A 100 word story by Laurence Simon about a girl with a doll in her arms.

The voices are coming from inside your head, not the doll.

No, I don't know why I can hear them, too. Yes, that's very strange.

Maybe you're mumbling the words like a ventriloquist. Can you bite down on this piece of rubber for a moment and we'll just have a listen?

Okay, I still hear it. It's talking about burning down the cornfields.

That's a very pretty dress. Here's something you can wear over it. Just put your arms in the sleeves and try to relax.

I'll just hold the doll for a moment, okay?

This won't hurt a bit.

I love it when I have the chance to take a seemingly ordinary person and make them totally batshit insane. It's an awesome power that only a god should have.

This was my story for today's 100 Words Or Les Nessman theme, which was the sentence "I looked behind the soldiers and saw bones in a suit of clothes on the grass."

Schultz shook the dice, praying for snake eyes.

The rest of the company looked on.

Why can't we just draw straws? thought Schultz. Or draw cards, or slips of paper from a helmet.

There was a lot of work to do.

And avoid, if possible.

Schultz smirked.

"Hurry up!" yelled a corporal.

Schultz threw.

The dice sailed down the dirt path and into the few stubborn blades of grass that still grew in this ashen hellscape, landing in a stack of ragged, scorched clothes.

"That cinches it," said Lieutenant Waldheim. "You're on Burial Detail."

Schultz grabbed a shovel and cursed.

Yes, this was inspired by the recent anniversaries pertaining to the Shoah.

Another story written for 100 Words Or Les Nessman, this time challenged by a theme of a picture of a stone. Obviously, I had trouble sticking to the theme, but I imagined someone sitting on the rock and being as uncomfortable as the chairs at work, so...

I work in a call center and the company owner is really cheap.

Of all the awful things here, the chairs here are the worst. They are old, worn-out, and cause frequent painful injuries.

One guy was speared with a spring and lost a kidney. Another broke a wrist and an ankle when a wheel just completely let go. A third rolled out of a window, never to be seen again.

Bob got it the worst. One day, he's typing away, and we hear a loud CRACK!

He's in a wheelchair now. Can't feel anything below his neck.

Lucky bastard.

Inspired by the chairs at work.

Another story written for 100 Words Or Les Nessman, this time challenged by red, hate, destiny.

"When you see the color red, you will experience so much hate that you will kill the Senator. It is your destiny."

Arthur heard this phrase six hundred and forty-eight thousand, seven hundred and nine times before they stopped the recording and wiped the drool from his chin.

It used to be that you had to loop a recording with a razor and cellophane tape. Now you just hit "REPEAT" on an MP3.

They gave him a gun and a bus ticket. Two days later, he shot four seals at the Boston Zoo.

Hey, nobody said this stuff was perfect.

A cheap rip-off of Manchurian Candidate, for sure.

Yet another fine effort for 100 Words Or Les Nessman in response to a photograph by Ray Soemarsono. The car was the inspiration for the story.

She once had legs, but over time she let herself go. Varicose veins, a deep hacking cough, and stints in rehab for a heroin problem finished off her partying days.

The dream guy she hooked with the help of ZZ Top's gang of gals had long slipped the line and swam back for deeper waters.

Rags filled her closets.

Still, she kept the car in the driveway. The paint faded, the tires rotted, the engine seized up, and rust spread like brown cancer and covered everything.

Sometimes, she'd go out front and snap her nicotine-stained fingers, wave the keys.

Nothing.

So, where's the band?

It goes to show that controlling the topic for 100 Words Or Les Nessman doesn't always result in a good story. This time, I was supposed to write about a key that I didn't know where it went to.

Nigel tapped Middle C again.

Still nothing.

He lifted the green piano's lid and checked the striker and the wire. Everything worked fine.

But he didn't hear anything when he hit Middle C.

B played. D played. Every other note played.

But not Middle C.

Nigel blew out the candelabra and hit Middle C again.

Of course it wasn't that, he thought. That would have been silly.

Nigel tried another piano. Middle C worked just fine.

He went back to the green piano, lifted the lid, and plucked Middle C.

Perfectly tuned.

He hit the key again.

Nothing at all.

So where does it go?

This time on 100 Words Or Les Nessman we were supposed to write about some person in a faerie costume standing like a statue in some kind of park with a bulldkye-looking chick smoking a cig.

Things are hard all over, but especially in Europe.

In Rome, taxis have been replaced by rickshaws pulled by starving pensioners.

You can't walk in London without tripping over three people shining your shoes.

Have problems folding a map in Berlin? Not any more - every petrol station features map-folders for hire.

It's easy to mistake the purse-snatchers of Paris for the porters and bearers.

But of all the fallen, pity Prague the most. The poor are stripped, painted like statuary, tangled in vines and daisies, and displayed in eight hour shifts.

Sad beasts, lining the grand avenues of yesterday.

I figured I'd get a little political and mock some EU countries.

Yet another fine effort for 100 Words Or Les Nessman in response to a photograph with an angry face in the sky. Let's head back to the greedy days of the 80's for a moment...

I look up, and I see the Face Of God in the angry, boiling skies.

I look down, and there's piles of clothes everywhere. A few unguided cars roll into streetlamps or bushes.

Rapture? Well, isn't that nice. Bye bye, fundamentalists.

I'm sure that a few houses will start to burn because ovens have been left on. Or planes will crash because pilots have vanished and cockpit doors are locked these days.

My next-door neighbor's empty Armani suit in a pile. In his driveway

Next to his lovely, perfect Ferrari.

I may not be Saved, but I am truly blessed.

Okay, we're back.

Looking for lousy science-fiction? Well, here's another fine effort for 100 Words Or Les Nessman in response to the theme of the day...

Last century, they had competing standards for cellular. There was TDMA, CDMA, GSM... all sorts of different ways to slice up spectrum and get people chatting and sending snapshots around the globe. Carriers fought over which was best, and handset manufacturers fretted over the incompatibilities.

Same with hyperwaves. Luna went MS-HW. Mars Colony implemented HW 2.0. Alpha Proximi did MS-HP and StarTalk. Migdal Mayim's doing StarWave.

Imagine your brain exploding because some Lunatic calls without a gamma-compensator. Or a Reaganite goes catatonic after faxing Io because the compression algorithm resembles sonic stunner harmonics.

What? The phone's ringing?

It's for you.

Wouldn't you like to read the rest of that?

So would I.

This time we were asked to describe a crash on 100 Words Or Les Nessman. I decided that a crash diet might be amusing to torture a character with.

Bob watched the man toss pizza dough up and down.

Up and down.

Up and down.

Bob drooled.

Just thirty pounds to go, he thought. I just need thirty more pounds.

Up and down.

Bob opened his wallet and looked at The Card.

LETTUCE, WATER, AND VITAMINS it said.

Up and down.

Bob tried to remember what a pizza tasted like.

His mouth tasted lettuce.

And water.

And the bitter pills.

Up and down.

Bob swore that once reached his goal weight, he'd bomb insurance company for rejecting his gastric bypass surgery.

Up and down.

Just thirty pounds to go.

(Also, I've reduced the quality of the encoding to get a smaller filesize)

Proving once again that having control of the topic doesn't always lead to quality, I penned this sick little number for 100 Words Or Les Nessman today.

They drive the backhoe off, jump into the hole, and shovel out the remaining dirt.

A crane lowers into the vault and bumps the casket.

"Who disturbs my rest?" I think.

They raise the casket, lay it on a gurney, and roll it into the truck.

Two hours later, the coroner cracks open the casket.

It's so rare to see a body with a spear through its skull, but not everyone dies from mooning a Zulu tribe.

Somehow, this excites him.

Unspeakable, disgusting acts follow.

Finally, he takes my arm in his latex-covered hand and winds my watch.

Gee, thanks.

I'll try not to make a habit of it.

I swore I'd get a better microphone, and I'm planning on getting a USB setup tomorrow. Until then, try not to scream too loudly at the poor quality of this one, okay?

Here's yet another blasphemous effort I penned for 100 Words Or Les Nessman. Also, Redsugar Muse podcasted her story from yesterday.

Pretty soon, all of 100 Words Or Les Nessman will follow where I lead.

Juan and his burro Steve went up the mountain to pick coffee beans.

A bush was on fire.

"I AM THE LORD JEHOVAH, GOD OF ABRAHAM," it said.

Juan stared. Steve brayed.

"I HAVE TEN NEW COMMANDMENTS FOR MY CREATION!"

"Que?" said Juan.

The bush rustled.

"OH GREAT," it said. " DO YOU SPEAK ENGLISH?"

"Que?" said Juan.

"YOU... SPEAKA... ENGLISH?" the bush said, slower and louder.

"No habla," said Juan.

"SHIT," said the bush. "NEVER MIND THEN."

Juan stared.

The flames grew. "LEAVE! GO! GET YOUR ASS OUT OF HERE!"

No more weed before harvesting, thought Juan, running away.

Just wait until they start penning their compositions while packing pasta in their pants! Ha ha!

Another day, another 100 Words instead of a ditty about Les Nessman. And let's welcome my new Logitech USB Microphone! It's much clearer! (Yes, I know it's "Threatened by shadows at night and exposed to the light" but I figured that Bob was too messed up to recall the lyrics exactly.)

Bob dropped his bong and looked up at the swirling green skies.

"Radical," he whispered. "This needs Floyd."

He went back inside, humming "Shine On You Crazy Diamond" while hunting for his iPod.

He found it, went back outside, and scanned his playlist.

"Damn," he shouted. No Pink Floyd. Must have cleared it out.

He went back in to search for the files.

Gone.

He then dug through his CD, but they were too scratched to rip.

Ten bucks and two hours download later, he synced up and went back outside.

The lights were gone, and so was his buzz.

Don't do drugs, kids.

Today on 100 Words or Les Nessman, we learn what happens when Andy asks the group to do something with: "In case you're wondering, I don't spend the entire workday inside my tailor shop."

When the clock strikes one, I put down my shears, grab a spear, and head out the front door of my shop to challenge Hans, the baker across the way.

"SHAKA ZULU!" I shout, and I hurl the spear at his shop's front door.

*THUNK*

When the clock strikes two, I know that Hans will soon hurl the spear back at my door.

"SHAKA ZULU!" echoes across the street.

*THUNK*

Folks around here know to get down or keep clear.

So today, when I hurled the spear...

*AAAAAUUUUUUUGGGGGHHHHHH*

Screams pierce the air. Sirens in the distance, approaching fast.

Bloody tourists.

These guys will be back.

Well, it's time for another story for 100 Words Or Les Nessman. This time, it's a picture of someone in a homemade feather costume.

You know, if someone posts the theme as a draft the night before, I can't see it. No flying start for me in the morning.

When the clock strikes one, I put down my shears, grab a spear, and head out the front door of my shop to challenge Hans, the baker across the way.

"SHAKA ZULU!" I shout, and I hurl the spear at his shop's front door.

*THUNK*

When the clock strikes two, I know that Hans will soon hurl the spear back at my door.

"SHAKA ZULU!" echoes across the street.

*THUNK*

Folks around here know to get down or keep clear.

So today, when I hurled the spear...

*AAAAAUUUUUUUGGGGGHHHHHH*

Screams pierce the air. Sirens in the distance, approaching fast.

Bloody tourists.

And yet, I still avoid the Les Nessman trap.

What a guy!

100 Words Or Less Nessman challenged the authors to use the word FISHBOWL.

Every week, Chang pulled a business card out of the fishbowl and the winner got a free lunch at The Happy Dragon.

Every so often, another hand would dip into the fishbowl and draw a business card. But they never got a free lunch.

They found Mary's body in the dumpster the next day. The same with Steve, Lynn, Arthur, and Jose. Sixteen in all.

One day, the killer reached into the bowl and got his hand wet.

No business cards. Just a goldfish.

Sure, there is such a thing as a free lunch, but it's not worth the risk.

So I did.

So I had control of the topic and I chose SOUP.

The result was... um... er... pathetic.

There's nothing left to eat but soup. Everything else went bad while I was out.

I put the least-dirty pot on the stove and light the burner.

No electricity here, so the electric can opener is useless.

There's a manual can opener in the drawer. Looks a bit rusty.

What the heck. It's worth a shot.

Or not. It breaks on the lid. And there's no pull-tab on the lid, either.

Great.

I put the soup can on the back yard fence, draw a bead on it, and squeeze the trigger.

Chicken and noodles everywhere.

I'll be eating out today.

Soup's on!

We were asked to do our worst with: penitence, bureaucracy, amnesia. It's sad to say that in my case, the result was less than impressive

I've got two cans of gasoline in my trunk for the job. They're awfully light, though.

In fact, they're... empty? How?

Didn't I fill them up today?

I run back to the offices. The only way to build new ones is to burn the old ones. Otherwise, you have to wait years for the plans to get approved.

This is madness. I can't go through with it. I won't do it. I-

But someone's beat me to it. Another torch-job, perhaps?

The flames light up the night sky.

What kind of madman does such a thing?

And where's my lighter?

I promise to do better.

A kid with hip-huggers is walking through a playground, bullets as a belt? What can this mean? Well, to me, it's Buddy Lee gone mad.

Buddy Lee grew up.

Nobody expected him to, but as with all little boys, he did.

And he grew up fast. He outgrew his dungarees quickly, and the company no longer needed him as a spokesman.

He hit the streets hard,

All those years of getting knocked around made him angry.

They made him crazy.

Buddy roamed the world, looking for people wearing those dungarees.

He swore an oath that if there was anything left of his victims, they'd be buried in them.

That's why I wear a kilt. Buddy ignores kilt-wearers.

And I've got the knees for it, too.

Actually, I don't.

A special delivery that just has to get there? Sure, let's have some fun with it.

The diamonds that Yuri stuffed into the volleyball were priceless.

Lost in transit, said Fedex.

Years later, Yuri read: FEDEX EMPLOYEE FOUND AT SEA

After watching Chuck Noland deliver a package to some ranch, Yuri learned he had spent all that time on the island talking to Yuri's volleyball.

Where was it?

Yuri turned on the news, sighing.

Chuck was being interviewed. Again.

"My friend just floated away," mumbled Chuck.

"Who?" asked a reporter.

"Wilson," said Chuck. "He was a volleyball that had a-"

Yuri switched off.

Wilson? Friend?

Should have used Airborne, he thought. Those Fedex employees are nuts.

Yeah, I liked "Cast Away."

A long time ago, Trading Spaces was good. Now it sucks. I take out my frustrations using the 100 Words Or Les Nessman theme of the day, which was a photo of a run-down house.

I hope you enjoy it. Otherwise, I may just have to kill you.

Vern likes ultramodern. Those fiber-optics they hung him with sparkle nicely.

Genevieve's always barefoot. Someone tossed poisoned carpet tacks around the living room. Oops.

Laurie loves lemons. When life hands you grenades painted like lemons... too late!

Frank's in the kitchen, brained by a pig figurine. Supper's ready!

Christi had bold ideas for that fireplace. They didn't involve being charred in it, though.

Nikki's the noble one. She drowned in the commode. Sorry - the throne. Nice gold handle, though.

Kia specializes in curtains. Now it's curtains for Kia.

Edward won the million bucks. That'll buy a good lawyer.

Would that be called The Reveal?

Leave it to me to take a picture of a naked chick on graph-like tile and think Battleship and art thieves.

"You sunk my naked chick!" yelled Bobby.

Joey laughed. "All I need is your Magritte pipe, and you're so toast!"

Mandy and Greg smiled. They didn't like war toys, so they figured that substituting the ships for works of art would help somehow.

Not exactly.

Twenty years later, they were in the courtroom as their sons were convicted of trying to steal Michelangelo's David.

"I told you that the damn alarm was in B7!" growled Joey.

"I thought you said E4!" Bobby yelled back. "Asshole!"

They were sentenced to twenty years apiece

Bobby's in cell F7. Joey's in cell F8.

If I recall, this was cut down from 200 words or so.

I decided to make the topic one of a severed head, and then I came up with this bizarre story.

What's with the singing box?

Well, remember the old story about Orpheus going to Hell to free his girlfriend?

He looks back - WHAM! Eurydice is back in Hell. A gang of women tear Orpheus apart, and his head falls into the stream, still singing.

Some chick puts the head in a box, sells it to a joint on the island, and it becomes the first jukebox.

Here it is. Just fifty bucks.

Problem is, it sings in Greek. It sounds so painful and sad, but beautiful. Too bad I don't know Greek.

Do you?

Oh well. Still sounds beautiful.

The tale of Orpheus is one I like very much, and the story didn't end when his wife went back into Hell because he looked back. The fact that his head was still singing down the stream made me wonder "When did it stop singing?"

I don't know who is more pathetic, Star Wars or Star Trek junkies.

So I had a little fun with both.

I am not a loser. Dressing up for a movie premiere is fun, dammit.

I spent hours working on the makeup. It's a pale cream-white body makeup. Leaves one hell of a rash later on.

Ordered a set of special yellow-iris contacts. They scratch my corneas.

Got my hair cut short, gelled it flat. It will all fall out afterwards.

Lost seventy pounds to fit into the uniform, too. Those illegal diet pills may have caused massive hemmoraging in my brain, but other than the facial tic I'm fine.

I'm so ready for The Revenge of the Sith.

This will get dated really fast.

Watch out! It's a squirrel with an AK-47 for the theme today on 100 Words or Les Nessman, so I couldn't resist a jab at Old Dead Napkinhead.

The trembling from Parkinson's dissipated, itself a victim of the destruction HIV was doing throughout his body.

The machines kept him going. Until...

They found the account numbers.

Dam-

He was gone.

And then he was back.

Yasser looked around.

No Paradise. No seventy-two virgins. No throne of Allah.

"What is this madness?" he wanted to say.

It came out as: "Chitter!"

Yasser scampered out of his knot-hole, down his tree, and he looked in the pond.

"Chitter!"

He looked around, and saw a squirrel in a tiny wheelchair.

Yassin?

He blamed the Jews, and declared a jihad. For...

NUTS!

Don't you wish all their jihads were for nuts?

So, you're wondering about cannibalism and cookbooks? 100 Words Or Les Nessman challenges, and I accept the challenge by telling the next chapter of a sordid tale from The Twilight Zone.

"It's a cookbook!" was the last thing Dr. Chambers heard before the spaceship door closed.

The Kanamint had said they were here to serve man.

Quite literally, as dinner.

Chambers sighed, slumped against the wall of the crowded cell, and slept.

He woke up, alone.

The door opened, and a Kanamint wheeled in a cart.

"Your dinner," thoughtcasted the Kanamint.

