The Judicious Application of Headbutt Formulas is Woefully Painful

The Hopeful Monster dwells in the Great Sea of Possibilities and Silly Love, occasionally surfacing to inform unsuspecting passers-by on humanity’s need for Context, Physics, and Dessert Toppings (sometimes with the aid of visual puns). Kid Dexter was fishing for Conceptual Leverages against Embodied Westphalian Democracy when his boat had accidentally bumped into the head of Hopeful.

“WUZZAH?” exclaimed Kid.
“HNGH AARGH OH SHIT! FUCK FUCK FUCK!” cried Hopeful.
“Aye, if it not the Hopeful Monster that dwells in this Great Sea of Possibilities and Silly Love,” Kid vocalized, as he located the source of sprawling vulgarities.
“MAWO! WUH! You better fucking HOPE this BLOODY CUT heals PRONTO Kido, lest I remind you that your boat is constitutive of bloody breakable wood and metal; your body but mortal flesh and brittle, brittle bone. In any case, whilst this intrepid intimidation is one of self-aggrandized posturing, I shall also mellifluously supplicate this information with an out of place digression – almond shavings are a suitable topping for Raspberry Tiramisu.”
-_-

*This story entirely sponsored (and inspired) by your friendly neighbourhood Bowie quote.

The Jedi Master’s Working Strategy to Divorce Procedures

Gregory was channelling his spirit animal (the Great Philadelphia Cheese-Steak Sandwich) when he found out (by complete accident) that he was a proletariat Jedi knight. It was at this point that Gregory’s girlfriend, Jenny, walked in and saw her fiancée levitating a piece of jelly donut in the middle of the living room – an impressive look of determined ferocity hung across his face.

“My god,” said Jenny, “do you realize what this means?” The couple had spent the last ten minutes fooling around with The Force.
“That we’re gonna be so FUCKING RICH!” cried Gregory as he thought about the million ways he could (potentially) usurp the bourgeoisie classes of the world.
“Certainly not,” guffawed Jenny. “What would we do without Capitalism at the helm of things?”
“So then, what do you suggest?” extemporised Gregory, now crestfallen and dejected. Socialist class revolution was always the thorny issue in their relationship.
“Well…I was thinking of redoing the furniture arrangements for this season. With your newfound powers, we won’t be needing to call your cousins over to help, ya know. Plus, now we can sooo finally do the re-roofing before winter sets in. Yippee ki-yay baby.”

That night, the hometown Minnesota police blotter recorded a fatal death-by-lightsaber, and that one Gregory M. Lightskipper had officially turned his allegiance to the Dark Side.
Sometimes, a Jedi can only take so much bullshit from one woman.

We walk home alone, long after the music stops playing

At the genetics factory last night:

Lisa had kissed the ghost of her former lover whilst on the late shift.

Sally had dreamt a silent dream of dancing with her father again, on board a ship made entirely of glass and paper.

Sherman had successfully spliced the cells of two animals, producing a compound that was briefly alive for 2 seconds.

Jeffrey had received spam from a Japanese female porn starlet.

Lucas had composed a war ballad about a sleeveless receptionist sent to battle the warmongering Vikings of 1066.

This morning:

The late shift clocked out, and they all went home deeply quiet, lost in their own thoughts and stories.

1 Sentence Stories #3

#3 – The Permanence of Little Fleeting Things

Today, 5-year-old Jerome will lose his red balloon to the Westerly winds – he will learn about the nature of transience; tomorrow, the balloon will vaporize its pressured contents to the stratosphere, dance downwards across cloud currents and rain, and land safely back on Jerome’s front porch – the boy will learn about the gift of hope.

Pimp City (Plate 1)

I hate this pimp city of mine.
It treats me like a whore citizen.
(I do not trust its spoken ideologies)

This pimp city –
imports foreign brides to fill its coffers;
imports foreign whores to satisfy its needs;
imports foreign harlots to call its own.

