Apparently life is imitating art. My last story involved the tragic death of a squirrel who haunted the forest and spooked hikers in mean-spirited glory for all eternity. And while taking a leisurely hike on my favorite trail last week, what did I see but … seriously… a very dead squirrel perched on a branch, most definitely not sleeping. I, of course, was spooked. It looked kinda Blair Witch-y.

My friends, this means it’s time to write a much more strategic story while Life is still enjoying imitating my Art.

Once upon a time–like now– there is a lass in Colorado who writes silly animal stories. Trifles, really, but they bring laughter to a small segment of the amusement-deprived population. She is incredibly attractive, witty, and a fabulous piano player with unparalleled creative genius. Her charming tales delight and inspire all who read! Some suitably hip and quirky famous person (oh, don’t make me name names) gets a copy of ”Ulrich the Tooth Goblin” and loves it so much that he instructs all his/her Twitter followers and blog readers to check out her website.

And while the website enjoys massive popularity, a publisher makes his/her entrance and sets up the lovely young lady for riches beyond all imagining.  But who cares about that–a time traveler appears at her bedroom door (which is now overlooking a peaceful tropical beach due to all that stupendous wealth)! Our handsome time traveling friend says, “Let’s cruise through time and space to see sights no human has ever  witnessed!” She returns full of inspiring stories based on her travels and the alien species and customs she has witnessed. A wild kundalini awakening occurs! She visits New Zealand! She performs on stage with Steve Kilbey! She knocks back drinks with Grant Morrison! She goes hiking with Thich Nhah Hanh! She is the perfect picture of health and develop such awesome martial arts skills that all Evil People cower in their presence. In fact, their very awesomeness prompts all Evil People to question their motives and experience profound existential crises.

She plants a garden that astounds all with its magnificent abundance, and feeds the homeless with the fruits of her labor! And at no point does the garden wither and die. No. No it does not. In fact, she barely has to look at the garden and it’s throwing vegetables around like a peasant at a public hanging there’s no tomorrow. She and her lovely friends and family lounge in the exquisite garden all day, eating grapes, raspberries, and cherry tomatoes and having scintillating conversation. Sometimes the fruit is consumed via cheesecake. Absolutely no one gets porky due to frequent cheesecake consumption.  This is a welcome development because cheesecake and World Peace go great together, and World Peace is exactly what happens. Seven months and two days after her amazing rise to power, everyone on the planet bites into a delicious piece of cheesecake (because she is wealthy enough to supply all 6-7 billion people on Earth with a slice*) and realizes that they no longer need to act like jackasses! They all develop a gentle form of telepathy which prevents misunderstandings, and the crime rate drops dramatically. Rappers no longer sing about how they will put a cap in yo’ ass. Hippies start dressing in less offensive color combinations. Indie kids realize the folly of faux trucker hats. These changes in pop culture might have something to do with the powerful influence of her new alien friends, who dress in shiny silver suits and listen to concertos played on brainwave-controlled invisible instruments.  They have discerning tastes.

Furthermore, everyone who has ever killed another person in the name of religion wakes up and goes, “Holy crap, why did I believe such asinine stuff? I would rather spend the rest of my life baking cookies, cookies that bear no trace of arsenic, God’s Wrath, Satan’s hellfire or evil hexes.”

Oh yeah, and climate change stops, pollution-causing technology is swiftly replaced by environmentally-sustainable tech, and people begin living to a longer age and procreating more responsibly. Children are no longer succumbing to boredom and depression in school because some brilliant teacher actually figured out how to make learning fun, and everyone just loves being alive. Even Charles Manson no longer has an urge to kill. Instead, he develops a passion for scuba diving and devotes the rest of his life to protecting coral reefs. There aren’t many prisons anymore because of the staggering drop in crime, but Charles still needs some supervision.  That’s what the dolphins are for.

Yeah.

Yeah, that’s what happens. Come on, Life, you can do better than a dead squirrel. I wanna see the delights of time and space, and Charles Manson singing Kumbaya with Flipper! In fact, here is a picture to help you get started.

And in case you need help envisioning cheesecake, Life, here is a song that explains why cheesecake is so awesome.

I love you, Life.

——————

This is your chance to make life imitate your art, too.  Maybe by reading this story, it will rub off on you, too.  What are you going to create?

I love comments.  If you comment, a little love goes to you!“

Tags: Based on a True Story, Mythological Mishaps, True Weirdos // Add Comment »

Dorcas was a squirrel. Yes, my snickering, adolescent readers, Dorcas is indeed a legitimate name and means “gazelle” in Greek. Terribly unfortunate name for a squirrel, eh? The little rodents ares are short and stocky, with none of the long-legged gracefulness of a gazelle. Poor Dorcas. She was predestined for school-yard bullying simply by bearing this name.

Ever notice how so many Splarks stories feature downtrodden scapegoats who eventually transcend their handicaps? Inspiring with its can-do attitude, Splarks brings you tales of optimism and personal revelation…except for this story about Dorcas the Squirrel.

Rather than serving as the town pariah, Dorcas was the squirrel equivalent of the alpha bitch in your high school. You know that chick whose mom gave her hundreds of dollars to spend on haircut and highlights and delighted in making fun of girls with inexpensive clothes? In squirrel terms, this meant that Dorcas had the glossiest fur you’ve ever seen on a squirrel. Remember that girl who lived in the ritziest house in town because her dad was a celebrity attorney, and she mentioned this fact whenever possible? Dorcas’s dad lived in the tallest oak tree in the meadow, and it produced the largest acorns ever. However, Dorcas, concerned about weight gain, refused to eat them.

“Dorcas,” her mom scolded, “you need to eat! Winter is coming and if you haven’t fattened up, you’ll starve to death.”

Dorcas rolled her eyes. It was her mother’s seventh “You’re Gonna Die!” speech of the week. “Whatever, Mom. Nobody likes a fat squirrel.”

Dorcas was tragically misinformed. A perusal of National Geographic photos and various Animal Picture of the Day websites shows that fat squirrels are universally lauded as adorable. Pudgy squirrels are so popular that people buy squirrel feeder kits. Chubby little squirrel cheeks and fat white squirrel bellies adorn greeting cards everywhere. In fact, when I see a skinny squirrel in late October, I’m always sure to shout “Hey, squirrel! Why aren’t you chowing down?” to encourage it.*

But Dorcas was young and had not yet experienced a winter. Her mother spoke of Mother Nature throwing cold whiteness from the skies, shriveling the leaves on the trees and turning the creeks hard. Food would not grow, she said, and the world would grow cold.

Dorcas thought this was a load of hooey.

“That’s retarded,” snorted Dorcas.

“Dorcas! That’s not a politically correct word!” Her mother worked with mentally challenged rodent babies and disapproved of such language. “I’m warning you: don’t doubt Mother Nature’s wisdom. Eat!”

But Dorcas had already flounced off to her drey, which is squirrel-terminology for “nest.” Little did she know of the travails she would soon face.

And here, I have two choices. I can take a J.R.R. Tolkein approach to describe travails and write 80 pages of “And the small brown squirrel trudged the deep snow. For days she did not eat for there was no food to be found, and her belly grumbled and her step grew weak.” My other option is to summarize in an Earnest Hemmingway style, such as “Winter came. Snow fell. No nuts grew on the tree. She thought of the summers in France.” Because this is somewhat of a Choose-Your-Own-Adventure story, you get to pick and imagine that I wrote whatever you prefer.