At first, Chambers wasn't hungry, but the smell was... captivating.

He took the lid off of the tray, tasted a sauce-covered cube, and moaned with delight.

"I must have this recipe," he said. "Delicious!"

Eventually, they made him a chef.

I like expanding on stories or writing parallel stories.

What if Santa Claus were a pirate? well, you'd get today's story at 100 Words Or Les Nessman, of course.

"Mighty Servant 5 leaves Hong Kong tonight," said Blinky. "Manifest is a beauty."

"Yarrrrrr!" said Winky, giggling.

Elves make excellent hackers, thought Santa.

Later that night, the sleigh raced over the Pacific and spotted the massive vessel.

It looks like an oil tanker with Legos on top, thought Saint Nick.

They landed quickly.

"Hit the Mattel containers, ye scurvy elves!" yelled Santa to his crew. "Watch out for Dobermans!"

"Aye aye!" yelled the elves.

This was so much more fun than making toys.

Santa drew his cutlass and chortled, his belly shaking like a bowl full of grog.

More Santa stories will be coming up as the holidays approach.

We were faced with a Neil Gaiman quote today about sunken cities coming back to life. Since the next big city to go under will either be Venice or New Orleans, I pondered its return to the surface in a blaze of glory. Head over to 100 Words Or Les Nessman for the text.

Or...

Jessica was the greatest of Bigeasyologists, scholars of the Sunken City of New Orleans. She'd researched the films, books, holocordings, music, and cooking her whole life.

Now, the final force-barrier against the Gulf of Mexico was in place. The osmotic pumps were revealing what was before only accessible to divers, drones, and avatar-subs.

Sure, the French Quarter would take weeks to dry out, but Jessica didn't want to wait. She wanted to be the first.

She'd earned it.

The hover-cameras followed as she landed on Bourbon Street, took off her helmet, and then her top.

"Bon temps roules!" she shouted.

Wait for me to archive it here.

"It occurred to him that he might see scenes now that would shatter him forever. No matter: he had to know." was the challenge at 100 Words Or Les Nessman. This was my response.

George was free. No more of the space crap. The endless reworking and tweaking of the movies had finally come to an end. Besides, all futzing ever did was annoy fans and make the stack of hate mail grow faster.

Done. Finished.

He could hand the remaining video games and TV series to subordinates.

Just independent films for George.

But still, after everyone was gone... he enjoyed making his little alternations.

What harm could that be?

He clicked on the "Jar Jar" file, dragged it over the "Casablanca" icon, and selected "Render."

The credits came up.

And then, his lunch.

I hope you like it.

I wasn't happy with today's effort at 100 Words Or Les Nessman today. I just didn't conect with the photograph, so I decided to go with yet another absurd monologue with a hidden ugly political agenda.

Such magnificence, birds spread in flight.

I watch the images every ten seconds through my monitors.

Standard film is 24 frames per second. This is 240 times slower.

A lot can happen in ten seconds.

We're supposed to watch and count Mexicans trying to sneak across, but we'd rather count rabbits and wolves.

And birds.

Especially birds.

Frozen in time, they look like angels.

Soon, we'll get a live feed from these Observation Stations. And they will turn the gun turrets back on.

As I said, a lot can happen in ten seconds. It can really mess up your aim.

Good luck, boys.

Today's story at 100 Words Or Les Nessman was a challenge with yet another quote from a book.

"How could a man become a god?" Nell asked.

"By living in an extremely pragmatic society," said Constable Moore after some thought, and provided no further explanation.

I focused on the god thing and sorta blew off the pragmatic society bit.

Contrary to popular belief, the Greek God Of Thunder Zeus and the Roman King Of the Gods Jupiter were not the same being.

Sure, they look alike, but the truth is they're not exactly alike.

You can easily tell them apart by the thunderbolts. Zeus prefers javelin-like lightning strokes with small jaggies in them while Jupiter prefers massive strokes with only three or four jaggies.

I learned this from Vulcan, who has the manufacturing contract for both.

And, yes, Vulcan actually is Hephasteus. But his real name is "Leslie."

Try being a big macho blacksmith with a name like that.

Will you ever forgive me?

Sure, Stephen Hawking is a theoretical physicist, but that doesn't stop me from having a little fun at his expense today on 100 Words Or Les Nessman.

Chemists get eyewash stations and fire extinguishers.

Physicists get Geiger counters and thick rubber gloves.

Biologists get innoculated for everything.

That leaves zero budget for the mathematicians.

Cheap bastards.

It's drilled into every schoolkid not to divide by zero. The government's done a great job of distributing "safety zeroes" to schools to protect kids who go ahead and try, but the professionals have to work with the uncoated wild variety to get the equations to stick.

Long ago, I fell asleep next to five blackboards full of wild zeroes. The exposure destroyed my nervous system.

ALS? Just a cover story.

I kind of like the idea that zeroes are coated for protection because schoolkids might try to divide by them. Sort of like safety scissors.

I have a grudge against idiot savants. They're flesh machines, devoid of personality, and yet the news goes all ga-ga over these human-shaped robots as if they're some kind of miracle.

I find it all annoying and creepy, which is why I wrote my 100 Words Or Les Nessman Story mocking the whole thing.

We don't like it when you call them retards. They're gifted or special now.

Some of them do amazing things. They were called idiot savants, but we dropped the idiot part.

Political correctness. Bah!

See that drooling sack of crap in the corner?

Can't tie his own shoes. Can't put on a shirt. Barely knows to go to the toilet.

Put an onion and a cleaver in front of him, and he'll dice that sucker up in less than a second.

Potatoes, celery, cucumbers...

Perfect little cubes.

He's the reason we stopped doing Animal Therapy, you know.

Don't ask.

A machine is only as good as the input and the materials it works with.

In a very special 100 Words or Les Nessman, we look at a disturbing interpretation of an old photograph oin terms of an even more disturbing Father's Day tale.

He wasn't really her father. He was just some bum she'd picked up off the street.

She did this every year - picking up a bum, washing him up, putting him in her father's old clothes, filling him with liquor, and then letting him sleep it off.

Hopefully, the bum would attack her. Just like all the others.

She'd scream "Happy Father's Day!" through the pain.

Exhausted, she would try to forgive him for it all. She needed this.

At sunset, she'd cut his throat and bury him in the back yard. Just like all the others.

And her father.

What's even more disturbing is that you're still listening to this stuff.

Soldiers don't grow on trees. They grow in vats. Davidson is the breeder, and he's looking for that one special soldier on 100 Words Or Les Nessman.

Alarms went off. Davidson stubbed out his twizzlestick, waved the purple vapors out of the air, and went back to work.

TARGET? asked the viewport.

"Quadrant 3," said Davidson, twiddling the viewport's knobs. "Section 5. Platoon 37. Unit 9-alpha."

Davidson blinked as his avatar flew through the fields of vat-grown soldiers.

Powerful.
Identical.
Almost perfect.

Except for Q3-S5-P37-9a. He was better.

Every now and then, a drone's matrix would self-enhance, and its milk-white skin would turn dark.

"Obtain," said Davidson.

Tendrils reached from the ground and pulled Q3-S5-P37-9a into the placentadirt.

OBTAINED.

Davidson smiled. Dark ones were worth bonuses.

Racist? Not sure.

Midsummer is here! But where isn't it Midsummer? Well, it's Midsummer there by bureaucratic decree and budget constraints! 100 Words Or Les Nessman tells you how.

Up in the North, no faerie can resist the call. The blazing sun sings to them, leaving other merriment to the all-too-brief night.

But down in Tierra del Fuego, unlucky faeries toss newspaper scraps in their tiny fire pit and huddle around the flames.

"This is s-s-s-s-s-stupid," chattered Mugwort, rubbing his hands.

"Let's dance," said Flitwicket. "It might warm us up."

"Eurocentric b-b-b-b-b-bastards," grumbled Mugwort. "Why'd they change the schedule?"

"Something about a bulk discount on Pixie Dust," said Flitwicket. "Thank bureaucracy. Someone needs to frolic his frowns away."

Eyes narrowed. Delicate throats growled.

Flitwicket sparked nicely on the flame.

Never trust a faerie.

What happens when you're looking at a book and there's a strange inscription in it? Well, what if you can't see the inscription? That was the challenge at 100 Words Or Les Nessman today.

After the DaVinci Code came out, everything Galileo ever wrote or painted was searched for hidden messages. X-Rays, magnetic waves, deep-radar signals, and refractive lasers wobbled the molecules to and fro until the researchers declared there was nothing to find.

Or as they say in Italy: "Niente!"

Then someone realized that Galileo invented the "This page intentionally left blank" page.

That someone was me.

Know what you get when you rip all those blank pages from his diaries and journals, rub them with a lemon, and hold a match up to them?

Arrested.

But now I know God's shoe size.

Yup. And wouldn't you like to know it, bub.

We were supposed to come up with "one away from something but when I read that aloud, I was reminded of a certain millionaire who owns a mansion and a yacht.

The hunter cowered behind a tree. He took off his fur cap, wiped the sweat from his gigantic bald head, and breathed heavily and rapidly.

He stopped.

Can it hear me?, he thought.

A twig snapped.

He'd lost his gun. His beloved double-barreled shotgun.

In the distance, click.

It has my shotgun.

After all these hunting seasons, the hunter had finally become the hunted.

More footsteps. Big, furry footsteps.

His heart pounded. His throat clenched.

"Don't bwast me!" shouted the hunter. "Fow God's sake, wabbit, pwease don't bwast me!"

Click.

The hunter ran, wishing it was still Duck Season.

What about it being better than going to Alcatraz?

I combined the setting of The Dead Zone with an old KTRK screwup by a news manager and a reporter over the Yates Pregnancy into this fun little tale.

Five small bodies in the morgue. Their mother strapped to a bed in the jail.

Yesterday, she'd drowned them in the tub.

And Bannerman had snapped.

"SHERIFF BEATS BATHTUB KILLER," screamed the paper.

Crap.

Bannerman looked through the paperwork. The intake form was a mess, so he rolled another in the typewriter and copied things over.

He got to "PREGNANT: YES/NO" and stopped.

He recalled her berserk rants as they dragged her in. He swore he'd heard "I AM CARRYING SATAN'S SPAWN!"

Screw it. It's Friday.

He checked YES, and then dialed that asshole reporter.

"Enjoy this exclusive," he grunted.

Although it no longer feels cathartic, only a tad obsessive and demeaning now.

Bobby really digs Wendy, but not in the way you think. Well, okay, in the way you think, but not just in the way you think.

He finished carving "BOBBY AND WENDY FOREVER" on the tree, then folded his knife.

Perfect.

Bobby had all of her albums. Every concert bootleg too, thanks to other obsessives and Napster.

Obsessives, not stalkers. Stalking is bad. Very bad.

He had other trinkets from her life. A curl of her hair from a hotel shower drain in a locket. Photographs that the corner drugstore duplicated and collected for him. And dresses that the cleaners said they'd lost.

All he needed was her. He had to prove his love.

He patted the gravestone, picked up a shovel, and began to dig.

Graveyards are a common theme of mine.

What do I see when I see the cover of Mike Oldfield's Crises? I guess I see a bad groundskeeping operation.

Paco was a lousy groundskeeper.

Every flower he planted wilted, every tree he planted died, and the sidewalks were crooked and cracked.

Paco thought about using Astroturf for the grass at Park Tower, but the building owners said no.

"This is your last chance, Paco," said the owners. "Make the grass grow, or you're getting deported."

Paco watched the grass slowly turn brown.

He panicked. In desperation, he spread fertilizer over the lawn, turned the sprinklers on full blast, and prayed for a miracle.

What he got was a five-hour nap, the miraculous Lake Park Tower, and a pink slip.

I love the album, though.

Brunettes may be nothing but trouble, but I sure enoy having fun with them now and them. I also like to play with gravity. And nothing beats a good street vendor hot dog...

Every day at noon, I head down to Harry's Hotdog Cart for a footlong with mustard, sauerkraut, and relish.

“The usual, Sam?” asked Harry.

“Work your magic, Harry,” I said.

Harry smiled and waved his tongs.

“Abracadabra!”

The man's a hotdog wizard, I tell you.

Just as Harry handed me his latest masterpiece, a scream came from above. And then WHAM!!!! a red blur smashed into the cart, scattering bottles and buns everywhere.

I picked myself up and looked at a woman sprawled across the cart.

Red dress. Dark hair.

Very dead.

“No cutting in line, bitch!” I yelled.

Women.

See my point?

The topic at 100 Words was a bit confusing, but I managed to dredge up an old character from a series of stories I wrote a long time ago for the occasion...

Across history, there was no name more loathed than Elias the Time Jerk's was.

At any moment of his choosing, he and his Temporal Easy Chair would fade into sync.

He liked to watch History in the unmaking.

Not this time, however. A temporal rift had tossed him facedown in the dust of Yuma, Arizona.

Elias brushed himself and walked into a diner.

"Mafle Garfle Mumgle," said the waitress.

"Great," said Elias. "Phaseshift sickness."

Elias smiled, gladly accepted some coffee, and headed to a mall for a new chair and radio parts.

Rebuilding was easy, all it took was time.

I have a whole slew of stories about Elias and the Howards Bar just waiting for revival.

It's been a while since I've wanted to say "This is one of my favorites" but this is one of my favorites. ("Doctor Odd" is probably the best so far.)

Russia denies it was a stunt for desperately-needed cash. "How do spacewalk weddings work?" is legitimate research in their opinion.

"Bullshit!" NASA seethed, but it's all fair game in the partnership contract.

The Sultan wore a specially-made Tuxedo-suit. In reality, it was just standard cosmonaut's gear painted black with tails and a bowtie.

The bride's gown was an elaborate sculpture of gossamer and a mile-long glittering silk train.

Dazzling, it was.

When the preacher said "You may now kiss the bride," The Sultan lifted his visor and unlocked his helmet seal.

The Russians shrugged. The fool had paid in advance.

Sure, I chose the theme, but I tend to sleep on it and come up with a new story so I can't be accused of pre-writing stories and stacking the deck. Otherwise, I'd be picking Mustard Man and Abraham Lincoln over and over.

The challenge was to come up with a story based on a quote from a book. I decided to go a bit off-color with it.

Suzy wasn't cheap, but the Boosters were picking up the tab.

Every year, the same thing. Sort of a graduation ceremony for the football team.

She still had a scar on her lip from last year, thanks to a quarterback with a piercing and a thing for slapping.

They paid her double to keep her mouth shut, so to speak.

This time, it was behind the Science Building. Suzy found it funny that some didn't even know where it was despite getting A's and B's from there.

She heard a zipper.

"Showtime," she sighed, as the line started to move.

Want her number?

The circus is coming to town, and in 100 words we learn why the kids are so excited to see it.

"The circus is coming to town!" the kids shouted.

It was nice to hear that sort of thing these days. With videogames and the Internet, wholesomeness like kids getting excited by the circus coming to town was refreshing.

Of course, nobody was looking forward to the circus itself, but what happened while the circus was in town.

Stampeding elephants down Main Street.
Murder-suicides among the sideshow freaks.
Food poisoning scares on the Midway.

And just because you can stuff twenty drunk clowns into a sedan, it doesn't mean everybody gets a seatbelt.

You can't fault the EMTs for laughing, though.

Ride inspectors? What are those?

You've always wondered about Marcie, Peppermint Patty, and Velma from the Mystery Machine crew. Well, it only took 100 words to learn the awful truth about these three.

Patty? Yeah, I knew her. She was always a bit dyke-y.

Her parents were so in denial. They were always joking about her being a tomboy. She'd grow out of the sandals and flannel shirts some day. Despite always running him down, that Chuck kid would make a good boyfriend, perhaps?

Yeah, right.

Instead, she turned to me. And heroin.

God, she was fun, but I swear I tried to get her to go clean. I really did.

I was the one who found her body, the needle still hanging out of her arm.

I wonder what Velma's doing tonight.

I still have doubts about those Teen Titan chicks.

The topic of the day was Bush, so I mused a bit on the Hannukah Bush. It's more of a rant than a story, I guess.

Other kids had Christmas Trees.

I had a Menorah.

No, I didn't have a Hannukah Bush. We never had a Hannukah Bush.

What's the origins of that stupid Hannukah Bush anyway? The Menorah represents the Burning Bush, so what is this other bush for?

Next thing you know, they'll dress some jackass in a blue suit and call him Rabbi Goldstein or something.

Can we look forward to Ramadan Ralph putting presents by an ivy-covered trellis?

How about a Buddhist Bob passing out Zen Candy in an algae-covered dish?

Whatever happened to Holiday Spirit? Good Will? All that Jazz?

Rubbish!

I piss on your bush!

Michele thought that the topic sucked, but I dug deep and found something fun to do with it. Nothing beats a confession by a strand of pasta, in my opinion. I hope you like this one, it's rather bizarre.

Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.

It's not easy for a strand of spaghetti to confess his sins, let alone sin. But somewhere between the pasta factory and the boiling salted water, I engaged in horrific, lewd, and perverted acts in my box with the stockgirl whilst on the grocer's shelf that I dare not mention.

I thought that the tomato sauce and grated Parmesan would cover all of this up, but I realize now that I cannot hide my transgressions in the eyes of The Lord.

Please put that fork down and take a moment to forgive me.

Yeah, I played with my food.

I coddled my inner moonbat with this slap at Guantanamo on July the Fourth. I won't apologize for it, though, because it's so nonsensical that you'd be a fool to take it seriously.

It's morning in Guantanamo Bay Prison. Wakey wakey, everyone.

Normally the guards yank a detainee out of their cell, strip them, put a frilly dress on them, and parade them around the camp. However, it's the Fourth Of July, and things get a little patriotic.

"Open 157!" shouts a voice.

Mohammed rips another page out of his Koran, sighing. He's used to the drill.

"Forget the beard," says a corporal.

Mohammed goes limp, letting them clothe him in the red, white, and blue suit.

"Now get on the stilts, Uncle Sam," said the lieutenant. "And mind the hat. It's windy."

I wish they actually did this. Patriotism is infectious.

I took a photo of an ugly rat-hole sleeping berth and had some fun with it at Bill Clinton's expense. Nothing says comedy like "Millard Fillmore" in my opinion.

"Welcome home, Sir" said the staff. "The Lincoln Bedroom is unavailable, but you can sleep here."

Bill held up the sweat-soaked pillow, sniffed it, and tossed it back on the stained lumpy mattress.

Oh, the indigity.

First, he had to sleep on the floor when he was off touring the tsunami-stricken areas of the Indian Ocean.

