He spit a luigi to the ground.
By Daniel | January 18, 2010
Food Fight
Wolferine sat perched atop his motourbike like a frog on a lilypad of the utmost chrome and sexuality. Echoes of winds and quiete desperation of this lonely town flowed thru his hairs like a song from the Blair Witch 2: Book Of Shadows Official Soundtrack (Jive Records). Beneathe his Oakleys his eyes squinted like a modern-day Clint Eastwould as he chooed on a lightly-minted toothpick from Applebees Fine Dinery. He wheelied subtly and deaftly past Town Hall and the neckhairs on his arm stood up in goosepimple fashion as he sensed something Not Quit Right in the air up there. Something bad – dare I say, Erroneous – was about to happen and Wolferine was desperate to put a stopping to it.
All was quiete in this idealic small town where apple pies cost a nickle and a can of soda coke mearly a dime. Not a peep nor a weep but yet the tenchon was as thick as a peanutbutter and gel sandwhich. Wolferine stepped gently as if on the shells of eggs thru the allyways of downtown. Little did he know that things were about to get noir like Gwar.
He visioned a wearhouse of broken windows and gray as slowly picked its lock with his know-how. When he peaked his hawk-like eyes around the corner things went gloomy as if in a music video by critically acclaimed shock-rockers Linkin Park. Left to right, bottom to top; bodies of ruggedly handsome hardworking blue-collered gentlemen and they’re moderately attactiv wives stacked like pancakes with blood oozing and goozing like Aunt Gemini’s maple syrup (but red). He was transmogrified at the sight. They weren’t dead; someone was toying with they’re emotions – someone one crayon short of a Happy Meal.
Wolferine pulled out his Iphone and tried calling the ambulance but it was all for not; Verizon hath let him down again. He thru his Iphone into anger at a far-distanced, well-shadowed wall. There came back no resounding thud of impact, only but a gargoyl of a man lurching slowly and cock-shure. He had Wolferines’ Iphone pressed against his ear just so.
“Yes I would like to order a sized large pizza of sausage and meat and also a sized large Mountain Dew with a crazy straw delivered to the spooky wearhouse” he spake as he ordered a pizza from the local pizzeria. The straw wasnt the only thing crazy ’round these quarters; so was the man who was about to be torn asunder to shreds by Wolferine.
The man stepped into a sliver of lite and said these words verbotem: “Nothing like a good Piece-a-Pie and a Dew to wash down the heart of an adversary in the pail moonlite.” Wolferine was unimpressed by this villains way with words. He spit a luigi to the ground.
“My name is Sammy Soda. I come to America to harvest organs to sail on the black market (no racist). These farm-fed, ample-fleshed country pumpkins bring home the most bacon. And by bacon I speak in simile of money. To quothe the Ma$e / Puff Diddy rap hit of 1998, “mo money, mo money”.”
Wolferines’ eyebrows converged in a show of anger. “I’m about to beat the he’ll out of you”. His words were bold; like the slanted words in magazine articles.
To which Sammy Soda tisked a “tsk tsk”. “Don’t go chasing waterfalls, young one” he intoned to Wolferine as he opened up his tranch-cote to reveal guns of various sizes and caliber. Wolferine was mad at this because, much like cars are illegal in Canada, guns were outlaw’d in this small God-fearing village of humble townsfolk. Before Sammy Soda could know what hit him Wolferine had lept and desended uponst him as hot and heavy as a lovers’ breadth. Soda mearly smiled the smile of a man with something up his sleave; he was sneaky like a small child stealing cookie jars. He pulled a gun from whenst it came (his sleave) and gunshot Wolverine squire in the stomac.
As Wolferine lay without motions on the ground there came a nock-nock on the door and it was a pizza delivery for Sammy Soda. He took the pizza and Mountain Dew and coldly paid in exact change; leaving no tip. Soda smirk’d at the seemingly-dead Wolferine and sprinkled the Dew on his piece-a-pie; he was kinky like that. He turn’t toward a window to enjoi his forth-meal in the stealy moonlite. This was, it gos without say, a Big Misteak. He stepped like a goose slowly and shurely and tapped Sammy Soda on the shoulder and thusly spake Wolferine as to say “Boom yah”. Wolferine had sliced and diced Sammy Soda head cleanoff like an uninterested child might do a pencil eraser in History class. Soda’s head landed with a thud and his tongue poked out grossly, wavering like the finger of Motombo.
