This is a book I'm writing in my spare time. I started yesterday.
At the same time as all that other stuff was happening (exactly what is impossible to remember, unless you have the memory of an elephant, of course) there was a contest for who could eat the largest amount of boots filled with dung. The previous redord holder, from last year, the year 2004, had just died in a mysterious accident that involved walking, talking hams. Yes, HAMS that seemingly came alive in some strange manner and walked around, scaring people. Fucking lousy hams! They should be eaten, not walking around scaring people.
Is what Jambola thought as he was standing in line at the airport, trying to eat an ice-cream (AUTHOR'S NOTE: obvious phallic symbolism). The plane went to Spain.
Suddenly Jambola was in Spain. It was raining cats and dogs and gods and birds and turds and words and drums and scum and whipped cream and whipping boys and leatherboys with whips and sexual imagery (AUTHOR'S NOTE: If you've been paying attention during the last few paragraphs, you'll have seen that Jambola has been established as homosexual. Please remember this as it will be important in later chapters.)
Suddenly a comet fell down out of the clear blue sky and seemingly killed Jambola! But he wasn't really dead, only sleeping. Jambola looked very peaceful while he slept, but still, somehow, full of life and vigor and vigour and liquor. The comet was made of cheese, just like God. God is a cheddar. It's in the Bible, you know. (Luke 20:34)
On a very distant planet, far from our own planet, the planet Earth, Terra Firma, Tellus to some, was another planet, very distant from ours. That planet was the planet Maloppus. Maloppus was heaven on Earth, except it wasn't on Earth (it was on Maloppus). Everyone walked around blissful as fuck, full of bliss and shit. That was because they were doing a lot of drugs. The moral of the story in this chapter is that drugs are the Answer. (And I spell Answer with a capital A to make sure you realize I'm talking about the ultimate answer, not any fucking kind of stupid answer you picked up in a bar at 3.00am because you thought she could bring you happiness. She couldn't, of course, and you should have realized by know that that approach can't ever work. What is the answer? Give me a D! Give me an R! Give me a U! Give me an M! Give me an S. DRUMS.).
"At this rate we'll never get to the end of this stupid novel", Mrs Asshole said to her husband, the highly respected shitfarmer Mr Asshole (Richard to his friends). They were reading a novel together, you see. Mr Asshole was blind, blind as a bat, blind as Justice, blind as other poetic likenesses and similes and metaphores and stuff I can't be bothered to think up right now. And so he couldn't read on his own, so Mrs Asshole (her real name was Laura) had to read to him, every fucking night. She thought they would never get to the end, and that is basically the concern she was voicing just as we enter her remarkable story, which is what we are doing just exactly pretty much now, at this point in time.
The book she was reading to him was The SUPERBLOG!! Novel by K. Mentala, a retired plumber from Wisconsin. It was a thick novel, but really juicy. Filled to the brim with full-page illustrations of chicklets licking each other, and other pornographic and/or erotic images.
"What makes you say that, dear?" asked the pathetic and ugly fucking stupid goddamn lousy piece of Mr Asshole (dickless wimp). At this, Mrs Asshole was angered. She picked up the same knife Jambola used to kill Bobo with and shoved it into his sternum. Mr Asshole died later, at hospital.
But first he was rushed to hospital!
"We're doing everything we can to save him!" shouted the ambulance driver into Mrs Asshole's ear as they were cruising Sunset Boulevard in the limo, pretending to look for the hospital. But it was useless. She was deaf with sadness.
Look, I've written around 1,500 words, and I'm starting to realize it's not that fun. It's a hassle and a burden. Google Calculator informs me that I'll have to write 3 571.42857 words every FUCKING day to meet the goal of 50,000 words in 14 days. That's more than twice as much as I've manage today (granted, it hasn't taken long), but I'm already bored shitless. Maybe I should cut my losses.
Chapter 8: A New Dawn
My skeleton glows with a healthy green hue. Look out, World, The Creepiness is starting to set in.
Mrs Asshole fucked the ambulance driver in the car, and also in the ear. She used a sort of kind of whatitcalled, thing. You know what I mean! Chicks insert them into their vaginas in lieu of dicks! What the fuck... You know how irritating it is when a common word, a word you've known since you were a kid (you probably learned it in kindergarden, if you didn't already know it in the uterus), when it just disappears and you can't... a DILDO. A fucking dildo. Why in the holy name of our Lord and Savior, Jebus Kreist, couldn't I remember what a dildo is called? It's called a dildo, stupidhead!