But now, after all those years of sleeping in the master bedroom of the White House, he was consigned to this disgusting closet.

The Millard Fillmore "Suite."

Eight years of lousy tips, back to haunt him.

Time to find an intern and a cigar.

Beats sleeping on a plane's deck, right?

I really didn't like the topic for the day, but I made the best of it and swore I'd pick an even worse one as revenge when my time came up again.

Bond held up the gun and raised an eyebrow.

"Excuse me, R," he said. "What does this do again?"

"Pay attention, Double Oh-Seven!" admonished R. "First, it kills a person for just ten minutes. Then, it turns their hands bright orange, enough to see from 8 kilometers away."

"Eight kilometers?" asked Bond. "Lovely."

"Of course, it also turns your hands blue," said R. "And you get only one shot."

Bond put the gun down and sighed.

He looked around Q's old lab, tables piled with other useless creations of R.

"I miss you, Q," he muttered. "This fucker's a loony."

Bond. James Bond.

I got a little political today on 100 Words Or Les Nessman with my treatment of Wild Journalists as a dying breed of animal.

The legendary Wild Journalist was reknowned for its drab plumage, tireless hunting of facts, and hard-nosed competitive nature.

Down through the ages, onlookers would stand in awe of its relentless pursuit of news, serving the public's interests by seeking out and spearing vermin among public office and commerce with acid tongue and razor-sharp wit. No community was complete without its population of Wild Journalists serving to guard them from vicious predators.

Once common, today the Wild Journalist's numbers have greatly declined in recent years, thinned by various domesticated breeds: Celebrity Asskissers, Empty-suited Egos, Craven Appeasers, Corporate Tools, and Agenda-Driven Propagandists.

It's odd how we bloggers still hunt them for their pelts.

The topic was "Daliwali" and I had no idea what that meant. I decided it would serve as a good name for a fake African country.

To what purpose? You will just have to read and listen.

"Fifty billion" said Thabo, watching the telly of the G-8 press conference.

"That's an awful lot of jack," said Mohammed. He crushed his soda can and tossed it into the wastebasket. "Awful nice of the blokes to offer it up. So, how do we get our mitts on it?"

"We just need a name, a flag, and a big enough bag," said Thabo.

Mohammed reached into the wastebasket.

"Daliwali," he read from the can.

"Pretty." Thabo smiled. "How about the flag?"

Seven hours and two suit rentals later, they were heading to Edinburgh.

All in the good name of Daliwali.

I hear there's at least three members of the UN who are just like how I described.

The picture was of a row of babies in cribs with headphones on. I was reminded of experiments that showed that music had no effect on plant growth and had a little Lysenkoist thrill by turning the research upside-down. The result is yet another cannibalistic fantasy, a strangely recurring theme in my work.

Studies have shown that playing classical music causes a plant to grow faster and stronger than if a plant is raised in an environment with rock and roll music, noise, or complete silence.

It turns out that the same goes for babies. Classical music makes them grow quickly and in good health. And if you pump the music in directly through headphones, you block out the crying noises of other babies, which turns out to be somewhat infectious and irritating.

Nice, juicy babies.

Removing the hair and bones cleanly and rapidly through automation is something we're still working on, however.

Sick, I tell you!

So, you're wondering about the Michael Jackson story? Well, every now and then I write up two or three stories for a given theme on 100 Words Or Les Nessman. Usually, I store the better stories away for future projects or uses, but this time I decided to post both efforts.

I knew I'd win. Inviting the jury to a party at my ranch did the trick. Surprisingly, none of them tattled on me, despite huge rewards those nasty tabloids offered.

My fans, they love me.

It's hard to celebrate, though. My back is killing me, but the pills they give me don't help anymore.

They aren't completely useless, though. Mix them right, and you get GHB. That takes care of the memories.

A nice hot shower washes away the physical evidence.

But never mind all that. Thanks for helping me with my pants, Johnny. Now help me with my shirt.

I'll let you decide which is better and which is sillier due to my high squeaky falsetto.

I had originally posted a jab at Wacko Jacko for the 100 Words Or Les Nessman theme, but I also wrote one that made fun of the Crucifixion. Apparently, people liked that one better, so I did a substitution.

My loincloth's slipping, I've got a splitting headache from the heat and the crown of thorns, and there's not a damned thing I can do about it.

"Help!"

I look down. Mom's there, crying her eyes out.

"Quit crying, Mom," I shout down to her. "Get me a towel or something."

She just kneels and weeps.

Wonderful.

"Shut up, freak!" shouts a soldier. He jabs me with a spear.

"Damn!" I yell. "Asshole!"

That's when it starts to rain.

"Thanks, Dad," I mumble Heavenward. "What a fucking shitty day this turned out to be."

I should have checked my horoscope.

Don't worry. You'll see both up here at some point, however.

I'll admit that I didn't folow today's theme precisely, extracting "violin" from the book quote and having a little fun with history.

You've probably seen the movies where Chicago gangsters all had Thompson machineguns in violin cases.

That couldn't be further from the truth.

The real story is that gangsters went around with violins in Thompson machinegun cases. So when there was a dispute between rival gangs, each side would rosin up their bows and have a hootenanny.

Benny. Youngman.

Perhaps you're heard of them?

At his peak, Capone went around with a whole orchestra. He'd bought out the Chicago Symphony's string section before Elliot Ness shut his operation down.

Trying to improperly deduct replacement strings from his taxes did him in.

I'm really not happy with the Mustard Man and Abe Lincoln stories I have in draft form, so it may be a while before I post more of them.

So, how do Greek Gods handle overtime?

Not well, according to certain Titans.

Atlas looked over his shoulder and saw... nothing.

"Where did the sky go?" said Atlas.

"The Universe is over," said Zeus, appearing in a thunderblast. "The Heavens and all underneath are finished."

Atlas looked around. He tried to jump for joy, but he could barely move.

"Cramps," he groaned. "So, what do I do now?"

"Not sure," said Zeus. "But just remember that you can only carry forward six weeks of vacation time annually."

Atlas growled.

"And because you were exempt and salaried, just forget about overtime."

And that, my friends, is how the Second War Of The Titans began.

Mythology makes it easier to jump-start an already-brief story.

Discovery was supposed to launch yesterday, so I made the topic of 100 Words Or Les Nessman "discovery."

A boot strikes the beach, then a knee, a large metal helmet with a ridiculous amount of plumage, and finally a Spanish Flag.

"I claim this land in the name of Queen Isabella," cries the explorer.

Thirty feet down the beach, the same process is repeated for the glory of Portugal. Fifty feet beyond that, God is implored to save the British Queen.

Soon, the beach was filled with flag-waving, angry explorers.

Concealed in the tall grass, the natives laughed.

"Two bushels of maize on Birdman," said Walks With Limp to Sneaking Weasel.

"In the end," mumbled Shaman, "we lose."

The results were significantly better than what happened in Florida, I think.

Spun another hunk of straw into gold today. Decided to pull a Frank J. and beat up some monkeys.

What's with the chimp heads on the wall?

Well, ever been attacked by a vicious band of chimpanzees?

It sucks.

One minute, I was walking out of The Gap with all-new underwear. The next minute, I was on my back with a pair of black eyes and this weird screeching in my ears.

Damn chimps! Damn dirty chimps!

How the chimpanzees got in the mall, I have no idea. But to tell you the truth, that was none of my concern.

They weren't leaving with my underwear.

And, by God's grace, they didn't. Killed them all.

Care for a cigar?

I love narratives.

The Tale of Sir Vapid has been told many times in the past. Do a Google Search for Sir Vapid and you'll find him in sites of varying states of decay as well as some old talk.bizarre threads.

Sir Vapid paid for musicians to accompany him on his adventures. He thought he'd be more impressive with some kind of theme music.

So a deal was struck, and off they went.

They climbed mountains, crossed swamps, went on holy pilgrimages, and even negotiated a treaty between some farmers and an ogre.

"Impressive," said King Richard. "You'll go far, Vapid."

But the moment he got into a fight, the other knight ran him through with a sword.

"Perhaps I should have bought some armor instead of minstrels," were his final words.

They played at his funeral for no additional charge.

Only now have I gone ahead and contained his adventures in a 100 word story format.

Oksy, so I got a little culturally insensitive and politically incorrect with the theme today, but I like it. And if you don't, well, there's always tomorrow.

I'm standing on the corner, gun in hand.

People quickly peer out of windows, lean out of doorways and parked cars.

Buses crawl by.

I take aim, and shoot them all.

Perfect.

I reload, and a schoolgirl hugging a cat comes out from behind a lamppost.

Drilled her right through the forehead. Ten points.

Suddenly, a man in a turban with a bomb in his hand leans out of the bus.

I plug him, too.

The lights come up.

Damn!

"What do you think you're doing, Achmed?" yells the instructor. "A curse upon your mustache!"

I beg forgiveness and reload.

The accent took three takes, by the way.

The photo of the day was of a young Captain Caveman kid with a huge club and a sad burlap sack hanging on a rope. So, I got ugly with it.

We put a bag over Scottie's head, hand him a club, and tell him to start swinging.

The finesse of piñata is in knowing when to yank the rope. At some point, you have to let the kid land a blow or two.

It's like toying with a cat. You can't keep teasing the cat forever. Eventually, the cat gets frustrated and gives up.

Also, piñata challenges the senses. Even though Scottie is blindfolded, he can still determine the piñata's location by the sound of the jingling bell inside.

I knew I should have taken the cat's collar off first.

I know that this is too close to Edloe's death, but the story just begged for it and I need to bleed off some of my pain.

Three guys in togas face an unknown subject. Who is that subject? I think it's Sally, and she's facing a really tough decision.

Sally sipped her drink and sighed.

Bachelor Number One was a lawyer. An excellent dancer, but a total asshole when drunk. She had the scars to prove it..

Bachelor Number Two was a mechanic. All he did was talk about cars, work on cars, and he often came to bed without washing his greasy, grimy hands.

Bachelor Number Three lived in his parents' basement. He wore pajamas and insulted liberal journalists on the Internet all day.

Sally reached into her purse, flicked a switch, and felt a reassuring hum.

As usual, she ended up going home with "Bachelor Number Four."

Poor Sally!

Once again, I had control over the theme at 100 Words Or Les Nessman and I just pissed away any hope of producing a quality piece. Instead, I went the cheap and easy "shove a wild monkey up someone's ass" route as most hack writers do.

It didn't take long for Isaac Parker to establish himself as "The Hanging Judge" when he came to Ft. Smith in 1875, but have you ever heard of "The Shove A Wild Monkey Up Their Ass Judge?"

Unlike Parker, Judge Augustus Marmoset had absolutely no compassion whatsoever, even for the victims. They were just as likely to hear "Shove a monkey up that son of a bitch!" as criminals dragged into his court.

Back then, monkeys were rare and expensive, so he eventually ran out.

That's when he started using midgets in monkey suits...

Oh, NOW you've heard of him?

Next week on the History Channel...

Well, today's topic for 100 Words Or Les Nessman was "donkey." And if you look in the upper-right corner of this site, you'll see a pledge not to engage in politics. Same pledge goes for 100 Words Or Less Nessman.

I violated that rule twice today, taking three attempts to avoid posting about Les. However, since both stories were pretty darned good, I'll post them here with a warning that the content is political and this one could be constructed as looking askance at a certain Religion Of Peace.

Mohammed loaded the donkey with explosives, said his final prayers, and headed for the checkpoint.

"The Zionist infidels will drown in their own blood," he mumbled.

Mohammed was tempted to squeeze the trigger early, but Achmed had
said "At the front of the line!"

"But what of the people in line?" he had asked Achmed.

"Seventy-two virgins for each," was the response.

"And the donkey?" he asked.

"Seventy-two virgins for him, too."

Donkey virgins?

"Next!" yelled the soldier.

Suprised, Mohammed looked around and squeezed.

Nothing.

The next day, soldiers surrounded Achmed.

He didn't surrender.

"Seventy-two virgins for him," mumbled Mohammed.

Now that's funny!

This is the second violation of the no politics rule. When I got the e-mails telling me that my first story violated the no politics rule, I rattled this story off in a few minutes and sent it back via email.

Most people see pink elephants when they're drunk, but tonight I saw a pink donkey.

"What's the deal?" I asked the pink donkey.

Ever seen a donkey shrug before? Well, now I have.

"Blame George Soros," said the pink donkey. "He's been buying up liquor stocks and forcing the companies to add a special secret ingredient that turns pink elephants into pink donkeys."

"So everybody sees pink donkeys now?" I asked.

"Nope," said the donkey. "Just the drunks in the red states."

"Is it safe?" I asked.

"Hell no," said the donkey. "You'll be dead in minutes. Hillary in 2008!"

I'm still trying to figure out a better ending than "Hillary in 2008!" It's pretty damned funny, though.

Okay, so you want to know what the finalstory was that answered the theme topic of donkey? Fine. I busted my head open trying to figure out how to add donkey to a shopping list for a grocery run, took two steps back, and looked at our miniscule wine rack.

I work for a winery in California, answering the calls on the 800-number.

Most of the calls are complaints, but every now and then I get a world-class weirdo.

Just this morning, someone asks, "What sort of wine goes with donkey?"

Now, I'm no expert, but a bunch of experts wrote up a list of what goes with what. We've got different kids of steaks, all sorts of chicken dishes, and even suggestions for squid and octopus...

"Nothing for donkey," I say. "Sorry."

"Fine," says the caller. "I'll serve beer. Thank you."

And he hangs up.

I need a vacation.

Problem solved, but it sucks compared to the other two stories.

The new backup catcher for the Houston Astros is named Humberto, so that's where I got the name of the kid in this story.

The Caesar Chavez Middle School Spelling Bee was drawing to a close. Twenty-three kids had left the stage, and it was down to Shirley and Humberto.

Once again, a blue card was drawn from the deck on the podium.

"The word is insomnia," said the judge. "Insomnia"

Shirley took a deep breath and closed her eyes. "Insomnia," she shouted. "I-N-S..."

"INS??????"

The auditorium burst into chaos. Half the audience raced to the exits. The other half drew guns and shouted various curses in Spanish.

The Spelling Bee judge sighed. "I hate holding these things in San Diego."

Eventually, Humberto won.

Yeah, I know. They're not called INS anymore. But try telling that to the illegals, okay?

So, we're supposed to say something about a rialto? Well, why not the actual Rialto in Venice. Let's play a bit with that Rialto, shall we?

I have no memory of Venice.

I've been told that I've been there. Twice. But aside from this pair of scars on my temple and two receipts from Lethe Incorporated, I really can't tell you anything about it.

However, every time I see the Rialto or St. Marks in a movie or in an article I'm looking up, I get that odd sense of familiarity. As familiar as my own breathing.

And I want to go back. For the first time. Again.

Confusing, right?

You know, there's that hotel in Vegas that looks like Venice.

I should go there instead.

The title comes from that new Joe Walsh tune about him kicking the drinking habit.

Okay, so today was the first time I punted and did a Les Nessman story on the site. I feel awful. Awful enough to go nuts on Saddam Hussein and the folks who think that a genocidal campaign against the Marsh Arabs is just hunky dory.

Les Nessman didn't feel like he had to share an office with others, so he had tape on the floor to lay out the boundaries of his imaginary office.

Pathetic, but amusing.

What if Les Nessman had been sent to Iraq to cover Saddam's genocidal campaign against the Marsh Arabs and had ended up in a mass grave with tens of thousands of other victims? Would he have marked out the boundaries of his own "personal grave" to set him apart from the others he was forced to share a grave with?

Of course not, stupid. Because he'd be dead.

Don't worry, leftist moonbats. I'll have a happy apolitical story in a bit.

I haven't posted this one anywhere yet, so here goes...

Want to know your future?

Well, some psychics read tealeaves. Others read palms.

I know a few who even still read those goofy Tarot cards.

My pal Elmo's different. He calls himself the Whizzing Wizard. Or the Whizzard for short.

He can tell your future by drinking your urine.

Not directly, mind you. He's got a silver bowl to drink it out of.

Other psychics think it's awful. They call him "Trickle Me Elmo."

But they're just jealous, because he's pretty damned accurate.

Elmo's problem is he charges a bloody fortune for his services.

But, hey, can you blame him?

Mikeypod liked it so much, he used it for his own podcast. I've got a fan!

I love that scene in the first Indiana Jones movie where the guy waves his scimitar around and gets blown away.

Well, here's the explanation for that scene and what happens next.

So I'm shopping for a new turban, minding my own business, when this American starts chasing these guys with a huge basket. He's lashing a bullwhip around like a five-tongued frog in a fly swarm.

Allah, how I hate tourists!

So, the crowd gets out of my way, and I pull out my scimitar.

Yeah, my Dad gave this to me. Great balance, huh?

Anyway, I wave it around a bit. I figure it'll scare him off or something.

The crowd eats it up, and suddenly the crazy son of a bitch shoots me.

So, Allah, where's my seventy-two virgins?

Don't you just love my monologues?

Even though I was in charge of picking the theme, I selected a word with double meanings without having pre-written a story for it. So, I came up with this piece of trash.

It's simple, Doc. If I don't wind my watch, the world stops.

My mother told me that. And since I was five, I've kept this watch wound up.

I've gone through so many wristbands, but the watch itself just keeps on ticking.

Never overwound, mind you. That makes time go by too fast. It's hard enough keeping up as it is.

Once, some guy stole my watch on the subway, but I got it back before the world stopped.

I planned on giving it to my daughter, but Sarah took her. No forwarding address.

So, now will you clone me?

From now on, I'll try to do multiple stories when the one word theme has multiple meanings.

Let's have a little fun at Bush's expense, okay? How about a beta test of the perfect administration worker gone horribly wrong?

Dear Microsoft,

We are returning your test unit from the Microsoft OfficeAndroid Bob beta program.

Yes, we were impressed with Bob's digilence and endurance, but there are some problems with the verbal interface:

* When told to "Bounce this off of Dick," Bob cracked three of the Vice President's ribs.

* "Light a fire under Mueller's ass" resulted in second-degree burns to the FBI Director that required skin grafts.

* Finally, "Help me wrap my head around what you're saying" caused the tragic death of our Transportation Secretary.

So, we'll wait for Version 2.0.

Thank you,
Andrew Card
White House Chief of Staff

Want to know what the difference is between a chef and a cook?

They flipped a coin.

Bob won. "You type."

When Terrence typed "Cook" in the field for Occupation, Bob balked.

"He's a chef, not a cook," said Bob.

"There is no difference between chef and cook," said Terrence. "Chefs are professional cooks, and professional only means that you're getting paid."

