semi-annual domino tournament

...Back at it, but with mostly all-new players!

Sloth Jr

phone

Mr. Gingerbread Man!

'Nanner

Gazing Ball

Battery

Round One was a great competition, with 3 players down to their last tile! Sloth Jr finished first, and Battery scored a dismal 48! He has two rounds to keep his score respectable, or stands to exit the game early!

Good Luck, Domino Players!

Simon says...

He had clinical onomatopoeia but Simon didn't think it was a thing

he clumps on the road and squeaks on the step and whooshes when he swings

he whispers in the dark, while he gurgles in the bath and then rustles with his towel

putt putt behind the mower, dreaming that he's flying and is who-ing like an owl.

Soon they came in a big white truck with every good intention

they took his temperature, fed him pills, and not to mention

threw Simon in a rubber room and tied him up and played Shubert through the speakers

doctors stretched him on a couch and asked him questions as he sipped on stuff from beakers.

And all the while he forced a smile on his creaking lips

he recounted happy days happy times and seldom dismal dips

his playmates were accountable, his mother was his rock

good ol' dad tossed the ball, his puppy pulled the sock.

Physicians took his blood, while dentists cleaned his teeth

he took a step without a clunk, they presented him a wreath!

Now Simon goes on quietly without a whir or click

to look at him he looks all right, you'd never guess he's sick

But in his head inside that skull amid the dark grey matter

he beeps and clucks and bops and slaps just like that old Mad Hatter.
　

skin tight

I see it now, my body parts laid across a table and displayed, grotesquely in a pattern of fillet and general dismemberment. Even the muscles are open for all to see, pinned and labeled. All given a formal name, more distinguished in part then I ever was whole. Backing up, I can see the whole, more than pieces and what I see could be nothing less than human, whereas in parts who knows...a sort of squidtopus or limp mollusk from another world?

Who is to blame for this thing done to me? The foul deed needs a villain, be it Asian mastermind, a scribe with his quill. Or maybe a simple musing heiress with the devil on her shoulder, whispering vile deeds in the guise of sweet nothings.

The student artists gather round now, recording my despair, brush stroking canvas. The squares rest upon an easel, translated into geometrics or self serving self portraits, all knees and elbows, laid open for admirers and critics alike. How does this slight woman see in the monstrous display an engine cut in twain? Why does one ask? She sits astride a tricycle invention with a planetary globe to hide her features. She seeks anonymity in the whole, giving my parts new life and a noble function. If only I could tarry and discover my new name; alas.

Even now I feel this will all be arranged upon a parchment, bound and distributed to any who care. What have I become if not some diversion for the masses? If so how will it differ from a postage stamp licked and stuck on preposterous correspondence, what is so unique about my bit of flesh next to an etching of a pretty girl who admires her form upon an ebony reflection? The scribe scribbles furiously to keep pace with my reproof.

I would sooner hold in my hand a blackened sun then paste morbid anatomies onto my library wall. My only recollection of her reveals her bound in foil, dancing in the desert with its alien trees, arms like clubs raised to batter all who approach. She took me into a corner room and sat across me on a chair folding her arms into each other like an optical illusion. She bowed and her neck was smooth like porcelain, white as the naked hands she laid upon her knee. We met in the middle and now I can see in retrospect there were two of each, she and I, leaning in for a kiss and reflected upon each window in the corner room.

The only way out was to go further in, for to retreat was to smash the facade and break apart like ceramic figurines in a play about love and loss. I wasn't willing to sacrifice what we had. I would have given the world, or run wild in the abstract cloth of a wild Ubiquitous before I relinquished the gift she laid upon my brow. Now from my ethereal stance perhaps my sight is clearer. She is behind the easel, painting a tilted square, relegating my lost soul to mathematics. Our love was a magic act, I was the skeleton in the portrait, eerily laid to rest.

Even as a child I found it difficult to learn, resting my head on the desk in a plaid universe. Then, I felt like an animal in a zoo, one among many, a naked procession of muddied specimen chained for perusal of the elders. A chosen few were braided and set into collections, ogled on from spectators on goggled shelves. If we ran it was only to fall into a gutter and lay there dreaming of vast tentacled atrocities and tiny words that only twins with superior eyesight used in tandem could translate. Even then I could see her, smiling with a hand upon her hip, leading me unsuspecting into the maw of an ancient subterranean, with only my tibia to ward off evil spirits – how was I to know?

No sign could have been more apparent than the one she herself held, but I only saw the white sand, not the tug of war between the inhumane and heinous alike. I rode into their midst and they squeezed me like a ham, dripping in agony, in ecstasy, foreshadowing my portrait in advance. I was with her when she reclined, open as could be in a mesh wrap, she said my time was numbered and the number was two. There was no doubt, it was written on my skin. With the right illumination she could count my teeth, the only bones to see the light of day. And the string around my fingers, and the moths alighting, buzzing and hoarding precious space upon my pate, all told the tale of my life, of my loves, my failures and my conquests.

I couldn't see then what I see now, her easy way and beauty, hidden by a strange light that cast a shadow on her face. Was it a cricket that only a pinprick, a ray of sun, would clarify? Was she a fancy contradiction in a soda glass dressed in frills? She was abstract and two faced – one face born out of another – graphed and charted, lips in a vast circle of conspiracy. I thought I was in color, but now I know she is black and white, born of serf and pecked by raptors. Amalgamous, obtuse, two in an envelope and poured viscous onto black tile.

My time has come, a meal unto itself that only a relevant slug could fathom. My eyes are in the palm of my hand, a receptacle of sight. I have but one skull, but two empty sockets that will never see another beauty bound, no sumptuous crustacean or chariot on the wind. My bones lie stacked, floundering in a vortex, riding a blank highway on flaccid wheels that tell no stories, no tales to be mowed into the lawn or etched upon a virgin's captive flesh. She sold me out for a star atop a verdant green. She stole a bauble for my soul, and many hands together and many feet in unison and couples stretched as one touching skin in skin will never touch her empty breast that I once believed teemed in color. There was no truth in the fires she wrought and her grin lies naked to the netherworld I dwell. My reach is powerless. I am nothing now.

shoedoom

From afar it could be seen. Flames licked the sky over New Old Brumpton.

