Matthieu had been awake for the past seventy nine hours. Staying up for that long had been a bad idea; he had an important meeting that he needed to go to today. The board budget meeting could honestly take care of itself, but as President and CEO of his company, Matthieu sort of needed to be there instead of just sending a representative again. It was bad form to send someone in his place to fifteen meetings in a row, and Matthieu was cutting it close. Continue reading “[Clipart] Bad Idea” »
Jared took the baseball bat out from underneath his bed. Tonight, he would solve the problem.
Jared’s dad had told him every night for the past year that there were no monsters in his closet. Tonight, his dad wouldn’t have to lie to him anymore when he said that. Tonight, Jared would make sure there were no monsters in his closet. Continue reading “[Clipart] No Monsters” »
“Get the fuck out of here, you ugly freak!” A red faced child yelled before lobbing a rock at Catzilla’s head. His friends snickered as they ran off and ducked into an alley.
On the left, a rosy-cheeked cook, frightened, panting, biting his lips, looking humble as he can be. On the right, his boss, the balding codger who never thinks they work fast enough around here. Around them, a ring of wide-eyed employees acting like there’s no one to serve, like kids, like school is out already. And on the counter, an affront to any cook who styles himself an artist: Boss Rones has slapped the ladle straight out of Cook’s hand, and the proof is all along the marble in driblets of red-orange. Some days it seems like nobody can cook right by the tyrant.
“You…” Cook’s voice trembles. “You can’t rush art.”
I am not a duckling. I am a baby duck. There’s a difference. Ducklings are immature, spoiled, no-good animals with no vocabulary to speak of (heh). I am a baby duck. Baby ducks can speak in monologue format without caring who hears, since we know we are impressive. Continue reading “[Clipart] Baby Duck” »
The sun was gone, the moon came out to play, the neon lights flashed, and the music raged on against the dying of the night. The alien, who was perfectly normal of course, arrived at the doorstep of the nightclub and decided to start boogie-ing down, to party like no other normal alien had ever partied before.
Except the bouncer stopped him where he was with his hand. “Whoa buddy,” the bouncer says. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“I want to go into the nightclub, the normal alien said.
“That’s not happening,” the bouncer said.
“But I want to start boogie-ing down and party like no other normal alien has ever partied before.”
“Dude. You’re a fucking two-foot-tall head on stilts. You can’t boogie. I don’t even know how you can walk like that.”
The normal alien scowled. “I am most certainly not a ‘fucking two-foot-tall head on stilts’, sir! I am a normal alien who just so happens to have a very thin body!”
The bouncer scowled back. “This club is not going to get into full lawsuit central because some dumbass headless alien decided to go to a nightclub and ended up getting trampled and killed by all the other patrons. That is not something I want on my hands.” The bouncer patted the normal alien on his head, since he couldn’t pat him on the back or shoulders or anything. “You seem like a good kid. Why don’t you go study at the library or have a good time at home? It’s just too dangerous for you.” He gave a very slight nudge to the normal alien and pushed him away from the line. “If you really want to do something out here, why don’t you go to the Mexican restaurant across the street? I think it’s karaoke night.”
The normal alien pondered this. Could the bouncer be right?
There was only one way to find out.
“IIIIIIII, WILL ALWAYS, LOVE YOUUUUUUU,” the normal alien bellowed into the microphone. He was half-drunk and full off tortilla chips, but his singing voice was great. Fantastic, even.
The song ended and he gave the microphone to the guy next to him, whose name he had forgotten. He stepped back and sat down in his seat while the guy began singing “We Built This City”.
Suddenly, he realized a man in a white jacket sitting right next to him. The man wore aviators even though he was indoors and the restaurant was already dimly-lit.
The man passed the normal alien a card. “Name’s Manchester Bennings,” he said. “I want you to come into my office tomorrow afternoon. You good?”
“Wait… Manchester Bennings? The famous producer for Yuletide Records? No way…”
“Yes way. I heard your voice. I know what you can do with that head of yours. Your body may be weak, but your brain and your heart is strong. Mr. Alien, sir, will you be a part of my studio?”
Could he really be that good, this normal alien?
There was only one way to find out.
Officers Timmons and Blake stepped up to the drainage ditch and looked at the deformed green head lying lifeless in the sewer water.
“This is some fucked up shit,” Officer Blake said.
“You said it,” Officer Timmons said. “Looks like Bennings strikes again.”
They filled out the report and laid the head on the stretcher. Officer Blake picked up two broken stilts and put them in an evidence bag.
Just another day on the force.
Tassel was at it again. He and his big mouth were yelling about their mutual one true love at five o’clock in the morning. Both of them loved singing opera. Sadly, no one else loved it when Tassel sang opera with his big mouth. The hatred he got from critics was devastating and he was ashamed. Continue reading “[Clipart 059] Big Mouth” »
In this penguin’s life, he had no friends to speak of. It was lonely, being a penguin surprise. Sometimes people called into the center to surprise their loved ones with a penguin. It happened rarely, but it did happen. He and several thousand others waited in their cells to be delivered to their very first friends. Or at least Roger thought so. For all he knew, he could be the only one. Somehow, he just knew that he was going to be the perfect penguin surprise for someone someday.
He just had to wait.
Tesla and Cujo, the two frogs who lived in the house on the bump on the branch on the log in the hole in the bottom of the sea, were fighting again. This wasn’t their normal kind of fight though. No, this time they would maybe even get a divorce.
“Alright, Mr. Johnson,” the nurse said. “It appears that your vital signs are in order and you’ve actually lost a few pounds since the last time you were here.”
Herbert Johnson puffed his already bulbous stomach out as far as he could and smacked it like a drum. “Huh, could’ve fooled me!”
The nurse looked at Herbert with an unamused glare. He patted his belly for a few more seconds before giving up on making her smile. “Head down to examination room 213 and the doctor should be waiting for you to discuss the results of your blood work.” Continue reading “[Clipart 056] Doc in the Box” »