The Future: Part 2

“Relinquish that penny whistle, Charles, and I will reward you with the most splendid of Pagan feasts the likes of which have not been seen since the savage god Poseidon first roamed these treacherous shores!”

“Many times, Pierre, have you promised good tidings and when I do indeed surrender my property, good friend, you most usually run away in a frolic and seasonal display of jubilant demeanor and glee, refusing to then return said object of my affection in a timely manner. Thus, you will not receive thine penny whistle, and if you maintain the bothering of thee and thine brethren, then I will smote thee with thou crossbow like many English bowmen have before!”

It was a Tuesday, and 1674, the year of our Lord. In Medieval country England, Charles Nottingham had just stumbled upon a musical instrument in the front hedge of his pig farm. After slaughtering about 4 suckling and unusually succulent pigs, he had noticed the instrument simply laying in one of his pig’s slop buckets.

“Great Jumping Jehoshaphat! This large and obtuse piece of intricately carved wood could have choked my prized pig!” Charles proclaimed to his wife, Abigail Nottingham.

“You were about to slaughter the beast anyway,” pointed out the clever Mrs. Nottingham.

“It is a matter of principal, my dear, “ Charles said. ”Someone has tried to sabotage my little piglets, although I do admit this is one fine display of English craftsmanship.” Charles was admiring the work on the instrument, which was carved rosewood and, according to Charles, “Probably in the percussion family.”

Charles’ wife also enjoyed the attention to detail that the piece exhibited. “What is this part right here?” she asked her husband. “It’s touch is that of a fully varnished cows’ ear.”

“Well that must be the newest innovation from London! I believe it is referred to as birds beak, and it allows the gentle vibration of objects such as these.”

While knowledgeable this comment sounds, it was actually not in the utmost true. That piece his wife was referring to was in fact the futuristic material plastic, or a synthetic material manufactured typically with polymers of high molecular weight, obtaining malleability, flexibility, or high durability without the hassles of metals or woods. The Nottingham’s were actually holding a Xylophone, a percussion instrument in use thousands of years before the birth of Christ. This particular Xylophone, it turned out, was from the future. A space and time traveler from the year 2008 had just created a wormhole in the space time continuum that ruptured its’ way to the year 1674, and this man, it turned out, carried with him his trusted Xylophone to make his machine work. This action so startled Professor Burgenborg, a Dutch Physicist at a prestigious American University, that upon impact, he threw his Xylophone into that pig’s slope bucket and ran for the hills. Later that night, he had returned to the scene to recover this instrument and was startled to find it gone.

He had then convinced Charles’ dimwitted neighbor, Pierre Frankenberg, to recover the Xylophone, who in turn would receive a shiny Pokemon card in return. Pierre was then able to thunderbolt Charles. This had no effect, however, as Charles’ Charizard was a superior level and smote Pierre from whence he came. His lightening Pokemon was unaffected.

The Music Man

Twas a damp and dreary day when Billy and counterpart Jimmy were in their studio recording. Aspiring artists, the two had dreams of becoming successful musicians in the genre of pop music. The lure of fame, fortune, and overwhelming amounts of free Sprite gave the two friends great drive to make these dreams come to fruition. As they would soon discover, attaining this level of celebrity is easier said then done.
The friends chatted about what they should tweak in their new single now in progress, "You Can't Hate Me The Way Love Hates Me."
"Well," said Jimmy," I really think we should keep on saying love. And emphasizing love. But not just love. The things that people often associate with love. Like Lilacs. And epson salt. This is a love song, after all."
Billy had a belief that the song would weave a tale of intricate literary fabrics that ultimately would lead no where. "I want us to say something about how love is a roller coaster, sometimes you can get on and love it, and sometimes, you can become unfastened from your safety device, launching your soon to be deceased body straight into pavement."
Jimmy was frustrated. Billy always made no sense. "What the hell are you talking about? In what way is love like a roller coaster in that way? "
Billy replied," You have to step out of your judgment box for a second."
Jimmy was, in fact, standing in a box. "But I'm serious here. How can we get this done?
The duo thought aloud and wondered what exactly it would take to make it in the big time.
So Jimmy had an idea. "I've got it! It will go, "You Can't Hate Me The Way Love Hates Me, I hate Love because hating is not for Lovers, Let us Love the hate and let us share the love but let us not forget to Purchase more Sprite! For It has been clinically known to reduce thirst!"
The two would seek to have corporations not affiliated with the band pay for their distribution and album sales as long as they endorsed their products in their songs. The two became a smash hit instantaneously, and the music industry hit an all time record low for horrible music. Billy and Jimmy would give young adults inspiration everywhere, especially because of their inability to hear. They were deaf.