She decided it then, when the house burned down, then blew over, and her neighbor's dog came out of nowhere and bit her. She was standing in the street, random bits of newspaper piling up at her bare feet, her cold bare feet. Cars were whizzing by and she almost got hit, even as the flames reached out from her sunken living room and tickled her naked toes. Enough is enough, thought Marjorie. All of her stuff was on fire, including her mother's asbestos orthopedic pumps. Enough, she wept, again. And this, which she said aloud to no one in particular, but the dog may have heard it and used the defiant tones as an attack cue: “I am going to destroy this world!”

It was a new dawn for Marjorie. All her life she had been stepped on and used. Her family only called when they needed a car to haul dirt in. Her coworkers used her desk, which was really just a shelf, to store the coffee maker and supplies on. And her boyfriend, who moved all his junk into her living room but lived with his secretary because she was one block closer to the subway. He was really going to be upset when he learned his 70's album collection had melted. Marjorie was not going to take any more shit from anyone, especially not this fire thing. “Fuck you fire. I'm going to find out the source of all your power, and I will take you out!” Then with her new found power of rage, Marjorie smote down her neighbor's dog. They watched, horrified, from the kitchen window as Marjorie walked down the middle of the street, their pet pekinese turned inside out and spewing internal gunk onto the fire warmed sidewalk.

The morning news told the story from several eyewitnesses. Calls went out late, as the neighbors didn't bother to phone emergency services until they realized her burning house might effect their ability to collect Marjorie's morning paper. The firetruck didn't come down the street until the fire had thoroughly done its job, and Marjorie met it at the corner. The driver saw her at the last instant and swerved, took out a telephone pole then came to a shuddering halt. Marjorie stomped up to the door and ripped it off the hinges. She pulled the captain down from his seat and consumed him in one gulp. Then she slammed her hands down on the truck, sending it rolling up the hill where it bowled down a large estate and came to rest in the garden fountain. The butler and several ornamental carp were instantly killed.

Marjorie was not a particularly pretty woman, but she did have a normal human human body with all the usual lady parts. Damnation, she was sick and tired of sitting alone on weekends wondering if Hank would come by to put a needle in her record player. A reporter from the Daily Flop got the scoop from Gentleman Erv's Bar and Swill: 'We heard this ruckus from out the door, you know. It was a kaboom, like some big ole cannon, and then the door is stoved in and this lady glowing with righteous indignation comes a'barrelin' in and she screws every guy in the place.' Apparently Marjorie then drank a keg of the best stuff and proceeded to dismantle the building with her breasts. 'When she left we cried. She was the best **** I ever had.'

Helicopters and army reserve tanks followed Marjorie for two days as she walked around the town swearing at sign posts and looking under hills for the source of fire. She entered the local Family Grockery and Condom Hut to pick up a six pack of Dr. Pepper, and when they refused to give her a rain check, because they were out, Marjorie poked holes in all the shrink wrapped hamburger and wove 200 shopping carts into a sculpture of Wink Martindale. She ate the brains of the stock crew for a snack, and found them wanting. So she drank from the tear ducts of the teenage cashiers and found them remorseless. “What kind of world is this?” Marjorie lamented.

Finally, on the third day, the president came to the town in Air Force One to survey the damage, and to appeal to Marjorie's better senses. He flew in with a full retinue of congressmen as well as a family of lookalike stand-ins. By that time Marjorie had dug a deep hole into the side of Mount Receding Hairline and was piling boulders onto Main Street. “I am a glacier!” she shouted to the blackbirds. Everyone else had run away.

The president protected by a force field neared her, and then he spoke these words that he himself had written just moments early, “Marjorie. We wish you would stop being such a bitch.”

Marjorie heard these words and she thought about the words carefully. The president was elected by the people, and he was wise. Marjorie thought very hard, then she reached up into the sky and pulled down every blackbird. She tied all of the bird feet together making them into a conglomeration of winged fury that could transcend the universe, then she attached them to the president's force field with a piece of ire-fused hosiery and lifted the entire mass into the atmosphere, where to this day they circle the cosmos.

But the words struck a chord in her, and she wondered about the fire, and how it had destroyed her home, and how it burned to the ground, leaving nothing but a charred shoe. A shoe.

“Marjorie?” It was the tiny voice of a girl, the dwarf daughter of the President of the United States, the first reluctant astronaut president. She was by a newly enacted 28th amendment to the Constitution now the President of the United States, being the first born of a reigning President who somehow begins orbiting the Earth. “Marjorie, I know how you are hurting,” said Queen President Agnes, “and I would gladly give all of my newly bestowed powers to right this wrong, this horrible deed that has befallen you.”

Marjorie sat on the lawn with her splayed legs pointing east and northeast. She thought about being six, and her doll. And sandwiches.

“But Marjorie,” continued Agnes in a strong voice, “I won't do that, because I want you to be my vice president!” Agnes held up Marjorie's smoldering shoe and fell to one knee, presenting the charred pump to the fury of New Old Brumpton.

She belched as she received the shoe, then smeared the entire retinue over the blacktop with a solid backhand. And with her one shoe and a limp, Marjorie proclaimed for all to hear, “To hell with that, I'm going to eat the world.”