It builds great asylums for everyone;
Its opiate for the masses is the demagogy of capitalism;
Its hypodermic remedy is the bewitching prism of narcissism;
It is a constructed heaven of self-surveillance and inward lament.

This pimp city –
it denies me the pleasure of being;
Exalted.

Pantry Affirmations to Savoury Confectionary Battles

The Cupcake Executioners were butchering the Biscuit Brigade when General Toasty finally rode in on his vanilla seahorse Ascalon (to the flanks!) and brought with him the 23rd Chocolate Cookie Cavalry; it was at this opportune moment that the pancake shelling begun. It rained maple syrup that day; as the assorted confectionaries fought mightily in the hot sticky liquorice highlands and jam-filled rivers. In their marshmallow dugouts and nougat cake trenches, the wounded bled a deliciously bloody trail of raspberry sauce and lemon-lime cream – their dying recipes forever kept secret in the Great Scone Scourge of 1814. General Toasty himself, barely surviving the battle, was said to have indignantly declared the battle as “the Maddest Tea Party of our century”.

She’ll Hurt You and You’ll Cry in Silence

The lady on the crowded SBS bus
Who’s standing beside me
(I’m seated)
She’s going home to cook dinner
And in her red plastic bag is a bag full of rice

At the next stop the man behind me leaves
And she hurries to occupy the empty seat
(The red plastic bag is heavy for her)
She rushes and doesn’t notice
When the rice bag smacks into my face
And hits me hard
Oh man that’s hurt and pain
Right there man.

Beware of food staples.
They should put a warning sign on those things.

Meet the Cosmos

The cosmopolitan couple’s wedding was held on an international cruise ship bound for Alaska. He, of Norwegian-Dutch-Portuguese-Burmese descent; she, of Japanese-British-Hawaiian-Aboriginal blood. They’d met at Heathrow’s Aisle 1, where a mix up of lost luggage had caused a brief momentary instance of standard apologizing, complete with polite bowing and shaking of smiling heads, as well as an exchanging of phone numbers.

On their first date at a sushi bar, she’d impressed him with her Kagoshima-accented ordering of Japanese food; he’d impressed her with his burgonde ordering of French wine. Together they shared a love for fusion art, a fascination with multilingual street signage, and an endearing passion for transnational humanitarian organizations.

They begun taking salsa lessons on Thursday evenings, and watched reruns of “Mind Your Language” over the weekends. Before they knew it, three years had gone by. On a sunset beach, he, finally proposed to her by asking for her hand in several languages; and she, simply answered in one: Hai, mochiron*.

* “Yes, of course.”

The Tex Men They Cometh Kollectin’

The wayward men of sunset boulevard were smoking their feet-long cigars, huffing and puffing their incense smoke serpents to the sun dogs and dragging their knife feet into the ground.
Beyond eyesight the sun going downs, like the silk screen panorama of the untouched sanctuary of the saints and sinners; their black horses tied up to the wintry branches of the Joshua’s trunk; their silence is constant. solemn and rebellious.
“i-l-l Tyranny,” mutters one man: his cowboy hat giv’n straying ways to dustland sands and silversnakes.
The rest gently nodding to the beat of the eagles above baffling heights and gravitas; across lands the sun horizon races continents and darkness soon is absorbing and absent.
“we gots to get the monsters. the monsters, the demons, the ghosts and the gods,” says second man. The ropes they all carry lie in the boots dirt, submerged in old superstition and new existence…

O Brother don’t you take pity on a fool like that
the tired rodeo boys and their cowboy hats
They riders of sunset; they men of dawn
They’ll ride you till the souls are gone

Smoke gun Sally, Bill Buffalo the Great
Oh no Sir! Make no Red Indian mistake!

Saddle your spirits, the raging horses due West!
Oh yes the Tex Men, they cometh collectin’
the last devil deeds
of the godless driven rest.

1 Sentence Stories #2

#2 – On Location, In Transit

She wanted to listen to the music of the skies, the miscellaneous transmissions of the funky heavens; but found that all the serenading wires were tangled, up.