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by Sam

There once was a girl named Mabel
who lived in a stinky horse stable.
With the moon she often fought,
and all the animals thought
that it seemed like she might be unstable.


by Mike

Jeff grew up working on a turkey farm. No lie. I worked with him years ago. He used to tell us these glorious battle stories: him against the dreaded turkey, fiercest of all on god’s green earth. No lie. His eyes would get wild, and a fever pitch would creep into his voice and he would impart on us these tales that would undoubtedly give us the knowledge that could one day save us. About how he would stride, fearless, warrior like, through the throngs of these killer beasts. This situation would surely send a lesser man to his grave. No lie. But not Jeff, oh no, he alone possessed the knowledge, the cunning, the – dare I say – heroism, to dispatch this worthy adversary to the next world. No lie.


by Sam

          I aged three days yesterday. I did it to impress a girl. We both wore black as we walked into the movie theater. Her hair was dark and shoulder length but it was thin and you could see the frame of her glasses and most of her ear from the side. We saw some movie about a guy and a boat and a girl and a love and there was a subplot too. Everything was great until we got to the restaurant. It was then that she announced that I wasn’t the man for her. She said I was too soft and boring. I told her I thought she might be wrong. She said I didn’t look at her when she spoke, only at the ground. I told her I loved her shoes and legs. She said we were too alike; she needed someone who could impress her with knowledge only learned though age and experience. Right then I aged three days. It did nothing for her. She claimed she couldn’t tell the difference. My beard was thicker and my fingernails were definitely a little longer but she insisted I was lying. She touched my shoulder, pulled my chin up and looked into my eyes and told me that we were no more. I tried to get really old but nothing happened. I’d lost my power to age at will and it cost me the love of a girl with thin hair.

(Shiver) Ye Booty

by Sam

Yo ho ho let’s see some hooks in the air!
Motherfuckers scream as I bring the despair.
Maxin’ on the poopdeck till the sun goes down.
Jolly rogger flappin as we’re plundering your town.

Came across a scallywag punk-ass bitch
Thought he was my matey, turned out he was a snitch
Walk the plank! I told the scurvy dog
His life ended quick as he walked into the fog.

There once was a guy,
who shot me in the thigh,
gave me a peg-leg and then he stabbed me in the eye

A sailor I are,
I navigate by star
With no depth perception I’ll still punch you in the ARRRRRRrrrr!!!!......


Yo ho ho and a bottle fulla rum
Pour some for my homies that got torn up by the Huns.

Yo ho ho and a bottle fulla beer
I’ll punch you in the belly and then chop off your ear.

Yo ho ho on a dead man’s chest
Keep a lookout for some booty in the old crow’s nest

Yo ho ho it’s a pirate’s life for me
I pillage in the village and I fuck the bourgeoisie!

Keeping the Peace

by Sam

          There was this guy. He was driving a dark blue pickup truck. He was looking at some girl on the side of the road. I noticed him as he passed by my house. I keep a lookout from my second floor bedroom. I keep the town safe. The guy in the pickup deserved what he got.

          If I stopped to think every time I did something my whole system would fall apart. This would be bad. Everything has a place and I like to make sure it stays that way. If you move a thing then I think you should move it back when you’re done. It only makes sense.

          He craned his neck to get a good look at her as she bent over to zip up her backpack. About a minute later I saw him coming back down the street, this time much more slowly. The girl was obviously waiting for someone. I don’t think it was he.

          Hair is a funny thing. It does strange things to people sometimes. It blows and flows in the wind and acts like a flag beckoning you to follow. Its fragrance often whispers through the air and tells you things about her day. Skin is nice too.

          He pulled up beside her and said “broccoli” very loudly. He might have said some other things too, but broccoli is all I could hear from my lookout. She waved her mop of hair back and forth. I don’t think she wanted his produce. He shouted “solipsist!” at her and was off. She gave him the finger. That’s when I did it.

          What can be said of road signs that mislead? What can be said of large electromagnets lying in wait? What can be said of giant crushing machines with big teeth and choppy things? What can ever be known about screams in the woods when nobody is around to hear them?

Better Living

by Sam

Always look north except when facing south.

Keep a spatula in your glove compartment – you never know when you might go on another impromptu bear hunt.

If you ever find yourself in a situation that you feel you can’t get out of, just push past your grandmother and run as fast as your legs can carry you.

Things are not always as they seem – be sure to jab an ice pick into stuff to make sure it’s really there.

Caution is the parent of safety. Abandon is the step-brother of nudity.

If it tastes purple give it to Larry.


by Mike

          “Timmy! Stop that! What do you think you’re doing?” his dad yelled. Timmy stopped mid-chew, realizing he had been caught. Sand trickled from the corner of his mouth. A small plastic shovel dangled from his right hand spilling its contents back to whence they had come. His cap was pushed back a little bit, and some of his bangs sprouted over his forehead. He had no sunglasses, so he had to squint a little, and cover his eyes with his left hand, to see his dad.
          Timmy’s dad came tromping over the dune, flip flops kicking up sand with every step, sun hat flapping excitedly around his ears, frisbee in hand, sun glinting off his sunglasses.
          “Get that out of your mouth.” Timmy spat a big clump of sand back to its home. His father was standing in front of him now, hands on his hips. “I thought I had taught you well, brought you up right, and here I find you doing this.”
          Timmy looked down. He knew he had done wrong, but he just couldn’t help it. It tasted so good. And what was the harm, really. It was just a little sand.
          “Now, son, we’ve been over this before. Beach sand is not for eating. It’s not good for you. You know that, don’t you?” Timmy nodded. “It’s got a lousy texture, no nutritional value, and is also probably toxic. Now if you want, we’ve got some good, fine, nutrient rich desert sand at home. You want that?” Timmy nodded again, then took his father’s hand as they walked back towards the car, trudging over dune after dune of delicious looking treats.