election day

There are no Stragglers on the moon. Yes, I know. Everyone has seen the hundred foot view screens across the facade of their local EZ Shoppe. I myself have witnessed the gritty footage shot with hand held wrist cams. I've seen oxygen hoodies ripped from the innocent heads of nuns and orphans. But listen – I am here to tell you it's a hoax. All you have seen is staged to propagate inherent fears of moon invasions. Remember the 50's and your great grandparent's fear of UFO's? Or the the Y2K bug? Did your mentors not program into your Flixon Roll-ups the Martian pebble virus of twenty ten? Well, did any of that come to fruition? No, that is not an artificial snack made of colored beet paste! How many casualties have you heard of in the war against UFO's? Did anyone actually get even a head cold or throat tickle from that Y2K bug? No! And the Martian virus, just like the current Straggler Invasion, was a farce. Has your sister ever seen a Straggler? Do you really fear that she will fall to their smarmy come ons and bear toothy big heads? Grow your own cerebral cortex, people. Come out of your illuminated tunnel towers, put down those vegetable cake forks and realize that carrots do not naturally taste like chocolate. For heaven's sake, vote down proposition 99/3. All the 99s are crap designed to keep you and your children under the thumb of Moon State Tech. Maybe everyone you know works for MST. That doesn't mean you have to allow them to tell you what to think. You sir, you can hold your own dick while you pee! Ma'am, you have the right to choose your own brand of spermatozoa! Go for natural instead of prepackaged. Kids, you're old enough to vote – stay out of the pleasure tents on election day. Don't you know that they're only open on Tuesday because that is where your leaders want you to spend all your eligible electing hours? I repeat: vote against proposition 99/3. There is not one shred of evidence that a straggler community even exists on our moon, let alone the idiotic thought that they would have any inkling or ability to invade Earth. Look at our defenses, the stars are so diffused by the curvature of the deflection tiles that we can barely see them anymore. For crying quietly in a hat, how would an invasion force even navigate the criss-cross beams from orbital solar disks? When was the last time any of you even saw a worm or common black ant? Our soil is bankrupt, who would want to invade a sterile planet? The moon has more oxygen and water than we do. The dust there has been converted to loam where pork chops grow, polar ice caps circulate frozen water through self serve tubes that can be heated in a pot and served chilled, or mixed into powder bags for easy nutrition. The Moonies have everything we used to have, and they hold the record for most consecutive flips during free fall. Their government is doled out via vending machines! Put your hand into your pocket. You sir, what is in your pocket? A dime? Remember when your government printed paper money and you didn't have to weigh yourself down with a roll of dimes? Isn't gravity hard enough without plastic coins? A dollar used to buy enough beansteak to feed you and your issued child for an entire day, now it takes twenty dimes to buy crustless boodle. And the defective stitching in your trousers, those same pants bought with your dimes from Moon Tech, causes such an enormous loss in civilian coinage that any ground hugging weasel on Main Street can become a hundredaire in a week. They collect your fallen dimes and flip them into Klantien fiber for their space needles to the sky. Ha! It's the moon that should fear an alien invasion, not the other way around. So what will you do on Tuesday? Dip your feet in a suspect pond and wiggle your toes at the minnows that your leaders manufactured for your so called “good”? Come on men, take off those helmets, the fog isn't really tainted with germs like you're told. And that murmur pumping through the speakers might boost your self esteem, but from the outside you look like blundering mushrooms with twitchy fingers. Everyone, all you women and children, all of you transplants in wheelie terrariums, don't let the authorities steer you toward a fake voting capsule. Do your homework, every organism on this planet is entitled a vote. Bring your cats! Even that pill bug family at the bottom of your nano-compactor is eligible; see amendment 2564. The DNA skirmish at the turn of the century wasn't for nothing. Look up, if you can move your necks. Are those orbiting tombs of the fallen nothing to you? They fought for us all, for you and all your ecosystem. We live on this planet, you and you. And you! Do not fall for any shenanigans, put down proposition 99/3 and tell Moon State where to stick it.

This has been a counter message from the Society to Quell Nonexistent Threats Division of Moon State Tech. It is our duty to air our lies, and your obligation to be informed of these lies. This message will be displayed for an average time of twelve minutes every day starting today until tonight until every organism on the rotating planet of Earth has had the opportunity to view it. And so it goes, amendment 2465: There, you had your chance (you probably blew it).

Message over. Thank you. Vote for proposition 99/3.

Chicken, again!?

Drunken chickens from another planet were invading my garden. I don't know what brought them into my little slice of paradise, but they were ruining the creeping phlox and pulling up brick pathways while looking for worms and, their favorite I would later learn, centipedes.

I was sleeping in that day because of the three day holiday and other than a lingering morning dream hadn't given any thought to goings on at work. It seems a boss three times removed was questioning my work ethic and I was sniveling and hem hawing, then I woke up and had breakfast. Waffles and a hot cup of black English tea. The dog noticed the intruders before I did.

Hamster plummeted down the steps from his rumpled bed in my room and jumped against the patio glass barking his fool head off. I figured it was a rabbit and got up to let him out. No way could my little fluff ball catch a rabbit, and more than that, I was fairly sure the rabbit, if it stood its ground, could kick Hamster's furry butt.

A nice morning, I was going to follow him out and sit on a bench in the corner of the garden with my tea cup to watch the morning dew drip off the leaves. Cripes, I saw them. Not rabbits, but space alien chickens, staggering around my backyard. They had laser blasted my weather vane and left scorch marks on the fence. Paving stones littered the grass and one of them had fallen into a birdbath and apparently drowned in his own puke.

I didn't dare let my little doggie out there. These avian sots were liable to shoot him as soon as let him lick them into a lather, then dine on his charred...ugh, I can't bear to think on it. Instead I gathered up the pup and secured him behind closed doors listening to him frantically yap. The inebriates were clucking and weaving on the west end of my yard where the greater portion of my garden lies, while on the opposite end I have a garden shed. I worked out a plan to gain access to the shed and hopefully rid my yard of these foul winos before they destroyed everything I had spent years constructing and lovingly planting. There is dirt so deep in the crevices of my hands that I will never be rid of all of it. That garden is like a child to me and over the spring and summer months I spend hours a day fiddling and weeding about in the crisscrossing brick paths and crouching under weeping trees pruning and picking suckers. I couldn't allow these marauding rummy space hacks to land in my ajuga and set me back ten years on my backyard Eden.

I stealthily departed via the front door and circled around to the back of my tall privacy fence. The rest of the neighborhood seemed quiet, excepting a barking dog 3 or 4 houses down and the whining hum of a blower from a removed addition. Then I climbed up and over the fence to land behind my shed. I had only to creep around the side and open the door to get inside and gather a few tools.

The shed has a little window facing out over a deck into my yard, and I could easily see the bumbling chickens bumbling about and causing general mayhem. Their rocket ship was ass over end and quite nearly broken in two, so I was guessing their stay would be an extended one, at least until they phoned their equivalent of triple-A for planetside assistance. As I watched one of them actually unlatched its helmet to test the air then clutched its throat and expired in a mound of geranium. Its tiny talons stuck up over the dainty pink blossoms. Hilarious. If I merely waited, perhaps all of them would peaceably off themselves.

Hamster still yowled in the house. I saw him in the upstairs' window clawing at the glass. I wheeled about and saw one of them looking up at me. It had wandered into the shed and was leaving jumbled steps on the floor from the wet grass. In its right gloved wing it clumsily held a blaster which it whipped up and fired, but the laser missed me by a foot and ricocheted off a rafter. I grabbed up a shovel and bashed it over the brain case sending feathers cascading into the muggy air. They settled in a pile upon its broken heap.

I had done interstellar murder, but it was in self defense. Space birdocide; was it a crime? But I couldn't wait to find out, they were into my purple garden tearing out the clematis and weaving it into party hats.