When spring came again, just as her mother said it would, Dorcas shakily exited her squalid nest. She ate all that she could find, and reflected on her ordeal. Her mother had been correct about this “Mother Nature” and her cruelty. This must not happen again. Mother Nature must be stopped!

For the first time in her life, Dorcas had a purpose beyond ridiculing squirrels with less shiny fur, talking to boys, and being skinny. She had a new goal: to seek revenge on Mother Nature! She collected sticks and sharpened them with her teeth. She scoured the forest floors for poisonous plants. She learned judo and created a garrote from the spines of weeds. She would teach Mother Nature a lesson about killing off food unnecessarily!

And here, I would like to tell you that Dorcas eventually found Mother Nature, learned about the cycle of the seasons, and came to peace with the necessity of eating and the regenerative purpose of winter. But you must know Splarks better than that by now. Intent on destroying Mother Nature, Dorcas roamed the countryside for a few days in righteous anger. However, her rage quickly dissipated when she found a group of young squirrels who lived behind a moonshine farm. They partied incessantly, and Dorcas soon lost her purpose in a frenzy of binge drinking and casual sexual relations. Squirrel experts may frown and point out the solitary nature of squirrels, and suggest that they do not “party” together. But Dorcas and her friends were trend-setters, refusing to conform to outdated assumptions of squirrel behavior.

Five months later, she found herself with a noisy brood of baby squirrels, whose father had conveniently dumped her for some stupid black-furred squirrel two counties away. She was fat, miserable, and winter was approaching yet again. Mother Nature was still not dead. Dorcas had failed in her quest.

Clinging to the last sad scrap of her great mission in life, Dorcas felt there was no other option but to kill herself. She dropped off her children with the babysitter, then went to the nearest country road. When the next rumbling metal beast appeared, she leaped in front of it, dying instantly. A nearby crow rejoiced over her tasty corpse.

The problem with suicide is that death is a sacred transition between this world and the next. When one enters the afterlife in a despondent, angry, or otherwise rotten state, these unresolved emotions cause the unfortunate soul to wander hopelessly until luck intervenes, or Mother Nature takes pity and rescues him or her.

Do you think Mother Nature was going to rescue Dorcas? No, Mother Nature was not inclined to assist the murderous, particularly when the object of the murderous desire was Mother Nature herself. And so Dorcas wandered the forest for eternity. She haunted her living peers and frightened hikers with her ghostly interludes. Always, always she longed for just one acorn.

It is a tragic tale, isn’t it? If only Dorcas had eaten the acorns as her mother wished! If only she had not been such a bitch to Mother Nature! If only she had migrated to Arizona or Florida for the winter. If only she had chosen to live!

But you see, Dorcas was strangely happy in her new muddled state. Deep down, she was arrogant and disrespectful and loved making people feel bad. Therefore, what could be more fun than frightening people for all eternity, watching them cower in fear before her ghostly apparition? I’ll tell you what: nothing. Haunting was her most joyous activity, and oh, how she enjoyed it! Winter’s chill could not touch her. And best of all, she never had to eat another nut again. Oh sure, she longed for them, as I stated above, but that was because she wished she could throw them at unsuspecting hikers. She had truly made the most of her situation, and no other squirrel was so happy in a phantom existence.

THE END

*I really do. I have had many conversations with squirrels as I try to imitate their strange clicking and squeaking language. I suspect I’m saying something horrifically insulting, because they always freeze in shock, screech at me for a few moments, then stalk off.

Interesting squirrel fact: The Ratufa is a giant squirrel that can grow to 3 feet in length. Given that the squirrels around here sometimes throw nuts at me when I’m hiking, I shudder to think of this thing.

Interesting squirrel pop culture:  Check out Foamy the Squirrel for another bitchy squirrel with an inappropriate attitude.

Have any other squirrel humor favorites?  Comment below.

Tags: Bizarre Animal Stories, Random Amusement // 2 Comments »

Once upon a time, a gentle troll named Steve lived under a stone bridge on the outskirts of a small Wisconsin farming community.  He cared for the bridge each day, sweeping away debris and mending the wobbly parts.  The lowing cattle and singing birds soothed his soul, and it would have been paradise except for one problem:  those troublesome goats.

They called themselves “the Goats Gruff” and regularly harassed him and nearby forest animals.  At first only Frederick, the youngest goat, came to shout insults.  “Hey troll!” he shouted from his side of the bridge.  “Scared any babies today with that ugly face?”

Initially, Steve tried to educate the young goat.  “Bridge trolls don’t associate with babies,” he explained patiently, dismissing the goat’s glare as youthful arrogance.  “We stay with our bridges and socialize with the forest animals.  You’re probably thinking of goblins.  They’re known for tormenting small children.”  He wished this Gruff gang would invest in their personal hygiene – the barnyard stink was unbearable.

“Whatever,” sneered the young goat.  “Let me over the bridge.  I want the grass over there.”

“I’m happy to allow you to cross once you pay the toll,” said Steve pleasantly.  “But I’ve snacked on the grass from both sides, and I can tell you that the flavor is about the same.  You don’t need to waste your money.”

“Toll?” the young goat sputtered.  “I ain’t paying no toll!”

“It’s a historic site,” Steve explained, growing annoyed.  “The community toll helps maintain the bridge and pay for the cost of repairs and preventive maintenance.  I’m afraid you’ll have to eat the grass on your own side of the bridge if you can’t pay the toll.”

“There ain’t no grass on this side anymore!  We ate it all!”

“All of it?” Shocked, he fell silent.  How could three goats eat entire fields full of grass?  Did they have some sort of glandular disorder which caused them to overeat?  He scrutinized the young goat, who did look a bit pudgy.

“Loser!” snorted the goat.  “I’ll be back with my big brother, who’ll teach you a lesson!”   He stomped off, kicking dirt onto the freshly-swept bridge.

“What was that guy’s problem?” said Steve’s friend, Angelo the Muskrat.  He’d popped his head out of his lodge when he heard the ruckus.

“I don’t know,” sighed Steve.  “Probably just an ignorant kid with nothing better to do.”

But as the weeks went by, Frederick’s behavior worsened.  His insults grew more vulgar, his dirt-kicking more deliberate and targeted at the hardest-to-clean spots.  One day when Steve, Angelo, and Geraldine the Pheasant were having a Sunday picnic, a larger, unfamiliar goat appeared.  He didn’t say much as towered and glowered at the foot of the bridge.

Not wanting to inconvenience a customer, Steve leaped to his feet.  “Can I help you?” he asked, brushing the crumbs from his belly.  Then his shoulders sagged;  he saw Frederick lurking smugly behind the new goat.

“Lemme over the bridge!”  shouted the big goat.

“Please!” said Steve.  “There’s no need to shout.  You’re disturbing the wildlife.”  Geraldine did indeed look distraught as she hid behind the picnic basket.  “I’m happy to let you cross if you pay the 75 cent toll.”

“I’m Bartholomew Gruff, and I don’t pay no tolls!”

“Tell him there’s a fine from the Department of Transportation if he refuses to pay,” whispered Angelo, who had joined Geraldine behind the picnic basket.

“Sir, there’s a one hundred dollar fine if you don’t pay the toll,” Steve sighed.

The goat stomped his hoof on the ground.  “They can’t make me pay a fine!”