-FIN

Play Ball!

The warm weather that coincides with summertime had brought Brutus and Paul to boredom and extreme heat. Thus, it was time to get out and do something. "Let's go to the mall." said Brutus, as he pointed to his warn out flip flops that began to look like swiss cheese, as there had been multiple holes all the way through. "Wow, Brutus, you might have the most warn out sandles to ever remain in circulation. How do you live with yourself?" replied Paul, as he gave a hearty chuckle. Brutus was flabbergasted and taken aback. "What about yourself? Paul, man, you have the dirtiest socks I have ever seen..." This was a touchy subject for Paul. "SOCKS ARE RIDICULOUSLY OVERPRICED! I REFUSE TO PAY MORE THAN 50 Cents FOR MERE SCRAPS OF COTTON!" The silence embarrassed Paul. "You know what, your right YET AGAIN Brutus. It is again time to go to the mall. "Let us solve our boredom conundrum with a mall excursion!"
The two quickly got what they had needed; Paul, his 6 pairs of fresh knee high socks, and Brutus, new flip flops to galivant around town in the most leisurely way. While this solved their blaring fashion faux-pas, it was meant to sooth the boredom issue, which, in this regard, they did not succeed in.
"What do we do now?" Brutus stated, nonchalantly. "I'm still borrrrred!"
"Chill, Bruty, buddy! I have just the plan. You like baseball, right?"
"Yes... but our small and tumbleweed-riddled town does not harbor a considerably competitive team... unless..." Brutus trailed off.
"That's right. I am talking about the Kettlecornsville Kiteflyers, our home town team! Let us go see them! It is a beautiful summer day without a cloud in the sky!" This was a lie. There were scattered cirrus cummulus clouds to the south east. "What do ya say?"
Brutus paused, and replied. "The Kiteflyers are the biggest collection of horrible players I have ever seen. They haven't made the playoffs since the Roosevelt administration and I'm pretty sure they haven't won a game yet. It's Late July, Paul! Do you realize how pathetic that is?"
Paul replied, "Of course they are down on their luck right now... But maybe, just maybe if they have our vocal support, they'll turn it around!"
Brutus thought for a second. "Well okay. We have nothing better to do."
"That's for darn sure!" Paul said, and they got in their motor carriage and were on their way to Kettlecornsville Cornkettle Park, where such greats as the infamous knuckleballer Seamus "South China" Cee, the legendary Gary "Grinchclaw" Goldsmith, and of course, the most well known Kiteflyer ever, the greatest catcher in single A baseball history, fat 1st baseman Tandlebloom "The Refridgerator Dweller" Trindlegroom, (who refused to be called up to the major leagues, even after hitting a staggering 90 homeruns in a season for the Kiteflyers) had graced the field.
Paul and Brutus entered the game in the bottom of the first and already it was a 9 to nothing game. "Wow we are terrible," said Brutus, shaking his head in disgust.
"Brutus, give them a chance to answer back! You gotta have faith, Brutus, that's what baseball is all about." The kiteflyers answered this faith inspired chant by striking out consecutively from innings one through 3. "Farts!" exclaimed Paul.
"Holy (expletive), Batman, that was laughable! You guys stink! Go Greasetown!" The Kettlecornsville faithful had been hearing it all game long from this unruly fan of the Greasetown Greasers. "Greasetown rules! Kettlecornsville is horrible! My great grandmother could bat better than you chumps and her bones have slowly but surely deteriorated into nothingness! In fact I'm pretty sure she's dead, THAT'S how pathetic you are!" Such chants had really gotten under the skin of Paul and Brutus, and Brutus replied back, "Why don't you go back to Greasetown and bath in the grease of your disgusting and inbred townfolk you scum!" Paul was aware that this man was a lot larger than he, and was precarious to the remark Brutus had just made. "Sorry sir, he's a little slow!" replied Paul to the unruly fan. "Brutus what the hell, dude, that guy is LITERALLY a greaser!" Brutus was not so small himself. Known towns over for his baseball and football prowess, he quit both of the sports when a horrible and quite unmentionable incident forced him to swear them off FOREVER. "Dude I could obviously take that fat mess." The unruly fan replied back, "HEY! YOU TAKE THAT BACK! YOU'RE AN IDIOT!" Brutus took exception, "You wanna say that to my FACE, PUNK?"
"I AM SAYING THAT TO YOUR FACE, IDIOT!" Brutus jumped over the 4 rows of seats seperatating them and quickly socked the fan in his nacho cheese-infested face. "OWWWW! SECURITY!"
The security guards quickly rushed over to toss Brutus and the Greasetown native out of the ballpark. The security guard, however, knew Brutus. "Brutus! Oh my wordsworth! How have you been! Still going yard? Still playin' ball? hmmm?" Brutus answered. "No... I quit long ago."
"Why?" replied security guard Grint.
"Long story."
"Well, I'm going to have to kick you out of the park. It's a shame, the Kiteflyers could have used you, kid. Especially today. They only have 8 batters dressed. OH MY WORDSWORTH!"
The security guard was amazed to see a line drive ricochet off the Kiteflyers third baseman's head and into the 3rd row. "Dude, Brutus, didn't you play third base?"
"Yes... I did. But I swore off the game."
Just then, the unruly fan awoke from his punch-induced sleep. "Probably cause you suck too much! Is that why?"
"That's it. Give me a bat!"
Brutus then walked on to the field and socked 4 homeruns that day to give the Kiteflyers their first win of the season. It was their greatest victory in ages.