The blaster made no sense to me, or I would have cracked open the window and methodically peeled off the bibulous chickens one by one. One was planting a brightly colored flag in a raised bed of asparagus now. Damn these cockeyed cluckers!

I yanked out my mower and ripped the cord. This fine piece of mulching machinery never let me down and started on the first pull. Grabbing up the shovel in my left, I backed out of the shed and pushed down on the handle, raising the deck of the mower to a 45 degree angle, and crouching I lunged forward at the biggest mass of invaders. A third scattered and teetered at me but I deftly swung my spade and set them spinning into the lawn. The rest I eviscerated under spinning death blades. Then I let go the handle and sprung into the midst of them wielding my lethal shovel like a double handed halberd, effectively obscuring their vision by knocking helmets askew and piling them bodily into the ground-cover.

Disabled, I relieved the surviving clutch of their lasers and gathered them and their comrade's tattered remains into a wheelbarrow. Three trips, including the transport of the busted rocket ship, and I had rid the celestial space vermin from my ravaged yard, dumped into the overgrown weeds beyond my fence line. They could sleep it off in the thistle for all I cared. I kept the blasters, figuring once I learned their use I could put them to work eliminating dandelions from my bluegrass.

The flag I rolled up and tossed into my shed, as a souvenir from my day battling space chickens, and as proof if SETI ever came calling. No pissed poultry was coming down from the stars to claim my garden, by God, and I assert my right to dig, sculpt, mow and plant its borders as I see fit, damn the foul that impinges my property line in search of conquest and grubs! Stand up, all you backyard weekend warriors from suburbia. Raise your shovel, hoist your rake and shout at the heavens: This Land is My Land!

And have another beer, or two.

an exercise in futility

She rubs against me sending static charges up my leg.

I look down at her, Fluffernut, and am in no way reminded of Princess Leia garbed in white and transmitting like some ghost scattered over a million radio waves.

She purrs up to me, circling my leg, mewling, but now I can't get the image of the princess in decrepit surrounding, scantily clad and near to falling out of her metal bra.

Suddenly I am reminded of my condition and I hastily kick Fluffernut away in a ball of screeching cat fury while rummaging through my cargo pockets for a bottle of pain killers.

Popping off the cap I hastily dump out a lone pill, but a soundless lightning strike interrupts the moment; I see the pill tumble forth into the palm of my hand in slow motion, then the lights go out.

Only my static image remains to me against the drawn white curtain and I appear pale and featureless like a mummy in a vintage horror flick.

The pain refuses to subside as I fall to my knees in search of the dropped pill, still in the dark but led on by the colored spots that cloud my eyes.

I am in a fog and can almost see myself from a distance, as if I'm detached, when I hear the amplified creaking of my back door, and a skinny man slinks through the opening with a baseball bat in his raised right hand.

My head is still roaring with a migraine upheaval and my fingers are raking through the carpet even as my second sight observes the predator as he invades my humble abode in the dark.

Scrambling on my hands and knees like a dog I frantically back under the dining room table, still feeling about for the pill, but avoiding the careful step of the armed burglar.

He is quiet but hears nothing but the patter of rain on the windows so he lowers the bat and pulls out a flashlight to get the lay of the land, not expecting to see a fully hair raising event staring at him from atop the kitchen table, an agitated cat, so outside of its natural state of being.

The intruder backs up upon seeing the hissing beast, saliva dripping from its fangs, and trips over a chair that I had pulled out earlier, but in mid fall the lights flicker back to life even as he clutches the flashlight in his clenched fist like a life preserver.

Fluffernut leaps and he whips his arm up to fend off the bite, screaming out loud, but fails in his attempt to make anything but a low breathy moan, tasting on his own breath the minty flavor of Aquafresh.

It's all in slow motion as the lights go down again and lightning flashes illuminate the room showing two masters facing off across the stoic mine field of emotions.

The throbbing in my head serves as a backdrop to the illusion unfolding before my eyes and I can see the hapless burglar, now flailing and tangled in a haphazard chair as the assassin cat dips into the thief's jugular in initiation.

Not even Wonder Woman's sniper rifle would help this poor bastard now as he bleeds out onto my Berber.

Slowly I inch forward onto the green swath while attempting to avoid the snare of table legs and a spreading red pool.

It's in my head now that Fluffernut is my protector, sent to me from above by some weird guardian angel, like a little dragon to perch on my shoulder and devour any dangers that lie like pitfalls to my step.

Again the lights pop on and I take in the scene, holding my throbbing skull and hoping my girlfriend doesn't happen to stop in for an unscheduled visit, even as I hear a car horn toot out on the street.

Damn, now is not a good time, obviously; but on the bright side the wind that is wailing through an open window not only is splattering water on my unrinsed dishes, but also tossing my hair and cooling my sweaty bare chest.

My attention is diverted to my brain again, throbbing, and as long as the lights are back on I start visually searching the ground for my dropped pill, thinking it should be more like an Easter egg hunt than looking for a needle in a haystack.

The rain begins to strengthen and droplets spatter the sill to soak the already red drenched floor, and instead of finding the illusive pill and quelling my ill, I see the body under the primping Fluffernut shudder.

I stutter back feeling my naked feet sucking at the carpet like shoes on a theater's sticky floor.

Why is this happening to me, I wonder clutching at my head and moaning alongside the pain, and in a mindless fury I grab at the sink and pull from under a pile of dirty dishes a cleaver, ready in my madness to invoke heinous crimes upon the unsuspecting dead and then perhaps to turn the blade onto myself.

Then the door, ajar, creaks open and silhouetted against a sky that has begun to lighten as the storm pushes off to the east is my pretty girlfriend, dressed in a floral pattern and beaming like she usually does, oblivious to most of what life has to offer.

She is carrying an umbrella and she bends at the waist while lowering and pulling it closed, giving me a perfect view of the street beyond stretching forth into obscurity.

She is tall, Scarlett, and dumb as a box of rocks, but eventually she notices the carnage and pouting she bites at her lower lip.

Still moaning, I am shirtless in my underpants and wielding a meat cleaver crazily in front of me like a blind gardener hacking at his unkempt shrubbery.

“Who are you,” screams Scarlett, knowing full well it's me, but scared shitless as I rip at the air and stumble dazed across the carpet.