“Actually, they can,” said Steve.  “You just told me your name and I know perfectly well where you live.  The city has a “Green Mowing” program to reduce gasoline use when trimming roadsides and medians.  They employ goats to eat the grass instead of using lawnmowers.  It’s an environmentally-friendly solution to unwanted grass growth.  You can read about it in the daily paper.  Often goats are put into the program when they’ve disobeyed the law, so–”

“Shut up!” shouted Bart.  “I’ll be back, you puny troll!  You’ll be real sorry when I bring my big brother!  Socrates is gonna kick your ass!”

“Oh Lord,” said Geraldine, climbing into the picnic basket in terror as the goat stomped away.

“Socrates?” asked Angelo.  “Socrates? I did not just hear that bully describe a member of his family as ‘Socrates’!”

“You did,” sighed Steve as he watched the goat’s large, swiftly-retreating posterior, with Frederick trotting after.  His eyes filled with humiliating images of broken bridges, bloody muskrats, and dead, brown grass.  He hung his head;  the bridge, which had stood for over 100 years, was in danger because of his ineffective management skills and inability to deal with local hooligans.

He didn’t get much sleep that night.  He tossed and turned in his bed of moss, hoping for a miraculous visitation by an angel with all the answers.  None arrived.  In the morning, he blearily arose and walked to the creek.  As he gazed at his warbling reflection, he thought of his grandfather, who had manned a similar bridge during World War One and had seen much worse than a couple of bully Goats Gruff.

“Stevie Boy,” he said to his reflection, “It’s time to grow a spine!  You have allies.  You have guts, and brains!  You know what to do!  Send a Geraldine with a message to Jimmy at the WDOT!”  He scribbled the situation on a scrap of paper and ran to Geraldine’s den.  The pheasant flew into action, heading towards the Department of Transportation’s headquarters.

And that is why, on the eve of March 17th, the Wisconsin Department of Transportation shackled an exceptionally large goat, along with two smaller and more vocal goats, and transported them to the city Goat Mowing program.  Socrates had time to roar only the phrase “SOCRATES NO PAY TOLL!” and place his tremendous weight on the bridge’s first plank, which shattered, before the city officials and the police department fell upon him with tranquilizers and cuffs.  As the Brothers Gruff were carted away to the holding facility, which was surrounded by tasteless, exhaust-covered grass, Steve smiled.  Intelligent thought and peaceful camaraderie had overcome violence, and the guilty would be re-educated and made to benefit society through their punishment.  All was well in the world of a gentle bridge troll.

…OR WAS IT? Only time shall tell.  The Goat Mowing program is overcrowded, and inmates are often released early on so-called “good behavior.”  It is a well-researched fact that Goat Mowers return to their community with better criminal skills and a desire for revenge.  Frederick was actually sent to the Juvenile Mower program and sentenced to only one month.  He is sure to be angry that he was not only imprisoned, but that his big brothers received harsher Mowing sentences and languish in the confines of the Mowing Pen.  And with nothing to do but mow and work out, the Goats Gruff are likely to be heavily muscled.

What can be done?

Holy crap, I think I just depressed myself with my own story here.  Come on, Splarks, you have to save this one.  Give it some hope, right?  Make sure that readers don’t finish the story with a sense of despair in the injustice of the world.  Um ….so while in the Mowing Pen, the Goats Gruff experienced a miraculous transformation!  One day, a group of Buddhist outreach workers came to the Pen.  They told the story of the Buddha and showed that totally unbelievable but undeniably flashy Keanu Reaves movie.  The goats were fascinated:  could the cause of their suffering truly be desire?  The desire for grass, the desire for revenge, the desire to hold power over the weak–was it all just maya, or illusion?  Could true happiness be gained not in beating the crap out of small animals and feeling special because of it, but in clearing the mind and experiencing the Buddha nature?  The answer is YES!  Frederick, convinced that he was the reincarnation of the Dalai Lama (“Goats are kinda like llamas, ok?” he explained to anyone who would listen), began consciously practicing mindfulness.  The forest animals were shocked when Frederick smiled and bowed to them.  He spent long hours meditating in a corner of a barn, chanting something that sounded suspiciously made up.  Determined to learn the advanced arts of yoga and meditation, Bart left on a pilgrimage to India, which he was pretty sure was east of Minnesota.  And Socrates found it easiest to reach a pure state of bliss, being unused to thinking in the first place.

The bridge was safe.  All was well in the small Wisconsin town, and a very happy bridge troll resumed his life of picnics, morning walks, and bridge maintenance.

***

It’s true!  There really is a Goat Mowing program.  Most famous is Google’s goat program. My city, Boulder, has been doing this for awhile.  I thought I was hallucinating the first time I saw a bunch of goats chowing down at the side of the road.  Seriously!  Does anyone else live in a city where they do this?

Artist Aria Nadii has a fabulous Capricorn (the Goat symbol in the Zodiac) piece.

I love comments.  If you comment, a little love goes to you!

Tags: Random Amusement // 1 Comment »

I don’t have a real backstory for this one.  I just happened to see a photo of a giant isopod, which was all the inspiration I needed.

It’s story time for children!  Today we’re going to learn about giant isopods, which live in the deep, cold Atlantic ocean and can grow to be over a foot long.  They are not fish, but crustaceans.  Huge, nasty crustaceans that might make you vomit when you see them.  Here, look at this picture:

(I’m sorry to make you vomit.  I, too, am feeling a bit queasy as I write this story.)

But you see, isopods are Mother Earth’s creatures, too, so we musn’t shun them.  Millicent was a special giant isopod.  Beyond her vomit-evoking powers, she had one impressive talent:  she could sing opera.  Opera is a type of music, and some people think that if brussels sprouts, boiled lima beans or liver made a sound, it would be opera.  Other people find opera to be fancy;  they probably enjoy brussels sprouts, boiled lima beans and liver.  The only problems with Millicent’s amazing skill is that giant isopods do not have the vocal cords that allow them to sing, nor do they have the brain capacity to learn Italian, German, or any other language in which opera might be sung.  She also would not have fit well into the costumes–dreadful poofy things that would have swallowed her figure.

You might ask how she knew she could sing opera, or how she knew what opera was at all, given that she lived in the deep sea and had no contact with human beings.

She just knew, perhaps from some psychic ability.  She could feel her unsung arias welling up within her.  She may have been remembering a past life in which she was Maria Callas, the famous opera singer.  It is rumored that in her efforts to lose weight, Maria Callas swallowed a tape worm*, something about as hideous as a giant isopod.  A psychic link may have been forged based on mutual disgustingness.  One never knows.

So what’s a giant isopod to do?

She pondered this while crawling the ocean floor, snacking on squid and sponges.  For many days and nights (it was all the same to Millicent, given that she lived at the bottom of the ocean), she passionately meditated and prayed for knowledge of the one thing that would let her fulfill her creative dreams.  One blessed day, the answer came to her like a divine revelation shooting into her exoskeleton:  get a new body, preferably one with vocal cords.  But how?  Science had repeatedly failed at providing people with new bodies, so it was no help.  Fortunately for Millicent, paranormal enthusiasts were not so easily discouraged.

Do you know what a paranormal enthusiast is, kids?  No?  Well I’m just going to say this:  put a bunch of  paranormal enthusiasts in a box with some scientists.  You don’t have to shake it or anything –the carnage ensues naturally.  ”What’s carnage?” is an excellent question for Mommy and Daddy.