"Professionalism means more than just payment," said Bob. "There's an element of experience, and dedication you're leaving out."

"Fine," said Terrence. As always, he got out the correction fluid, painted over "Cook" and typed in "Chef."

"Thank you," said Bob. "So, what does the coroner think?"

"Medical examiner. "

Bob groaned.

In the end, there's no real difference.

So we were supposed to talk about earth or The Earth, and all I could think of was just a petty squabbly between two astronomers.

King Richard sighed. There was another fight in the Royal Observatory. Five assistants were laid up at the Healer's.

"Bring those damned eggheads here!" shouted the king.

"Yes, Sire," said the Chamberlain.

Phillips and Mossbeard were still attacking at each other, even as the guards threw them to the throne room floor.

"The Earth revolves around the Sun!" shouted Phillips.

"The Sun revolves around the Earth!" shouted Mossbeard.

Richard scowled at them both.

"Off with their heads!" he shouted.

"Sire?" asked the Chamberlain.

"They are both wrong," said the king. "The world revolves around me."

"Yes, Sire," said the Chamberlain.

Why is it that everything I write ends up in death and violence?

Things are typically rather quiet on the weekends at the 100 Words Site, so I'm wondering if I'll be the only one to have written on today's theme of a picture of a dollar on top of some kind of peak or altar.

Unregulated currency flow can be a dangerous thing.

First, they started with banks. They seemed innocent enough.

Then came ATMs, advertised as "Where you need them" but actually positioned along lines of economic-force that Mayan astrologers calculated centuries ago.

Finally, cathedrals to The Almighty Dollar appeared at convergence points.

That's when they began to pull.

Tensioned lines of economic-force buckled the fabric of reality. Time-space twisted worldwide.

In some places, it tore.

It's been centuries since Wall Street exploded with vicious Keynesian Multipliers. Since then, man has slowly returned to barter and trade.

Supply and demand. Back to basics.

Should the 100 Words Or Les Nessman site go dark on the weekends, I'll still write, post, and record a 100 word story on Saturday and Sunday here and on my main site. If you've got a challenge for a theme for those stories, send them to me via e-mail or IM as early as possible so I have a change of pondering that theme for a bit instead of just playing the wild card.

It's taken me over a month to record this one. It's based on the ending of the post I wrote when Edloe passed away.

There are three kinds of empty cat collars in this world.

All those collars at the pet store. So hard to choose. Will it look good? Does it have a bell? Is it a safe collar for them to wear if they get tangled in something? How long will they take to get used to it?

Sometimes, a collar wears out. Or it breaks. They just get thrown out with the rest of the garbage. Once again, you buy another.

But every now and then, an empty collar means something else:

A dear, beloved friend is gone.

Those, you keep.

Ask me what episode of the television series Taxi I remember most and it won't bt Famous Amos or when Latka turns into Alex.

It's when Alex loses Buddy.

Empty collars are pwoerful things. Powerful magic in them.

This is the eighth attempt at recording this piece. Still couldn't get it quite right, which I think means I got it just right.

What kind of mad scientist evil genius would steal every one of the ten thousand lakes of Minnesota? Evil Ned would.

Evil Ned rubbed his hands together and cackled as the massive pumps churned into the night.

"Are you sure this is going to work, Ned?" asked his sidekick Ralph.

"Minnesota will pay dearly to get their ten thousand lakes back!" said Ned.

Ralph stood by the last of the lakes and watched the water level slowly sink. The shore shrank away, and he walked along the muddy lakebottom.

"I feel bad for the fish," said Ralph. "They'll die."

"A sacrifice I'm willing to make," said Ned. "Oh, and grab a few of those fish. We'll grill them for dinner tonight."

Evil Ned will be back.

This is an entry from my main blog that came to me when some Turkish wacko thought you could cancel your account then ask to get the data from your webserver.

So, this jackass from Turkey writes an email asking to get the files off of his webserver. I look up his account.

He cancelled his service a few days ago.

Wouldn't any rational human being download all their files first, then cancel the service? Or are things that different in Turkey? Do they do everything ass-backwards, like eating the cone before the ice cream, slipping on the condom after having sex, or dropping trou after taking a dump?

Man, no wonder why the EU doesn't want those crazy bastards in their club. Europe is messed up enough as it is.

There. I feel much better.

I had control of the theme on Tuesday, so I checked the headlines and came up with the word crown. And this is the story I put together after much soul-searching.

My theory about Jughead is that he's really a member of the Royal Family, smuggled into Riverdale to protect the royal bloodline from extinction in the event of an emergency.

This makes sense if you consider that Jughead first appeared in Archie Comics in 1941. England was in danger of falling to Hitler, so hiding a Royal in America would make perfect sense.

Even though this explains the crown, this doesn't explain his lack of an accent. However, through intense brainwashing sessions and the proper application of high voltages to his genitals, anything is possible.

Heck, just look at Sting.

Okay, so it sucked.

When I think of the first day of school, I think drugs. Who's taking, who's dealing, and who's squealing.

On the first day of school, the most important thing to do is to identify who's dealing what drugs this year. Sometimes, your connection ends up getting transferred to another school or sent to juvie, and you need to get your fix through someone else.

One thing's for sure: the prices always go up. The stuff they sell might change from grade to grade, even though you can always find the classics if you look hard enough, but you'll always shell out more for that same high.

And people think the three months off is why I teach.

As if!

Why? Is there something else to think of these days?

Oh. Right. And guns.

So the theme of the day had to do with going on a vacation. Yeah, I could use a blog vacation. I'll just make sure that nothing is left out of the vacation package.

Back in the Twenty-First Century, "complete" vacation packages would leave out things like drinks and meals. That $999 tour of Europe ended up costing several thousand dollars when you factored in those items, despite their appearing on all the brochures.

These days, vacationers are still ignorant of what's missing in these kind of heavily discounted tour packages.

Sure, you can assume that gravity may not be present if you're in a spinless hull. But woe be to the traveler who goes to sleep in their cabin and misses the alarm signalling the end of the complimentary ten minutes of oxygen.

This narrative was inspired by Douglas Adams.

The challenge was to write something about the number five.

Wendy rubbed her sweat-covered forehead and gritted her teeth.

It was always the same: first the pain, then the visions. Screaming. Seeing Satan in her five children. Drowning them in the tub.

And blinding, mad agony.

"Why is this shit happening to me?" she screamed, reaching for the Excedrin bottle. "I don't have any kids!"

The pain stopped.

"No children?" said a voice in her head. "I'm sorry, is this the Yates Residence?"

"They're next door," whimpered Wendy.

"Oh," said the voice. "My mistake. Sorry for bothering you."

The demon flowed from Wendy's nose, shrugged, and wafted out the door.

So, I went with the most Texas five I could think of.

I decided to take the theme of a barrel and make a glowing tribute to Frank J. of IMAO with it.

Want to know what's more fun that a barrel full of monkeys? Watching the idiot trying to put them in there.

Okay, so you put a monkey in the barrel, close the lid, and grab another monkey. Sure enough, the monkey you got in there will escape the moment that lid comes off.

Frank has an easy solution to this: He kills the monkeys.

Sure, you could tranquilize them, but Frank really hates monkeys. And he really likes killing them.

By the time he fills up the barrel, well, he's had about as much fun as he could possibly have.

I guess I hate monkeys, too.

My apologies to any Greeks listening to the podcast, but I couldn't come up with any better name for the sculptor in this story at the time.

Malakas the Sculptor hated rush jobs.

He preferred to plan out his work, drawing up the plans and measuring out the perfect proportions for everything. Sharpening chisels and testing the material was his favorite part of the process, not the actual work.

Fat chance. The king was due back in Athens tomorrow, and the priests needed the temple frieze completed tonight.

So, Malakas worked. And he drank. Heavily.

The intricate battle scene turned into a screed mocking King Demetrius. By the time he fit the last word in, the priests saw what he was doing, screamed, and had him executed.

I think the name's appropriate.

There's themes I like, and there's themes I don't. But in the end, it's what they inspire that matters, regardless of whether I like them or not.

In his hideout, Ayman Al-Zarqawi pouted.

"They love the Hezbollah and Hamas," he grumbled. "The parades. The diplomacy. The material support. Why not me and my resistance fighters?"

That's when Wheel of Fortune came on the television, and the idea hit Zaraquawi like a brick.

---

It's a blend of People's Court and Wheel of Fortune. Collaborators and sinners confess their crimes against Islam, the Sharia judge finds them guilty, and they spin The Wheel.

Most of it says "BEHEADING."

Know what's sick? "AMPUTATION" actually brings relief and joy to the condemned.

And even sicker, it'll be on CBS soon.

The wheel was no exception, even if I didn't have enough verbage to explain the whole "Amputation" sight gag.

I screw with a beloved literature classic with the headstone. I just can't write a serious piece.

Scrooge looked at the anonymous headstone and laughed.

"Is this what you brought me here for, Spirit?" he cackled. "Who in blazes is this?"

Death's skeletal hand reached into his robe, pulled out a dusty ledger, and shrugged.

"Ummmmmmmm," it said. "Dunno. Sorry."

"This means nothing," said Scrooge. "I can afford the best doctors. The best of the best. I've got plenty of sand in my hourglass, asshole."

When Scrooge woke up, he hired a few men from the docks to pay Cratchitt's family a visit.

"KILL!"

Let's just say that Tiny Tim wasn't the only one who needed crutches.

Okay, Empty Collars being the notable exception.

Don't ask me where I came up with the name Mohowuku. I was just trying to have a little fun with a theme I came up with before I had my first coffee of the morning.

You won't find Mohowuku on a map. It doesn't exist yet.

Well, it exists, but not as an independent country.

Yet.

The ink is still drying on their constitution. The thatching on the Parliament Hut is fresh and tight. The god-totems have been polished to a luscious shine. Even the flag has that new-flag smell to it.

Minor problem with the anthem, though.

Oh, it's breathtaking. Majestic strings, soaring flutes... to hear it is to know the angels' laughter.

Sadly, the Mohowuku only know how to play steel drums.

The composer was absolutely furious.

And, according to the Mohowuku, delicious.

Hey, it's better than Aruba.

Okay, the necrophilia story count is now up to two. Blech. You've been warned.

In a little less than three years from now, the killer will sweep away the pile of flowers on the grave, left behind after the memorial service.

He picks up his shovel and begins to dig.

The shovel strikes something. He taps. Twice.

He breaks the vault, leans up the coffin, and rips it open.

Her.

"Hello darling," he croaks. "Missed me?"

Then, he lights a candle, sticks it in a cupcake, and places it in her rotting hands.

A gravely "Happy Birthday" echoes across the moonlit graveyard.

He checks his watch. Then the headstone.

"You're legal now," he grins.

Gross, eh?

One of my favorite characters to play with is Hans, a sociopathic Dutchman who is the ultimate iconoclast. He resurfaces briefly stomping the tulips.

Hans hated tulips. He had a special pair of tulip-stomping boots he wore when he went on his tulip-stomping walks.

"Why do you do this?" said his neighbors. "Tulips are beautiful."

"Tulips are Satan's handiwork," growled Hans, stomping.

Hans' neighbors replanted the tulips.

And Hans kept stomping them.

The neighbors were worried for Hans, so they asked the mayor to pay Hans a visit.

They argued, Hans stomped the mayor (with his mayor-stomping boots), and the neighbors began to worry for themselves.

That night, an angry mob killed Hans.

I bet you can guess what flowers were at the funeral.

Hans will be back.

The theme for the day was the word mistake, so I decided to pay tribute to one of Burroughs' famous charaters. I also mocked the Crucifixion in another story based on the theme, which I'll record and post sometime today.

Dr. Benway held his face in his bloody hands and moaned. Another surgery was over.

The patient was in recovery, still unconscious.

Sadly, that wouldn't last. And then...

"This is going to be expensive," said the hospital administrator. "Very expensive."

"You know, I used to get angry when patients marked their healthy arm with DO NOT AMPUTATE in magic marker," said Benway. "Where was the magic marker on this one?"

"On his left arm," said the administrator. "But you cut off his left leg."

"So I should have cut off his right leg?" asked Benway.

"Go home," said the administrator.

Benway's best boast was when he said he could do surgery with a rusty pudding tin lid.

The Monk has an unusual talent. Or, is he the unusual talent himself?

Ever seen the monk?

He looks like a burlap-wrapped lump with darkness in the openings of his dirty robe.

However, if you offer paper to the monk, he'll twist and shudder for a few moments before placing an intricate origami sculpture on the sidewalk.

These aren't just swans and horses and crabs. No, these are amazing things he folds into existence, like merry-go-rounds and jugglers - they actually move.

Unfold them, and they're just sheets of paper. No magic at all.

Once, I reached in his robe. It stung, and my hand came away bloody.

Just like a paper cut.

I like it when a character doesn't speak. It's very hard for me to do.

Revenge is a dish best served cold, and I couldn't wait for Halloween for this sordid tale of toilet paper.

Sam and Joe dropped off their bags, took off their masks, and went back to Old Man Jasper's.

The trees groaned in the breeze.

"I don't like this," said Sam. "Let's go."

"He gave out crappy candy," said Joe. "He has to pay for it."

Joe tossed a roll of toilet paper over a tree branch.

"See?" said Joe.

Suddenly, the tree reached down and hauled Joe up by the leg.

"HELP!" Sam screamed. "HELP!"

The old man looked out the window, laughing.

I TP'ed a house once. I was 26 at the time.

"That's the way" is a Burroughs/Waits piece from The Black Rider album. "That's the way the market crashes" is the best line from the poem read by the ancient writer, and I play with that concept a bit.

"Honestly, I have no idea what this means," said Foster, running the tickertape through his hands. "I just like the feel of the paper and I look good doing it."

"How about a graph?" said Duke. He flicked on the overhead projector light, and a black line wiggled down... down... down...

"We're broke!" screamed Foster.

"No we're not," said Duke.

"The market's crashed!" yelled Foster. "It's all over!"

Foster jumped out the window, pulling a tickertape trail all the way down.

Duke looked up at the graph and said "oops."

He reached for the transparency and flipped it back around.

And there's that twisted ending I so enjoy. But you probably saw it coming from ten storeys up.

Larry Vanover is an MLB umpire with horrifyingly lax strike zone parameters, and he's inconsistent between pitchers, too. When he screwed over Andy Pettitte to give Greg Maddux another unjustified win, I got pissed.

One upon a time, there was a blind man who needed a job.

So, Major League Baseball hired him and dressed him in a black shirt and pads.

"When you hear the announcer say Greg Maddux is pitching, call strikes," said the league official. "And when you hear that Andy Pettitte is pitching, call balls"

"What if someone hits the ball?" said the umpire.

"Just listen to the crowd and you'll figure out of it's foul, a popout, or a home run," said the league official.

And the Cubs lived happily ever after, even though they didn't fucking deserve it.

What a bastard.

Man, Myth, and Magic was the theme, and Prometheus came to mind. A little bit of "We went through five Adams before we figured that out" from Dogma mixed in.

Prometheus looked down Olympus and smirked.

"Those people look really cold," he grumbled. "I guess I’d better help them."

Apollo’s chariot set the torch ablaze. Prometheus then cradled it as he stumbled down to the valley.

"Behold!" he shouted to a passing human.

"What's that?" asked the human. "Is it magic?"

"It's fire," said Prometheus, passing him the torch. "See?"

"Ah," said the human.

He shrugged, stuffed the torch in his mouth, and screamed in agony.

"At least he didn't shove it up his ass like the last one," Prometheus sighed as he climbed back up Olympus for more fire.

This is one of my favorites.

I don't like to share my dreams, so I guess this is my way of answering the "Share your last dream" theme at 100 Words.

I don't remember dreams. I wish I could, but I can't.

You see, Symantec was beta-testing a firewall product, and I fell asleep with my face on the keyboard. Somehow, my brain downloaded the firewall, and I blocked my dreams out with an iptables rule.

Oh, they're still there. Just blocked.

So I called Symantec, and forty minutes later I'm talking to some Indian:

"How am be helping you?" he says.

"I firewalled my brain," I said. "I'm blocking my dreams now."

"My dreams dot com?" he asks. "Dot net? Dot org?"

In the end, I was told to reboot.

I used to watch that Match Game show a lot. The best answers were from the guy who bucked the trend and actively resisted the question.

You probably know how the phrase ends. Bubba and Cletus have themselves a ding-dally of a time with a brand new solid brick outhouse. And when I say solid...

Bubba stepped back from the finished structure and wiped his brow with his cap.

"Nice outhouse," said Cletus. "Purty, too."

"Thanks," said Bubba. "No damn tornado's gonna knock this sucker down. I used rock-solid stone."

"What's with them statues on top?" asked Cletus.

"Gargoyles," said Bubba. "Looked sorta like that Notre Dame church, so I reckoned that it needed some gargoyles."

"Mind if I try it out?" asked Cletus.

"Go right ahead," said Bubba.

Cletus walked up to the outhouse, and then walked all the way around it.

"Where's the door?" asked Cletus.

"Door?" said Bubba.

Cletus laughed. Bubba didn't.

Poor Bubba.

I picked the topic of cross, but I didn't do the obvious Jesus post. Instead, let's cross a famous river in a new and interesting way.

"NEXT!" shouted a voice.

Arthur spat out the coin and handed it to the robed specter on the shore.

"Where's your boat?" he asked.

"Repairs," growled the ferryless ferryman. "Leaky hull."

"So how do I get cross?" asked Arthur.

"Hop on," said the ferryman, pointing to a catapult.

Arthur smirked. "Is it safe?"

"You're already dead," said the ferryman, shrugging. "What do you care?"

Arthur climbed on the catapult, and the ferryman grinned.

"Ready?"

"N-"

The ferryman pulled the lever, and Arthur was flung screaming into the gloomy mist.

"Replace me with a toll bridge, will they?" he grumbled. "NEXT!"

Established mythology makes it easier to write a very short story. You don't have to waste words establishing characters.

You have to see the freaked-out picture that was this day's theme to believe it. Although I think I wrote something that wasn't dependent on the photo. We'll see.

All of John's men were dead, so he hid underneath them for cover.

Strange shadows lurched along shattered walls. Something was walking towards John, but it was with a step neither robot nor man.

John tried to remember what Mother said his father had told her about the robots. Something about...

The something wandered close to a burning barrel. Its twisted, laughing face silently peered in all directions before it shambled off.

"The 600 series had rubber skin," he mumbled to himself. "We spotted them easy."

No mother could love that face, not that the thing ever had a mother.

My apologies to that Cameron guy.

The topic was posted late, so the topic was late itself. I guess this is a perfect time for the tale of the County of Vinodulce...