She is only at the fringes of my sanity while the nights activity looms heavy; the storms, the pain, the carnage, and all I can see is hell unleashed and flaring, surging; I just want it all to go away.

Scarlett speaks and in my psychosis all I can see are multiple girlfriends circling the room and striking incomprehensible poses alongside the shifting walls while I turn in circles and wonder what new horror will rise up next.

“Do you want to see a movie?” she asks from out of the blue.

I feel the pill moving down my gullet, instantly purging the vertiginous cues, while Scarlett plucks up the evening's newspaper from the table and skips to the entertainment section.

Fluffernut scratches my leg and I itch my nose as I think of an alternative; “not tonight,” I say, “how about we just stay in and, you know...”

another freaky unquotable

mad libs and gahhh!

Mad Libs. Plug in your words and make up your own story for a change.

Description, family member, nationality, geometric form, fruit, an unusual number, adjective, drink, plural noun, adjective, made up curse word, adjective, adjective, made up curse word, m.u.c.w, m.u.c.w.

Food, tool, body part, occupation, furniture piece, body part, food, body part, m.u.c.w, m.u.c.w, verb, woman's name, verb, body part, adjective, noun, street name, plural noun, body part, food, condiment.

Verb past tense, food, room, occupation, noun, m.u.c.w, adverb, retail establishment, plural noun, something spectacular, adverb, clothing, adverb, m.u.c.w.

Verb past tense, street name, animals, plural noun, famous sport's figure, weapon, exclamation, dance step, body part, body part, noun, m.u.c.w.

Super hero, breakfast cereal, verb past tense, building, number, food, type of entertainment.

ok--don't read any further if you intend to carry on with the frivolities...

Tonight I met my (description) (family member)-in-law at the local la-di-da (nationality) restaurant where we sat in (geometric form)s and smoked (a fruit) into the wee hours. Off in a corner there were (an unusual number) (adjective) ladies sipping their (drink) and swapping (plural noun) about their (adjective) husbands. I wondered aloud what their (made up curse word) lives were like and how (adjective) it would be to have it as (adjective) as they seemed to. Maybe a bit too loudly I said “(made up curse word) (made up curse word) (made up curse word)'s.”

One of the ladies stood up with (food) in her hair and a (tool) in her hand. She was missing her (body part) but was dressed like a (occupation) with a heart condition. She walked over to our (furniture piece) and slammed her (body part) onto my plate of (food) and smooshed it around. Then she rubbed her (body part) and said (made up curse word) you, you (made up curse word). (Verb) up, or me and (woman's name) over there will (verb) on your (body part) and drag it and your (adjective) (noun) down (street name) until (plural noun) squish your (body part)s into (food) and (condiment).

Needless to say, I (verb past tense) up, and finished eating my (food). But in the (room) the head (occupation) spilled his (noun) noisily. My dining partner said “(made up curse word) this (adverb) (retail establishment).” Then we threw our (plural noun) into the (something spectacular) and left the restaurant. I was (adverb) and my (clothing) was (adverb) and I said “(made up curse word) and tiddly winks.”

We (verb past tense) down (street name) and suddenly were accosted by (animals) being ridden by monkeys carrying (plural noun). Their banner read 'I heart (famous sports figure)'. A monkey with a (weapon) charged me and howled (exclamatory remark) while (dance step)ing and sticking a (body part) into its (body part). We narrowly escaped into a (noun). I said (made up curse word).

Too late, (super hero) and (breakfast cereal) fell from the sky and (verb past tense) us into the (building) for (number) days. It wasn't a bad night, but I'd rather have (food) and (type of entertainment).

If you come up with something particularly funny interesting or life changing., i'd love to hear about it. Yeah...i'm just that bored.

ennui

Yesterday when she had me in the chair, tied into a yarn suit and surrounded by those mewling chickens, I told her the truth.

She had not realized I found her letter to Santa Claus. It was written backwards in a shifted skink format, all the more surprising for its blueness off the get-go. Not without pains though I deciphered the crap and found her correspondence to be without merit. A ruse, yes; but a clever one.

I hold my secrets dearly, but I kept this one to save my life. Knowing it was known meant certain doom – at least a sound tickling. And in my condition, who knows where such things might end. Nuts, spilled among the gadgets and various raised accoutrements, not in the least.

Alone, for she was engaged that night to peruse various portraits of trebuchets in her Tuesday evening nipple piercing guild, I scoured the residence for additional clues and found much to my annoyance an eyesore. It was slightly L shaped and covered in Naugahyde and tucked away in a corner of the living room, a random space cordoned off by swinging doors and normally off limits to one such as I. In no time I deduced its perimeters by swinging my arms about and using my inch-stick. The exact proportions became known to me, and armed with this information I fell back, intact.

She came home late and complained of soreness and chafing, forcing me to alleviate her pains with a sponge and other means, but the advancing hours saved me from the usual drudgery and that night I did not don the suit of yarn, and the fowl pecked indiscriminately at their leisure, and more, at scattered jigsaw puzzle pieces of Buckingham Palace intermixed with macaroni. Ten thousand monkeys typing on ten thousand typewriters might eventually write the complete works of William Shakespeare, but all the chickens in the world couldn't sort out the edge pieces in a thousand piece puzzle of the queen when they've got macaroni too. That's the theorem I worked out, but I digress....

While I have little spare time, I confess also to sleeping very little, but I needn't ascribe that to insomnia. In every corner of the small world I inhabit there is a collection of motes, and I keep them occupied by means of a one hundred watt light bulb which is attached by various long cords, some green, some orange. The place is quite dark, and air currents have no refuge here, so by leaping around and casting my light like angry aspersions I keep these motes agitated, and thus fit for future duty. It is my army of dust, and I march my troops nightly. Quietly, in rank.

My captains and I were unrelenting that night, and it was understand that action was likely. In the wardroom we discussed general affairs, as well as the atrocity I had measured. When asked, I acceded, and so we cataloged it as Floral, for such was the pattern that enveloped the whole of its girth. Springtime floral, in fact, and dreadful. I begged to be left behind, for needles to be driven deep into the soft pieces of my frontal lobe, but mightily they held me down, and my dementia subsided.