Anyway, our friend Millicent swam daringly to the surface of the ocean as she saw a boat drift by.  Several people were huddled on the deck around a group of candles and incense.  She stared, fascinated.  Here were the weird tall things that lived in the horrible air.  She’d heard other sea animals speaking about them, but she was never convinced that such beings actually existed.  But there they were, a whole pack of them crowded around a large woman in a turban.  The boat rocked and the woman called out to the waters.

“Oh great spirits, we have traveled here today for your counsel!  Above these cold waters, we beseech you to arise from your oceanic grave and speak!  Enter into this purified body of this medium, Madame Slapinski, and impart your wisdom!”  At this point, the woman threw back her head and rolled her eyes deeply.  You see, a medium is a special type of paranormal enthusiast who is like a hotel for disembodied spirits.  The spirits hang out inside the medium’s body and talk to the people listening.  Usually the spirits are kind enough to answer questions, but occasionally they only want to shout nasty words and do funny dances.  They might also say a lot of things like “my child” and “why do you not hear the screams of your Mother Earth?”  The less tolerant ones will say things like, “Where’s my bottle of rum, $#!$@&?”

Millicent looked around her and saw no spirits clamoring to enter the medium.  In fact, there appeared to be a vacancy.  “Well,” thought Millicent, “Since no one else is waiting …”  She closed her eyes in imitation of the woman, and instantly found herself outside her body and face-to-face with the medium’s spirit.  Millicent, too, was a natural medium!

“Aaaaagh!” shrieked Madame Slapinski soundlessly when she saw the spirit of the giant isopod.

“What?” asked Millicent in irritation.  “Aaaaaagh” was a dreadful aria;  apparently mediums were not musically gifted.

“Hideous creature from the deep!” moaned Madame.

“How rude!” thought Millicent.  She thought the medium was rather unattractive as well–she had only two arms, for goodness’ sake!–but she didn’t go around pointing it out.  Millicent had good manners, like I hope you do, too, children.

“You may not pass!  Get thee behind me!” Slapinski ordered.

“Okay,” said Millicent, and crawled behind her as instructed, where her body lay vacant.  What a bizarre thing to demand, she thought as she settled into the medium’s body.  Millicent was nauseated just being in it!  It was all soft and squishy, with no protection at all.  Why, anyone could come along and gnaw on it.  The teeth were virtually non-existent, the claws pathetic, and it smelled dreadful.  But yes, yes!  There were the vocal cords.  She coughed and wheezed for a few moments while the humans around her waited, hardly daring to breathe.

Finally, she began.  At this point, I should share Wagner’s opera “Tristan und Isolde” with you, for this is what she sang.  However, I do not like brussels sprouts, and I positively loathe boiled lima beans.  Therefore, I will direct you to this lovely page on Wagner’s famous opera:  http://wagneroperas.com/indextristan.html.  Go on, explore the joy of opera.  Now look back at the picture above.  It may seem revolting to you, but I assure you that Millicent was in ecstasy.  Her newfound voice quivered with exquisite vibrato.  She thrust her arms wide as she filled her lungs with air, once such a horrible thought.  As her voice rose above the ocean waves, her small audience grasped each other in awe.

“What … what can this mean?”  whispered Everett, Madame Slapinski’s assistant.

“Hush, Everett!” said Mathilda, a devoted Slapinski disciple.  “I didn’t know she could sing so beautifully.”

“I didn’t either,” said Marcus, a would-be paramour of Madame’s.  (You will need to look up “paramour” in the dictionary.  I don’t want to get into it during story hour.)

“Come to think of it,” said Everett, “I heard her singing Madonna’s ‘Papa Don’t Preach’ in the shower last week, and it was dreadfully off-key.  Sounded a bit like Alvin and the Chipmunks, actually.  ”

Blissfully unaware of the reaction of her audience, Millicent sang on against the backdrop of the frigid Atlantic ocean, candles wafting smoke around her.  Then, a tapping on her shoulder stopped her.  It was Madame Slapinski’s spirit, and she was not amused.

“Foul Beast,” Slapinski said, her astral eyebrows twisting disdainfully, “While I must admit that your knowledge of opera and skill at singing are truly magnificent, I insist that you return my body to me.”

Milicent paused.  She was finally living her dream.  Was she really obligated to vacate the medium’s body?

“I refuse to be possessed by a giant sea-bug!” screeched Slapinski.  “If I’m going to be possessed, it better be some impressive arch-demon!  I call upon the Angelic Hosts, the Archangel Michael, the–”

And suddenly, Millicent found herself back in her own body.  While her exoskeleton was infinitely more comfortable, she mourned her loss of vocal cords.  The shadow of the boat passed over her, taking with it Madame Slapinski and her only chance of singing.  She cried miserably, except that giant isopods can’t really cry, so really it was just some shuddering and stomping.  A bright light appeared before her:  Madame Slapinski’s spirit had returned!

“Loathsome insect,” she said imperiously, “I heard your deep-sea wails and despite your hideous visage, I feel compassion for your plight.  I have one small hint for you:  it is called ‘the zoo.’  I shall say no more.”

Fortunately, that was all Millicent needed.  She had absorbed a lot of human knowledge during her brief journey to Madame Slapinsky’s body.  A zoo was a place where animals lived to entertain human beings.  Many, many humans visited the zoo each day and according to the vast archives of informatin in Madame Slapinsky’s mind, everyone is psychic.  Most people simply don’t know it.

Millicent practically salivated as she thought of the opportunity.

“Thank you, Madame Slapinski!” said Millicent.  The next day she strategically placed herself in the nets of an American scientific expedition and within two weeks, she was transported to a zoo in New England.  Zoo officials were puzzled at the sudden increase in spontaneous operatic singing by zoo patrons, who burst into magnificent song and then shivered outside the Deep Sea exhibit, curiously reluctant to go near the giant isopod enclosure.  The giant isopod, however, seemed inordinately interested in humans.  Some zoo patrons even insisted that the curious creature … smiled.

The End!  Try not to get possessed by hideous sea bugs, kids!

*Highly unlikely, of course.

Tags: Bizarre Animal Stories, Religious Peril // 2 Comments »

I’m taking off the rest of 2009 so that I can concentrate on creating more stories.  In the meantime, let me get “serious.”  Yes, contrary to popular belief, I do have a Serious brain cell that occasionally likes to surface.

Christine Kane, a favorite blogger of mine, eschews New Year’s resolutions in favor of a Word of the Year.  Read her excellent blog post “Resolution Revolution:  A Better Way to Start Your Year” for full details, but the Cliffs Notes version is that Christine suggests picking a New Year’s word to help you stay focused on your goals, rather than make an obligatory and flimsy “promise.”  Instead of “I resolve to spend two hours daily at the gym because working out is healthy, even though I hate the gym and historically give up mid-January,” you might choose the word “well-being” to remind you to choose whatever contributes to your well-being and health, whether it’s the gym or yoga or just being deliberate about what you eat.

I’m expanding mine to be a phrase:  Glorious Eccentricity.

If you read my blog, you’re probably a bit … eccentric.  Go on, admit it.  I’m undeniably weird–these little stories are like juicy berries in a big Jamba Juice Smoothie of Weird.  The people that matter to me are also intriguingly bizarre.  Even my cat is a bit strange with his lettuce addiction and all.  Many of my stories focus on eccentric characters.  Let’s face it, Mabel the Teenage Komodo Dragon clashed with her peers.  Beatrice the Three-Eyed Marmot had some … issues.  And poor old Ulrich struggled to blend in with the fairies he longed to befriend.  But none of them let their differences stop them.  Ulrich took his dream and flew with it, albeit clumsily.  Beatrice turned her deformity into an asset (let’s overlook her untimely demise for now).  And Mabel rejected the standard Komodo Dragon Dream in favor of her own vision, which blossomed into Island Domination.

