I now beseech upon you, my gentle reader, a series of short stories which I wrote on cocktail napkins out of boredom, and in the interest of entertainment, whilst sitting at Cafe Intermezzo this evening. Enjoy.
1.
It was a dark and stormy night. A spontaneous horde of Pokemon had attacked and killed the mayor of Atlanta earlier that evening, and the citizens were in fear for their very lives. William and Zooey Smith had barricaded themselves within their 40th floor penthouse condominium, armed with several kitchen knives, a 6-iron, and, of course, their love for one another.
WHAM!
WHAM!
They heard the pounding upon the door and feared the worst.
"Oh no!" whined Zooey, immediately boring the shit out of her husband of 25 years.
"Oh, Jesus, Zooey, can you go five minutes without complaining about something?"
"Fuck you!" she screamed, as a zombie Pikachu gnawed through her jugular vein.
"I've always hated you, you know," said William, with an eery calm, as a horde of rabid Charizards ate out his heart.
Suddenly, William awoke from his dream.
"Fuck," he sighed. "Fuck, shit, fuck."
The End?
2. Partly co-written by Brandon
It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. Come to think of it, Duke Nukem was only the best of times. We set out on our sacred quest to find Mowgli, Littlefoot... and Jon Bon Jovi.
"Maybe they're over that expansive mountain range in the clouds," quipped Duke Nukem, as he choked out a helpless villager.
"Great thinking, Duke!" I exclaimed, cowering in fear in the corner.
We set out over the cloud mountains in our Star Wars speeder bikes, slaughtering villagers along the way.
One we reached Mordor, we spotted a deranged Littlefoot chewing away on Mowgli's remains. From Duke Nukem's eye fell a single tear, which turned into a falcon and flew away. "Caw!" it cried.
The End?
3. Written by Brandon Kriske.
And so it began...
Jon Bon Jovi, Littlefoot, and Mowgli wandered the Alaskan desert in search of new territory to claim.
"Oh wow! Look at the Rhinopottamus, lurking in the distance!" exclaimed Mowgli.
"Let's kill that motherfucker!" yelled Jon Bon Jovi.
"Yes!" screamed Chuck Norris.
"Chuck??" questioned Bon Jovi.
"Yes, it is I, the bringer of life and death, and the Ab Roller... and Texas Ranger."
And so it ended. Chuck Norris and Jon Bon Jovi, raping, sodomizing, and eating Littlefoot alive.
The End??
4.A Short Story on the Various Dangers of Real Life, by Colin Malone.
As I stood atop Mount Everest, looking out upon the world around me, I suddenly felt a feeling of great insignificance. Of course, I felt the tiniest bit better considering that most of what I could see was Nepal, an already tiny and insignificant country.
"USA, USA, USA," I proclaimed aloud, to no one in particular. My spirits were lifted slightly.
"Hey. Hey, you there," said a great, booming voice. I turned around, and there before me was God Himself.
"Oh, hey God. Listen, while I've got You here, I've got a question I've been meaning to ask You." As I finished my sentence, God slapped me hard right in the face, and I shut the hell up.
"You are an insignificant piece of shit. I love all my children equally, except for you," roared God, "Except you."
Dejected, I descended the mountain. Back at base camp, I located Morpheus roasting marshmallows by the fire.
"Fine, Morpheus, I will take your goddamn blue pill," I sighed. Morpheus glared at me and squinted condescendingly.
"Fuckin' right," he proclaimed.
The End?
I'm sitting on the train coming back to NYC from Norwalk, CT after a job interview. Being from Atlanta, I don't very much like riding trains. This sentiment is blatantly obvious to anyone from in or near Atlanta: personally, aside from the New York City, London, and Amsterdam, my only exposure to public rail transportation has been the Metro Atlanta Rapid Transit Authority: MARTA. What a piece of shit. I have seen my share of mostly-worthless crap in my life, and the MARTA public transit system is one of The Worst.
Imagine a city. Okay, now imagine that city as a plate of food. It's got four types of meat. In the upper northwest corner, there's a fairly respectable cut of prime rib with a few nasty parts on the outside. In the northeast corner, there's a good-looking cut of filet that gives off a douchey, elitist vibe. In the southeast corner, there's a skirt steak with a nice part on the outside but a but of gross, gristly parts right in the middle. And in the southwest corner, there's a big chunk of old Salisbury steak from a soup kitchen dinner four weeks ago someone found in a dumpster. Okay, got it? Good. Now, there is a space running right down the middle and right down the east-west axis of the plate, and that's pretty much it. Your fork can only move on those axes. Lucky you! Almost all the crappy parts of the meat are right in the middle. That's all you can eat. If you want, though you can use another utensil, the bus fork; it's got 49 prongs. Most of them are missing, some of them unexpectedly lag being the other prongs by a matter of hours, and they smell like piss. All of it smells like piss, too. Did I forget to mention that? Okay, great. So you've got all this okay meat to eat, but you can't reach any of it with any of your shitty forks. That's helpful. Don't worry, though! The Atlanta Checker Cab Spork is here to save the day! It will cost you $4 to pick up the spork, and $9 per eighth of an inch you move it across the plate! Also, you can use your own fork, but the Atlanta Plate Police Department will pull you over and arrest you for Eating Under the Influence 4 out of every 5 times you try it. That sucks, for you. Looks like you're microwaving a Lean Cuisine again for dinner, cheap-o! There's my MARTA analogy. It's like a plate of questionably tasty food, and a bunch of awful utensils with which to eat it.
Hate.
There are some stepping stones outside of a building I am frequently in and out of, going across a often-flooded grassy area. This is important to note because it is, more often than not, required to use the stones to walk across the grass. The stones are square, and approximately 18 inches on edge. They are put in two rows, alternating, and placed corner to corner, like _--_--_--_--. They are spaced just perfectly so that to only walk on stones, you must walk with an a) awkwardly-short stride to hit each one in sequence, b) walk with an awkwardly-long stride to hit every other one, or c) walk with an awkwardly-cerebal-palsy sort of stride to alternate with one foot and not with the other. Needless to say, you cannot continue with your normal gait from the sidewalk to the stepping stones without stepping in the grass and cursing God for getting your hot kicks all muddy.
The same thing exists across campus. There is (was) a stairwell by the library that is built in that long, shallow style since it's going up a rather shallow hill. That's cool and all, except the stairs are ridiculously deep and it's impossible to go up them foot-by-foot without looking like Bigfoot striding through the woods. Can't they just build a ramp? Can't they get bigger stepping stones? These sorts of problems probably didn't even enter the designer's heads, and certainly didn't enter the landscaping workers' heads. It's terrible, you guys. Thank you.
Some of you may be aware of the other blog I'm trying out, Ad Vice, a blog in which I post Youtube-hosted commercials and proceed to make fun of them for being insulting to human intelligence. That is fun and all, but I've decided that at any given time, I have a number of observations and rants about living on this ridiculous planet. While Facebook and Twitter are totally great for learning about how many grilled cheese sandwiches are being made and what any number of idiot celebrities think about such sandwich-making quantities, as microblogging services they are fundamentally limiting. I do not like limits. So, with the court's approval, may I present Little Yellow Envelope, a Blog for the Humans.
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