I left them to it, and succumbed to a slumber as deep as any ever encountered, and to my everlasting shame, this is what I dreamed: A plethora of wire plugs danced willy nilly the length of my dozen unpolished casserole dishes and circled back, dosey doe, and with no warning fell deep into catatonia, whereupon they dreamed of me. Exclamation. Finally I became aware of my own shape and form – I was a god in every aspect, and looked exactly like Clark Gable. Eventually I woke after evaluating my good fortune, only to find that the casserole pans were absent, and worse, merely stew pots, and cooking at their innards were the plugs who writhed in a comic dance from some overwrought Dante-ish opera composed by the master himself, Batmaster Spleen. The wire plugs poked me and I awoke again, for real. Oh, my.

I sat up for some time brooding on my dilemma. Knowing of the heinous creation, I pondered the existence of further atrocities. If there be one, perchance there might be more. All would be lost, for I could not sustain my vigor knowing of such vile contraptions. No more would I recline, entranced by a jellybean sculpture, not even by a woven big stuffed thingamajig, not I, moi, the me. Nor would I entertain the thought of a new, a better horror 'round the next bend. Here I was, here I would stand my ground, my motes and I.

Balloon skulls rising in a bag of mesh, sobriety expressed by the girl in a window. Somewhere a dog is barking. No cliché would temper my mood, and ere I dissolved them all in an acid bath of forgetfulness, she came to me suggesting a soiree and teacakes. A certain rue must have been etched upon my face, and it reflected off her visage like a marble dropped on stone facade. Pigtails and a twelve foot Trojan elk. She stood, her chickens took me by the hand, and led me to a chair, unencumbered by prestige. Gently I was stripped and adorned anew by all involved – they circled so that by and by I, like a maypole, was born of wool streamers and immobile as a giant locked in immortal combat with really big glottal tongues. I would never jump rope with heavy nymphs, probably. Hardly could I bemoan the fact, when she stroked my cheek and teetered on the brink of a notion, suppressing a giggle while the tattoo brow of a maid jiggled atop her loosened bodice. I came undone and the babbled arcanum came flowing in a torrent of conjoined participles, my syllables were transient.

She mesmerized into my soul like a torch eating screwbit even as I pondered the parameters of my mecho-master board – interface and circuitry, inverting my eyes I followed the thread and moved across the board, tuning down the switchback and backflipping a lateral plunger. Too late, I flinched, and unraveled like a flung spool, cast like spent dregs in a pool of disorderly nematodes. My usefulness at an end, I fell wholly bent and subservient as a young willow to the North wind. My struggles were over, and preparations were all for naught, but lightly she gathered her yarn back into a ball and led me like a newborn through rhythmic doors and lay me down on a supple divan, kissing me back and forth, to and fro, thoroughly through and through, until all thoughts of subterfuge and motes died in a swirling vortex of fluff and daisies.

shooting the breeeeeeeze

Lackadaisical wandering whereabouts, William Perry, ne'er do well extraordinaire is out and about, in a location near you. At the mall: Perusing shoes at the shoe store, “Why hello, miss. Did you know that the average shoe size for American women is 8? Wide, in fact. Only one hundred and fifty years ago, it was merely a size four!” So wizened by this trifle, the young miss moves on querifiably miffed and a tad bit creeped out. He bows,“Good afternoon, lovely shoe vixen,” and so our intrepid wanderer moves on, perhaps to a location nearer you.

He is on the avenue strolling with a purposeful stride, chin adjusted skyward for maximum smarmy effect. At the bus stop there is a believably smelly young man quaffing from a brown paper bag and a woman with a Goodwill shopping bag and a flimsy plastic grocery sack containing a loaf of day old french bread. William Perry produces from his overcoat a tub of I Can't Believe It's Not Butter. “I know, really - but believe me Missy; it's the gol-darn truth!” He high fives the smelly young man, who doesn't appear to recognize the gesture, thus leaves him hanging, and zigs left, possibly to a location near you.

He enters a busy street, lined head to toe with shimmering black sedans, and penetrates the facade of a marbled office building. At the desk he produces his card for the information guru to ogle, knowingly. It reads as such: William Maniacal Perry, III, social outcast, rebel ax junkie for hire, and pie lover. Phone number? Don't call us, we're not home. In a whiny voice the info guy says “floor eleven,” and he munches something nondescript.

The elevator is awesome, for it goes up and down, and William Perry gets in line for the ride; he even has produced a dollar for the privilege and gives it to a fancy black woman who wears a tulip poplar on her lapel and a snow white dove tucked pleasantly into her coif. “Coo,” he says, and she in response, “oh, Daddy.” Then she tucks the buck into her brassiere and adjusts her meaty cleavage.

On the eleventh floor Perry squirms out from the elevator packed tight as a can of sardines patting his pockets and physical paraphernalia to be assured nothing has leapt off of his body or is springing loose only to find he has compromised the personal accounting offices of one Gordon Gahonas Gozongas! and Associates. There are secretaries spilling out into the hallway and men without coats but with natty suspenders and coffee cups leaning on desks and saying things like “send that out immediately” and “oops, I dropped all your pencils” or “hey, nice cubical – does it come in beige?”

William Perry sucker punches a mid-level clerical schmo and drags the carcass into a vacant cubicle, noting the general cleanliness of the paper trays and nicks a hole puncher. He disturbs the lackey's comb-over, drives a one and a half inch finishing nail into the center of the veneered desktop and blows an immense pink bubble which is surreptitiously surrendered onto the standard office issue keyboard. DNA tests will confirm that William Perry has indeed been on the premises.

Now he produces a Foldaway Barmah and dons it with a flourish escaping the corner unseen and meets Virginia at a water cooler. She is studying the bulletin board and has already read 'new insurance information: you are covered only in extreme cases of section 1.3 or alien seed pod invasion' and 'Marshall's retirement party is being moved to Ida Viscera's loft where she will be serving aperitifs and tiny leftover wieners from a jar'. Virginia reads aloud “Oh no, listen to this, 'effective immediately, all unicorn privileges are revoked!”

“Why, ma'am,” says William Perry, “Even I can see you haven't been a virgin for thirty years,” and he dances with her through the crowded hallway past a heavily guarded exhibit of Peruvian shrunken heads, then double dipping her tresses at the bubbler he flees unscathed into a stairwell, perhaps to visit a location near you...

literally

i couldn't help myself--here's a quirky bit shot over to the 10th Daughter of Memory...please ignore it.


a-hah, take that my squirrel. And they all know my might; see my prowess in battle and how easily the enemy falls beneath my omnipotent fist of lordly power. Now my captains take me up upon their horses, and we gallop thusly. Here and there, back and forth we go on the steeds of glory. Oh, how the maidens do preen. See them my fine lads, how they eye their lord protector? Yes, yes, there are plenty for all--we shall have our fill.

