Tag Archives: attempted humor

Fun with babelfish

15 Nov

Some say “Last Cow Jack” was just another boyish face in a police lineup, but I once saw him trade his whole family for three chickpeas. Jack had never forgiven his mother for giving birth to him. He said later he wanted to hold out for some Garbanzos but they wouldn’t let him use words that big.

Having never been a fan of heights, he opted for the sawmill approach when the leguminous Petronas presented itself. Down came some poultry that worked for Fort Knox, the first autoharp ever to live up to its name, and the Big Guy with the rhymes. Big Guy took it pretty hard, having barely been introduced to the ground before they were forced to spend quality time together.

Jack wasn’t too cozy with the pocket protector crowd after that, having taken out the world’s first space tower with a 50cc Black and Decker. The eggs turned out to be electroplated, and the harp only knew Wagner pieces with racist undertones. But Jack turned the crater from the Big Guy’s high-speed dirt nap into a wave pool, and now the village’s tourism industry offsets the sales tax. Everybody and their dog is staying gluten-free, which means beans with every meal, but Jack’s harvest will probably outlast the iPhone 7.


Approximate synonym post!

12 Nov

So I pined to scribe another curtailed post today, and surmised that I would issue with this conception, the relative equivalent essay! Let me notify you, it is demanding to not finger more severe equivalents. But I’m administering this as an operation, a souvenir if you will, as to how considerable it is to crave your terms gingerly.

Well, that’s about all I can undergo of that. Just lettering this laconic iota has eaten one third of an hour!

Corral ya on the twist-face!


Plug in and let it rip!

11 Nov

I’m really not planning on a long post tonight, folks!


Tonight was fun. I’ve been dreading my next step, where John meets the Big Boss of this underground cadre (remember, the mole clan? Remember all those bad jokes? I ran out of ’em – oh, except to say that they’re really a ragtag bunch of chemists who – like measuring things? See why I didn’t use that one?). Was it going to be one guy? A group? A collective consciousness entity, channeled into an AI unit for the best of all possible intelligence within the group? Nah, too easy. So I just plugged in and let it rip. It ends up being a sort of hologram, formed by a pool of luminescent water that forms itself into a swirling column, and the figure inside is a four-legged, four-armed, four-headed composite of a male and female human, and (supposedly) a male and female alien.

So I got that goin for me, which is nice.

I’ve Finally Broken Out of the Action Treadmill, or: Thank Thalia for Dick Jokes

8 Nov

I’m actually pretty happy with the fun little scene I finished tonight. John’s escape has finally settled, he’s hanging with the mole folk (they’re not really moles, they just have melanoma issues, it’s an unfortunate coincidence) – but they haven’t really accepted him until they can be sure he isn’t wired. And the highest level of tech they have for getting rid of imbedded electronics is – you guessed it – locally focused, high-voltage electric current.

I didn’t realize it until near the end, but it becomes a sort of “hazing” ritual, something he learns they’ve all had to go through, and now that he has, he’s – one of them? (Maybe they should look into any connection between topical electrocution and their dermatologic problems. (I’m just kidding about the moles. It’s actually Spanish, pronounced “molay” – their guerilla group was founded by rebel chefs from Oaxaca, Mexico.))

Does he want to be one of them? I don’t think he has a choice. He agrees with me on that.

But I had the most fun writing this mad-scientist character, a guy whose empathy gets trampled by the giddy thrill he gets out of playing with his science-y toys. A nice enough fella, but probably not who you’d enlist for an emergency appendectomy.

And, it all comes down to a dick joke. John, literally toasted, is being rolled out of the exam room by the Big Tough in a wheelbarrow. He finally gets a sympathetic smile from him with his complaint about how thorough the exam was, gesturing mid-section-wise, and Big Tough says John should be grateful he doesn’t have much area to cover.


But it’s a Buddy Moment. I think these two are going to find themselves working together. Who knows? I sure as hell don’t.

Behold! I am half minotaur, half man!

7 Nov

I don’t really have anything to write about tonight, but I came up with this joke earlier today and thought I’d open with it. I realize now that hardly describes what I have done here. My son was playing with some toy figures today and pulled out a bald eagle, proclaiming it a hipogriff. I immediately quipped, “It’s half-hipogriff, half eagle!” My dry, high-brow humor often goes unappreciated during playtime. Just like Bob Newhart.

My word count still suffers. I won’t go into details.

But did I tell you we’re selling our house? Yeah, we’re going to move across town, in between Thanksgiving and Christmas. We thought it wise to use that half-hour lull between the holidays, rather than some other time when we were too busy.

Oh and I’m sick. Coughing a lot, feeling tired, getting sore. Probably the hantavirus.

But the abuse to my M.C. continues! Since joining the mole clan (not really, that’s just plain silly. They’re a cabal.) he’s been introduced to a couple of tough characters, both of whom hate him, and one agitated geek who likes him – but is about to electrocute him, mildly. For security reasons, of course. John (my M.C.) isn’t crazy about this, but figures it’s preferable to being abandoned in the maze of tunnels with no light, food, or Walkman.

The hoops you have to jump through to make friends in the future! It is a sad state of affairs. I’m thinking these grumps haven’t updated their Facebook status in weeks.

Will John pass the “friendship exam”? Or die trying? Or just be put into a vegetative state? All these questions and less will be answered – tomorrow!

Wading through the bullet spew!

3 Nov

You heard right! John turned into an action hero today!

Okay, not strictly speaking. (How does one speak strictly about action heroes?) But he was swinging on a chain, lowering rapidly into a cavern below a warehouse floor, while guards shot insults and small pieces of lead at him.

And he escaped with nary a dent! Well, except for the broken ribs, sprained ankle, busted wrist, various contusions about the face and hands, and swollen eye. Other than that – hunky dory. Arnie would be proud.

Seriously, it did occur to me that I was doing a 180 (okay, 175) on my stalwart position of yesterday.

But it’s all in the name of art! I still feel this guy could be a real guy. I think it’s pretty unlikely one of the guards could have scored a solid hit on him, what with the distance and the swinging and all.

What’s less likely is that these tools are all still using powder-actuated firearms! What the heck, future dudes? I can’t keep my sci-fi hat on long enough, my pulp fiction hat keeps knocking it off. Or maybe it’s bigger, and covers it up. I dunno. Strained analogy, anyone?

So far John has escaped prison in a truck-tank, been shot at by rifles and pistols, busted the barricade at the city, crashed his tank, and disappeared into an abandoned warehouse district (complete with rust, crumbling brick, sagging/perforated corrugated roofs – everything except a foreman wearing bifocals and a pocket protector, reading a newspaper that says “TYPICAL HEADLINE FOR 1940’S NEWSPAPER”).

Where are the gravipedes? The ratchetrons? The Rocketeers? (dammit, pulp hat, I said No!) I’m worried that I can’t keep my story straight, and if I did have any future tech, John wouldn’t have a snowball’s chance in a fission reactor of escaping the mess he’s in.

“Worried”. Eh, that’s a heavy word. More like – “aware”. Yeah.

Hell, I’ll just add all the lasers in on my 2nd draft. That I type on my Remington Portab-Gaahh!

Oh, in case you’re wondering where I got my inspiration (and because pictures!), here’s a pic I took this summer, risking my life in an abandoned distillery.