Our world frequently discourages eccentricity, weirdness, and authenticity.  Things flow more smoothly in the World of Work and School when we’re all identical.  You get less flak when you pretend to be  just like everyone else.  However, I’ve learned the hard way that denying your true self is disastrous.  It hurts your mind and your body.  It doesn’t make people think you’re cool;  it makes you seem stilted and boring.  It stifles creativity and makes you do things like give a shit about Tiger Woods’s scandalous love life.  When you deny your eccentricity, the only people and situations you attract are those that bore the crap out of you.

So in 2010, I will continue to embrace my Inner Weirdo.   I have ideas!  They are WEIRD ideas, and I am terribly enthusiastic about them!  Care to join me in the quest for Glorious Eccentricity?  If so, leave a comment and tell me what you plan to do or what you’re thinking about.

Happy New Year.

Tags: True Weirdos // 1 Comment »

I have always loved Komodo dragons … from afar. Parthenogensis in Komodo dragons is a real phenomenon.

Poor Mabel.  It was just unfair that she was so decidedly ugly and unpopular a Komodo dragon.  She had tried to make herself prettier by rubbing her cheeks against red clay, but the other girls snorted and advised, “It doesn’t matter how much makeup you wear–you’ll never be pretty.”  She had tried to diet, restricting herself only to grubs and mice, but she grew faint and collapsed on top of Elder Mahoney, breaking the old dragon’s hip.  For awhile, she had even spelled her name “Maybelle” in hopes of seeming more sophisticated, but the plan deteriorated when she realized that only she and Elder Mahoney could read.

Now, she poked her head out of the family burrow.  Her mom and dad were off hunting, so it was safe to stretch out on her favorite rock.  She was working on her new song, but having difficulty coming up with a good rhyme for “claws.”

“Life as a teenage Komodo dragon
Sucks, my parents are always raggin’
On me and the way I grow my claws
My siblings tease with loud guffaws –”

“Listen, girls!  Mabel’s actually singing out loud!”  The snide voice cut through her reverie and she raised her head off the rock, flinching under the fierce gaze of Crystal, the meanest Komodo dragon in the jungle. She and her pack of obedient minions surrounded the rock.

Mabel cleared her throat and glared at Crystal. “It was supposed to be private. I thought I was alone.”

“Ooh!” squealed Crystal, flipping her tongue languidly and retracting her claws. “It’s private, girls!”  The group chattered and giggled.

“You wouldn’t understand,” muttered Mabel, dropping her head back to the rock.

“We wouldn’t want to–”  Crystal paused, her narrowing to slits.  She raised her tongue into the air.  “What was that noise?”

“Just those stupid zoologists,” said one of the pack.  “They’re always hanging around, acting like we can’t see them.”

A zoologist’s voice wafted towards them.  “… fine specimen sunbathing on the rock.  Am I recording?  Watson?”

“Yes, Professor Montgomery, loud and clear.”  The Komodo dragons watched the two humans and their film equipment clang around the brush.

“Good,” replied Montgomery.  ”As I was saying, there’s a fine specimen sunbathing on the rock.  Sex is undetermined, though given its large size, I propose that it is a male.”

Crystal and her cronies howled.  “Large size!  Male!  Ha ha!”

“At least 150 pounds,” Montgomery continued.  “Are you writing that down?”

Mabel squeezed her eyes shut as the other dragons roared.

“Formidable size!  Isn’t he magnificent!  Where’s my tranquilizer gun?  Damn, I left it in the van.  I wanted to measure his thighs.  They’re enormous! Watson!”

“Yes sir?”

“Can you get a look at its hindquarters?  How old is it?  Can we tell if it’s mating yet?”

Mabel wondered if she could die of embarrassment.  At this point, death would be welcome.

Crystal snorted.  “Mating?  Not likely.  She’d have to get a boyfriend first, and we all know that will never happen.”  She flicked her tongue at Mabel.  “Come on, girls.  Let this loser get back to her stupid poetry or whatever.  We have boys to meet in the clearing.”   Turning their backs on Mabel, the dragons dropped gracefully into the water and swam off.

When the last scaly gray tail had disappeared from view, Mabel allowed herself to sob.  Those mean girls!  They thought they were so special, just because their scales were glossy, tongues long and perfectly forked, and their weight only 80 pounds.  She couldn’t help having her father’s genes.  And those scientists!  Why did they always have to hang around and poke their noses into everything?  Like she wanted the whole world to know the size of her thighs!

“I hate my life!”  she sobbed.

“Watson!”  bellowed Montgomery.  “Did you hear that hideous noise?  I think it’s giving a mating call!  I’ve waited so long to hear it with my own ears!”

Screaming in misery, Mabel flopped off the rock and swam to the opposite shore, far away from zoologists and mean, pretty Komodo dragons.  She curled up under a tree and cried herself to sleep.

She had the most curious dream.  In it, a beautiful tiger approached her.  The tiger was tall, strong, and distinctly feminine.  Mabel thought she seemed rather glamorous, really.   ”Mabel,” said the tiger, “why are you crying?”

Mabel sniffled.  “Do you have to ask?  I’m fat, I’m ugly, and I’ll never get a boyfriend!  My life is over!”

The beautiful tiger looked surprised.  “But my dear, you are a talented poet and songwriter.  You are strong, and intelligent.  You aren’t fat; you have a large frame.  What could be wrong with that?”

“Boys don’t care about poetry and they like dainty girls.  I want to be popular and beautiful!”  She paused.  “Hey, are you one of those genies or whatever?  Will you grant my wish?  I’ve heard lots of stories of genies or fairies or magic talking trees granting wishes.”

The tiger stretched luxuriously, and purred.  “No, dear, I’m afraid not.  I’m just a figment of your dream.  I cannot magically shrink your bone size, nor can I make vapid girls like Crystal see past your exterior.  And, sadly, most of the males of your species aren’t interested in poetry.  They care only for the stink of flesh, whether it is between their teeth or under their bellies.  However, I promise that you will discover something greater than obtaining popularity, beauty and boys.”

Mabel sniffled.  “You  … you do?  Really?”

The tiger licked her paw and gazed deeply into Mabel’s eyes.  “I do.”

Mabel awoke with a start, her mind racing.  What could the tiger have meant?  It was dark – she’d been asleep for hours!  She scurried back home, knowing she’d would be punished for her tardiness.   As she predicted, her parents shouted at her and sent her to her corner of the burrow, while her siblings snickered in the back.  However, she settled down to sleep with a smile on her face.  For the first time, she had hope.

The next day, she woke from more strange dreams about tigers and unpleasant diets.  Her butt hurt, and when she looked down at her hindquarters, she saw a pile of gleaming white eggs!  She was still staring in shock when her father glanced over.

“Mabel!”  he roared.  “I told you not to hang around boys!  What have you done?”

“My baby!  She’s ruined!” sobbed her mother.

“Mom, Dad,” Mabel cried, “I haven’t done anything with boys!  I … I don’t even know what it is that you don’t want me to do!  I just woke up and there they were.”  She felt strangely possessive about these eggs.  “Don’t take them away from me.  They’re mine.”

“They’re gonna be retards,” sang her youngest brother snidely.

Her father shouted “Call Elder Mahoney!” and stormed out of the burrow.

