Wilbur Wrong Is Alone For Long: Part I

The sea was like a mirror of millions of sparkling pearls, gleaming at him and smiling in a sinister fashion. This vast expanse of space that many call "The Pacific Ocean" threatened to end Young Wilbur's life if he could not find the caressing confines of land. Wilbur Wrongenhergen had been living out his life as his name would suggest: Wrong place, Wrong time. Or so the headline of his obituary would read, he thought. Wilbur chuckled at this notion. "Ha! That headline would be the greatest of all time! I'd be famous!" He had been extremely excited for all of 5 minutes, when his dreams came crashing down to earth when he realized he was out in the very middle of the Pacific Ocean in one small, rubber raft that was barely afloat. No one would be able to know he had survived the horrible horrible accident of the Scrindenberg, the less popular and less publisized cousin to the german Zeppelin Hindenburg that crashed only two days earlier on the east coast. What a lucky turn of events for young Wilbur. He had won tickets to escape poverty-stricken Germany when he bought a loaf a bread and got another one at half price ("What a Steal!"). The Scrindenberg made a wrong turn somewhere along the way from Germany to New York and ended up in Honululu, Hawaii. Wilbur didn't understand how this was possible, but alas, on it's way back to mainland USA, it was encased with flames. Not a soul survived. Except Wilbur Wrongenhergen. Lucky Wilbur. Wilbur had brought with him on board a large umbrella that had been given to him by a German street vendor named Klein. Curious Klein, thought Wilbur, with his long, bright white hair, curly q mustache, liederhosen, and a large cane that he used to crack walnuts. Klein also spoke like a pirate.
But Klien was as clever and useful as he was odd. Klein was famous in Germany for his strange inventions that many people questioned but oddly enough, worked. Like his stool that converted into a pencil sharpener, or his tea kettle that could be transformed into a cowbell, or his Eye glasses that could sharpen pencils, or his shovel that could change colours so you don't lose it when you leave it outside, or his rubber-tree plant that could sharpen pencils.
He had a real facination with making sure people had sharp pencils. He was also a botanist. Klein saw Young Wilbur on the street and said, "YOUR A FAT ONE! YOU'LL NEED THIS GIANT UMBRELLA TO KEEP YOU FROM GETTING THE WATER ON YOU! BECAUSE OF YOUR LARGE GIRTH! IT ALSO SHARPENS PENCILS!" When Wilbur heard the screaming and the commotion of the explosion of the Zeppelin, he quickly leapt out of the large blimp and grabbed a hold of his umbrella, that was so large that it acted as if it were a parachute. Wilbur had also gotten lucky, as the crew had tossed an inflatable raft out to whoever needed it. Suffice it to say the only person needing it's floatation was Wilbur.
Young Wilbur was always known in Germany for stealing other kids Bratwurst, liverwurst, sauerkraut, spanferkel (his favourite), Hasenpfeffer, currywurst, Bavarian cream pies, and anything that he put his slimey, fat mitts on. He could not get enough of that sweet sweet German cuisine, which did not bode well for him in this instance, with the weight of his oversized body taxing the bouyancy of the inflatable raft to the point of sinking. He was scared. He was alone. But he had Klein's umbrella and it gave him comfort.

To be continued...

The Island of Dred

The many moons that had past since I had landed on the fertile island were numerous. Too numerous to count. Or so I had thought. Until I had decided to count them on the side of the south cave. The number twelve had never been so close to infinity in my life.

Anyway, after living on the island for about a month and a half, I had really gotten sick of all the noises at night. I am no naturalist, but I could have sworn this island had some sort of new insect that made the oddest noise any human could possibly think of. It had the screech of a howler monkey, but the consistency of a cricket chirping. I had come to name this creature the Annoyapotamus, for obvious reasons. Firstly, because of this annoying noise that protruded out of the insect. And secondly, I love Hippopotami.

Since washing up upon this island of dread, I had taught myself how to light fires, climb large boulders, sharpen tools, fish with loose shrubbery, and circumnavigate. Except, you know how circumnavigating means going around the whole globe? I instead sailed around the whole island, which was a mile in length and a half of that in width. So yes, I learned how to circumnavigate the heckery deckery dockery doo out of that remote island.

Well, you are probably asking, "Well how did you venture off this island to be able to write it down, in digital form? Using a computer and remote accessing?"

Well Guess what? I learned that, too! Do not underestimate the power of a craftsman.