So Mrs Asshole inserted the dildo into the ambulance driver's ear a few times, to give him pleasure. That's really all I wanted to say, it wasn't intended to be a huge part of the story (or even this chapter), it just became important when I couldn't think of the fucking word.
"Ouch!" said the ambulance driver, a nameless gentleman from Toronto, Canada (a town full of pigs and prigs). "I'm bleeding! That didn't give me pleasure at all! Why did I think it would?"
"I don't know", said Mrs Asshole, stupidly.
"It must have been the drugs", whined the ambulance driver, looking down at his toke and holding his injured ear. Blood was dripping from it, and not in a sexy way.
"Now don't you go blaming the drugs, Mister!" shouted Mrs Asshole. "They give you bliss! Everyone knows that! Why, way up in the sky there's even a far away planet called... not Blisstonia, that's from The Simpsons... (AUTHOR'S NOTE: I probably ripped off the idea of a planet full of bliss from The Simpsons. But it's a common belief in many religious religions.) It's called MALOPPUS, the Planet That Gives You Bliss. And the people there, they never fucking whine. Because they're happy and full of life and love and so on."
"Yeah, I need to get to a hospital", Mr Hufkspsladk said. (That was his name all along, but don't expect me to repeat it. From now on, he will go under the alias Mr X, because it's faster to type, and also because you should shut the fuck up with your stupid criticism of my brilliant story. It's brilliant, you fuck!)
"I REALLY need to get to a hospital", Mr X said, as he laid down and died. (See, I didn't see that coming. If I had, I'd probably have gone with "Mr Hufkspsladk" (it's Czech) just now, seeing as how I probably don't have to type it a lot in the rest of the story, seeing as how the character is now dead as a can of spam, from a shot in the back. Yeah, he was shot, I just didn't tell you until now.)
P.S. Mrs Asshole fucked his corpse. D.S.
Chapter 9: The Dangerous Giraffe
"Boy, it sure is mild outside today".
The speaker was Dr Constantinople, a physics professor from the tiny, unknown town of Antwerp.
"In my native Antwerp, it's never this mild. Boy, is it mild today."
His assistant was startled. "But Dr Constantinople! James! May I call you James?"
"Certainly, but my real name is Judah."
"James, Doctor, there's a horrible thing that perhaps you don't realize and probably you don't, no."
"What is that, my dear boy or girl or whatever the fuck you are? (Assistants come in all genders, after all.)"
"It's after 7pm! It's not TODAY any longer, it's TONIGHT. You should have said, 'it sure is mild TONIGHT'!"
"Sweet Jebus, you're right, boy (girl)! An inforgivable error on my part. I'm stupid! I'm ugly! Kill me with a scythe!"
And the boy/girl/whatever did as she/he/it/they/them/huh was instructed and killed the Professor, no, wait he was a Doctor, killed the Doc with the scythe. (AUTHOR'S NOTE: The topic of gender balance is one we'll be returning to in later chapters. Also: hamsters.)
Chapter 10: Drama at the Book Fair
"How can you write so much stupid drivel?" said the really hot chick, as she approached the good-looking but kind of shy author at the book fair. He was signing books or something.
"The secret is not caring", I answered, staring into her eyes in a creepy manner. They both (especially the foxy chick) realized they were in love, and would have sexual intercourse later that afternoon. Shit, I meant that the AUTHOR said that thing about the secret. Not me. I'm just the omniscient narrator, totally disconnected from this story. No character in this story is supposed to represent me. No. Never.
"Yeah, but how do you do it?" the chick said, sultrily.
"I'm channeling the gods. In particular one God, the evil but kind-hearted God of Fucking Things Up, PANJO the three-headed snake!
"Panjo!" said the girl! "He's my favorite!" And then she dropped her clothes, and they fucked on the floor.
Hmm. If there's a recurrent theme to these stories, it's that I really need to get laid. I just noticed.
Chapter 11: Hedgehog
Suddenly everything exploded in a flash of light. A lonely little antropomorphic hedgehog (you can't go wrong with animals) was preparing a breakfast consisting of toast and coffee and more toast and coffee and tea and eggs and bacon and salmon and cerial and milk and honey and marmelade (three different kinds) and even more coffee and sugar and orange juice, and PCP, angel dust.