Watch me now, from across the room, dressed in my finery for the ball, and I enter thrusting forth preceded by my great codpiece, tee hee. Listen to them titter. We will dance tonight; twirl and dip. Oh my, fair lady, how tall you are, I am enfolding you in my strong arms. I feel the crease of your waist, the curse of your wicked hip. Is it a sweetness that you peer at me from your golden crown, or the devil in you?

Together we float across the floor, over every obstacle we fly, together as one. We are a single entity in our grace of movement, you and I. Come with me, my love, and rendezvous!

And so we do, in this secluded wood. We meet and fall together; I take you in my arms and lean with you against this hardy oak. Oh yes, oh yes! We love, my love, as I kiss your tender face and we love so strongly that our thighs bleed with the intercourse!

"Henry! Pull your pants up!”

From over the fence, “Oh my, there's Imogene's witless son shagging the larch again.”
Sylvia puts on spectacles while sipping at her tiny teacup. “Good heavens. But he does have a spectacular fanny, doesn't he?”

material goods

Medusa had stone beauty like a covered Flexon pan simmering gravy on the burner--
cracking eggs she whistled shrilly to curl bacon where it lay.
Today I will find a man she said to no one in particular.
Her potted plant though watered was a cactus and so drowned.
Intrepid Phil as he was known to no one in particular though he fancied himself as such
and so partied in the flat with Chewy his succulent and a cast of thousands,
ventured into the city on that fateful night and found her wearing a hat
like a paper sack upon another and to what purpose he wondered but little—not enough.
She was buying Flexon for her collection, and looking for a man; he was on a quest for life.
What's your sign, she asked. He said 'Faster” and what's yours? “I'm Medusa” I like you.
She bought a skillet and Phil bought lavender tea for brewing--
it seemed like a good idea at the time.
Her eyes were large and green as a banana, changing to yellow as they ripened;
the effect was stunning in a candle lit room, the scent of lavender wafting in the slow current
of Phil's apartment spinning the room in slow motion like a rooftop terrace on a lazy Susan.
She laid a proletarian ashtray upon her prostrate figure and Phil lit her cigarette
then stood with the Flexon and a box of nails to pound holes into his plaster walls.
For a while she stripped until her porcelain body resembled Venus in the corner with arms,
a smoldering butt nonchalant in repose igniting slightly an unfazed succulent.
Let this moment last forever, Phil said, as he hung his sock upon the final nail
and Medusa dropped her drapery onto a plinth inscribed as such:
apple thy eye doth fade in the lite of yonder meals, forsooth, bite me.
And as she doffed her headdress he wondered no more absorbing all her density
in a beauty bouquet of unmeasurable magnitude deep inside of his cellular being
and froze forever his eyes remembering always their final feast.
“Oh, he dinged my new Flexon.” Lifetime warranty, better than a man.

The Annual Ball

Willow has graciously invited US ALL to her digs for a grand gala--

~00~

What Fun!

hope you don't mind, I'm just going to throw on my suit--after all, I've only worn it once.

Now for a date--I've looked in all the usual places...

Work, eh...maybe not a good idea.

My old circle of friends. Harvey didn't seem like the sensible pick. But he tells a good knock knock joke...

A couple of blind dates. Rolled the dice, but came up bust.

I settled on Internet dating and I guess she must be the right girl for me....Hey, we matched up, so all's good, eh?

See you at the ball, and please don't step on my date's tail!

TT- A Brush with Insignificance

I feel like Dante, lost in the nine levels of hell
—I'd taken a wrong turn and Virgil my ever vigilant guide
had left without me.
He crawled up over Satan's scaly carapace
into the fresh air of a transitory state.
I stayed believing myself secure from the horrors that belied me, but even as I cleared a new oasis
and stood back to refresh myself
the void crumbled in about itself
filling in like the sand
fills a dug hole on a beach.
The waves go out,
the waves come in.
This is called Job Security,
but it is a little piece of hell on earth...
Now I've succumbed to the pleasures
of my home, where I recline
and wield my brush,
dipping into the infinite palette
waving it higlety piglety at a fresh canvas.
It is a joy to escape the rigors of responsibility
into a paradise of distraction. What was, isn't now,
and tomorrow's another day; what is it they say?
“Carpe diem?”
I say 'fresh fish smells best in nature's broth'.
Ha ha, not really—that's stupid.

picture out of limbo and idiot blathering

click on pic to enlargic

in a slog

below the random glog

lay a choke bloke

heavy headed

wearing a dog.

His girl up and left im

her excuses slim

choke bloke took a smoke rope

heavy handed

sculpted a choke rope very grim.

The dog robe

fearing disrobe

liked his choke bloke

piddled and chewed in fact

upon that dusty dandy

and talked into his earlobe:

and this is what he said:

woof woof woof,

meaning don't do it choke bloke.

And so the bloke and his dog lived happily ever after,

because this isn't a Harlan Ellison story.

Too bad, because it would have been a lot better if it was.

wild animal!

first in a two part series...
an unimaginable tale of terror
&
fur...



to those among you who may be frightened by unkempt creatures


of the blackest, hairiest type...

you may want to avert your eyes!

Dang! It's a war

!! this post doubles for Theme thursday's BALL, and the 10th Daughter of Memory's WAR!!

Oct. 02 13, 3:02:05: “or-no gadapples, enter the Snapple woods 'or the unflappability, smoke and dangle a herring, oh you bad-ass, silly head puddin' pie”.

Oct. 02 13, approx. 5:00 am: President of The United States of America awoken by chief of staff and informed of transmitted message from outer space.

Oct. 05 13: message is abandoned as a prank, SETI investigated.

Oct. 31 13, 12:01: Alien spacecraft hover over vacant soccer fields in every European and South American country. The spacecraft appear to be armored octopi of every shape, color, and dimension.

Oct. 31 13, 5:00, approx: SETI staff are released from prison to decipher new message, but their beards get in the way.
A reclusive woman in Ontario while smoking her 2000th cigarette has a premonition that leads scientists to an alien Rosetta stone. The message is translated into gibberish, but reads something to the effect of:
“allow us Garghouls to join your planetary league of Suckerball, or behave to feed you your brains to us.”
The Soccer Federation President agrees with the demands of the Garghouls after the Nigerian team is consumed later in the day. Preparations are made to hold World Cup soccer games ASAP, or sooner.