-FIN

The Angry Nerd

The Thursday of last was an eventful one for one young Johnny Jennings, Jr. as he had accomplished all of which he had wrote out neatly on his To Do List the night before.
He started the day off right by feeding his pet caterpillar Gandalf the Grey, whom he had named after the fictional character of the infamous Lord of the Rings trilogy of books, of which he was also a huge fan. He would feed the insect nectar covered green leaves he had procured from his garden. When this task was completed, he instantly grabbed his watering pale and watered his award winning garden, of which there were giant chrysanthemums and tiny tulips of which he had pollinated himself.
Johnny Jennings was proud of his garden. Some of his neighbours thought he was a little too proud. Whispers of "Psycho," and "Weirdo," did Johnny hear, but he wasn't fazed. He was what some called a recluse, a freak if you will. Some might say Johnny Jennings, Jr. is as big a nerd as they make them. "I don't care what others think about me," thought Johnny. "Who needs friends when one has every Star Trek Episode ever made?"
When the watering session was finishing up, he had heard some of the neighbors kids in the back yard next to his. He had hated these kids. Bobby Bullwinkle and his friend Henry Honkers reminded Johnny of the bullies in high school that used to tease him. They were throwing the pigskin around in the back and chatting like high schoolers do. "Dude I am soooo downing some brews and taking that damn water tower down once and for all," Bobby said to Henry. "I have an M80 that I would place under one of the posts. Thing would topple over like your mother did last night." Although this statement didn't make much sense, Henry acted offended. "Shutup." Henry said, as the velocity of the ball he threw to Bobby increased to warp speed. "HA! Dude go long!" shouted Bobby. "Will do!" Screamed Henry, as he was headed right for Johnny's fence to his garden. "RANDY MOSS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" Henry screamed, as he jumped off his friend's mother's car, grabbed the ball and crashed right through the fence, simultaneously wrecking a large portion of Johnny's garden in the process. "Oppps my bad!" Johnny lost his cool. He took the hose out and started spraying the two teenagers. "WHAT THE...????" The two screamed and charged the incensed nerd. "YOU TWO HAVE DAMAGED MY AWARD WINNING GARDEN! MY LILACS! MY PLANTLIFE! NOW YOU WILL PAY!!!!!!" The nerd had been taking multiple karate classes so he thought that this would be no contest. His hopes were short lived, however, when Henry put Johnny in a head lock, whilst Bobby pummeled his skull and gave him noogies. "STOP PLEASE STOP!" Johnny said in mere seconds. "MY ASTHMA! I NEED MY INHALER" Henry let go. "Listen, nerd! You're a freak! Why would you spray us with water you know we're just going to beat your ass!" Johnny acted surprised. "You guys got lucky, secondly, I am far superior tactics wise. Allow me to demonstrate!" Johnny attempted a quick chopping motion at Henry's neck, only to have it slapped away and redirected into his own face. "HAHA! THAT WILL TEACH YOU NERRD!" Henry said. "YEAH! IDIOT!" Bobby injected. The nerd was hurt badly and more so, embarrassed. He ran into his house to see the only thing that could bring him comfort in a time like this. Gandalf the Grey, his pet catarpillar. But Gandalf was gone! "OHHHH WHOA IS ME, SWEET GANDALF!" he said in a whimper. Johnny looked around the enclosure that housed the insect. He saw a reflection off the side of the inclosure that showed his own bloodied face. He had always passed out when he saw blood, but the moment he saw his own reflection he caught a glimpse of where Gandalf the Grey really was. He had spun a cacoon to begin his transformation into a butterfly. "I WILL NAME YOU... GANDALF THE WHITE" said the nerd, as he passed out onto the floor underneath him.