Like Monaco and Andorra, the pocket state of Vinodulce has sat peacefully in the mountains of Europe for centuries, retaining its own local culture and charm.

Count Vinodulce's descendants have been excellent, wise rulers in all aspects save one: punctuality.

They are notoriously late for everything. Even their own funerals.

So, to keep up appearances, the Count vainly adjusts clock and calendar. As a result, the ruling family always arrives on time. Hours, days, weeks, and even whole years are simply cast aside and ignored.

For all its modern amenities, Vinodulce is still quite literally living in the Seventeenth Century.

Yes, the asumption is that Vinodulce's family drinks a hell of a wine, passes out, and wakes up late for everything. (Not to be confused with Vitadulce, the neighbors they are constantly at war with. I'll talk about them at some point.)

I'd been saving this idea for a Crappy Bedtime Story, but I figure now is a good a time as any to use it...

"Is everyone ready?" said the Owl.

"Ready!" said the Hare.

"Ready!" said the Tortoise.

The Rat poked its nose from the undergrowth and winked at the Tortoise. "Ready," it said.

The Owl shrieked "GO!" and the Hare was gone like a bolt of lightning.

The Tortoise watched and chuckled.

---

The Hare sped along the racecourse he'd let the Tortoise pick out, through meadows and fields and finally down towards the farmhouse…

*SNAP*

The Hare shrieked in agony as four traps grabbed his body and ripped open his skin to the bone.

---

The Rat calculated their winnings.

The Tortoise munched lettuce.

This has been a cra-

Heh. Old habit.

Note to self - never choose a topic based on a Fark thread again.

This time, we play with tooth.

I swear I didn't mean to kill the Tooth Fairy.

I guess he forgot me or something, so twenty years later he's playing catch-up. When he came barging into my house last night, I woke up and shot him with the gun I keep under my pillow..

Now he's buried the back yard, tutu and all.

Of course, I kept his bag of coins. All I need to do is pull a tooth out from under a pillow and the appropriate change just appears in there. All I need are tons of teeth.

Open wide. This won't hurt a bit.

So you're wondering what I'd do with light bulbs today? Well, wonder no more!

The Talmud dictates that there should be "awe and trembling" upon a couple getting married. The destruction of a glass has its roots in superstition, but it took one pissed-off rabbi to carry the odd practice over to Jewish weddings.

But instead of smashing a glass as tradition dictates, most Jewish weddings these days have the groom smash a cheap light bulb wrapped in a napkin.

Which means, of course, those weddings aren't real weddings at all. Those couples are living in sin and shall be damned for it.

What do Jews break for a divorce?

The pre-nup, of course.

So when someone breaks a glass by accident, does this make them married by accident?

The theme was vanished, which is exactly what happened to my story:

Laurence grabbed the monitor and howled. "My story is not gone, dammit!" he yelled. "Give it back, you motherfucking motherfucker!" FILE NOT FOUND "I worked for hours on that goddamned thing! I looked up tons of pages on Wikipedia and IMDB, for crying out loud!" FILE NOT FOUND "Auuuuuuuuuuuuuuugh!" screamed Laurence. A cat ran out from behind the monitor. "Did you break it, you furry little shit?" yelled Laurence at the cat. The cat leapt off of the table and out the door. FILE NOT FOUND "Shit," said Laurence. "oh well." He pulled out a pen and began to write.

No, I'm not saying which cat it was.

I am in Chicago from Friday until Monday. Since I have no idea what the theme on 100 Words Or Les Nessman will be, here's a story about Les Nessman for your enjoyment.

Les Nessman never did manage to cover a hurricane, since Cincinnati isn't exactly in a hurricane-prone area and Mr. Carlson was very cheap when it came to the news division of his radio station. The travel budget was cab fare. However, if he had covered one, I think he'd have been an impressive sight in his rain slicker, boldly holding out his wind-meter like an intrepid soldier bearing a torch in the darkness. Of course, WKRP was a radio station, not a television news channel, so the viewers would have had no idea Les was doing any of these things.

There will be another Les Nessman story tomorrow.

I am in Chicago from Friday until Monday. Since I have no idea what the theme on 100 Words Or Les Nessman will be, here's a story about Les Nessman for your enjoyment.

I suppose if Martians had invaded Cincinnati, the public would have turned to Les Nessman for coverage. After all, Les doesn't just live and breathe news, but he practically oozes it. By licking Les Nessman, you might experience a news hallucination, much like thrill-seekers lick certain species of toads for the vision-inducing properties. No wonder why Johnny Fever was totally out of it. In his off-hours, he licked Les Nessman. Did he imagine he was licking Loni Anderson instead? Of course not. That would induce something entirely different. Something which I'll refrain from repeating here openly, if you don't mind.

There will be another Les Nessman story tomorrow.

I am in Chicago from Friday until Monday. Since I have no idea what the theme on 100 Words Or Les Nessman will be, here's a story about Les Nessman for your enjoyment.

With the advent of satellite radio, is there room for local news coverage of Les Nessman's heyday? I think so. After all, satellites are flimsy things that fly around like pinballs on a greased baking sheet. They fall and explode, too. Radio towers are tall, sturdy things. In fact, RKO Pictures had a one on the North Pole before those damn environmentalists demanded that it be torn town. It had something to do with those jaggy lightning bolts streaking out of the thing. Anyway, in this era of iPods and X-radio, I yearn for the Golden Age of Les Nessman.

There will be another Les Nessman story tomorrow.

Labor Day brings a topic of labor:

Cocaretzi is a Greek dish of stuffed ox intestines

It is also the name of Heracles' cousin. He was similrarly tasked with twelve labors.

Most of them involved solving petty disputes between neighbors. One was getting a bad wine stain out of a toga.

The final labor of Cocaretzi had to do with catering a picky Greek king's picnic. He was tired of the usual fare, so he challenged Cocaretzi to come up with something new.

Yes, this is where the ox intestines come in.

Cocaretzi was executed for the vile dish, but at least it forever bears his name.

When it doubt, go with established mythology or characters branching from that.

I am in Chicago from Friday until Monday. Since I have no idea what the theme on 100 Words Or Les Nessman will be, here's a story about Les Nessman for your enjoyment.

There was a running gag on WKRP that Les Nessman appeared with a bandage somewhere on his body. Richard Sanders showed up one day with a bandage on, and the writers decided to keep it going throughout the series. Sometimes, the bandage is not easy to spot. Those are the episodes you can assume that Les had a really bad evening the night before with a crackwhore, and she (or he) wasn't very delicate with Les's various important appendages. Who am I kidding? This is Les Nessman, dammit! No crackwhore will do. Um... Bailey and Jennifer in a Les Sandwich!

There will not be another Les Nessman story tomorrow. I'll be back home, and ready to write something based on whatever theme my cohorts come up.

Nobody liked the topic of pomposity, but I'm giving it a shot...

Xavier was the last of the Fosters of Foster, Iowa. He owned the local mill, railway, branch of the Iowa National Bank, and pretty much everything in town.

As editor and publisher of the local paper, he sang his praises daily. When that was not enough, he appointed himself grand marshal of a parade in his honor with an open air touring car lent from his dealership.

When he fell ill, the hospital that bore his name could not revive him, and Xavier was the final piece of the Foster jigsaw in the town's cemetery.

"Good riddance," sighed the town.

It's hard to separate the pompous from the arrogant.

Andy finally flaked out, leaving five Les Nessmanites. So I texted Michele with my idea for a topic... hot dogs:

Every July Fourth, there's some kind of hot dog eating contest at Coney Island. Some skinny Japanese guy always wins, which is why they think five full-sized adults can fit into one of their cars, I guess.

I can't eat animal fats anymore due to a crash diet my doctor came up with. This is why I buy the big Super Star Dogs at Minutemaid Park - they hold the most condiments like relish or mustard and onions.

Those vegetables are healthy right?

And I swear it's not my fault that someone put meat in between them and the bun.

Ira's in Northbrook sparked this fond topic.

I suppose you want something for the word fatigue as well?

Fatigued and wounded, King Kong clung to the building with his remaining strength. However, all he could muster was not enough, and his grip failed at the worst possible time.

As he fell, he realized that he should have carried the blonde in his mouth so his arms would share the strain of climbing the building.

He also decided that climbing the building was quite possibly a bad idea, too.

His nemesis told the gathered crowd that beauty killed the beast, but Kong's final thought was that poor planning and a lack of ergonomic awareness was a major contributing factor.

Try that on for size.

The theme was "write about a fashion show (any kind, any location) in the style of a crime scene reporter."

So I ignored it.

Here's one I wrote over the weekend. I hope you like it:

The majestic Orbital Hilton, the "Jewel of the Sky," also has the grim nickname of "The Suicide Space Suites."

Individuals with incurable terminal diseases often purchase one-way tickets to the hotel, run up gigantic tabs, and then cycle out of the airlocks buck naked. Or they will join a spacewalk hiking tour only to sever the safety tether.

Some take off their helmets, while others fire their thrusters at the earth so they burn up like shooting stars.

Because of this grim parade, hotel policy has been changed to require a substantial deposit for all guests, refundable upon return planetside.

I've got quite a bit of space-themes stories in my notebook.

We were asked to tell a tale about being lost in the woods, so here we go:

The sun went down, and night approached quickly.

Billy looked at the cheap Cracker Jack sticker and smirked.

"The toys they give out sure suck, right, Grampa?" he asked.

Grampa Fred slumped against a tree and said nothing.

"I guess I shouldn't have let the GPS thingy batteries run down."

Silence.

"If you still smoked, I'd have matches for a fire."

Billy looked at the Quit Smoking gum. He rubbed two sticks of it together and tossed them away.

"If only you hadn't run out of pills…"

Billy stopped. He looked around.

A pill! Another!

He followed the trail home.

I guess I should have said something about the hole in Grampa's pocket.

Oh well.

I penned this while watching Gerlado Rivera wade around in the muck of New Orleans and grandstanding for the camera. What a goddamned parasite news-looter he is.

Lighter than a feather, a buzzing mosquito follows the scent trail and lands.

It smells its surroundings, sniffing for blood.

Searching.

Searching.

The jagged proboscis digs, ripping through flesh for rich red blood. The mosquito drinks. Its belly quickly fills...SMACK!

"Goddamned parasite," yells the news cameraman. "Suck someone else's blood for a change."

"You're live in thirty seconds," the producer buzzes in his earpiece. "Live in thirty seconds."

The cameraman heaves the camera up on his shoulder and flicks on the power.

The thousands of exhausted survivors just sit and stare. The cameraman licks his dry lips and thinks Pulitzer.

There's been a lot of parasites out in force the past few weeks.

Not enough hands smacking them, I think.

Today's story was supposed to be about Vegas, but I think the timing's just right for...

Wynn put another zero on the check.

"It's tacky," said the mayor. "No."

"Tacky?" said Wynn. "This town was founded on tacky."

Wynn put yet another zero on the check.

"One more," said the mayor.

---

The eleventh finally arrived.

"Have they said how they're going to demolish it?" asked the tourist, standing behind a fence a block away from the New York, New York.

"It's a secret," said the cop. "They told us to keep you behind the barrier, that's all."

"Look!" shouted another tourist, pointing up.

That's when they saw the pair of airliners.

"Tacky," mumbled the cop.

Yeah, the story's tacky, too.

We had a photo of people in a zoo exhibit, and I was reminded of reports from the Superdome...

As the shelters filled up, FEMA Director Michael Brown challenged his team to come up with alternative housing arrangements.

Strategic placement of hurricane survivors on television talk shows absorbed 2,000 of them. Green room sofas sure are comfy.

Golf courses became Brownville shanty towns. Nothing wrong with camping. People love to camp.

Best idea of all was shipping them out to zoos.

"It works for the Chinese and those damn pandas, right?" said Brown.

Two problems: hurricane survivors don't live on bamboo like pandas, and they tend to fuck more often than pandas.

"Zoos can charge extra then," said Brown.

Brown was fired today. Good riddance to him.

It is 9/11. I posted a generic theme today at 100 Words about losing something.

Without language, nor lust. I guess you could still call it love.

They played backgammon at the café every evening. A bottle of wine between them - a smile, a wink. Nothing more than that.

One night, a madman shouted "GOD IS GREAT!" and exploded.

As if He needed reminding.

A week later, the man looked at the rebuilt café. He folded his tear-soaked paper, picked through the alleyway, and found a bloody chip.

Most people place stones on tombstones; he placed the chip.

Her husband showed him the way.

He never went back, except in his dreams.

And nightmares.

it is likely that this story will raise a few questions. I do not care to answer them at this time.

Some people think "This is not a drill" refers to an exercise.

I see it otherwise...

Rene slapped off the radio, shot out of bed, and ran to the studio.

His greatest idea yet! So much better than the men in bowlers, the green apples, and the hanging boulders!

He slashed at the canvas with his brush. No sky! No clouds! No background!

Tan. Just tan. Endless tan.

Rene then dabbed his brush into the various colors, shaping and shading the object of his desire.

"Fini!" he shouted. "Ceci n'est pas une foret!"

The lifelike electric drill shone proudly from the canvas.

"Rene, non foret," said Georgette.

"Non foret?" said Rene. "Beluge? Chat?"

"Pipe," Georgette said.

Yes, my French sucks.

I got to choose the topic today, so I took inspiration from the proposed closing of AstroWorld...

Gerald the Geek was famous for biting the heads off of live chickens. I don't think there's a county fair that hasn't had chicken blood drooled by Gerald on its midway.

One day, those wiseasses from PETA knock on my door, yelling all sorts of crazy demands.

"Let the elephants go free!"
"Stop torturing the horses!"
"Does the Snake Lady have an on-staff, full-time herpetologist?"

Blah blah blah. Damn hippies.

They also wanted Gerald fired. So Gerald did what came natural and bit their heads off.

If he gets out, it won't be for fifty years.

So, want the job?

The name of the geek was going to be Gilbert, but I don't think my dad would approve.

When faced with a photo of a man with a wide variety of skin art, I struggled all day to come up with something.

Thankfully, my commute affords me ample time to think and write.

Good. You're awake.

I'd like to explain why you're laid up in the infirmary, Captain.

Ensign Smith is from Far Colony through a rehab assignment. Among other practices, Far Colony's customs include the pictographic branding of all criminal acts.

Pointing to his mother's image and saying "Is that what's waiting for you back home" is a two-fold insult: reminding him of her murder and suggesting lewd acts with his mother.

Well, three-fold if you consider necrophilia, which they actually still consider a serious no-no.

What?

Well, you can still hold the pen in your mouth to sign the transfer order.

Not my best, but certainly not my worst.

I was supposed to come up with a marketing campaign for a vile breakfast cereal. So, this begs the obvious...

Abdul leaned over the cereal bowl and scowled. "What gives?" he asked.

"Notice how the cereal is shaped like shredded Zionist body parts," said Mohammed. "And the milk turns red."

"Nice touch," said Abdul. "What else?"

"Seventy-two raisins in every bowl!" beamed Abdul. "Just as Allah promised!"

"I thought we got virgins," said Abdul.

"It's a mistranslation," said Mohammed. "It's really raisins."

"Fine," said Abdul. "So, we call them Yasser-O's?"

"They're flakes, not circles," said Mohammed. "Resistance Flakes: A legitimate resistance to hunger for... um... freedom? Independence? Sovereignty?"

"Whatever," said Abdul. "Add a grenade as a prize and we're ready."

If only they presented a choking hazard.

I had to pick a topic at the last minute today, but I had some fun with it...

Master Kwan sat in front of the student, poured the pitcher into his glass, and stopped.

"Is the glass half-empty or half-full, Stinkbug?" asked the teacher.

The student scratched his recently-shaved scalp. "It is full, Master," he said.

"With what?" asked the teacher.

"It is half-full with water," said the student. "And half full of air. Half plus half is whole."

"Drink," commanded the teacher. "Fill the glass with air."

The student drank. "Delicious," he said, smiling.

"It is not water, Stinkbug," said the teacher. "It is poison."

"Then it is a delicious poison," said the student, and he died.

I also picked tomorrow's topic. Tomorrow's topic should come as no surprise if you have a good enough calendar.

We were supposed to think about a story that comes from a lack of sleep. I thought about hibernation and spaceflight and decided it would be better to mess with Alex Riger instead...

First, they wanted me to work a double shift. Lots of drivers are sick and it's a busy weekend.

More got sick, so after I got back to the garage, they offered a triple. I'd even get to take out one of the new cars if I worked it.

Hush hush.

I took the keys, slid into the most comfortable car seat of my life, and fired up the engine.

I don't think I've gotten so many fares in my life. And the tips have been extraordinary.

They'll help pay for this car when they pry me out of it.

Latka won't put that car together anytime soon.

I suppose it's time for today's theme, which involves pirate talk and at least three speakers.

The mighty pirate gang sailed the ocean blue for treasure and glory.

"Yar!" shouted Smitty.
"Yar!" shouted Pegleg.
"Yar!" shouted Captain Blood.

Many galleons did they board, plunder, and send to Davey Jones' Locker.

"Yar!" shouted Smitty.
"Yar!" shouted Pegleg.
"Yar!" shouted Captain Blood.

No crew was deadlier with a score of cannon than they.

"Yar!" shouted Smitty.
"Yar!" shouted Pegleg.
"Yar!" shouted Captain Blood.

And they were the most fearsome scurvy dogs on Brussels Sprouts and Onions Night.

"Light a match!" shouted Smitty.
"Open a porthole!" shouted Pegleg.
"No wonder why they call it a poopdeck!" shouted Captain Blood.

Happy Talk Like A Pirate Day!

I guess I could say this one's embodying the spirit of "I'm sorry."

Don't assume by Galactic Standard that writing systems are all right-to-left. Even some of that language's progenitor scripts went left-to-right and top-to-bottom.

Plask is the best example of a back-to-front script, and the intricate concentric design on my wall is actually an inside-out Helian manuscript. Toova is read like raindrops, scattered in a seemingly incomprehensible pattern only understood to their way of perception.

I'm fond of the scent-communications of Frond myself. The order you experience the various rich smells and tastes they emit determines the conceptual order.

Of course, all it took was one horrid fart to start a genocide.

Pass the baked beans.

Sorry if I have been a little lax in updating. Hurricane, you know.

Here's a story based on the word "bang."

Luis laughed as he tossed a rock over the railing down on to the busy freeway below.

"Missed," said Jesus. "My turn."

Jesus pulled a chunk of concrete from the crumbling curb and banged it against the road to break off the rough spots.

"This is for the win," said Jesus.