Chefs Salad Twixt Greens

by Alexander

        Salad: dessert of the vegetarian, desert to the carnivor. But perhaps this discrepancy will become a thing of the past. After recently enjoying the proximity of some of the world’s finest salad makers and tossers I have learned that salads are not just preamble, setting the stage of a well crafted meal, they are works of art made, only sometimes, of the purest green alchemy.
        The first thing you notice coming into the kitchen of well known vegetarian luncheonette Green Pieces are the rows of preparation table with their flurry of hands peeling heads of lettuce. After running the gauntlet of green leafy flagellators you come to the station of master chef Pierre Lapin. “La salad is not so hard? You have lettuce, you have cucumber, they are both crunchy.”
        Despite this seeming dispassionate elucidation of verdant eatables, Mr. Lapin is adamant about the sanctity of simple greens. “Salad is not amusement! We are not to eat tasty fruits when romaine is needed!”
        The controversy clearly strikes a nerve as Pierre becomes agitated, “they think it is for noise, yes? Too many colours hurt the ears. Why then so much…so asparagus! I cannot be eating it! It is like spoon for meat.” He stews.
        Sir Gorges Grünesblatt owner of the Salad Haus disagrees. His gentle european deamenor and thick Hungarian accent inspire illusions of wisdom with which he insists, “salad can be most anything. A gallimaufry of cool comestibles! Ze only thing that dictates is not a salad is ze menu.”
        Indeed the Salad Haus menu proudly lists 148 different salads, seasonally available, from classic, Bloody Green and Yellow: Spinach and endive with sundried tomato dressing, to the more adventurous, Crunchy Conniption: rutabega and arrugula with potatoe and garlic paste, to the outright strange, Sushi Perturba: raw Mackerel and almonds with Roquefort and raspberry coulis.
        To some, however, the contents of the salad are secondary. “Who cares if it’s iceberg or reddicio, pasta or piscine! People will remember the balsamic, the mustard and mint. The raucous bite of a pressed garlic dressing, the tender caresses of a basil, thyme, cilantro threesome, the subtle wit of well oiled sesame” espouses Petey Feuille, Chief Dresser at The Diminutive Pickle.
        According to Mr. Feuille, famous for his Creme-de-Ptuie dressing, whose recipe is so secret it has only revealed two ingredients: emulsified olive oil and radish hearts, the lasting impression a salad makes is by it’s dressing. “I will [put] cream on your salad and you will love it!” He exalts.
        For most, even we admitted salad enthusiasts, our attentions are rarely on the final stages of salad preparation. “When you toss the salad you must think like a lettuce. How do I ruffle? Where will I bend? Are those rabbits coming out of the hedge?” observes master salad tosser Fabian Leefage. Ideed he insists the secret life of salad is only finally revealed by the delicate massage of his utensils. He is, howhever, the only one.
        It is clear the realm of salad is strewn with controversy and mixed greens. But after furrowing the landscape with debate of vegetable miscellany it remains uncontested that salad is a refreshing and tasty treat that is, at least, often, a little bit, crunchy.

Famous Train Conductors

by Sam

          In 1853 the man children looked up to was Frederick “Earl” Caleworth. Frederick Caleworth was the first of the so-called Super Conductors of the mid 1850s. Known for his wry wit and saucy moustache, Mr. Caleworth had hundreds of adoring fans. In the early days, fellow conductors would call him Early Bird Caleworth. It was common knowledge among the train staff, but not so among the public, that Caleworth liked to keep ahead of schedule in order to meet up with various trollops throughout the country. In 1868, after fathering 43 illegitimate children in 30 states, Frederick Caleworth fled the country. It’s rumored he settled in Ontario, Canada on the Magpie River so as to be able to hear the Canadian Pacific Railway passing in the night.

          Fat-Trap Baker was a train conductor few could relate to. In 1923, when Fat-Trap asked Chicken-Nose Jim McGraw to fill in for him on the B&M line while he recovered from a bout with the gout, legend has it that Fat-Trap stood up from his lunch and blubbered for 18-minutes straight about France. When he finished, Chicken-Nose Jim was so perplexed, he couldn’t do anything but agree to the job. During his recuperation, Fat-Trap spent most of his time thumbing through the Sears Catalog and developed a taste for fine jewelry. He was also apparently incubating an infatuation with Chicken Jim. Upon his recovery, Fat-Trap met Chicken Jim in Boston and showered him with costume jewelry right there on the platform. Jim, again dumbstruck, didn’t know how to react to this precipitous outpouring of emotion and plastic, punched Fat-Trap in the neck. An onlooker reported Chicken Jim to the police. Chicken Jim was put away and Fat-Trap became a local celebrity and a poster boy for spousal abuse.