Unbeknownst to him, however, the butterfly had super intellectual capabilities for a caterpillar. He thought to himself just as a normal human would. Gandalf, after seeing all of this unfold, spoke aloud, "Wow, this guy is a huge nerd. As soon as I grow my wings, I am so out of here."

-Fin

The Robotic Ball: Part 1

I had received the invitation to the Duke and Duchesses ball in the mail via pony express. It seemed in those days the best ways to deliver a piece of parcel was to either surrepticiously send a complex system of horse drawn carriages or shoot a giant, amalgamated cannon containing your desired mail in your immediate vicinity; the latter being approximately 99% less effective. It had accured to me that this very facet of the delivery of mail would prove almost completely ineffective as far as the need of receiving said parcel is concerned, although I had always chosen this method if I had been given the choice, regardless.

When I received my mail (it had arrived through the air, as I had been able to choose the way in which uplifted my heart and calmed my spirits, as the cannon's blast could be heard for miles) I rejoiced in a way that would make elven fairies jealous, as I had been long awaiting an invite to the most highly anticipated shindig that had ever encapsulated Northern England in all of the 19th century.

I was joyously awaiting this night, the night which would go down as the biggest and largest smash hits of the century, until I arrived at the startling conclusion that I had not a date! "This will not do!" I proclaiimed to myself as I sipped on some of the finest Brandy I had ever ingested. "Calvin Killingsworth, The Duke of Yorke, has not a date to bring to the finest gathering of gentleman and ladies in the 19th century? What an outrage! I must make haste of this search for a young gentlelady in which I shall court the laderhosen off of!" (Laderhosen, a fashion import from Germany, had reached it's height in popularity in England in the 19th century).

Where, oh where can I find a fitting darling lady who hasn't already been gobbled up by the rest of the dashing dukes in Northern England? I pondered this many many sleepless hours, until I arrived at a conclusion. This conclusion would have its critics, of course, but these critics were to be silent, since I would speak of my decision to no one! I had chosen to find one in the nearest pheasant village, for it was often thought that by shear numbers alone these lowlifes should produce a looker in the bunch.