The Unexpected Beating

It was to be a most ordinary day of living. Just any old Saturday. Or so I thought. I had awoken to the sweet smell of fresh daisies and lilacs in my room and yawned in a most delightful way. "A Wonderful smelling fragrance has permeated through my nostrils in a pleasing manner!" I said to my goldfish, Sharkbait. He just looked at me in an awkward way, as if to say," Listen man, I'm a fish. I swim and eat and sometimes I kind of sleep. I have gills. I don't have lungs. I can't smell lilacs. I have a 4 second memory. Stop bothering me!" Yeah, that was a pretty complicated and perplexing look my goldfish gave me. But I laughed it off because he is usually in a bad mood and that is just his way of dealing with it. I tried for hours on end to try and teach Sharkstylings sign language but he is just too much of a grump to deal with. Plus after about 8 sessions I realized he didn't have the opposable thumbs that are needed to have to correctly display the signs.
After saying hello to the fish, I went outside to grab the paper. When I went outside, I saw a large Gorilla sitting on top of my freshly delivered paper. I calmly said to the Gorilla, "Um I kind of need that newspaper your sitting on. It is kind of important to me." The Gorilla replied to me, "Oh well excuse me, good sir. I did not see that there," and quickly handed the paper to me. "Well gee, thanks!" The gorilla quickly resorted to his instinctual ways, as he began pummelling me in defense of his territory.

The Highly Dangerous Underground World of Street Knitting

Knitting woolen fabrics had been a great hobby of mine; one where I could just escape from it all. I had grown used to all the techniques and practices that the finest knitters of our time (and last) had performed. They had become second nature to me: the galloping guillotine, the bobbling bubbler, the ransacking rainmaker, and the most feared out of all knitters everywhere, the lovable lamb chop. I had been around the block in the proknitting circuit (so to speak; actually knot at all, since I had literally knitted a whole block in a marathon knitting episode... I would rather not talk about that.) and had seen it all: when knitters had got a little too cocky with their abilities, shot their mouth off to the officials, refused to wear thimbles and lost their fingers in the process. Anyway, I had achieved such huge popularity in the American circuit that it was time for an unorthodox and unique change of pace : The Highly Dangerous Underground World of Street Knitting, in the Indonesian sewer systems. I had grown through the ranks of this competition, and the danger increased with each matchup. Until one day, I had been asked to do the impossible - Thread a half spitted fig newton-flamming isoneedle through a molecularly unstable, radioactive element (Uranium), a no-no in knitting. This would be the equivalent to a special chef, trained in the art of puffer fish cutting, slicing, and serving. Its like that, but now imagine the possibility that you may rupture a wormhole through time. Basically, knitting a new robe for the grim reaper, and being the cause for billions and billions of deaths because of a knitting competition. That is what I was faced with. I had a feeling something would go wrong, but of course, I had to make the attempt. After all, where else was there to go but down? My competitor was so nervous, however, she slipped off the isoneedle and poked herself in the eye. Competition over. I was again the victor. But at what cost?