Despite the chaos, Mabel felt a deep peace and calm pervade her as she watched over her lovely eggs.  They were hers, and despite what her ignorant brother had said, they were perfect.   She was vaguely aware of Elder Mahoney racing into the burrow.  He and her parents whispered fiercely, and she heard the word “parthenogenesis,” but all she could think of was her joy at having these five perfect little bundles under her.

Finally, the adults approached her.  “Mabel, dear,” her father began haltingly.  “I’m sorry I shouted at you.  Ah … Elder Mahoney has something to tell you.”

Elder Mahoney smiled and patted her back.  “You see, Mabel, when a lady dragon gets very lonely, sometimes God grants her a miracle and gives her babies, without her having to do a thing.  You’re a bit young for this, of course, but we have learned from the zoologists that it is called ‘parthenogenesis.’  It’s a shame that I ate one of those pesky professors yesterday … I could have learned a lot about this phenomenon from him, I’m sure.  I just didn’t realize … I mean, he smelled quite tasty, and …”

“Of course you didn’t know, Elder,” Mabel’s mother soothed.

“Here, here, of course not, Mahoney, of course not,” her father said gruffly.

“So …” said Mabel, still luxuriating in her beautiful eggs.  “I can have babies whenever I want?”

“It would appear so, Mabel.”

She thought of the tiger’s promise.  “So I don’t need boys?”

“Well, biologically speaking, no,” said Elder Mahoney.  “Although I still recommend–”

“And I don’t need the other girls to be my friends, because I can make my own family?”

Father Mahoney hemmed and hawed, but Mabel understood immediately.  “I don’t need anyone!” she cried with exhilaration.  “Crystal can kiss my big-boned ass!  I don’t need her approval.  I don’t need to conform to her ridiculous view of what it means to be a successful dragon.  I am my own dragon!  I’m going to raise my children to read, to love fine arts, and to treat each other with kindness and respect!”

And this is how, seven years later, Mabel found herself Queen of the Island and surrounded by hundreds of her own progeny, all gifted with premature parthenogenesis.  She no longer had to hunt for her own food, which was now reverently brought to her by her children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren.  Her genes created huge Komodo dragons, and soon all the males found dainty females to be unattractive.  As the line of petite, delicate females died out, the hereditary meanness of small-boned dragons also ceased to pollute the gene pool.  Each Sunday her descendants performed a poetry recital and concert for her, featuring their original music and writing, occasionally singing one of her own songs.  And each Monday morning she visited the bones of Professor Montgomery and Elder Mahoney, which had been laid side by side.

“Thank you,” she would say quietly.  “Thank you for showing me that it’s okay to be myself.”

Then, she rested her large bones on her favorite rock, and began working on her next sonnet.  She was, indeed, her own dragon.

***

When I asked Dave what he thought of this story, he said, “Well, it’s a little more serious than most of your stories.”  Yes, he said that a Splarks story was “serious.”

Tags: Based on a True Story, Bizarre Animal Stories // 1 Comment »

Another reader wanted a story about a hedgehog named Lorna who suffers from narcolepsy.  Remember, you asked me for it.

Once upon a time, there was a hedgehog named Lorna.  Lorna came from a hedgehog family of narcoleptics, a disease in which one keels over randomly, dead asleep.  Lorna’s narcolepsy was an unfortunate yet unavoidable fact of life. Hedgehogs are primarily nocturnal and her night time naps often prevented her attendance at the best Hog Parties.  Yet narcolepsy did provide her with one welcome ability:  like Freddy Krueger, she could enter into the dreams of others.  Lorna, who came from a family of Spiritualist hedgehogs, was  intimidated by her ability until Old Aunt Genevieve counseled her one day, speaking words of wisdom through a mouthful of insect legs.  “Lorna,” croaked the old hedgehog, nose deep in a bowl of toasted grasshoppers, ”God gave you a gift, and that gift is to enter the dreams of others and prepare them for a spiritual, healthy existence.  You can shape their dreams and show them the light.”

Lorna contemplated this, then smiled broadly.  “Thank you, Aunt Genny!” she cried, racing back to her burrow before the next narcoleptic sleep began.  Her once-inconvenient stealth naps became the path to the greater good.  So many forest animals were prone to mere subsistence living: eating bugs, drinking water, sleeping dreamlessly and obsessively procreating.  She aimed to show them a better way of life.  To learn more about her abilities, she read a book on shamanism*.  The book claimed that when in a “lucid dream,” one could find “a portal” into another dreamer’s dream.  Lorna found that this was indeed true:  when in a narcoleptic dream, she had only to look around for her portal, a small peat bog.  It wasn’t as glamorous as the examples in the book, such as a rose or waterfall, but she didn’t let it deter her.  She would find the dreamer and radiate love and light from each quill, rolling herself into a ball so that she could be a miniature sun of joy and peace.

Yet inevitably, the dreaming forest animals would scream in terror.  She would pursue them, calling “Don’t you want to join the light?  Come to the light!” but their only response was continued screaming and and eventual disappearance into a poof of dust as they awoke.   Frustrated, she would then awake and contemplate her failure.  What was with these guys?  What was their problem with the light?  Was she unwittingly living in a forest devoted to evil or something?

Had Lorna bothered to read Appendix C of the shamanism book, she would have realized that “come to the light” was tantamount to saying “Time to die now, come peacefully.”  The appendix was full of stories of people who nearly died and saw dead relatives waiting at the end of a tunnel of joyous, radiant light.  But Lorna was the kind of hedgehog who only skimmed the main passages of a book, and she missed the subtle points of the preface, epilogue, and appendices.  In fact, she preferred Cliffs Notes whenever possible, and was disappointed to see that “Master of Destiny: Rainbow Shaman Turkey Healer Guide” did not have a handy abbreviated version.

As the months passed, the other animals began to avoid her.  No one could say why they felt such fear while in Lorna’s presence, though some vaguely recalled her appearance in a recent nightmare.  Lorna’s social life dwindled until she was left with just the odd Family Hog Party.  Sitting alone each evening, she sighed and pondered her unwelcome fate. Was she destined to be alone and unappreciated forever, stricken with an annoying and completely ineffective gift?

As she sat moping one day, she was dazzled by the very thing from her dreams:  The Light!  There it glowed before her like a radiant walnut spinning in her burrow.  Curiously, she didn’t feel the intense love and joy that she usually strove to manifest, but she attributed this to being startled and blinded.

“Laura,” it began in a booming voice.

“My name is Lorna,” she corrected it, dismayed.

“Lorna, whatever.  Listen, I am your Higher Self.”

She gazed suspiciously at the Light.  The book had mentioned something about the divine guidance of the Higher Self, but – “My Higher Self?  Then why aren’t you pronouncing my name correctly?”

The Light hesitated. “I, um, know your True Name!  And is it Laura.  Laura means ‘Glorious One Who Shall Reign Supreme Over the Forest.”

She blinked in surprise.  “That … that doesn’t sound like a very noble ambition for a peaceful creature like me.  Are you sure it isn’t Latin for ‘laurel’?  I took a year of Latin, and–”

The Light interrupted, a touch impatiently, Lorna thought.  “Would you like to know why the other animals run from you in your dreams?”

“Yes, please!”  She twisted on her bed of moss so that she could see it more clearly.  Could she finally be getting the answer to her awful predicament?

“Very well.  Although you’ve tried to use your powers for good, you are missing the Point of Life.”

This was it!  Here was the answer she longed for!  “Oh Light, tell me the Point of Life!”