I had decided to go by day as for it was rumoured that the phesants had feasted on the flesh of the dying at night, and I wished to avoid this practice as much as possible. I had fetched my garden's flowers and threw it together in a simple marvelous way that would impress any fine lady of royal standards and backgrounds, and thus I would think it would ensnare any pheasant woman that laid her eyes upon it in an instant, and took off from my headquarters in Yorke to
find my companion to this gathering at the pheasant village. I arrived to the sound of my regular pageantry and trumpeted arrival, and looked around the rat infested, sewer smelling trash heap to find the women covered in robes and covered faces, disgustingly hideous those that had forgotten to cover up. Not a looker in the bunch, I thought to myself... until... There was one woman standing alone. Who looked to be so stoic and of such appeal to my pagentry that she tilted her head to the side, as if to invite me to her humble abode. I told my driver to fetch this woman and bring her to me. "Lord Gallington, fetch that woman in the middle of that street! She is who is destined to accompany me to the ball to end all balls. " Lord Gallington was always a wise ass. "That didn't sound too good, sir." "Shutup, Gal Pal and bring her to me."

After all the pointless squabbling between Lord Gallington and I, he had finally agreed to drive up to the woman I had so fondly set my eyes upon. I said to the fair maden, "Hello, my dear! How would you like to accompany me, Calvin Killingsworth, the Duke of Yorke, to the 50th annual Duke and Duchesses ball held in the Northern England city of York? Would that suit you fine?"

The woman again tilted her head. She said nothing.

"Well? What do you think about this proposal? Or are you too awestruck?"

The woman scowled at this remark, and had an emotionless face about her that did not sit well with me. I prodded her again with constant questions, and yet again she still said no. She turned her head away from eye contact.

"Listen, my dear, although you are very appealing to me and my court, I will have to leave you
here if you do not answer my round of questioning. Now who are you?"

The woman turned, quite slowly, and spoke. "I am a T-1000 robotic cyborg machine sent back in the future to kill John Connor, leader of the human race. Do you know of this man?"

After several minutes of laughter, I replied with the following question," What is a robot?"

TO BE CONTINUED...