The Pajama's

The man adored the worn out pajama bottoms, as they had been with him through it all - the great grave robbery, the not-so-edible chicken with corn cob incident ("Don't ask" he would say), the near-fatal incident with the potato skin peeler (who knew?), and so on. The pajama's had been around the block a few times, and then some. This was evident from the various fraying on the right pant legs and some small tearing in small areas; nothing too serious. If you did not know the history behind Calvin's pajama's, you would have thought they were only 3 or 4 years old, at most. He had often grown accustomed to wearing these bottoms outside. People would stare, but Calvin fretted NOT. He would often retort to the gawkers and obnoxious onlookers "These trousers are cooler than you will ever be" in a strict and direct tone. One day he was hanging out with his friends when one of his chums saw him put his wallet in his pajama bottom's pocket. "So tell me, Calvin, what are pajama bottoms for anyway?" Trent was a guy known for getting on the cases of his fellow pals. "Well, Trent, I do believe they are pants for sleeping in. Duh!" he then turned to the rest of the group and said, "Can you believe this guy?" Trent then replied, in an attacking tone "Well then why the hell would they have pockets in them? What the hell were the manufactorers thinking? Probably 'O man they probably need these pockets to carry large amounts of breathmints to prevent morning breathe.' Honestly Calvin, those pajama's suck!" Well this obviously drew the ire of Calvin, as he had stuck through his favourite fabric in good and bad. "LISTEN HERE, TRENT. THE POCKETS ARE NEEDED, NESSASARY, AND NICE! THEY ARE CONVIENANT AND COOL! I AM ALWAYS CATCHING MYSELF SAYING 'DAMN THESE PANTS FOR NOT HAVING POCKETS' AND I WOULD PROBABLY CATCH MYSELF SAYING THAT WITH THESE PERFECT PAJAMA BOTTOMS IF NOT FOR THE ADDITION OF THE POCKETS SO KEEP YOUR MOUTH SHUT!" Trent left the group soon after this outburst.
It was not a week later when Calvin saw Trent on the street. Calvin approached Trent and apologized, "Listen, I shouldn't have yelled at you like that, its just my pajamas are really special to me..." Trent replied "I understand man, it was my fa-" Calvin cut Trent off "NO! Its my fault. Your right I don't know why these pajamas have pockets anyway." This was a lie. "Friends?" Trent replied "Friends." Then, Calvin saw a Lincoln Navigator barrelling towards he and Trent. "Holy Shit, Trent, WATCH OUT!" The Navigator swerved to the right, then side swiped Trent as Calvin dove out of the way. "NO!!!" Trent was bleeding profusely. Thank god Calvin was a well respected medical surgeon who had completed several operations just like this. Trent would be alright.
Weeks later, Trent and Calvin were talking about what had happened. "I was wondering, where did you get the scapal, the stitches, the pliers, the bandage, and everything else you needed to operate?" Calvin smiled. "Simple, Trent. I had my First Aid kit, located in my pajama pocket."

The Great Kreeper

The man was thought to be a lunatic. He kept to himself. It was only a matter of time, most people thought. He worked at the local window repair shop, repairing broken window panes. He never recognized any one's existence around the small town; unless you count the manager of the window store, his boss. They would carry on conversation's whenever the boss would need something done around the store. The boss was always weary of this man. This, odd configuration of molecules strewn about in a semi-sloppy manner. The town was small enough to know him by name. Everyone knew him. Drapper Kreeper was known by all the towns people. The adults whispered tales of antisocial behavior and of how he would avoid eye contact. The children would whisper tales of creepiness and the scary stares they received. The elderly would declare that in their day they would lynch the man because of the way he behaved. The howler monkeys of the town enjoyed his company because of the amount of bananas he left lying around. An eary silence fell over the small town. It was in this time period when it started happening. The town people had been waiting for something like this to happen; they just didn't expect it like this, and in such a way. They had never even imagined such a tragedy. In this city of 3 thousand people, that loved it's refrigerated foods fresh, the unthinkable had happened: for some reason that no one can explain, Drapper Kreeper had stolen every resident's refrigerator door. The Great Refridgerator Door Bandit, or so they would forever call him, was never seen again.

The Future: Part 1

The hydrant had exploded into a sea of various ambigious and exorbadent colours. I had laughed extremely hard as my rocket propelled, handheld, Canadian grade missile had completely destroyed my acquired target. This would be great practice for further excursions into enemy territories in which this large fear-evoking gun would be a nessasity for life. This isn't what you would normally find in a perfect place. But this was the future - a post apocalyptic world of individual republics protected by single people and the greatest of weaponry which was, in fact, produced by the Canadian military years back. The anarchy of the days had started slowly. Surely enough, however, the Green Goblinmen had risen out of the Lake of Salt to convince the people to rise up and destroy all government oppressors. This would eventually lead to a tailspin of trully Earthly proportions when all the people's of earth decided to listen to the Green Goblinmen and break away from their predesposed "Nation" and destroy any and all challengers. The Great Wars had dwindled the Earth's population to around 10 million, mostly now living in Ontario, Canada circa 2000 A.D. I had stationed myself near a remote village by a babbling brook to drain out any and all noise reception I was bound to make. I spotted a large, moving van headed for my area, so I fired my rocket at the beast. "HOLY GARGANZOLA!" I heard being shouted out from the van. "ENEMY FIRE IS A WICKED SPICE TO ENTICE!" I was taken aback by this person's imagery and description of my rocket and decided to make peace with it's inhabitants. Thankfully, my large rocket had missed the van when it pulled some evasive manuevers. I approached the van with a white flag in hand. "PEACE! THIS IS A PEACE SIGN! I WISH TO ENCORPORATE FORCES!" The van then stopped right in it's tracks. It then rearranged itself in a way I have never seen metal do. I had heard about such things. They were myths, or so I thought. Handed down generated by generation, the stories changing ever so slightly until they lost all meaning entirely. I wouldn't have believed it if I didn't see it, smell it, and oddly enough, taste the carbon dioxide the metaillic beast expelled regularly. When this van transformed into a large figure that slightly resembled a human, I was deeply moved and, at the same time, extremely terrified. The beast quickly layed my fears to rest by saying, "IT IS I, OPTIMUS PRIME, LEADER OF THE AUTOBOTS, FROM THE PLANET CYBERTRON! I HAVE COME TO SAVE YOU!" To be continued...