December 1 13: Garghouls learn many earthly languages and can fluently say “Malingering earthlings, your brains are high in protein” in every tongue, if with an otherworldly accent and lisp. The games are put on the front-burner.

January 1 14: The first ever out-of-cycle and Intergalactic World Cup Soccer games begin. Italy lands in the Space bracket with the Garghouls. The game is lopsided with the Garghouls wearing fluorescent streamers from their tentacles and employing a goalie as wide as a wooly mammoth, and that was only its oral cavity. Every time an Italian fell over and grabbed his shinbone, his brain was eaten. Several Garghoul forwards were red carded for dining on the field which ended badly for the officiating crew, who were summarily drained of their fluids.

January 3 through 7: Throughout the soccer community there is a mighty uproar, and over the following games between the Garghouls, Greece and Turkey, some fans rush the field and pelt the aliens with souvenir programs and blast horns. Garghouls take their ball and leave, vowing revenge on the tasty earthlings.

February 02 14: four months to the day from the initial transmission, fleets of alien warships appear over the great soccer fields of the planet earth, where they are met by painted soccer fans carrying sticks and brandishing sharp rocks. The announcement is made over deafening bullhorns, out of the sky: “Argh, we come to decimate puny earthlings, and score many goals, weak and pathetic whiny and soft pink brain holders. Prepare to serve up your innards.”
The ships land outside of the stadiums and to a tremendous fanfare the Garghoul soccer teams storm the fields with their squads of eleven players, and are easily beaten to death by insane throngs of rapid soccer fans.
Only the Tibetan team is unsuccessful, where the Garghouls successfully score 300 goals then consume the residents as they lay down in peace. The remaining Garghoul team is now on display in a Liverpool zoo where they foolishly skirmish and rugby groupies patrol the perimeter.

February 02 15: The first anniversary of the defeat of the Garghouls is celebrated worldwide, and the alien threat is thought to be extinct, as every inhabitant of the Garghoul world was soccer nutty and gave their lives to the cause of taking the World Cup and gaining universal dominance over the sport. SETI officials scour the galaxy for more signals of wacky aliens.

Long live the Federation Internationale de Football Association.

click picture to enlarge

p.s. this written after a dialogue with Jeff

of IRREX2

the most normal thing about me is my dog

jotted these musings down as i watched the movie 'i'm not there'...

I'm not here, ain't an astronaut
never fit into my own skin, really
an alien just visiting, it's a
wonderment, sure, to be living
livin' the dream, eh; whazzat?
Anyway. Got the dimes, paying
the man, up to my ears such as
they is, and that's fitting in
really, ain't it? It don't matter
if you're black or white or an
effin astronaut. You go be a
card carryin' donut fer krisakes.
If ya got a number
if ya into over your head and
swimming in a red sea
then you belong. It's either you're
in the pool, or you in the chair
with a whistle. Shit, I came down
from the outerspace,
didn't I? That's
some news, they never
saw nothing like me
and that's how I was
noticed—never wanted
to be seen. Would've
been like you; admit it,
you thought—no you didn't,
did ya?
You just knew I was
a freak 'cause I wasn't like
you. Or your cronies—
just an astronaut, damn.
Hell I bought into it, the
junk, like anybody. What,
an alien doesn't have to
breath, or eat the dirt?
I gotta go point A point B,
and you sell it, you'll sell
to anything, you'll pack it up
with tin foil and a sticker
shit and sell to any ole kid
or some mad bug eye, won't
ya, then you can buy it, get
your foot up the rung, eh--
well, welcome to the club,
now I is like you—but I
still don't feel it,
and never will.
Tainted and
damaged,
just an astronaut.

prime time!

3, 2, 1...roll intro...

Get off my tail, punk.
Oh Crappy, you're so funny!
Hey kids, it's time for the Crappy the Squirrel Show!
Yay, weeee, Crappy! Yay, clap clap!
Hyuck, hey kiddos, it's me, Crappy! Today we gonna go out into the street!
Weee!
Yea, we gonna play in traffic!
Wee!
With cars, bigass cars with shiny hubcaps!
Ah, lookit that one! Weeee!
Oh, hey Johnny; that was close!
Ah, wah!
All right, all right; let's watch a cartoon...quit goin' on about it, little punk.
Wah!
Roll film...

Two cutesyyyyyy wootsy widdle wabbits is playing in the clover, and jumpin' up and down and have precious cute teeth and nibble flowers, and rabbit Boopi says, “knock knock” and rabbit Gloopy say “whoosit?”
and Boopi says in reply, she say “oh, its a big hungry dog gonna eat you up, chomp chomp” and “oh hahahaha, that a good one, you silly rabbit!” and so it happens in color with rapid eye catchy shaking and splatter.

Hey hey, kiddo, ooh; that was superb!
Aww, no no no. Bad Crappy.
Wah, we is crying, mommy mommy!
Shut up whiny little shits!

Crappy the Squirrel won't be on today, and is being replaced by Fuzzy Wuzzy Pink & Purple Daisy Chains! We love you! We do, we do, it's true! We love you, too!

doodling outside the box

Box measured 3x2x3 and had sidewalls the thickness of heavy corrugated cardboard. Its shiny green sides led up to a 4 flap lid. Now it moved, carried by four squat feet that lifted and propelled from beneath.

It was followed by a half naked and very dirty young boy.

“Joseph? What in the world is that, and have it wipe its feet before coming into the kitchen.”

“Mom, it followed me home; can I keep it?” The box and boy bounced excitedly.
She looked it over good, top to bottom and back up again. “Joseph, will you feed it and wash it and take it for walks? And keep it off your father, you know how allergic he is.”

“Oh yes, mama! Thank you.” Joseph wandered out to the yard, followed by his new friend. Mom could see them from the window over the sink. She washed dishes and watched the dirty boy toss rocks into the air; the young box was agile for its size and flipped up its lid, catching every stone.

“Let's play rocket ship,” said Joseph, and he grabbed the space helmet, which fit perfectly on the small boy's head.

The box opened its top and the boy hauled himself over the side.

“Joseph, no!” his mom called from the window, but to no avail.
“Gulp; burp,” and goodbye boy.
“Joseph, you know you'll spoil your dinner! Wait until your father gets home,” scolded box mom.
“Aw, ma!”

some absurd box doodle comicals