THE GREAT GORILLA KING

Nigel didn't like the precarious situation he found himself in: before the dreaded Jambaloo counsel, headed by the great Gorilla Judge Jeffries and the many minions he presided over. Nigel had heard stories in his small town of Craggle Rock, of course. Stories that Nigel quickly labelled as "myths" and what Old Man McDermitt passed off as "hickory sticks" was in fact, a reality. Myths and hickory sticks about a place in the trees so deep in the forest the animals come to life. Well, you know they are already alive, thought Nigel. But no, they actually come alive, which in this case, means they can speak English and act like uneducated humans with thick Southern accents. Yep, the people of Nigel's old town believed in this place. A kingdom ruled over by the aforementioned Gorilla Judge and his many minions. It was said that when they caught a human, they would tie up this human (obviously) and bring him (or her) to the Cranberry Coliseum. It was in this Arena, crafted into the land so intricately and expertly you would think mother nature had indeed bought naming rights to the venue, where many of the animals of the Kingdom came to watch the captured Human face off in a gigantic Man vs. Beast competition where only the strongest of species survive. This, of course, spelt death for the humans, as Judge Jefferies and the animals would include such events as "Swim Competitions" (Consisting of swimming against Penguins in which the human would have little to no chance) and "Strength Competitions" (involving Brown Bears against humans. Again, homosapiens are no match.) as well as many other events that the captive human would have to endure. The animals would pack the rafters of the Cranberry Coliseum and would obviously go Bananas for the events, but what they really went wild for is also the grandest event the animal kingdom has to offer: The Cranberry Contortioner. (The sign next to it read, in sheep's blood "HELL ON STILTS") 6 stories supported by large wooden posts on each of the four sides, with brush and netting all the way to the top, where once atop the structure one would find a 6 foot by 6 foot, empty square. This square would lead all the way down to about the second story of the contraption, where the posts supported another level of a trampoline-style of flooring. A few years back, to acquire his status of the supreme ruler of the animal kingdom, Judge Jefferies had to overthrow the reigning champion. The Ruler of All of The Animal Kingdom for as long as anyone could remember, Lionel The Lion ruled his domain with an Iron Fist and a large mane of hair that intimidated even the most ferocious of competition. The years grew on Lionel, however, and Judge Jefferies overcame his tenacity and cunning with 100 percent pure Gorilla strength. Lionel was defeated, and the Kingdom rejoiced. The Gorilla grew overzealous, and imposed unpopular and selfish law after unpopular and selfish law, until the animals in the Kingdom had developed a deep loathing that the world had not yet seen. This brings us full circle to what Nigel is dealing with in the Cranberry Coliseum. He had been given his fate: either defeat the great Gorilla Judge Jefferies and win his freedom, or lose to the Gorilla and be thrown off the Contorter to his death. Nigel had accepted that it was almost a guarantee he would die at the hands of an uneducated Gorilla King. He moved passed this and quickly developed a game plan: "If I can climb up to the top without the Gorilla bothering me, I can just try and jump down to the trampoline, jump as high I as I can upon the trampoline, repel off of the trampoline at break neck speeds, and deliver one of the most punishing uppercuts in the history of the world."
The contest was set to begin. But before they could begin there was an announcement. Nigel and the Gorilla were joined by two other worthy contestants: Barry the Brown Bear, a self proclaimed death dealer, and Paully the Polar bear, a former champ with a huge heart, looking for a shot at glory. Nigel thought to himself," I can use my intellect and get these bears and the gorilla to fight each other on the way up, so I have the time to climb up and deliver my aforementioned devastating uppercut!" Nigel proceeded to tell the brown bear that the gorilla told him he looked fat, then immediately warned the gorilla that the polar bear had insulted his mother, and lastly told the polar bear that the gorilla and brown bear made some off colour remarks about all ice dwelling creatures. All of the contending animals looked quite furious with each other, Nigel thought. Perfect. The Referees came out to officiate the match. The first of the few were promptly eaten by the contenders, as they were delicious zebras. When they had fulfilled their appetites for the match, the contestants had readied themselves for position. The Gorilla told Nigel, "This be the end for you. Your human bones will shatter on impact and make a sound most humorous. " This did not sit well with Nigel. The Zebra's positioned the contestants. "ON MY MARK! ON 3! ONE! TWO! THREE! GOOOOOOOOOO!" All of them had tried to get into a giant fight while climbing. Nigel patiently made his way up the apparatus. His sweat radiating in the jungle air. "IF I CAN ONLY REACH UP TO THE PLATFORM, THEN I AM IN THE MONEY!" He had concentrated on this goal. His plan was going perfectly. The three of the other animals were really beating the living heckery deckery dockery doo out of each other, as Nigel could hear from the commotion. But when he heard a large roar from the crowd, he feared the worst. Yep, they didn't crown that Gorilla the King for nothing, Nigel thought. Judge Jefferies had already made haste of the two bears by throwing both of them off of the Contortioner, and Nigel was next. Of course the Judge was a Gorilla, so this climbing thing made him an easy target. He had made it up to the fifth story but the rabid animal was closing fast. "ONLY A LITTLE BIT MORE!" he thought desperately. "THIS IS MY ONLY HOPE!" Just then, he looked down. The ape was closing fast. "He's 15 feet away! I won't get there in time!" He was almost at the top and the gorilla would be able to reach him and throw him off of the thing in no time. The gorilla grabbed onto his foot. Nigel attempted to shake him off. "Not going to work, this gorilla is way to strong." It was at this juncture when he had determined that being ten feet away from the top wasn't good enough. "IF IM GOING TO SURVIVE, I NEED TO THINK OF SOMETHING! QUICK!" Just then, Nigel thought of it. "THIS BANANA!" Nigel quickly took out a banana from his pant pocket and hurled it at the face of the gorilla. Gorilla's cannot resist a ripe banana. "ME CAN'TS RESISTS A RIPE BANANA!" as the gorilla king promptly stopped and devoured the banana, giving Nigel enough time to reach the summit. "AH HA! NOW TO ATTEMPT THE IMPOSSIBLE!" Nigel then positioned himself right next to the square opening at the center of the structure, waited for the gorilla to get up, to the top, and jumped straight down. "MAN THIS IS GOING EXACTLY TO PLAN!" As he came back up, Nigel looked up to see the gorilla in primary uppercutting position. "Wow this chump is in primary uppercutting position!" The ape then ducked Nigel's punch, grabbed the man, and threw him six stories to his death, illiciting a large amount of applause from the audience. Craggle Rock was Craggle Shocked.

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.

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.

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.

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.