The Cloud Argument

The moment of complete disappointment had hit the man like a large steam engine hitting a brick wall that was fortified by cement casing and metallic wires that gave the enclosure structural support amongst it's bricks. He had waited and wondered for the package to arrived at his house by the afternoon, but snow storm had taken care of this hope that was killed like an elephant stampeding a tiny grasshopper. In Calvin Killingsworth's mind, the day could not get any worse. It was not very much later that he had received a phone call. It was Uncle Albert with the usual rambling. "WHAT IS UP WITH THE CURRENT CLOUD FORMATION?" he would say to Calvin, as if to think he cared about what the clouds looked like. "LISTEN UNC, I AM IN A BAD MOOD TODAY BUT I WILL CALL YOU BACK TOMORROW WHEN WE CAN DISCUSS MULTIPLE ASPECTS OF THE PRECIPITATION WORLD." his uncle agreed. It was the next day when he was awoken from a knock at the door. "It must be my mint condition pencil holder! Gotta love golden enshrined pencil holders!" he thought to himself. He was in for even more disappointment when it was his Uncle Albert, who was teetering on the brink of insanity. He opened the door and said "CIRRUS CUMULUS, BITCH!" and punched Calvin in his jaw. He needed stitches.

Colorado viewing

I am heading to the Rocky Mountain chains of the Western United States to discover some of the usual questions pondered by the greatest of rap artists, such as "Why is this air so thin?" or "Where can I join this club that happens to be a mile high? Do I get a membership card? Is joining free?" It is here where I will search for enlightenment.

The Aviator Blues

It was a Tuesday when I was supposed to learn how to fly the aircraft. This modern marvel of engineering that I was supposed to help take flight had burdened me to the very core. It was not too long until the time came, and I was ill prepared for such a huge task. The pilot was a decorated war veteran who thought anyone that came in contact with his piloting skills were inferior. He made it very clear with comments like, "Yes you are an idiot" and "Do you know what flying means? It means leaving the ground!" as well as "My pet chinchilla could modulate a rocket gear better than you!" Curious, I asked "You have a pet chinchilla?!" He replied, hastily, "NO! THAT'S HOW PATHETIC YOU ARE!" I quickly learned how to take off and into the air we went. Before I knew it we were reaching heights that would make birds jealous. Time flew by, and before I knew it, it was time to come back to earth. Literally. As the plane was in its descent, there was the largest flock of birds I have ever seen. The pilot said, "I HATE BIRDS! LET'S MAKE THEM EXTINCT!" and aimed the jet straight for the middle of the pack. The jet killed many birds that day, and I am still receiving counseling because of this.

An Apology

Firstly, let me apologize for all my huge fans out there who have complained after I stopped my engrossing short stories, as a reconaissance mission had me battling demons from other realms, if you catch my drift; Thus, today's post will be a regular blog... and short story. I must say where I stand in my musical tastes. I like all sorts of music (except Country, honestly I have never liked anything remotely country... Johnny Cash is alright I guess) but I prefer rap/hip hop. I stumbled upon a list of the greatest hip hop groups of all time. Now, of course, Run DMC is number one, N.W.A is number two, Wu-Tang is three... I'm cool with that. I'm also cool that EPMD and Tribe Called Quest landed on this top 10 list. What I didn't understand (and still don't) is where are the most successful rap trio of all time? Where are the guys who fought for the right to party and held nothing back? I'm of course, talking about the Beastie Boys. These guys have sold so many albums, it's pretty ridiculous. All six (count 'em, SIX) of their albums have gone PLATINUM. That means alot of people, not just the rap enthusiasts, love this RAP trio. And yet, where is the love? The Beastie Boys are no where on this so-called "LIST". The Beastie Boys are definitely rap. I know the Beastie Boys have been known to sample rock heavy rifts from popular rock groups, but this is no reason to discount their hip hop abilities. I just don't get it.

