It was there. Then it wasn’t.
(C) Grumpy Axolotl.
It was there. Then it wasn’t.
(C) Grumpy Axolotl.
Having spent the balance of the afternoon playing hide-the-salami, Joan couldn’t, for the life or her, recall where she had left it. And the family were growing hungry.
(C) Grumpy Axolotl
Sex sells. So does itching-powder. Sometimes sex alleviates the need for powder as the subsequent itching – after relieving the initial itch – is free. Herpes must be awful. Hey, is there anything worse than crabs? Sure, just wait till you try the pubic-lobster! Speaking of crabs, I was at the beach once and a young girl chanced to pick up a beautiful conical-shell from the water’s edge. Screaming ensued when the pincers of the hermit-crab inside emerged and snipped the air menacingly. I have never had crabs – I doubt they would make good pets – but our house used to suffer regular slater infestations, which made great pests. Slaters are crustaceans (as are crabs) and they look a bit like trilobites, but they live on land and they couldn’t bite if they tried. I used to play with them. I would construct little mazes from LEGO bricks and encourage them to navigate the labrynth, but the little bastards would just climb straight over the walls. Unfortunately, my Mom called a moratorium on labrynths when she discovered the minotaur hidden under my bed, reading Playboy magazine. Oh yeh, slaters are more correctly called wood-lice. In North-America they are colloquially referred to as pill-bugs. They have 14 legs and feed on decaying organic detritus, wood being a favourite dish. If you want to find a slater, go look under a log. You’ll likely find a spider too. That’s OK though; most spiders are harmless and even the venomous ones will ignore you unless you dick with them. Case in point: A tourist in New Zealand went to sleep naked, face-down on a sand-dune (so the newspaper says) and a Katipo (our native poisonous spider that lives predominantly in sand-dunes) reportedly bit his joystick. He went to hospital when his poor sausage swelled to twice its normal size (There’s just no pleasing some people). I guess pubic-spiders are worse than crabs.
When it comes to fantasy, I don’t know Jack (unless I can count that kid who traded his cow for beans). I have read much of Pratchett and some of Eddings, but that’s about it.
Enough about me already … I recently read a fantasy story that kept me up reading past my bedtime a few nights because I just couldn’t put it down. The story is Captain Rob Fights by Blaine Arcade. Although the title didn’t exactly grab my attention, I follow Blaine’s blog so when it appeared in my reader I had a look … and didn’t come back for a while. What did pique my interest was … In Blaine’s own words (copied verbatim-ish) :
AUGUST 28, 2016 ~ BLAINE ARCADE
Shut up, yes I did. This is not a joke. Well, it is a joke… but it’s a two hundred page joke that takes itself very seriously. It’s called Captain Rob Fights. One day I had a thought: What if I set a high fantasy in the lowest of places? It was originally going to be a short story, but then I had another thought: What if I stretched this one ply concept beyond all reason? Yeah, I’ll do that. So I did.
It has all the fixtures you’d expect of the genre from strange creatures and ancient magic to powerful relics and jaw-dropping battles. It also has all the fixtures of a bathroom… from sinks to hand dryers
<end of excerpt>
He has even drawn a map. So what are you waiting for? Go check it out! Captain Rob Fights
Disclaimer: Although Blaine has written a couple of short-stories for me, we do not know each other personally and I am not implying that we are associated in any way. Blaine has not asked me to promote this story (or to do anything). I am sharing it because I thoroughly enjoyed it and I hope you will too.
I don’t mind if you swear. The occasional blast, drat, flip, heck or even damn – when you drop your favourite anvil on your toe for the third time this morning – doesn’t phase me in the least. Just don’t do it in every motherfucking cunt of a sentence. I went to a play last night. The play had the c-word in it. Cunt! The actress spat the word from her lips as if … as if … Oh, I don’t know, she just spat it. Hissssss! Grrrrr. Apparently, this unspeakably filthy sequence of letters had been scrawled in 3-foot high red scribblings on the boards covering an empty window frame. It wasn’t clear to me whether or not the word was intended to shock the audience. I had no idea what the fuck the play was about until afterwords (when I read the brochure), and I wasn’t alone in my bewilderment. It wasn’t worth the $40 I spent, but a friend had a small part in it, so my attendance was not optional. I know people who would have a problem with this word being used. It is, after all, considered to be among the strongest of the English language [citation please. get fucked] I know people that don’t mind the profanity in movies such as Good-Will-Hunting (which isn’t particular strong) because it’s an accurate portrayal of how the characters in the story would/do actually speak. So, why do they get offended when real people actually speak that way? Words have power, so they say. Bullshit, so I say. Words have no intrinsic power. Words do not even exist. Words are abstract concepts, just like numbers and mathematics. They are the disembodied embodiment of ideas. This all made perfect sense in the early hours of the morning. It was a lead-up to a mind-blowing something-or-other regarding grammar and how you are able to read this sentence. If I could only remember. It’s like when you have a dream within which the meaning of life is laid out before you in full clarity. But you’re too much of a dumb-fuck to wake up and write it down. In the morning there is only a fleeting remnant of something profound rapidly slipping from your grasp. Shit. Well, the All-Blacks annihilated the Wallabies. That’s good enough for me.
Fuck. The screwdriver slipped again gouging another cut across the back of Jason’s hand but the door was open and he dived into the back seat of the Falcon scrambling desperately for the cloth-wrapped package. Fucking mother-of-motherfuckers. It wasn’t there. That cunt Marie had set him up. Larry was going to have his balls on a barbecue, but not before Jason settled a score with Marie. He knew where she would be and he would fuck that whore’s ass to the end of the earth before stuffing her with Peruvian death-peppers and snapping her pretty little everbitching neck. A cold rain was falling and Jason broke into a run down Herons-Bluff avenue.
Dailypost Prompt: Carefree
They come in all shapes and sizes. Actually they don’t really; they are all made out of tiffy-taffy and all very much the same. It’s the packaging that varies wildly. Walking down that aisle of the supermarket, it always fills one with superstitious and suspicious awe and wonder. The explosion of colors, patterns, styles. The uplifting mantras of confidence, hope, protection. The miracle of life, the mystery, the wish for a hysterectomy, the .. what the fuck?
That’s enough copy. Buy Carefree(R) Tampons today. becarefree.co.nz
an empty coca-cola can
half a cup of luke-warm coffee
resting on the table
surrounded by chairs
i can see these things from where I sit
not one is a pre-requisite to survival
but I’d rather have them than not. S’il vous plaît.
dirty dishes accumulate
while health-inspectors collect in the cracks
and flies fornicate upon the kitchen table,
buzzing with obscene contentment.
Ultrasound can not locate.
CT Scan comes next.
Hey poets, this poem by Mudrow is beautiful. Check it out
A forest is not a poem
A poem can be a forest
Sneezing is not very poetic
You smell a good syllable that makes you Haiku
Starving artists write poems
A poem does not feed a starving artist
A word processor cannot be a poet (not yet)
A poet is a word processor
Silence can be heard as empty of poetry
Silence can be read as full of poetry
Being poetic can be accidental
Being a poet is no accident
A red wheel barrow cannot be depended upon for poetry
It’s In a Station of the Metro(!)
A poem can be recited
A poem needs to be resuscitated
A monkey cannot peel the skin off a poem
Poets monkey with poems, peeling off layers.
A poem can be monogamous,
Only strict meter and rhyming couplets
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