Neither Luis nor Jesus heard the engine of the car that rammed them into the railing. Jesus died instantly while Luis coughed blood on the hood.

Luis looked through the cracked windscreen at the driver's face.

"Game over, asshole," is what he thought the driver said.

And then, nothing.

Hood? Get it?

Bah.

Here's one to make up for the last of stories in the past few days...

One of the more peculiar phenomena in our universe is the bizarre asteroid belt surrounding Cygnus 7B.

Every asteroid appears to be shaped like a letter of the alphabet.

The upper-case block letters tumble and roll in a massive cloud. Sometimes they collide, pulverizing each other completely.

Scientists are baffled by this curious sight and have yet to offer any meaningful explanation for it.

Industry has shown no interest beyond tourism, since the asteroids contain no useful materials beyond compounds that are common planetside.

Military uses are frequent. Just aim, accelerate, and laugh.

"X marks the spot," you could say.

Okay, so it's weak.

We were supposed to surrender today as a theme, so let's check in with my favorite Frenchman...

Alexandre's unit was surrounded and running out of ammunition. The enemy was closing in and the situation looked bleak.

"Options?" he asked the men.

Nobody wanted to be the first to say surrender.

A mortar whistled overhead, and everyone ducked.

"We'll surrender," said Alexandre. "Time for the white flag."

Alexandre looked around, but all of the bandages were soaked bloody red.

He broke open a laundry parcel, but someone had washed the sheets with something red and they'd been stained pink.

"Will pink work?" he asked the men.

He tried it, and it sure gave the enemy a good laugh.

Weak, but I've been a little busy as of late.

The theme was baseball. Sorry I missed it. I hope this makes up for my silence.

It's a long fly ball.

I'm in the bleachers, and it takes me a second or so to realize the ball is headed straight towards me.

My hands are full, and I've got a choice: drop the beer and catch the ball or protect the beer and get hit with the ball.

I choose a third option: putting the beer down and trying for the ball.

I bend over, and I feel a thud on my back.

I drop the beer, and it spills as it rolls into the row below.

I guess there is crying in baseball, after all.

Like it?

We were asked to talk about a pleasantly-named subdivision or development, so...

So, how did this place get the name "Ancient Indian Burial Ground Corners?"

Because it's built on an ancient Indian burial ground.

When it rains, skeletons pop out of the weak points in the ground. Arrowheads lodge themselves in tires all the time. And cable reception's spotty when spirits gather to unleash spectral fury upon the defilers of their graves.

Not all is gloom and doom, though. The Little League team always wins because visiting teams have the piss scared out of them when they come here.

So, do you want a brochure, or are you ready to buy now?

I should have buried this story.

I asked everyone what a fifth season would be like. Here's my take on it:

Up here, they call we repair guys a "Scotty."

I have no idea why.

Sometimes, the motors and gyros on a solar array get jammed, and I have to suit up and go out to smack it with a hammer for a while.

We're supposed to use remote-robots to do this, but a good Scotty wants to smack the machinery with his own hand, not through some joystick or virtual glove.

Until the seals break, that is.

From a dry spring day in your suit to colder than the coldest winter in less than a second.

I call it Death.

Is there a better name for it?

The theme was "surrounded" and I decided to play with the concept of law enforcement against higher-dimensional beings.

It's not easy cornering a timefugitive, so when you shout "We have you surrounded" you'd better block them in all directions as well as in the past and the future.

Also, pandimensional hyperbeings may not understand "Come out with your hands up." Not only are you assuming they have hands, but in higher dimensions "up" is not always "un-down" and "out" may involve going further in and then wormholing back around.

Finally, "This is your last warning" is actually the first warning for retrotemporal outlaws. Those are the worst, since from their perspective they've only just gotten out of prison.

I think Rodney King may be four-dimensional. Or just an unrepentant crackhead.

A Biblical Bonus Story for your enjoyment...

Adam ran out of names by the time he got to the last three animals.

"What will you call this one?" asked Eve, holding up a furry, lumpy creature.

"I'm not sure," said Adam. "Goat?"

"No, you've already used that one," said Eve.

"Urchin?" he said.

"That's the prickly thing over in the lagoon," said Eve. "How about… platypus? Wait. You've use that one, too."

"Screw it," said Adam. He built a fire, and then cooked and ate the three creatures.

"I dub thee Breakfast, Lunch, and Dinner," he announced. "Now where is Rabbit? I need to wipe my ass."

Yeah, that punchline comes from another old joke.

I resisted the urge to have the witch, the skeleton, and the ghost walk into a bar. This is what happened instead...

Alfonse dragged the sack of bones out of the charnel house and down to the creek.

"Drown, you infernal hag," grumbled the old monk. He emptied the bones into the water.

That's how the Wasting Curse struck Creeksedge. Man and woman, child and beast broke out in massive, putrid boils. The sores would burst and run, making the victim mad with thirst.

More cursed water, more sores.

Then death.

Alfonse watched it all from his hut, drinking bottle after bottle of the abbey's wine.

The witch's ghost knocked over his candle, incinerating Alfonse as he slept.

Revenge, whispered the wind.

Alfonse the Monk was a character I wrote about many years ago. It's about time I killed the old monster off.

This is yet another bonus story for your enjoyment. I wrote this during my weekend in Shermer.

For their diamond anniversary, Bob and Lena wanted a divorce.

"He leaves the seat up," said Lena, "and his snoring keeps me up all night."

"She's a nagging, vicious shrew," said Bob. "Nothing I do is good enough."

They hired lawyers and prepared for battle. The networks caught wind of the story and sent reporters to cover the proceedings.

At nine in the morning, neither Bob nor Lena showed up to court. They were found in each other's arms in the bed they shared for three-quarters of a century.

Okay, so they strangled each other.

Keep that a secret, please?

You will keep that a secret, right?

Joel Schumacher is one of the worst directors of our time. So when the topic came up that I should imagine a novel of mine being passed to Joel to direct, my first instinct was "I'd kill the son of a bitch."

I tug the rope, and the beam holds.

"Good," I mumble, and I look back at Joel Schumacher. "You brought this on yourself, Hollywood."

He's tied up tight, lashed to the metal folding chair, rocking slightly on top of the table.

"Go ahead," I say. "Crack your head open."

The chair stops rocking. Joel's eyes get wide.

They get wider when I tie the noose around his neck and kick the table away.

I wait for a few minutes, cut him down, and toss him in the basement with Oliver Stone's corpse.

I told them Christopher Nolan or nothing, dammit.

They's probably send that assclown Chris Columbus next.

Well, another bleh theme at 100 Words Or Les Nessman today, so I ignored it and decided to close my eyes and play with some concepts floating around my head after watching a few Quay Brothers animations...

"Alive," mumbled the wizard, casually flicking his wand.

The chair, startled, walked around the table and settled back into its usual spot.

"Alive," yawned the wizard, waving his wand yet again.

The clock's hands spun. Then, the minute and second hands turned back and forth, seeking out the correct time.

The wizard smirked and wandered off to his workshop.

Later that evening, both the chair and the clock slowly died.

Nobody noticed, and nobody mourned their passing.

Just like every other object the wizard had brought to life, blithely ignored, and allowed to die.

Sometimes, life is cruel that way.

Isn't it?

Ever notice how Cracker Jack "prizes" are just crap you end up throwing out? I throw the things out before I open that little red striped packet.

When I was little, I knew exactly what was in each Cracker Jack box before I opened it.

I could hold the box in my hands and just know what was in there.

Cool, huh?

Bullshit.

As time went by, the prizes got cheaper and less impressive. I used to sense tin whistles and compasses. Now I sense stickers and "collector cards" that aren't worth collecting.

Cheap, flimsy crap. Everything is cheap, flimsy crap these days. And it just keeps getting crappier.

But you know what the worst part of this "gift" is?

I'm diabetic. Never could eat the shit.

Now that I'm sworn off candy, I can't eat it, either.

So I picked the topic and said it was sundown. However, I didn't want to do a vampire story, so I considered another kind of cold-blooded killer...

In Texas, executions take place at sundown.

The lawyers weren't done, but Rufus Washington was. He'd been through three Last Meals already in Huntsville thanks to the Supreme Court, but he didn't think he'd have a fourth.

Back in Austin, the governor was fed up with the press asking him if he'd grant clemency.

"If God wants this murderer to stay alive, let Him stop the turning of the Earth," said the governor to the cameras.

Unlike the governor, God was not available for comment. The sun sank from the sky, painted the horizon crimson, and Rufus went to Hell.

No governor in particular.

I've been skipping quite a few themes as of late. I hope this isn't a recurring pattern.

Listen carefully for a moment, because both of our lives depend on this.

Ignore the paved service path. It's a trap.

If you follow the trail through the deep woods for a mile, you will find a clearing where the mystical forcelines converge.

Several triptychs have been stacked to surround the precise convergence point, which is marked by a sigil-covered obsidian pillar.

That's where you need to be to summon help. Unlike the rest of the godforsaken wood, you'll get four bars of digital signal there.

Please hurry, because my leg's bleeding through the bandage and I'm going into shock.

I figure this is good enough to stand on its own.

The theme was Welcome Home, but I decided to put a little High Holy Day twist to it...

After eighteen years in the hands of the Arabs, Colonel Rabin was finally coming home. His plane landed just as the buses full of cheering and jeering prisoners were sent off to the border. Their vicious chants echoed in the distance. "Vermin," muttered one of the honor guard. Rabin's wife waited as the plane rolled to a stop. The cargo doors opened, and her husband's casket was unloaded. "Why is one dead man worth dozens of live terrorists?" asked the honor guard. "He's worth far more than that," said his commander. "And that is to the shame of the enemy."

Why should you not run with scissors?

Because you are not yet a man, in Hemingway's World!

"Ole!"

Maria yanked the shears from Paco's hand, slicing his finger.

"These are your father's shears," said Maria. "You are still much too young. When you are old enough, you will run with them."

Paco sucked his finger and scowled. "Luiz is running again this year," he sneered.

"So, what of it?" snapped Maria. "Luiz can lose his other eye." She handed him a pair of round-edged scissors. "Be content with these."

By the time Paco's father said he was old enough to run, Pamplona had replaced the scissors with bulls.

Not that it mattered to the blind, seven-fingered Paco.

I really wanted to write this one out longer. Hemingway's World is so rich and vibrant... and evil.

The theme was rather complex, but let's just say it's about being behind enemy lines without cash or your contact or knowing the language...

The cab drops me off at Yankee Stadium.

Bob flew up earlier to get the tickets. He's also covering for everything else.

I look around, and that's when I see his flaming corpse hanging from the lamp post, still wearing his Sox cap.

Before the mob can lynch me, I take off my jersey and cap, waving them around while shouting and grunting.

Someone from the crowd grabs them, tosses them on the bonfire, and says "Ammost goddim, bruddah!"

I spend the evening hunting with the tribe before slipping into an Irish pub for a way back to Boston... civilization!

Sweep the Yankees!

Blue, nine, and eaten are the words for the day. So, let's see what I come up with...

Across the bright blue sky, a single cloud in the shape of the number nine lazily floated by.

"What's that?" asked Sue.

Bob smiled. "God's counting down to the end of the world."

"Are you sure?" said Sue.

"Positive," said Bob.

"Well… um… what should we do?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing?????"

"Nothing," said Bob. "So, have you eaten yet?"

"The end of the world is coming, and you're thinking about food?"

"Well, we could screw," said Bob. "But I'm hungry."

Sue ran screaming into the street.

"Dingbat didn't ask about the ten," Bob chuckled. "I remember my grandfather telling me about it…"

There's no money in the ATM?

Woke up, no paper on my side table so I can catch up with things. Tivo's been wiped. Went online to check my accounts, and they're a mess. Everything's overdrawn.

Damn servants always end up trying to stab you in the back. It's only a matter of time, always happens.

I waste an hour with the hotlines my banks and brokers have for low-profile "after hours" customers like me. Everything's taken care of, they should have the guy at my doorstep before midnight, as usual.

Drinking a traitor's blood is the sweetest revenge.

Time to post on Hotjobs again: "Servant."

Halloween sure gets into everything, doesn't it.

I picked a topic of peace, and the other writers pulled a protest Les.

Sheesh.

Sue and Johnny eloped to Hickburg, thinking they'd have the local Justice of the Peace marry them.

t's what every pair of young star-crossed lovers did in Fayette. It's what each of their parents did in their time. Their grandparents, too, if you could believe anything those old farts ever said.

Driving down the road to Hickburg, the trees got thicker and thicker.

They never did get to the town, as if the forest had just swallowed it up.

So, they went to Vegas. Lived happily ever after, too.

Years later, the forest ate Fayette.

And it's headed this way.

Okay, so I was taking a pointer from that awful Big Fish movie...

Okay, so this one breaks the rules of arrest procedures...

He has the right to remain silent.

I wish he'd use it.

I swear, I've never heard a guy shriek so much. The whole trip back to the station, he's done nothing but scream at the top of his lungs.

Just when I think he's ready to stop, he just gets even louder.

Bastard.

Okay, so procedure says he's supposed to go in the back seat and not on the hood, but I've got a birthday cake in the seat.

And the trunk's full of presents.

No way he's sitting up here with me.

Two more blocks.

Hold on, pal.

Now do you understand these rights?

Well, you know it was bound to happen. Since they smirked at my theme, I'm going to retaliate with a Les Nessman story that both 100 words long and based on the theme that's better than what they could come up with in a million years!

Les Nessman put the disk in his DVD player and hit Play.

Nothing.

He stabbed the button a few more times.

Still nothing.

He shrugged and wandered off to lunch.

---

Johnny Fever stepped over Les' tape-wall, opened the tray, and turned it right side up.

Two hours hardcore of Jennifer and Bailey, all for Les.

He popped out the DVD, ripped a copy of Snow White, and put it in the tray.

---

Les came back from lunch and tried again.

It worked.

Later that day, Les was slapped twice for saying he thought Dopey's kiss was the cutest of all.

Victory is the best revenge.

Uninspiring topic today, so here's an off-topic story:

Oscar's toaster made any bread stuck into it vanish.

"So, where does it go?" asked Karen.

"I have no idea," said Oscar. "But I've had to switch to cold cereal."

"Does this happen with bagel halves, too?" asked Karen. "Or just toast?"

"I don't eat bagels" said Oscar. "Just toast."

Karen bought some bagels, sliced one in half, and stuck it in the toaster.

She waited for a minute, and the bagel halves popped out.

"I guess it's just bread," said Karen.

Oscar shrugged and went out to buy a new toaster.

He smashed the old one with a hammer.

By the way, we don't own a toaster. We toast bread in the oven.

Two days of annoying themes in a row. Yet another filler story today.

I wrote this when the population of New Orleans descended upon Houston.

Even though the Red Cross has opened up multiple massive shelters for the survivors of Hurricane Katrina, it is imperative that people are moved out to smaller accommodations. Large, anonymous masses of people afford opportunities for criminal elements, or much worse kinds of predators.

Many people are opening their homes without any question or fear, but just as the dead float in the flooded streets, some still walk them.

Whether voodoo zombie or vampire, protections against inviting undead into your home should be in place. I'd suggest greeting your new roommate with plenty of garlic and exposed mirrors.

In daylight.

Yeah, it's a few weeks late. Deal with it.

Okay, this was my theme today, and I was inspired by the cantankerous future corpse Rob Smith with his story about the soccer ball turning deadly.

Count Viper may not have been born a Yankees fan centuries ago, but he certainly died one. Twice. For eighty years, the Count took in every night game, feeding on rude fans. Well, never the ones with 3 on their back, out of respect for Ruth. Last year, Alex Rodriguez shattered his bat and a piece flew into the stands where Viper had been a permanent fixture. It pierced the vampire's heart and reduced him to ash instantly.

A minute later, one of those rude fans brushed the Count's ashes aside and watched the Yankees lose to the Red Sox.

Must never miss an opportunity to bash the Yankees, eh.

A god has fallen, wounded and hurt...

Sinner... spared. Bus full of nuns... fried. Child molester... spared. Honorable soldier... fried. Al Franken... spared. Paul Harvey... fried. "THOR!" yelled Odin. The Father of The Gods scowled. Thor's thunderbolts had become increasingly wild over the past century, concerning his father Odin to the point where he consulted an orthopedic surgeon. Thor was scheduled for Tommy John surgery a month ago, and after a few months of therapy and weight-training, it is my professional opinion that he'll be as good as new. Before he headed back to Asgard, he said "Thank you" and left me this hammer. Isn't it cool?

Yes, this is an homage to Doctor Benway.

God, I hate the opening line. But we had to use it today.

I hope I didn't mangle it too badly.

It was a dark and stormy night. Lightning was striking everywhere but Dr. Frankenstein's lightning rods.

Transylvania Edison kept refusing to run industrial-grade capacity to his castle, so it was lightning or nuclear.

Sure, Dr. Frankenstein was mad, but he wasn't crazy. Lightning it was.

And without lightning tonight, his creature couldn't come to life.

He called the rod manufacturer's tech support line when the phones went dead.

That's right. Lightning had struck the telephone pole.

Not even a dial tone.

He shrugged, hooked up the creature to the phone line, and that's when lightning hit the rods.

Go figure.

"He's mad, but he's not crazy" is one of my favorite phrases to use when describing a madman in denial.

I think I stole this idea from Andy. Someone wants your organs?

The priest pats my ankle and tells me everything is going to be fine. No it won't. I've been nailed up here all morning. I wish they'd never found blood on the Spear of Destiny. With the DNA, it took the cloners four months, and now they're geared for global mass-production. Truly, it's Communion gone mad. If I were fed pieces of myself, would they turn to wine and crackers in my stomach? I feel the knife. Damn you all!

Amen!

You keep getting a busy signal...

Home Of The Future! they called it. Every Convenience Imaginable! they claimed. We moved into our H.O.T.F. and instantly fell in love with it. Everything was voice-control, from breakfast to bed and back again. I could even control the house by telephone. Just phone Home and tell it "make dinner" or "bubble bath" or "walk dog" and it's taken care of. One day, I was running late, so I called Home to delay-record the game. But I keep getting a busy signal. I thought it was my wife whispering "Do it yourself" last night, but now I'm not so sure.

D tossed off a Les post. Not sure what the deal is there, since the busy signal is fertile ground.

Maybe not all seeds take purchase in all soils.

Did you fix the charcoal?

Ned put down his briefcase and looked at the note pinned to the front door again:

"Did you fix the charcoal?" it said.

Ned shrugged, got out the cat-carrier, and went looking for the cat.