The Vikings

The sea monster lifted the large, Viking boat high into the air and heaved it like a lazy fly ball. The men could not see for mere seconds, because of the low lying clouds the monster had lifted them to. They all realized their untimely and horrifying death, and conhesively formed their lives last conversation. "WELL THIS IS IT... OUR BODIES WILL BY CRUSHED BY THE IMPACT... AND EVEN IF WE SURVIVE THE FALL THE SEA MONSTER THAT THREW US UP IN THE AIR IS ABLE TO BREATHE FIRE AND BREATHE POISIONOUS GASES AND LIQUIDS ALL OVER US SO ANYWAY YOU NAME IT WE ARE PRETTY SCREWED! AHHHHHH!" one of norsemen said. The nerdy one thought about this while he was hurdling towards the earth and hanging on to the mast of the ship. He then preceeded to yell over the howling winds, "ACTUALLY, WE MIGHT BE OKAY. IF WE CAN TURN THIS SAIL THE RIGHT WAY WE MAY BE ABLE TO FLOAT IN THE SKY!" The other Vikings proceeded to attempt to direct the sail in the proper way. Too late, however, as each and everyone of them plummetted to their deaths. It was the nerdy one, however, that had a most particular gruesome death. As he hurdled back to earth, the sea monster let out a big yawn, exposing its' large, sharp teeth. The man was impaled through these teeth and was later quickly eaten.

The Run On Sentence

The oak tree giggled in the soft surray of green grass and mellow yellow cotton fields of white parsnips, chopping at the bit to be enlightened by the ever populatating, metaphorical taxation that is the evolution of man to machine and maybe even part cyborg if plant life is to animal life because the way the world is working these day the things they are talking about now will become dinosaur information of the brain and all it's stems which remain apart and yet seperate all within itself maintains an identity of a true and real being of creature comforts but maybe comfort is not a sign of the decline of mankind but the ever so clever environmental cycle that propells each and every person into the depriety of spirit one can take away from the mighty and evil sea lurchen which lurks in the dark and swampy shadows of the common sea swamp but in the trench is where the real clever lever's will keep their wrench because if the ever so spining and wheeling dealing cosmos just all of a sudden whip it's very matter around and around this tiny planet and galaxy then man and machine can become one if only the interstellar and altogether clever relations got better it would all start quickly and quietly and calmly awake with a oven to bake a large morsel of dietary supplement to spurn on the increasing physical and emotional demand in which brain neurons are currently firing and misfiring the rehiring of a superphonic megasonic malfunctioning over zealous zeagot to intermingle and cosign a plan to hand it all over to the authorities who should get more and more respect in each and every neighbourhood but if that hood would and could protect itself without police officers a could question would to be in the realm of a shape shifting and altogether hideous and ever so disgusting human facet of life that your stomache aches every time you hear a siren ring and a bell ding it will be foretold that every angle gets its wings even if it is sad mad and bad at the rhyming and ripping for the ripping is if the seafarers would have mistaken you for a seal and it wouldnt be real if not the the seal to seal the deal and heal the meal plan of ancient and forbidden demon land but if its a must the end saying must multiply its first number by six and add by seven but only if the match that was made was higher than average paid out without a doubt and when it would shout the end result would trigger an ancient figure of demon spawn so bring it on if you are able to accept a fierce and most willing of competitors the wiley and ever so rude but sometimes stunning like officers punning and planning and running but they don't always see the giggling oak that always sees me.

Poem 3: The Dead

I enter to a hush,
No one realizes I just walked in.
They are upset and sullen,
The sadness is about to sink in.

The room is dark, and filled with despair.
As I sit and watch from my angelic armchair.
I see these people are crying, I do not know why
Was it me who died? Was it I as to why they cried?

I wrestled with my inner demons
"It couldn't be me", I thought to myself
Although that would explain,
Why I just walked through a shelf.

