little Joe thought; there was nothing lightning couldn’t fix!
“Daddy,” Little Joe said, running into the kitchen where his father was reading the paper. “Can I have a twenty foot antennae that attaches to the roof of the house? With guy wires? Can I? Can I?”
“Well,” Daddy contemplated, holding his pipe with one hand whilst rubbing his stubbly chin with the other, “I don’t know why you would need that.”
“It’s for science,” Little Joe exclaimed.
“You loveable scamp,” Daddy said, rubbing the top of Little Joe's head in a non-threatening manner. “you probably want it for a ham radio or weather research station or something, don’t you?”
“Or something, yes,” Little Joe said.
“Well, run along and play then,” said Daddy. “You will get your 20’ antennae.”
Little Joe did gt his twenty foot antennae. Once it was attached, he had all the kids in the neighborhood over to watch him make meth. Even Little Katie.
“Look at my twenty foot antennae,” said Little Joe.
“Gee,” said Little Katie.
“Yeah bitch,” said Little Joe. “That’s how I roll.”
Just then a lightning bolt hit the antennae and his lab exploded. Everyone died.
There is a moral to this story.
Don't do drug, kids!
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