"Here, Charcoal!" he shouted. "Here, kitty-kitty!"

He waited.

No sign of the cat.

He went to the cupboard, pulled out a can of food, and tapped it repeatedly with a spoon.

"Who wants din-din?" said Ned.

Again, he waited.

Still no sign of the cat.

"Well, you've got to come out sometime," he said to the empty room.

Under the bed, Charcoal cleaned his claws.

Okay, so it was lame.

We're supposed to be writing about crop circles from an expert's perspective, so...

This one's real, that's for certain.

Usually, it's a corn or wheat field near a high school or college that's been trampled.

For the publicity. The "Hi Mom" factor.

Complexity means fraud, since I know they like to keep things simple.

Besides, why would students or farmers draw attention to a huge marijuana patch like this?

The Feds want to burn it, but not before I get a few photos and… ahem.. samples.

Now now now… they're for purely academic reasons.

But I have to admit, some of these flasks make radical bongs.

What the heck - pass the burner.

Oh, come on. You never got high in the lab?

What's the point of a lab if you don't?

Riding off into the sunset, but what happens next?

Crosseyed Joe's work was done. Black Bart and his gang of cattle rustlers were dead.

So was the sheriff.

And the barber.

For that matter, everyone else with the bad luck to be in the Last Chance Saloon this afternoon with Joe firing wildly.

Joe tipped his hat and rode off into the sunset, despite the horse's protests. He spurred the horse harder and harder until the thing just gave up and ran for all it was worth.

That was yesterday.

This morning, vultures are circling over the canyon.

So much for Crosseyed Joe.

I feel bad for his horse.

I love happy endings.

There's a category three storm heading your way when you hear a knock on the door...

The show is called Weathering The Storm.

The producers own homes all along the Gulf Coast.

Once they know a hurricane is heading towards one of them, we're dropped into the nearest house.

Well, actually, they're just run-down shacks. No better than a house of cards.

Cameras… canned food… bandages…

Body bags.

Survivors share five million bucks. Less survivors means split fewer ways.

It's a big storm. Maybe even too big. Category two… three…

The producers are banging on the door, telling us we have to get out.

Everyone flees with them.

Except me. I know it's a trick.

Suckers.

It took me all day to come up with this one. I think I like it.

A useless and silly weapon?

The 101st Clown Brigade may be the laughingstock of our armed forces, but this doesn't bother them. Every division has its Special Comedy Operations component, from the sappers disarming dangerous banana peels to cream pie chefs in the mess hall. Some say that the Pentagon is full of them. The most important aspect of the 101st by far is the team of rapid-deployment medical specialists. After all, isn't laughter the best medicine? If you thought that a dozen heavily-armed Marines popping out of an APC was an impressive sight, try a few hundred of the 101st coming out of one.

Or, as I like to ask, "What kind of clowns do they think they are?"

I picked the theme, but I was stumped for the whole day. It took me until the next day to come up with something on the end of my fishing line...

Everybody's familiar with the movies showing astronauts moon-golfing, but you'll never any of Luke "Studs" Morgan casting his fishing reel. In the lesser lunar gravity. he could cast a mile. Reeling it back in with those thick gloves was hard, Luke said, but the worst part was spearing a vacuum-exposed, subzero-frozen worm on the hook. His crewmate "Tank" Washington hid behind a boulder and planned on sticking a frozen salmon on the hook, but there's a scream and that's where the tape ends. He came back as cargo and got buried at Arlington. Hence the tape label: "Fishing Tank Accident."

I like moon stories.

Based on the news that Death has been conquered and that mankind can live for centuries upon centuries, let's see how it changes things...

So pretty, he had to try. "Never in a thousand years" she answered when he asked for a date. Travis didn't hear rejection. Instead, he saw a challenge. And success. Thanks to his research in Cryostasic Neuromedicine, Travis defeated Death and opened a bridge to eternity for mankind. He scanned the databases and looked her up. "Have the centuries thawed your heart to me?" he asked when the last of the ice crystals melted away from her brainjar. "Absolutely not," her electrovoder answered. "Go away." Travis didn't wait for the system to finish clonareplicating a cerebral implantation vessel for confirmation.

Poor Travis We'll hear from him again.

(I changed the name to Travis because it sounds like "traverse" as in "traverse the centuries")

Not exactly the best theme to work with, but I wrote two. One was unfit for 100WOLN, but this was somewhat decent enough for public consumption:

"Good news, everyone!" is not the kind of thing you'd expect in a traveler's phrasebook, but it's right there alongside "Can you please direct me to the nearest vapor reclamation chamber?" and "Please do not consume my moltings."

If you think it's tough working up a list of common social situations between two vastly different species, then I'm pretty sure your mind will rattle and explode at the thought of having to construct a phrasebook for pandimensional travelers.

The truth is, it's not hard. "How do I get home" is pretty much all you need.

Otherwise, you're pretty much fucked.

Or possibly not.

Okay, so what do I do with a stupid fuzzy hat quote? Well, I was watching the first season of Miami Vice on DVD, and...

Another hot night in Miami.

In the Ferrari, Crockett and Tubbs were discussing philosophy, as usual.

"It's a fuzzy hat," said Crockett.

"It's a cat," said Tubbs.

"Hat," said Crockett.

"Cat," said Tubbs.

Crockett and Tubbs argued all night when they should have been watching the subject.

Surveillance usually went this way.

Several days later, they got their man and headed back to the station.

"Hat," said Crockett.

"Cat," said Tubbs.

"What?" said The Lieutenant.

"That can't possibly be a mustache," said Tubbs.

The Lieutenant scowled, mumbled something like "morons," and stared as Crockett and Tubbs left the room.

How does Crockett afford the cat and the boat, anyway?

So, how has Daylight savings Time caused me to be late?

Well, this just happened tonight:

"Meow!" said Frisky, turning circles by his bowl in the kitchen.

"For the last time, it is not time for dinner!" I said.

"Meow!" said Nardo.

"Mew!" exclaimed Piper.

"Look what you've done," I told Frisky. "Now you've got the other two all riled up."

It's the same thing every year when Daylight Savings Time ends.

I don't know whether it's their little furry bellies rumbling or the sun going down earlier every evening, but there's no telling a cat when his or her dinner is going to be.

The clock be damned, the cats tell you that it's suppertime.

Same damn thing every year. You'd think I'd get used to it.

There's a sweet smell in the air in New York City, and I think I have the explanation:

That smell you're smelling is the Sweet Smell of Success.

Today, a cold front is lowering the Success Dew Point, so it's precipitating success out of the air. Normally, it's less than two or three parts per billion, much less than what a human nose can sense.

Of course, at that concentration, it still drives the dogs wild, almost mad with ambition.

You can train a dug-sniffing dog or a bomb-sniffing dog. There's even cancer-sniffing dogs in the works. But nobody trains success-sniffing dogs.

Yet.

So, please, sit still, Mr. Trump. Rover's a friendly boy.

Just no sudden moves, okay?

Oh, please. Move suddenly, you capitalist pig.

The prodigal son returns...

Shubblurbpop's slave-vessel landed, quickly blackholing its shattered jumpcore before disgorging its human cargo for processing. "Ship's a wreck, Your Slimeness" said the spaceport administrator. "Where's the rest of your fleet?" "Lost it," said Shubblurbpop. "Bad maps." "Good luck explaining it," said the administrator. Heading back home, the oozeway was busier than usual, but Shubblurbpop arrived before Mudfall. "Announcing Shubblurbpop!" shouted the palace pages. "Um... I wrecked the fleet, Dad," said Shubblurbpop. His father writhed pseudopods in annoyance, but Queen Pipblipshububble soothed his rage and welcomed her son home. "Did you bring Chinese?" asked the Queen. Shubblurbpop nodded. All was forgiven.

Okay, so maybe I'm just annoyed that The Simpsons does its Halloween episode a week late.

Integration of humans with systems is not always a good thing...

The closer to the front, the quicker you handle support calls. Even though it's important to get grunts' systems back up and running so they can fight, the real issue is purely self-preservation. Sure, you can remote or tell the grunt to reboot. Or they'll pull out a spare and send the damaged unit back, but some situations demand hands-on solutions. This was one of them. And as I was racing to the front, my jeep hit a landmine. Blew everything to bits around me. And into me. Doctors are still picking bits and pieces out of my bloody gut.

Let the chips fall where they may.

So a box of photos is tossed in the dumpster. Let's follow its rather sordid lifecycle...

You'd be surprised at the number of people who don't come back to pick up their prints.

We used to call them ourselves, but now we let the computer call them.

Still, some folks just don't care. So unclaimed prints and negatives get kept for a year before they're tossed in the dumpster.

We really ought to shred or recycle them, but we don't.

Every day you see someone who looks like a registered pervert go dumpster diving and pull out a box or two.

It's disgusting, but I guess it's better than them doing things to the actual kids.

I may change the title to "The Sordid Lifecycle of Unclaimed Photographs" or "Wrongfully Claimed."

An invitation arrives in the mail. I guess I can fall back on my favorite piece of literature ever written...

A frog-footman bows, croaks "Harlequin," and hands me a letter. I thank him and open it. Wonderful. There's another damned croquet match at the palace. I crumple up the note from the Red Queen inviting me to stay away from the party and toss it in the footman's green face. He ribbits and coughs. "You're looking for a tip?" I ask him. He extends a flipper. "Sir?" I smack him in the face with a pie and slam the door. By leaving me out, that royal bitch proves once and for all that she's not playing with a full deck.

I always wondered why the Good Reverend left the jokers out of his mad little pack of cards.

Monkeys rule the world? But how...

A long time ago, I remember my father showing me the place mat at the Chinese restaurant, printed with the stylized depictions of various animals, and saying that the Chinese Zodiac was how the Chinese government was run.

"Since they're Communists," he said, "the people run the country. When your year in the Zodiac comes up, you take office."

"Sort of like jury duty?" I asked.

"In a way," he said.

I looked at the animals… roosters, dragons, sheep, monkeys…

"Monkeys ruling China?" I asked. "What about the worl-"

That's when our order arrived.

I never did get an answer.

I love General Tso's chicken, but I'd love to try his monkey.

The topic for the day is corn, posted to the site at noon on Sunday because nobody else did.

Contrary to popular belief, the Tree Of Knowledge was no tree at all, but a cornfield. The snake was no snake, but a massive scarecrow placed to drive all living creatures from the cornfield, including the pair of humans God had recently created. Eve tempted Adam with the corn, but he did not find the husk-covered vegetable to be all that appetizing. Only when Eve shucked it, boiled it in a nearby hot spring, and smothered it with salt and butter did Adam finally take a bite. Upon their banishment from Paradise and discovering their nakedness, Adam created a corn-bib.

I wrote this Monday morning because I was a little busy shopping and resting with an icepack on my jaw.

Some goofy-assed quote about Daventry today, so I picked it apart and played with it...

Daventry had a problem: crime. Gotham had Batman. Metropolis had Superman. Daventry had nobody... until The Question arrived. Dressed in question marks, The Question of Daventry roamed the streets at night, fighting crime. Criminals changed their schedules to the daytime. Then they agreed on a rotating-shift plan to cover all hours of the day to keep The Question constantly exhausted. Eventually, the criminals got word to The Riddler, and The Question of Daventry was sued over the costume. Then lawyers arrived from Hub City about the name. I think that explains the guy in the chicken suit with the flyswatter.

Actually, I don't think it explains the flyswatter, but I ran out of words.

If you know me well, then you know that Alice in Wonderland is my favorite book. I also like to play with the archetypes and characters a lot, but one question I've asked over the years is "What book was Alice's sister reading that got Alice so bored as to chase the rabbit?"

Alice sat with her sister on the riverbank, bored out of her mind. She didn't feel like braiding flowers again, and she wasn't terribly interested in the book her sister was reading, either. That's when the White Rabbit muttered something about being late, looked at his pocketwatch, and hopped towards a hole in the riverbank. Alice waited for the snap of the rabbit-trap. It came, and the rabbit screamed in agony. "Have you found a recipe for rabbit yet?" asked Alice. "I think so," said her sister, shutting the cookbook. "You club it, I'll skin it." Alice kept the pocketwatch.

Apologies to Twilight Zone fans.

Today I rage against the machine...

Remember those robotic dogs that cost thousands of dollars, were a royal bitch to program, and broke easily?

Well, they've come out with new versions of the things with additional features, and they cost much less now.

The company started a trade-in program: old dogs for new dogs. I guess you can't teach an old dog new tricks after all because there's something in the RAM or firmware or bits and bytes.

Anyway, sometimes those robotic dogs misbehave or get really stubborn, and they get abused. Smacked around. Beaten.

Or worse.

That's where I come in. I'm with the ASPCRA.

Okay, lame punchline.

A weird sidewalk message appears... I have an explanation!

Strangled by wires and smothered by concrete, The City yearned to breathe free once more.

It remembered when it was just a tiny village, a few houses by a bend in the creek.

Those were the days.

Soon, it grew into a town, then a city, then a City - Big C.

It had to act before it became what comes after a City with a Big C.

Strange messages bled through the sidewalks… fires with no rational explanation… plagues… droughts…

The people fled. But they left the concrete and steel to weigh down the corpse of The Dead City.

May The City rest in peace.

Iwrote the theme this morning about anniversaries. I did not forget, but I did write it and fail to post it until the next morning...

On the tenth anniversary of landing on Pluto, a service was held at Johnson Space Center. Wreaths were laid at the memorial by three widows and an assortment of children.

A few billion miles away, a scene of a different sort stood in the frozen icy wastes. Inside the shuttle-hopper, three statue-like corpses sat for eternity, faces obscured with crystal clouds sprouting from their mouths and nostrils.

In cartoons, underwater characters often exhale bubbles that pop at the surface, releasing words screamed from below.

Would you hear "What the hell are we doing here?" if the ice were shattered?

No topic today, so I'll post one that I'd written for such an occasion...

It is the middle of the twenty-first century, and the naming rights for absolutely everything in America are up for sale. Up to an including America itself. Want to name a river after your heavy-duty laundry detergent? Name your price! Want to name a county in the state formerly known as Idaho after your line of extended-wear colored contact lenses? Name your price! Want to name that snowy mountainpeak something like your kid's breakfast cereal? Name your price! Want to name a hurricane after your closest competitor? Name your price, but you'd better have a good trademark specialist attorney ready.

Like it?

A toy your child leaves behind in the park...

"How on Earth could this happen?" mumbled Arthur.

He read the brochure again:

"The Teddy 3000 is your child's best friend. Teddy is soft and huggable. Teddy can be used as a floatation device. Teddy has GPS tracking if your child is kidnapped. Teddy is made from 100% recycled materials and is 100% recyclable. Teddy can be used as a breathing mask or emergency environment-proof tent. Teddy knows all your child's favorite songs."

Arthur put the brochure down and looked at Teddy.

Teddy stared back.

They both watched powerlessly as Arthur's daughter played "fort" with the box Teddy came in.

Haven't we all?

To celebrate the renaming of Pajamas Media, I set the topic to pajamas today:

Fluffy glared at Steve from his nest made from shredded pajamas and hissed.

"Does Fluffy take anything besides pajamas?" asked Steve. "Towels? Socks?"

"Nope," said Bob. "Just pajamas."

Steve reached again.

Fluffy hissed louder.

"Fluffy doesn't like to share," said Bob. "He thinks those are his."

"Well, they're evidence," said Steve. "Not even Fluffy can stop The Long Arm Of The Law."

Two hours later, Steve sat in the emergency room with a heavy bandage on The Long Arm Of The Law and a patch on the Scratched Cornea Of The Law.

"You should have called for backup," said Bob.

Gotta love a killer cat named Fluffy.

A somewhat unpopular theme today asking for a story on a 50's mental institution. I tried three different stories before coming up with this:

I bet you that you'll never guess what makes Elba Asylum unique.

Some people say it's the hydrotherapy pool, but that thing hasn't been used in years. None of our patients can swim nor have any inclination to learn.

The stables? Nice guess, but there are several institutions in upstate New York that involve equine activities to help draw out the shy and reclusive.

Ah, yes. You've finally noticed: every patient thinks he's Napoleon!

The principles of mass production, applied to psychotherapy.

Okay, I haven't cured any of them. But as long as they still pay their bills, why bother?

I wanted to call it St. Helena, but that would have been an extra word.

The 100 Words Or Les Nessman is quickly going to hell in a handbasket, so...

As unfortunate as Helen A. Handbasket's name was, one should not mourn her present circumstances.

Six happy but brief marriages, each to men more successful and wealthy than the last, have left her rich in memories and assets. Not many can say they have been first lady twice, you know.

So when people in this town say they're going to Helen A. Handbasket, it is either to pay their respects or to beg of her a favor that only her great wealth and connections can provide.

Every community should have one like her.

But only one, to avoid nasty rivalries.

Yes, I came up with the weekend category that nobody seems to have liked. And I'm not about to post the only story on it to keep the site going.

Even Atlas had help from Hercules.

Another random blog entry from our friends in space...

What is it with people and shopping?

I never understood it when I was little. We'd go to another city and my family would go shopping at franchise stores identical to places back home. Same stuff, different place.

They'd also eat at franchise restaurants exactly like back home. Why not go local?

Seventy years later, and my grandkids visit me here at Tycho Base.

Straight to the mall they bound, Sharper Image and Macy's. Same crap they have dirtside.

Never mind the huge fees for dropshipping this consumermass from orbit. I think shopping without consciousness or awareness is a compulsion.

I really want to create a fake blog from someone living in a space colony, but I just don't have the time.

The hero rescues the maiden from the dragon, now what?

What a goddamned mess. Janey's yellow and throwing up blood. Her eyes want to roll out of their sockets. "Dragon," she croaks. "Pretty dragon." Shit. Dragon Ride's the worst shit out there. Your mind takes a trip to Paradise, but your body might not be there when it gets back. I fill the needle with Knight and stab it in Janey's heart. "Slay the fucker!" I yell. I check the label: "M" Marco. Bastard sold Janey a dragon when I warned him not to. Marco's gonna ride his car to the bottom of the river. Tied up in the trunk.

Good ending, eh?

The challenge today came late, but it was an odd one. Start the story with "She was wearing a push-up bra."

Challenge accepted.

She was wearing a push-up bra.

Or maybe she wasn't a she. Maybe she was a he.

It's hard to tell with sheep.

Yeah, I say I'm the guy who welcomes you to The Ritz and whispers he can get you anything, but I really just say that to get a big tip.

Still, when folks want me to deliver, I deliver pronto.

Some folks take me up on that for girls. Or boys. Or drugs. Or tickets.

This was the first sheep.