The Junior Mint Box

It all happened so fast, I did not know what had become of me. I had awoken with a pain of a thousand knives piercing my skull as if some grand piano had been placed upon my cranium. Although at first I thought last night was some sort of wild dream, the pain and blood smeared all over my face quickly reminded me the events last night did, in fact, take place. The night started innocently enough. I had gone to a friends house to play some rollicking board games, maybe discuss and compare stamp collections; all the occasional normality's of what one might encounter at a shindig in the city. During this particular board game (Sorry!), my pawn had been knocked back to start. I had gotten furious at my fellow competitors, as this was the 7th or 8th time this had happened. "SORRY MY ASS! YOU WANTED THIS TO HAPPEN YOU COWARDS! THIS IS WHAT I'M SORRY FOR!" and I threw the board game across the room and exited the house with anger. It was on my way back to my own residence that I was in the process of finishing my box of Junior Mints. "Man, these Junior Mints are anything but Junior!" I thought to myself. "But I can understand why they wouldn't call them Senior Mints... Old people love licorice. I hate licorice" I said. The emptiness of the box crept up on me, and I was devastated when I arrived at the last piece. "SHUCKLESBY!" I proclaimed. I then looked around for the closest area of garbage disposal, and there it was. I threw it and COULD HAVE SWORN it landed in the can of trash. I then proceeded to walk to my destination. Out of nowhere, this man comes out of the shadows of an alley and stops me in my tracks. He startled me. "YOU STARTLED ME!" I said with great vigor. The man had jet black hair, which was long enough for a pony tail, which is exactly what he was wearing. His jacket was one a biker would wear - black, leather, and stenched in stink. His pants matched the jacket to the t, and the jacket had a badge on it that looked as though he were some sort of Police Officer. This man was an intimidating presence to say the least. He began to speak. "Do you realize what you just did?" I thought for a second. I did absolutely nothing wrong. "I didn't know walking was a crime, jerk!" then I tried to get around him. Big mistake. "You littered. You too much of a hot shot to throw away trash?" I then realized who this man looked like. "Hey man you look exactly like Steven Seagal! Weird... well, I'll see ya!" I then tried running away, but this Seagal look alike said "Not so fast!" and threw me to the pavement. "I take out trash bags like you every day." After he said this, I received a shift kick to my face. "Ow man that kind of smarts. What the hell is your problem?" He replied, "My problem is your lack of care for the environment. I've had enough of your type, so you know what I'm doing?" he paused. I had no choice but to answer his rhetorical question. "What's that?" I said with hesitation. "I'm taking out the trash!" he then proceeded to throw my head into the brick wall, smash countless glass bottles over my head (which I thought was a little hypocritical), and generally just beat the living hell out of me. Whether I did actually throw out that Junior Mint box will forever remain a mystery. Steven Seagal is the most intimidating environmentalist I have ever met.

The Private Investigator

I had seen it all before, the damsel in distress type. But this dame was as sly and irregular as a working washing machine. She came to me right when I was closing; she entered my office while I was about to telegram the Sultan of Bhutan my results(The execution was eloquently applied, said he). This had angered me slightly, but her fragrant aroma reminded me of wild lilacs. "Well, little missy, see here, see, I got 5 minutes before I close this dusty place up. " She looked frightened, but then grinned. She spoke. "I is not here to make trouble, my good man. I am here to inquire about a murder." Murder, I thought? "Murder?" I said. "Yesss, MURDER!" I then pulled a facinatating fact out of the air and thought this would impress this stupid dame. "Did you know a flock of crows are a murder? Is this ironic? Why or why not?" The woman did not know what to say, but finally replied, "Anyway, I am here to see if you could help me." I am a Private Investigator. Murder is what I do. Well, I don't murder people, I solve the murder cases, privately. I thought about this. I laughed. "HAHAHA!" She looked at me as if I was just released from an insane asylum. I had to speak, "Of course. Murder. I'll get on it right away. First, please tell me the parametres of your case?" The dame stood silent as an iceberg in a Mohegan winter. "It's my... plant. It was very special to me, and... I THINK SOMEONE POURED SALT IN IT'S SOIL!" I had a fresh pie on my desk, and while I did wish to eat it, I would rather hit this dame in the face with it. So I did. "SPLAAAT!" said the noise of the pie hitting her in the face. I lost the title of "P.I." soon afterwards.

The Shape Shifting Copy Machine

The crystal modulator was stuck in neutral, as the plasmic manipulators ran on pure Zirconium fumes, almost completely denying any chance of a return home to their home planet, Gangulon-7. The Gangulon's were in a state of complete isolation and fear, having being chased by the Evil people of the planet Pancipitron, their very own race teetering on annihilation. The whole crew remained loyal to their captain, the brave Xerox. Xerox had been known for his unusual display of comedy in times of crisis; it was the only way to calm the spirits of his people. This seemed like a perfect time, he thought. So the captain, unbeknownst to the other crew members, shape shifted into a large copy machine. At first, the crew ate the joke up (being that their Captain's name was a famous copying company way back in the 21st Century). But after a while(5 days to be exact), they forgot that this copier was, indeed, the Captain and after it stopped working for their overhead projection printouts they loved ever so much, the crew quickly made space trash of their beloved captain. After they had realized what they had done, the crew went into a tailspin that eventually lead to the extinction of their species.