“Suffering.”

“Ah … what?”

“Did not the Holy Buddha say in the Bible that Life is Suffering?”

“I … I thought the Buddha didn’t write the Bible.”

“Whatever. But he did say that Life is Suffering, didn’t he?”

She paused, considering.  “I do recall that from my Comparative Religion class, yes.”

“The animals want to suffer, Laura.  Suffering is their highest purposes in life, and you are denying it with your enforced visions of love and peace.  Peace is evil, Laura, do you not see this?”

She wrung her hands.  “Oh no!  I’ve been feeding evil!  Oh Light, tell me how I can correct my error and instead contribute to the highest purpose of all forest animals!”

“You need to change your destructive ways immediately, my child!” boomed the Light.  “You must create healthy, nourishing fear!”

Lorna bowed her head in relief as the Light faded.  Finally, she had clarity on the proper use of her ability.  As she succumbed to the uncontrollable onset of narcoleptic sleep, she vowed to start instilling fear in forest animals everywhere.

*******
Bleekul the Small Gray Alien leaned back in his chair, gazing down at the forest through the spaceship’s forcefield.  “I think she has accepted our words as truth, Space Companion.”

Ookzor the Large Mauve Alien glanced up from the blinking control panel.  “Do you know this to be affirmative, Bleekul?”

“I do.  The small Earth Mammal has entered the dream of an arachnid and is creating scenes of squishing.”

Ookzor clapped.  “Excellent, Bleekul!  I knew your aptitude for deceit would provide us with this most rare dessert of mammalian fear!”

“Yes, it will create a lovely sauce over the corpses of the miserable.  Your cleverness is most valuable, comrade!”

Everyone on the Planet Schmoogquok knew that the flesh of the miserable made for the tastiest meals.  It provided a type of seasoning that could not be obtained elsewhere.  The two aliens smiled contentedly at each other.  Life surveilling Earth was not nearly so unpleasant as their superiors had led them to believe.

“Ookzor, I have heard that the flesh of enlightened human beings tastes equally pleasant.”

Ookzor frowned.  “Truly, Space Companion?  Because those enlightened squirrels were sorely lacking in flavor.  They were not at all zesty. Was this not the reason for our patented fear sauce?”

“Enlightened earth mammals are bland, yes.  Enlightened humans, however, are contrasting with this muchly.  Let us attempt to procure some by bringing enlightenment to the human masses.  Let me practice my best New Age Guru impersonation.”  The Large Mauve Alien cleared her throat.  “Ahem … let us meditate upon compassion for all creatures.  The Love of Mother Earth surrounds us.  Breathe in … focus on the breath …now breathe out …”

Bleekul clapped his hands.  “Excellent!  Your demeanor is impeccably convincing!  My mouth salivates in anticipation of our most delectable supper!”

*******

I would like to tell you that Lorna eventually caught on to this cosmic deception, but I cannot.  Good does not always triumph over evil, and Lorna unwittingly provided the aliens with scores of breakfasts, brunches, suppers and snacks.  However, the aliens did meet a disgraceful end when they moved on to human beings and discovered the flesh of humanity to be poison to their alien digestive system.  Eventually, Bleekul and Ookzor’s superiors towed the spaceship away, burned the corpses inside, and placed a hunting restriction on Earth. So I guess good did triumph in a small, incomplete way.  Better than nothing.

*Where did a hedgehog obtain a book on shamanism?  Well if you were a shaman, you wouldn’t have to ask!  I’d tell you, but then I’d have to kill you Freddy-Krueger-style.

Tags: Alien Oddities, Bizarre Animal Stories, Super Powers Suck // 4 Comments »

I found this weird little poem in my 2007 writing archives.  It popped into my head unbidden during a lakeside walk, and it had a vaguely Tom Waits feet to it, so imagine it sung by a gravely voice accompanied by lots of rhythmic banging and clanging.  If you don’t know who Jack of the Green is, turn to the ever-so-handy Wikipedia article on Jack of the Green.

(This fabulous photo is by Hisashi)

The Cat Journeys to the Underworld

Three fat cats in the kitchen sink
One bends over to take a drink
the others pushed him down into the drain
he fell forever but felt no pain.
He rolled to the feet of the Underlord
Whose head was bound with a silver cord
“It’s a shame, dear cat, but there’s nothing to do
You’re stuck down here till we’re through with you.

“The demons of the dark and the Hounds of Hell
Will pull off your face and take your tail.
They’ll take your black fur and your soft white paws,
your sharp front fangs and your powerful jaws,
They’ll grind your bones down to tiny rocks,
then toss all your parts into a box.
They’ll breathe inside and shake it well
Then sew you back together at the gates of Hell

Then you’ll stand up tall on your two hind legs
with velvet skin and eyes like the day
Your fangs and your fur will have crumbled to dust
and you won’t want to walk, but walk you must.
With your whiskers gone and your new hands strong,
you’ll stroll back up to where you were wronged;
head on over to the kitchen sink –
I suggest you don’t give them time to think.”

So in came the demons and the Hounds of Hell
They cut him up and did it well
He was shaken in the box and emerged whole
He had a new shape but the same cat soul.
He traveled back up through the Underworld
and walked right into to the sacred grove.
He emerged from the woods as a prophet of beasts
Drew all the honey from the hives of bees.

The mice and the shrews peeked beneath the plants
and from the earth blazed a stream of ants.
The sparrows and the falcons swooped down to see
And the bobcats crept up to his knee.
He charmed all the foxes out of their dens
then they all went in to the city of men.
Vines grew down from his eyes to his knees
but only the beasts saw this Jack of the Green.

Into the kitchen, right to the sink,
to the two fat cats vying for a drink.
Surrounded by the foxes and the hum of bees
he towered over his foes and said his piece.
They stared right back with unblinking eyes,
licked their paws, groomed their lies.
He thought about sending them down the drain
but figured he had very little to gain

He went back into the forest and the sacred grove
and dug out a home with the deer and the toads.
With mud on his face and green in his teeth,
He knew he had little cause to leave.
The cicadas and the frogs made music so clear,
the kind he’d never had the chance to hear.
He danced upright on his two hind legs
And that is how he lived out his days.

Do treacherous cats prosper?  I think not.
The very next day brought a threatening dog.
He chased the cats right out of the house,
the lazy things couldn’t even catch a mouse.
They grew so thin that the light shone through
they had plenty of time to think of what they’d do
if they had the chance to change their deeds–
woe to the foes of Jack of the Green.

Tags: Bizarre Animal Poems, Mythological Mishaps // Add Comment »

Way back when, I asked readers for animal story suggestions.  In response to reader Lynn’s request, I present the following tale of struggle, determination, and death metal.
***

PENELOPE THE PLATYPUS AND HER DEATH ROCK BAND

There had never been a better time to be a platypus in a death metal band.

Of course, no platypus had ever been in a death metal band, so now was as good a time as any for Penelope’s venture into the screaming, howling and guitar-smashing.  Being a platypus created unwelcome challenges to guitar-playing. She had developed a creative solution that involved stomping and sliding her feet, along with banging her head on the strings and fiercely thumping her tail on the ground. Tail strength was key to death metal, she found. The old acoustic guitar salvaged from the alley behind Rusty’s Junk-O-Matic was not exactly what she had in mind. Maddeningly cheerful, it tinkled along to her angst-filled groans.  Yet she was determined to overcome all obstacles to her music–the dark depths of her desolate soul needed to be expressed.