"Gosh", said the hedgehog, "Angel dust sure is good with coffee."
He spent the rest of the morning jerking off and doing the dishes, in that order. Now that little hedgehog isn't quite as fucking cute as you imagined him being when this chapter started, is he? See how appearances can be deceiving?
There was a knock on the door. The hedgehog hid his marmelade (it had won prizes and was worth BILLIONS on eBay) and opened the door, cautiously. All the while he held a can of mace, prepared to squirt it in the eyes of the visitor, if it was a cop, or just someone he didn't like. But luckily, the visitor turned out to be another antropomorphic animal, his best friend Crocodile Bill!
"Crocodile Bill! said the hedgehog, startled as startled can be. "When did you get out of prison?"
Crocodile Bill smiled ominously. "I escaped just last night", he said as a drew his long, sharp knife.
"Oh shit", said the hedgehog. "You're not gonna stab me in the eye, are you, Bill?"
"Of course I am", said Crocodile Bill.
And stab he did. Not once or twice or even three times, but again and again, long into the night. And if he hasn't found anything better to do with his time, he's probably still right there, stabbing away. That is, unless he's died from starvation. Do you think it might have occurred to him to try some of the hedgehog's breakfast? (Not the marmelade, of course, because the hedgehog hid that very well, but the rest of the food is probably still right there on the table. The milk is starting to turn sour, maybe. The cereal is all lumpy and disgusting. Meanwhile, Crocodile Bill is all too busy stabbing to notice what goes on all around him. It was just the same way back in the 1980s, when Crocodile Bill had a family. He just couldn't find the time to talk to his wife and play with his children. He was always too busy stabbing. Stabbing, stabbing. Now, what kind of life is that, I ask you? Eventually his wife grew tired and took the kids and moved to Seattle. But when Crocodile Bill realized what had happened he got REALLY mad and took the next flight to Seattle where he of course butchered his family.
He regretted that later, partly because he missed his family a little bit, but mostly because he was sent to jail for 45 years. The only reason he got out is because a cellmate helped him hide in the laundry. And then he went directly to his best friend the hedgehog's house, and what did he do? He stabbed him! Not once, or twice, or three times, even. But repeatedly. We all thought he had changed in jail. You know, he found religion inside (a weird religion dedicated to the pursuit of bliss), and we were sure he was all through with the stabbing. But he's outside for five minutes, and he just falls back into his old, bad patterns. Why is that? I blame the parents.
MORAL: Stabbing can be counter-productive.
Chapter 12: Back in 1989
Inexplicably, Bobo had started his own Internet company and was now trying to take over the world, or at least the country. (The country being Uruguay. Bobo was travelling in Africa as a missionary for the One True Faith (found in its original form only on the faraway planet MALOPPUS). Now he was living in Montevideo, in a small hostel just outside of Montevideo, in central Montevideo. Anywhere, really.)
The walk that tore him to shreds was the same walk that filled his life with meaning. It was when he was out walking that he noticed how everything seemed to be made of mist. The trees, the forest, the buckets of sand, the children playing in the park, even the mist itself was mist.
Bobo exhaled. "I have to go home and polish the floor."
"With your tongue!", cried the leper.
"With my tongue", Bobo grimly confirmed.
Chapter 13: The Fireman Can Take a Joke
"How can you see that a car is from Poland?"
"You, er, you can see it on the, uh, the polish. The polish. Get it?"
"Ah, 'polish' slash 'Polish'. I get your meaning", said the fireman. He walked away without a word, never once looking back.
The fireman was one of a select breed who was travelling the country, starting fires. One time, he had even doused himself in gasoline, and tried to get his wife to light him up.
"This way", he had said to his wife (while dripping all over the kitchen floor), "I'll be a REAL fireman". And then he had grinned his toothless grin, which always creeped her out.
Chapter 14: The Contempt of Astronaut Pete
Gazing down from the Moon, Astronaut Pete felt nothing but contempt for his fellow man. "Look at them down there!", he said to no one in particular. "Scurrying about with not a care in the world!
What do they know about REAL suffering? Puny ants! I should spit on them from up here, so that the saliva will travel through the atmosphere, increasing in velocity and growing ever huger, finally reaching the ground and overflooding the entire planet!"
With that, he removed his helmet and promptly exploded.
To be continued.