Poem 2: The Hawk Gets Housed

I circle around
And what have I found?
A large group of buildings,
It looks quite profound.

This place I have come across
Seems different to me.
What is inside these buildings?
My acute eyes cannot see!

I would have flown away by now,
But I'm just too curious.
Why are these people flocking to this place?
It makes me quite furious.

I get closer and see,
There are openings I may peer into.
So I swoop down and take a gander,
At these facinating venue.

I soar into the place,
Oh, No! It is clear glass!
I am not a Hawk anymore,
I am officially an ass.

The Paper Weight

"These damn paper weights aren't going to sell themselves!" enthusiastically exclaimed my boss, Paul Papers, CEO of PaperWeights INC, during the evening conference. "We need a new angle, a new spin to get people interested in paper weights again! Sean, you better have something good for us, you rapscallion, you!" Sean's icy and irritated eyes starred at the powerful man for what seemed to be several minutes before he spoke. "MY NAME IS STANLEY! I CAN'T TAKE THIS ANYMORE! THIS JOB IS DRIVING ME CRAZY! I'M GOING TO SMASH THIS PAPER WEIGHT OVER MY HEAD! AHHHH!" The man, who had clearly gone insane, ran out of the room like a wild baboon, and quickly exited the building. The room sat in silence. I felt there was a need to say something, so I went ahead and spoke what was on my mind. "I didn't like Sean from the beginning. Wasn't cut out for the paper weight game. " The stunned crowd of workers nodded in agreement. Then, an employee had a suggestion. "I suggest we have paper weights that calculate and moderate cholesterol levels." The boss did not like this. Obviously, too much money would be devoted to this venture. I came up with an easy solution. "We should probably have a paper weight to remind people to go to their local psychiatrist for extended periods of psychological testing." The boss agreed. "Yeah, that sounds better." The meeting was then quickly adjourned, and I never heard from Stanley again.

The Last One You'd Expect

The five of them stood around in silent anticipation, as they waited for the arrival of the Detective Duncecap. As the door swung open, all five gathered around the detective. "I have completed my investigation, and I have concluded that the killer can only be one of the 5 adults in this very room!" The people within fell silent for several moments. To kill the silence, the ever so curious Calvin Killingsworth replied, "So, do you know specifically who it is or have you just narrowed it down to the five of us?" The detective was puzzled. "I have narrowed it down to the five of you! One of you killed a person! Aren't you afraid or suspicious of this, Mr. Killingworth?" "Yes, of course, I am very intrigued... Whooops!" Just then, a large axe fell out of Calvin's pant leg, "Should have secured that better!" "Hey, what the hell?" said Victor Victim, who saw the axe that had dropped to the floor. "Do you want to explain yourself?" Calvin paused. "Uhh... what? I go hunting with an axe and I had to secure it in my trousers because I didn't want anyone stealing my very valuable axe from my car!" Victor thought to himself. "Oh, that explains it." Allie Accomplice could smell the fear amongst the crowd. She was quite calm. "I'm hungry!" She exclaimed. "Anyone else hungry?" Greggory Gluttony replied with an emphatic "HELLLLLL YESSS!" Allie promptly gave a wink at Calvin Killingsworth, and then said, "Come with me. Let's get some food!" Although he could not put his finger on it, there was something going on in this horrible mansion. Otis Oblivious was determined to get to the bottom of this mystery. "I must solve this case! Greggory, you go get some grub with Allie in that airtight, sound proof freezer downstairs. Calvin, the incinerator is the third door on your right. The fire's should give us a clue. Victor, go with him. Oh, and Calvin." Calvin had a smirk on his face as wide as a country mile. "That room is also soundproof." Victor retorted, "COOL!" The 4 of them left, leaving only the Detective and Otis. "Man that freezer is gonna be pretty cold for those two." The detective replied, "What? Oh yeah your right. Burrrr." "You know what is cold?" Otis asked the wily detective. The Detective then asked him, "What is? See, I am actually quite curious I am native to the Caribbean and... "Otis interrupted ,"A large knife!" Otis then promptly murdered the detective.