The forest animals gathered in the clearing after her concert announcement. As she was setting up, she heard two old chipmunks chattering.

“Ooh, a concert, Edna! Why, I haven’t heard a concert since little June Aronson learned to play walnut shells!”

“Indeed, Betty, this is so exciting!”

Yes, thought Penelope grimly.  You, too, will feel the excitement of utter destruction raining down upon your soul. She checked her makeup in the mirror.  Three bottles of white makeup coated her fur in imitation of deathly pallor–expensive, but worth it.  Unable to find a studded leather bustier to complete her outfit, she made do with electrical tape and pop can tabs.

The night called.  It was time.  Penelope cleared her throat, stepped onto her guitar, and began.

“DARK MINIONS FLY THROUGH THE NIGHT!
DEEP SORROWS FALL FROM GREAT HEIGHTS!
SONS OF ODIN SCREAM IN BETRAYAL!
EXIST ONLY TO HEAR YOU WAIL!

The crowd gaped as she thrashed on the fretboard. The old chipmunks squinted at each other.

“Now what is she saying, Betty? Confound these bad ears of mine.”

The other chipmunk cocked her head.  “Well now, I’m not entirely certain. My, but she has a scratchy voice for a girl! Poor thing must have a cold. Such a pity, and on her big night, too!”

Ignoring the puzzled murmurs and quizzical stares, Penelope plunged on. She felt the Pain of the Damned deeply in her heart, and the only release was through howling her dark lyrics.

SNOW FALLS, COVERS THE DAMNED!
FEEL PAIN, ALL THAT I AM!
YOUR CITY, FALLS IN MY HATE!
YOUR DREAMS, THINGS THAT I ATE!

Betty rummaged through her acorn purse. “I have some candied ginger in here to soothe her throat,” she said loudly, her wavering voice clear over the tinkling of the guitar. ”Oh, darn!  I just can’t see in this dim light.”

Edna leaned over the acorn.  “Betty, dear, let me look with you. Here it is.”

The old chipmunk waved it away. “That’s a corn cake, Edna.”

Euphoric with the spinning of her banging head, Penelope continued to howl but curiously could not recall her lyrics. With each bang, it was more difficult to remember the stunningly deep phrase she had penned last week.  She stalled for a few moments by growling some particularly demonic cow moos, but the crowd seemed unimpressed. The muskrat scratched its posterior, and the blue jays’ chirps were clearly unappreciative.

No statues were ever built for critics, Grandpa had said when she was young.  Closing her eyes, she ad-libbed.

OLD RODENTS, I HAVE NO COLD!
MY LYRICS ARE STRANGE TO THE OLD!
SATAN COMES AT NIGHT TO YOUR HOME
IN YOUR OWN KITCHEN HE ROAMS!

Betty gasped and put her hand to her heart.  “Did she say Satan, Edna?”

Edna patted the old chipmunk on the shoulder.  “No dear, she said ’satin.’ You know kids these days.  Their poor spelling skills cause them to mix up words.”

“Oh, of course.”  Edna nodded sagely  “But satin in the kitchen? I’d rather have it in the bedroom. It makes lovely sheets. I think I’d just spill jam on kitchen satin.”

Penelope banged her tail in a glorious speedy roll.  She was misunderstood!  Her greatness was taken for granted!  With a roar, she spewed:

IF YOU DO NOT SHUT UP
YOUR ASSSES I SHALL WHUP!
DARKNESS RAINS DOOM ON YOU ALL!
YOUR BONES ENTOMBED IN A WALL!

“She’s going to do what to my ass? Humph! Well I sold that old donkey to Myrtle Jones four years ago.”  The old chipmunk’s nose was in the air.  ”I don’t know how that uppity young monotreme thinks she’s going to get her paws on it.”

“I know, Betty, I know. These kids have no respect for nature any more.”

“It’s a shame, really,”  said Betty, her tail twitching and whiskers shaking in indignation.  “We really should do more for our youth. They need advice from their elders.”

“YOUR DOOM–

Edna tottered to her feet and shouted over Penelope. “You up there! I suppose your mother never took you to the park or read you bedtime stories!”

I will not let them stop my art, thought Penelope.  “YOUR DOOM–”

Betty pointed her walking twig at Penelope.  “Probably ate nothing but po-taty chips and popsicles, did you? Your poor vocal cords are stunted through malnutrition, tsk.”

Willnotletthemstopmyart! “YOUR DOOM–”

“And you’re so pudgy, too,” complained Betty.  The audience was riveted.  “You need a bowl of stinging nettles – it will help your voice and you’ll lose all that fat.”

“AAAAAAAAAAGGGH!” Penelope howled. It technically wasn’t part of the song, but she could no longer contain herself.  With great effort, she heaved her guitar into the crowd. Unfortunately, guitar-smashing wasn’t nearly as spectacular as it looked on MTV. There were no sparks, explosions or screeching feedback noises, only the half-hearted thump of wood and jarred nylon strings.

There was silence in the clearing and Penelope’s chest heaved as she glared balefully at the audience.  Now they would understand her dark torment!

Edna cleared her throat loudly.  “You dropped your guitar, honey.”

“Everybody makes a mistake now and then,” added Betty.  ”There, there, no one will even remember in five years.”

***

After the show, Penelope lounged backstage inside a rotten tree stump. With a guitar splinter, she picked her teeth clean of chipmunk. They had been tough, but surprisingly tasty. She was glad she’d branched out from her normal diet of worms and shellfish.  Nutrition was important.  Her vocal cords, she decided, needed more protein to sustain the heavy, deep growls of agony.

A small group of groundhog youth nervously approached her.

“You were like totally awesome!”  the biggest one gushed. ”The blood and cracking bones were so, like, real!”

“Yeah!”  squeaked another.  ”That stuff about the Slaves of the Damned was great. I totally got it, you know?”

“Can … canwebeinyourband?” the youngest groundhog begged breathlessly.

Penelope smiled and burped.

“It depends. Can you get me an amplifier and a Les Paul electric guitar?”

The groundhogs scurried off in pursuit of equipment, and Penelope smiled.  She had turned adversity to her advantage and come out ahead with a full belly and a promising career.

Tags: Bizarre Animal Stories // 2 Comments »

Oh, Samurai Cat, your adventures thrilled my juvenile mind!*  You battled Nazi dinosaurs with your awesome sword and spiky helmet. You rescued your machine-gun-toting nephew kitten from his ill-advised Mafia ties.  You rode pterodactyl-like creatures through space and time, seeking revenge against your master’s assassins.  You ordered saucers of milk at bars, and decapitated those who ridiculed your choice of beverage!

Now that I think of it, weren’t those Nazi Dinosaurs from outer space?   Oh my god, can this get any better?

The Adventures of Samurai Cat, More Adventures of Samurai Cat, Samurai Cat in the Real World, The Sword of Samurai Cat, and Samurai Cat Goes to the Movies were written by Mark E. Rogers.  I suspect his off-kilter assassin-cat-humor planted seeds in my twelve-year-old mind for future Splarks stories.  If you enjoy Splarks, track down a copy of any Samurai Cat book or comic.  Perhaps Samurai Cat will make a comeback some day.  That would MAKE MY EFFIN’ DAY, Mark Rogers.

Visit a great Samurai Cat fansite here.  And there’s a Samurai Cat Facebook page.

*I say that as though my mind has progressed beyond its juvenile ways. This blog’s existence pretty much refutes that idea.

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