Wolferine turned toward the stacked bodies of the village people and shuttered to his adamantium covered bones. He kissed a young child on the fourhead and told him to Keep Strong Help Is On Its Way. He stepped out of the wearhouse. The horrors of the wearhouse had ravaged his mind and now he saw things in different lite. Trees lost there shine and the sky was weird; It was a living-breathing biological Twilite Zone of upside down ferns and founts. Wolferine shook his head and ran. He ran.
Topics: By: Daniel, Wolferine | No Comments »
Hell Hath No Furry
By kyle | October 19, 2009
Mother Nighte fell hard and lose over Capitol D.C. Newswright Zackery Palin sat tap-tap-tapping at his Compaq Presario model 7AP140. He had a dead line. “Finish you’re dead line or you’ll be lyin’ dead.” had been the word from ‘pon High. Dr. Maxx Hardcore, the Editer And Cheaf of the Capitol Poast, was the guy who said that thing (about dead line).
So now Zackery was cought ‘twist two hard thing’s. The paper was hot on the Press’s. It just needed Zackery’s page 1 section A artical to be done, but write now, that was zilch nada zip. Zackery did some stuff that showed how he knew not what to right stuff such as, Surfing the Information Superhighway, rittering this way and thine whilst blasting the song that goes “I’m riding around in my automobile”, and Nerf.
Finally: A Lastidge Effert. “This otta be good…” said Zackery in the instrouviant manner of a Chandler Binge. He opened the Male Bag. “Into my bag of Trix…” he continued. He shuffled a few letters about. Finally: the Mother Load! Nay. The Greasy Greasy Grandma Load. He red:
“Deare Womb It May Concert:
You don’t know me, but I’m a Yes Man (Jim Cary. Little joke their.) fore Precedent Borat Abamo. You didn’t hear this from me, but Follow the Money. Jerry McGwire? Nay. Real Life.
Furthermore,
Fill Hardman, age 42
Los Chulopos (this is the city that is like Las Angelos in the story)”
So Zackery hoped on his Hogge and sped into the tumescent night. He broak a traffic law. Suddenly, he followed the Money. It brung him write to the White House. Or should I say, Black House, for’n this was one presedant whom was darker than Roc on BET. “I prefer One Night at McCool’s on Comedy Central” quiped Zackery.
Zackery Palin pushed the button at the gate. “Whom shalt seak entrée?” came the reply. The voice? ‘Twas downright Lurchian. Zackery shuttered all the way down into his FILA sock’s and Soap brand shoe’s. But Zaq was cleaver. Thou he urg’d to retart “I’m Bart Simson, whom the hell are you!” he bit his tounge, like Drabble biting on a donot. “It’s the Male Man,” he scuttered. “I have a special delivory for Mr. Prez.”
“Come right in!” Mr. Male Man said Larch.
Zackery trodden the path to the front dore. He knock’d, a rein of paradiddle’s ‘pon the whorey gates. The dore opened like Star Track. Inside? Oprah music as far as the ear could ‘ear. “Mozark,” mused Zackery. Learnéd.
Suddenly, “presidant” Borat Ben Ladin Abamo appeared. “Who are your?” he said.
“That’s not importent. I followed the money. I have prove your a Muslin and a Socialest. Go back to Africa. I’m not rasist.”
Precedent Abaomo shot him a 48-tooth Patrick Ewing Smile. “Who would beleave you? Your just a insignifigint Flee. I’m a Big Dog on the poarch. Stay of the poarch.”
Zackery declared: “Your a mad man! You’ll never get away with this!” He floamed at the mouth.
But Abomo looked at him with rath. In hine rage, he looked just like Mike Myer—and I ain’t talkin’ Austin P!
“Bedtime for Bono,” quod he. The room fill’t with green gas. Zackery thought “How appropriant,” remembering the “Hoof arted” novelty T he was spoarting that day. Then he hit the hey.
Zackery woak up in a dumster. His cloth’s were replace with Rag. He had black crap smear’d across his face like Hulk Hogan’s bierd when he was Hollywood Hogan. On his head, a crampled hat. On his hand’s? Fingerless glofes. Their trying to make me look like a Crank Pot, a mear harmless homeless! he relized.