I hope it's the last. I swear, call me crazy, but it's starting to turn me on.

It took me all day, but I think I managed to put The Simon Touch on it. Don't you agree?

It's a long holiday weekend at the Les Nessman site, so I'm just going to throw out a few playful stories of no particular theme.

"History shall remember us as the Knights of the Round Table!" bellowed Arthur.

"Guenievere isn't a knight," mumbled Gawain. "But she's sitting at our table."

"She's my wife," said Arthur.

"Can I bring my wife?" said Tristan.

"No," said Arthur. "I hereby declare Guenievere to be special authorized personnel."

"I used that same exact argument for myself and you said no," said Merlin. He vanished in a puff of smoke.

"I don't mind her being at the table at all," said Lancelot.

Arthur felt something rub against his armor.

"Stop that, " said Arthur. "Go sit on the opposite side."

This is just an example of how well-established characters let you get straight into the dialogue without having to establish them, nor do you have to explain the relationships again.

I guess it's time for a Thanksgiving story...

Dinner was ready. They all sat down, said a prayer, and the wine was uncorked.

"When was the last time we had turkey?" asked Susan.

Fred scratched his chin. "Not since last Thanksgiving," he said.

"Wait a second," said Jo Jo. "We had some leftovers, so technically that was the last turkey we had together."

"If turkey is such a wonderful feast, why don't we have it more often?" asked Susan.

"Because it's such a bitch to cook," said Arthur.

"And I'm stuck with the cleanup this year," said Susan. "Screw all this?"

They agreed. Next year, a Chinese take-out.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.

This one is a special 100 word story dedicated to RJ, who slit my throat like it was warm butter. In fact, to prove it, he even used a butter knife.

I lived to tell the tale...

How many people can say they were killed by a butter knife?

Well, thanks to RJ, I'm proud to say I was.

It was a game called Assassination. You have to "kill" the players next to you in the circle without being killed.

RJ hid in a closet. When I passed by, he "slit" my throat. Best kill of any game.

Just got an email from him. He says my puzzled look was a highlight of his college career.

In the next round, I was armed with fire extinguishers. When asked, I said "Well, only I can prevent forest fires."

You know, I botched a kill in the second round. Had a dartgun that jammed when I had a perfect kill at brunch. I should have stayed put when there were enough witnesses, but I ran. The prey followed me and killed me.

The third round was the fire extinguisher round. Let's just say I made kills by intimidation, not stealth.

Remember the Grover song? Well, this story is a bit more sinister than that...

When I look in the mirror, I see a monster.

This hideous monster looks back at me, giving me just as thorough an inspection as I give it.

He follows me from mirror to mirror, never leaving me alone.

I've been tempted to smash the mirrors, but cracking them might smash the barrier between our worlds and let him step through to our world.

No, I cannot do that.

Instead, I cover the mirrors.

Frustrated, he tries to spy on me in the bottoms of pots and pans. Or in the sheen of a just-washed dinner plate.

Stay away, monster.

And what the heck does Wubba Wubba Woo Woo Woo mean, anyway?

You've all been wondering when I'd combine a 100 word story with my catblogging. Well, now's the time...

Frisky the cat hangs out in the kitchen and demands two things: Parmesan cheese and butter.

Now that I've switched to that omega-3 spread plant sterol stuff, there's plenty of butter left over for Frisky.

I don't know where we got it, but recently we bought Grade AA butter instead of the Grade A butter. Until now, I didn't know there were different grades of butter.

One was yellower than the other, but I couldn't tell the difference.

Frisky could. He turned his nose up at it and chirped angrily.

I gave in and gave him the good stuff.

Cats!

I hope it was worth the wait.

It's 03:00 and someone wakes you with...

A voice wakes me. Reminds me of The Three AM Cutover.

"Thanks," I say, and open my bloodshot eyes.

Nobody else is around.

Typical.

Hey, ever notice how the world's screwed up? Some things just don't make sense?

We're fixing that tonight. All of it. One big Cosmic Service Pack.

He only rested on the Seventh Day, you know. Been working up this bug fix ever since then. Explains the absence, No?

It's coming up on three in the morning. Cutover time. We're calling it Zero Hour, but three in the morning?

As I said, typical.

I'd better get ready.

I love Creation stories.

It's just right around the corner...

Dr. Franklin laughed.

"Sam is so gullible, you can drop him in a padded round room, tell him the door out is right around the corner, and he'll wear himself out looking for it."

Dr. Franklin turned on the speaker for the chamber's locked hatch. "Found it yet, Sam?"

I tapped Dr. Franklin on the shoulder. "I think so."

Dr. Franklin gasped. "But… how… Sam… did… where…"

"Look for yourself," I said.

Dr Franklin spent the next six years pacing that round room. "I know it's here somewhere, Sam."

I'd show him, but it would only make him even crazier.

Poor Dr. Franklin. He'll be back.

A noise under the bed wakes me up...

"There's odd noises coming from under the bed," said my wife.

I rubbed my eyes. "It must be Nardo and Piper."

"Meow." "Meow."

Both Nardo and Piper were on the blanket.

"Or not."

"Will you please look?" my wife asked. "I don't like odd noises."

"Fine," I said. I leaned over the side and looked.

A dwarf was tucked up under the bed, reading from a calculator: "Three... five... seven... nine..."

"Can you please stop it with the odd noises?" I asked him.

He nodded. "Two... four... six... eight... ten..."

I pulled back up on the bed. "How's that, dear?"

Corny, eh?

A falling cup of coffee? Sure, why not... let's get historical on it's ass.

"More coffee, boy!" shouts Galileo from the tower.

It's always the same. My master shouts More Coffee, I run down to Pizaro's to fetch it, and then run back up to the tower while he does his stupid experiments.

"More coffee, boy!"

"I have a name!" I shout.

"Yes, " says Galileo. "It is More Coffee Boy. Now fetch more coffee, boy!"

As I walk out the door, I hear Galileo shout.

I look up.

A brown cloud, tumbling… turning… spreading… a searing rain on my face…

My eyes! My eyes!

And then I'm covered with a pound of feathers.

The beauty of using historical figures in stories is that you can leave out so much.

My wife's gone out of town for seven days. Just watched Memento. Gives me strange ideas.

My wife, she went out of town. Seven days.

I dropped her off at the airport, tell her I love her, or did she tell me? Both?

I'm so confused.

First day gone, I trip and fall. I can't move.

My neck's broken?

How many days has it been?

I'm thirsty. I'm hungry. I've pissed and shit myself a bunch of times.

Phone's ringing. Again. They'll leave a message.

Yup. Message beep.

I've tried to yell, but I'm face down. Doesn't go far. Muffled cries.

I can weep. But that's drying me out.

Seven days.

So thirsty. So hungry.

Fuck.

Of course, this totally ignores the cats.

100 Words Or Les Nessman has gone on hiatus for December. This means that I am utterly bereft of themes.

Should you have an idea of a theme to challenge me with, feel free to send it to me at laurence@isfullofcrap.com.

Until then, to mark the slumber of the mothersite...

Just like bears and other forest creatures, creative websites hibernate too, you know.

They fatten up on content, build up their code nice and thick before withdrawing into their backup storage to last out the harsh winter.

Their pulse slows to an almost imperceptible thud.

Some sites fail to hear the call to sleep, so they rustle about, foraging for data.

They stumble about, blind and hungry.

When they come across each other, they fight, leaving bloody trails in the snow to mark their battles.

Eventually, the sleeping sites awaken to see their battle-torn comrades.

Thus, virtual life goes on.

I will continue here in the digital cold for as long as my inner fire will keep me.

100 Words Or Les Nessman has gone on hiatus for December. This means that I am utterly bereft of themes.

Should you have an idea of a theme to challenge me with, feel free to send it to me at laurence@isfullofcrap.com.

Thanks to Mr. Parx for today's theme of "Lamp."

I don't know which came first: Diogenes going blind or the poor old fool running out of oil in his lamp.

He's stumbling around the back alleys, still searching for an honest man. All these years, he has yet to find one.

Yes, he's asked me if I'm honest. Who hasn't he?

I've responded "I don't think I'm a totally honest person, but I try my best."

Diogenes would chuckle and say "I believe you're right. Keep up the good work."

It is sad that he's blind, because all it would take now is a mirror to end his quest.

Feel free to send me more themes. It's going to be a while before there's more at 100 Words Or Les Nessman, you know.

Well, this time Mikey and I had a chat and "The Mad Grooms Brigade" came out of the closet of my imagination. Let's see what madness results.

Some states allowed gay marriage. Others blocked it.

Just like the Jayhawks of Bleeding Kansas two centuries ago, the Mad Grooms Brigade formed in Massachusetts to spread awareness though ideological skirmishes.

They conducted border raids into Rhode Island and Connecticut, throwing cooked brown rice at weddings and registering at various upscale department stores or specialty shops.

It was the seditious flower arrangements that had the greatest impact.

Once discovered, they'd flee back across the border, out of the reach of the closed-minded long arm of the law.

Plenty of time to regroup. Plenty of time to plan.

War is hell.

I'm still desperate for themes, folks. Lightning keeps striking through conversations and dinners and wandering around aimlessly, but the devils on my shoulders sometimes just sit and fart.

Help!

None of you sent in a theme, so I decided to use my Mai's dinner experience and talk about soup.

Have you tried the soup?

Oh. My. God.

This has got to be the best soup in the world.

You haven't lived until you've had this soup.

It's got noodles. It's got garlic. It's got what I think are shallots. Maybe some thinly sliced mushrooms in there, too.

I know what you're thinking. I've gone nuts. Nobody gets this excited over soup.

Well, that's what I thought. Until I picked up a bowl and a spoon, and I tried it. And then…

Well, you know the rest.

So, are you going to try the soup?

No?

THEN DIE, HEATHEN PIG!

No, neither Mikey nor I had soup, but it's the thought that counts. Mai's reminds me of Lai Lai Dumpling House, and there I always had soup. O, glorious soup!

Since nobody has sent in a theme today, I figure I'd torture you a little with an idea from a much-maligned Terry Gilliam film...

So people are whining about prisoners getting tortured? Big freaking deal. The problem I have with it is that we're getting bad intelligence out of these scumbags when we torture them. The best interrogator can get information out of a prisoner without leaving a scratch or the prisoner even knowing that he's played his whole hand. But where's the fun in that? For what they've done, some of these bastards deserve to suffer. Now pass me the cordless drill and the handmirror. This goddamned son of a bitch blew up a convent and I want him to see his spleen.

Send me your theme ideas, or I may just torture you with more stories like this.

Still no themes, you good for nothing...

Oh, well. I'll just write another goofy monologue.

It was a nice day out until the meteors came.

Or maybe they were asteroids. Or comets.

I have no idea. I'm no astronomer.

Big rocks, smashing into the earth. How's that?

Good.

All I know is that one minute it's nice and sunny, and the next minute I'm holding my hands to my bloody ears, screaming at the sky.

I think I'm screaming, because I can't hear myself. My throat is raw and I'm shaking.

And then I stop.

If my ears have blown out, then everybody else's have.

What's the point of screaming if nobody can hear you?

Stay tuned tomorrow for more.

Yet again, no themes from the audience. So, here's an assault on Willy Woka you'll enjoy...

The Wonkavator didn't work as expected. Instead of flying around the city, amazing the occupants as it danced around the sky, the carriage was smashed to bits against the top of the elevator shaft.

You see, the blueprints called for a sturdy bullet-resistant glass with a steel skeleton on the carriage and an ultrathin shatterglass cap on top of the elevator shaft.

Someone got them reversed, and that got Wonka, Grampa Joe, and Charlie shredded into a bloody pulp.

Strange, orange-faced midgets gathered up the bloody bits, put them in canvas bags, and alerted the factory's lawyers of the accident.

I always wished that the elevator would smash against the top of the shaft. That would have been pretty cool.

"I can see our house from he-" *CRASH*

Oompah loompah doopity do.
I've got another riddle for you.
What do you get pushing buttons all day?
Reduced into chunks and an ugly red spray.

One of my favorite movies is The Shawshank Redemption. It inspired this story...

The warden got tired of screaming at Governor Jackass about running out of room on Death Row. Simple math: too many walking in, not enough leaving feet-first.

On the day the last empty cell was taken, the warden got word yet another prisoner was coming.

No room. That's when he took matters into his own hands: Any new prisoner coming in that needed a cell would have to kill a man for his cell.

One in, one out. Simple math.

Eventually, word got out.

Horrified, the governor put a new warden in office.

The old one left feet-first. Simple math.

I wish I had more room to work with for this one, but I'll play with it more at some point.

While recording my part for A Podcast Christmas Carol I got the idea of "Marconi's nightmares echoing in the void." I've also talked about the bullshit of broadcasting saturating out of the sky and raining on the world.

Here's a variant of the story:

Howard Stern was the least of it. Foul-mouthed juvenile miscreants, amoral priests and vile partisan pundits, spreading filth and putrid rants throughout the ether around the clock and around the world.

You see, Marconi never finished his equations. The Principle of Saturation went unpublished, so the garbage and hatred building up in the invisible spaces between matter and antimatter went unrealized.

Until one day, after a particularly gross midget-sex roundtable on Opie and Anthony, the Saturation point was exceeded.

Clouds of rancor spilled across the skies. Marconi's worst nightmares realized, a thousand years of darkness.

The fools blamed global warming.

I figure I'll revisit this theme some day.

Well, y'all haven't sent me any good themes. So I'm struggling as usual.

Here's a quick monologue from a victim of the Briny Deep:

Yes, It was my treachery that sank the ship. I was paid by the enemy to scuttle it during the night watch. However, as I swam towards the rowboat that was waiting to pick me up, I was entangled in the anchor chain and dragged to the bottom of the ocean. Straight to Hell. The anchor chained to my leg feels like it gets heavier every century I drag it, but I know that it's my mind playing tricks on me. Or is it my soul playing tricks on me? I regret nothing. Well, except getting tangled in this anchor.

Yeah, everyone's a victim.

I guess I should focus on the holiday season...

We watched the sleighs take off in the night, patted ourselves on the back, and headed back into the Workshop to enjoy our only night off before we'd have to plan for next year. An hour later, one of the sleighs comes back. Rocket's got three bullets in his flank and Chancer's hanging dead from the harness. There's a big black boot caught in a sleigh skid. I tugged it loose, and a few bloody toes fall out. "Squad seventy-two," I mumble. Pacific Northwest. Trouble over Pocatello. We warned the Santa, but they never listen. That's what spares are for.

It's not a very Merry Christmas here right now.

My wife and I went to Vegas for a small wedding five years ago. Just a few close friends and family.

Well, one of those people is in a Corpus Christi hospital right now, and despite our hopes and prayers, things are not looking good.

Not sure if I'll write anything about it. Odd, how there's less and more than 100 words at the same time for something.

This is an old Frosty story that I keep rehashing every year.

Frosty the snowman told his wife Krystal that he didn't want a dog.

Krystal insisted. "We need him for security," she said.

"Dogs are messy things," said Frosty. "And they make snow yellow."

Frosty lost. They got the dog.

"Stupid dog," mumbled Frosty.

Frosty tried to housebreak the thing, but it kept falling asleep in front of the fireplace and melting all over the carpet.

"Your dog wet the carpet again," said Krystal.

"My dog?"

Frosty sighed, held up one of the dog's coal eyes, and pointed it at the wet spot.

"Look what you did!" shouted Frosty. "Bad doggy!"

Merry Christmas, everyone!

Can it be just any old gigantic monster?

The gigantic squid crawled through the streets of Manhattan, dragging a bored blonde beauty in one of its slimy tentacles.

"It just isn't the same," she said. "It's nothing personal, it's just me."

The gigantic squid stopped and clacked its beak.

"I don't have anything against squid in particular," said the woman. "I admire your radial symmetry and your color-shifting skills. But it's just that ever since I had that little fling with Kong, I just can't see myself with anything different than a gigantic simian."

She and the gigantic squid parted ways. They wrote for a while, then nothing.

Apparently not.

It's time for another space tale...

We matched velocity and docked with the luxury liner.

The alarm went off as we suited up. Damn, those things are annoying.

Floating throughout the ship we found dozens of lifesacks. Must have been sudden atmospheric failure.

Every one contained a passenger or a crewman. All dead. No survivors.

Was this a bad batch of lifesacks? The hole stabbed in each suggested no. Each victim was frozen in horror.

Who's the murderer? We checked manifest… all accounted for.

Did they finish everyone off, then themselves?

Whatever. That's the Orbital Navy's problem. We're pirates.

We robbed the cargo hold and left.

Gotta love those pirates.

Well, The Houston Press called a bunch of us locals as dull as sandpaper compared to the porncasts.

I do believe this is inspiration for tonight's 100 word story.

"Let me go," said the blindfolded reporter.

He struggled with the straps, but it was to no avail. There was no way he was getting up from the chair.

A giggle. A snicker.

"Who are you?" he whined into the darkness.

"Dull as sandpaper, are we?" said a voice.

The reporter instantly recognized the voice. It was someone he'd interviewed a few weeks ago, but he decided to "sex up" his story a bit for the readers.

"I was just trying to-"

"Do unto others," said the voice. "As they've done to you."

That's when he heard the belt sander.

No, I don't own a belt sander. Although there's a Home Depot just down the block...

I love tormenting characters...

No matter how hard Frederick tried to keep them from covering his hill, the flowers always managed to grow.

The first message they spelled was "FREDERICK SUCKS."

Frederick thought it was a prank, so he tore up the flowers and watched the hill.

When he woke the next morning, the flowers returned: "FREDERICK KILLED JENNY."

Frederick panicked. "Demons!" he shouted.

Frederick tore up the flowers again, and hired some locals to guard the hill in shifts in case he fell asleep.

Which, of course, he did.

"Now he's paying us," said a guard. "Sweet. So, what shall we spell now?"

Poor Frederick.

I didn't feel all Mustardy today since I was busy with the Dead Pool, so here's a quick story you might like...

Every so often, Susan filled the fish tank with Jell-O.

Bob, not one for confrontation, pretended not to notice.

"Notice anything different?" asked Susan.

"You… cut your hair?" said Bob. "I like it that way."

"No…"

"Ah, okay," said Bob. "Well, I still like it that way."

Then Susan would scowl and stomp off.

Bob couldn't remember when they got the fish tank, nor could he recall ever owning fish.

He looked through their wedding book: silverware… plates…guns… a dining table…

No fish tank.

The next morning, the Jell-O was gone.

Bob never asked where it went.

Better that way.

Let's hope for a prosperous and fun New Year in podcasting!