The War of Words

Well, it hadn't happened in a while. Rain, that is. I was glad for this fact, for the depression that the gray skies enduced made me reach straight for the bottle. This bottle was no ordinary canister of alchohol. The pungent stench that resenated from it's content's seemed to go on for miles at a time. It seemed to speak to my internal organs; saying a different thing to each one. To my heart, it questioned it's strength. "Can you handle me? Are you strong enough?" To my lungs, "Breathe easy, young one. For your friends will be very busy tonight." To my kidneys, the bottle remained verbally suggestive. "What you are about to witness and experience will devastate your life for many years to come." To my bladder, the bottle spoke in an abusive tone, "You are not even worth mentioning." It was at this point that a curious character broke into the conversation. "Bottle, you have spoken to each one of my minions. However, you forget that it is I who holds the final decision as to why I should allow you to reek your destructive havok upon my fine friends that I, believe it or not, care so much about. You will be promptly destroyed, bottle, so as to never cause such havok again." It was my mind who had said this. He had finally awoken to the glorious sound of trumpets; the kind that behoove a king. It was my mind that made the decision, and threw the bottle to the ground, cracking its' glassy exterior, and spreading it's toxic insides upon the street.

The Orange Potato

The night crept up on us like a box of cracker jacks. I had placed my key in the ignition, and thankfully, my whip agreed with my request to awake from her slumber. I patiently waited until she had suffienciently acquired the desired amount of internal liquids, and head out to my destination. The moon kept an eye on me and my ride; the orange glow from it reminded me of pumpkins. Fields and fields and fields of glorious pumpkins. I remember when I was a kid, every year my parents had the great idea of signing me up for the pumpkin growing contest. Each year I was disqualified for displaying, as my pumpkin, an orange spray-painted potato. This would go on for several years until they official banned my likeness from any pumpkin growing contest in the county. Just then I had remembered that I was, in fact, in the process of driving. My ride reered to the left and to the right, as if not to agree with my commands. "Calm down, baby. Daddy has you," I said to the vehicle in the middle of the night. She was obviously not listening, as I had lost all control and sped off the road, ultimately crashing into a large cherry tree. Ten minutes passed before the authorities finally came. It was at that time when I could always say I had something in common with George Washington. When the officer on the scene asked me, "Can you tell me what happened here?" I quickly replied. "I cannot tell a lie. I chopped down the cherry tree." This did not please the officer, as he quickly cuffed me and threw me agaisnt the hood of his police-grade Chevrolet Impala. "Tough night, eh?" I said to him with a whimper. He looked me directly in the face and said ,"I will now search your car." Fine! I have nothing to hide, I thought to myself. After quickly searching what remained of my poor, sweet Sally Sue (my vehicle's pet name) the officer approached me and said, "I'm taking you in under suspiscion of drug possesion." I had no drugs in my car at this time. "Drug possesion? What in the name of Sally Sue are you talking about?" The officer grew irate. "Sally Sue? You MUST be on drugs!" He showed me a malformed kernal of a Cracker Jack. "That, my dear officer, sir, is a malformed cracker jack!" He told me the sullen words. "I must take you into the station, just in case." The night was not supposed to turn out like this. But for me and my dear Sally Sue, the night crept up on us like a box of cracker jacks.

Poem 1: Hawk Talk

(This is a poem I wrote with a Hawk's point of view.)

I am particularly hungry
This bright, and beautiful morning.
The wheat fields are empty.
The mice have left without warning.

I spot a large rock,
to sharpen my claws.
And hope that this morning,
I will spot a prey's flaws.

The air is crisp
And the wind just right
For my large, Hawk wings,
To finally take flight.

The tree's are awakening
I can hear them speak.
It shouldn't be long now,
I have waited many a week.

With all this snow on the ground,
What is a Hawk to do?
Perhaps get into a fight,
With an owl or two.

After this owl incident,
I severed all avian ties.
For I am the great Hawk,
King of the Skies.

The First Blog

I started this to share and hopefully brighten up someone's day by making a mockery out of my name. I am in the process of writing a book (yet to be titled...) that I will post some chapters out of and hear critizisms and the stuff of that nature. Lately, I have been into the poetry scene and I really enjoy writing it so I will for my beautiful new page. Oh, and I will probably talk alot of sports and hip hop in an odd demeanor. Please tell me how I can hone my skills at this craft we call writing, for it is my passion. Thank you.