But what They didn’t no? He had used his Tigre Talkboy to recoard the hole convorsation with Obomo. “Hell hath no furry…” thought Zakk.
The storey hit the head lines the next day. Abamo didn’t have a berth cert, so he was sent to the middal of the ocean to live and work in a cave. Zackery Palin won the Noble Price for his stoary. Moreover, the mayor of Capitol D.C. made him the new precedent. His first law was, No Socialest. “Wierd stuff.”-Johnnie Carsen
Topics: By: Kyle | No Comments »
A Smart man; a Crazy man.
By Daniel | August 4, 2009
A Raging Bull
The restourant was fansy; his suit; all the fansyer. Bobby ReNiro was the name and tough stough was the name of the game he play’d and he play’d it well, like a Jonny Cage in Mortal Combat and its’ subsquint sequels, particulerly Mortal Combat 4. His goatee hanged tot like the shoe of a horse. His sunglass’es shimmer shine like a Mexcan pay-so in God’s trouser-pocket. His voice manly yet enduring as he ordered the most magnamimus stake on the manu, the Philly men-yawn. Rare-done.
“The choice stake of philosphers and mathmaticians stated the waiter’d in reference of the basking glory in his visage.” But befor you could blank your eyes the waiter’d layed flat-dead on Bobby Reniro’s table much similar to the fatted calf of yesteryore. Bloods tricked out his head like the river’s of Mack Twains’ bestselling novels ©.
The lights flutter’d like lights in a Spencer’s Gift Store but this time the poop was real and it was hitting the fan, Big Time. Bobby reNiro kerchiefed the splitter-splatterd blood from his sunglass’s; he stood tall like Mount Rushmor. “Whoa is me” he whoa’d. Things were getting quizling, and fast.
A man stood in the kichen holding a platter. A platter of what its’ a platter of heads is what. It was disguisting, it made even War War To veterens sick at there stomacks. Branes stack’d like flap-Jacks, livers sprinkle’d with icecream sprinkle’s making them even groser than normal, humane harts flatten’d like the harts of so many teenagered boys after there Girlfriend says on them “I’m just not N 2 U” like some kind of beleagured Prince-symbol song. Bobby Re Niro new whom this dastard of a villin was; and it wasnt pretty.
It was Handball Lecture. A Smart man; a Crazy man. He eight people for his own fun and games is how Crazy/Smart he was. Bobby re Niro new the time to enact was now so he jumped.
“So I see in are mist we hath a hero” villin-spoke the crazed yet cool Handball Lecture. “A man of wrath and diggity come no doubt to squelch my hazardings.” Handball Lecture laugh’d a laugh that only a mother could love.
Bobby RENiro look’d dead-squire into the crazy-eye’d eyes of Handball Lecture. It was early similar to looking into a spooky-alternat universe mirrer. He saw a man smart like his-self, yet a man at odds with the world like his-self. Bobby ReNiRo new he had to brake this mirrer-man so that he could be sit free. He stood toe-to-to with Handball Lecture and talked thusly “are you talking to me” he thusly spoke as if spoking to his-self as well as the villinus Handball Lecture. It was deja vu, and I don’t mean the musterd.
Before he new what was what he had won hand on his glistened gun point squire into the eye of Handball Lecture and won hand fermly enconched into his own mouth. Handball Lecture had reach’d into his mind and twist’d it two-afro like a child of mine-years-old playing a deadly game of life and dead. He was being mind-controled into eating his own hand. It was How Bizar like the OMC song he had danced to many moons in the bagatten passed.
Handball Lecture stood sniggring as if he was bearing witness to a new HBO comedy special staring Dane Cook. “Rememember you’re childhood and how the childs pick’d on you. Rememember how you pluck’d the sad piano like some sort of small Coldplay-esk monster that no-one liked not even Gus Tippleblurp and he was just so fatty, rememember how you’re daddy drank whine-coolers and used you much in the fashions of a television remoat, rememember how you’re sickly mother BLAMST” and that was that because Handball Lecture was dead as a door because you just don’t speek ill of a man’s ill-begatten mother. Handball Lecture was into a trillion smithereens from the bullet gun’d fourth by a man fully in-controll of his own destinies. He was breakin the law and the law one.
Bobby ReNiro took his hand from his mouth and spoke just three words “Astala vista baby.”
Topics: Bobby ReNiro, By: Daniel | 1 Comment »