Hi Mom,
I’m having a lot of fun on my trip. The weather’s been uniformly hot, and the people here are lots of fun.
Everybody’s who’s anybody is here.
Don’t worry about me, I’m wearing clean underwear, and I’m brushing my teeth after every meal.
Hell is fun!
Your Son
He had one of those huge, ugly, annoying and itchy pimples that just wouldn’t go away.
The third time he tried squeezing it, it finally burst.
Then it leaked this milky, disgusting fluid, and kept on doing it for days.
He eventually went to his doctor, who said, “You’re lactating.”
Clang! She broke another plate.
“You asshole, you… MAN!” she screamed.
“Calm down… Tell me, what did I do?” he said.
“Nothing… YET!”
“What?”
“I checked the ‘scope, earlier. You’re going to do that SLUT from the coffee shop, tomorrow!”
“But…”
“That thing is always accurate.”
“I…”
“Shut up, asshole.”
He was trying to start a new story.
He needed a title for it. He couldn’t start the story unless he had a title, because the title is what shaped all his stories.
He needed a bold title. Something that would immediately bring the story to mind, without spoiling it.
Being a tale told in 50 words, wherein the protagonist, a man named Arcturus Morgenstern (Third of the name) is eminently surprised to discover that the body of his wife, whom he’d found murdered not five minutes previously, is now animated with an unholy life, and for whatever reason is burning important-seeming papers that Arcturus had been working on previous to the gunshots that had seemingly (but not conclusively) killed his wife.
The gunshot startled him.
Turning, he found his wife, dead of a gunshot wound.
He ran out, looking for the assassin. Upon his return, his wife’s body was busy burning his writings.
Taking the last sheet from her undead hands, he nervously reads off the title: “How to Make Zombies”.
Every night, at precisely 1:34 am, he would be awakened by a loud, piercing, bone-chilling scream. After the scream ended, the subsequent silence seemed even more unreal.
One night, as he was awakened again, he decided to scream back.
Later that night, he was awakened again by another scream:
“WHY NOT?”
The Poet would sprinkle some iron shavings on a large white board, and then place a bunch of randomly tangled wires under the board. Then he would run electricity through each wire.
The shavings would then rearrange. The results would then be decoded into poetry.
Sometimes, the results were good.
“I’ll see this through to the end,” she said of her first store that sold products and material dedicated to the gay and lesbian community. Her business soon turned into a multinational corporation that eclipsed even Wal-Mart!
She’d reached the end of the rainbow, and found the pot of gold.
The same old story:
Boy meets girl.
Girl doesn’t like boy.
Boy does something clever.
Girl still doesn’t like boy.
Boy does something nice.
Girl still indifferent.
Boy does something grand.
Girl starts to worry.
Boy gets desperate.
Girl calls the cops.
Boy is arrested.
Girl is abducted by aliens.
When the aliens came, we weren’t ready for them
They came as friends, but we took them for conquerors
They wanted to share their culture and science
We thought they were trying to assimilate us
So we attacked.
And they left.
And now we’re all alone.
Quarantined civilization.
Xenophobic doom.
And there you have it (for now.) To emphasize the fact that the song is in three parts, the recording will be made up of three distinct-sounding parts. Each of the three 50-word segments has its own rhythm, and they will be linked with something special (which I haven’t devised yet…)
Now, in order to catch up to the back-log, I still owe you another story. This will come later tonight.