Recently I took a Search Engine Optimization class and the instructor introduced me to Google Trends, which shows the most frequently searched-for keywords of the day.  As I stared at all the keywords, I had a fiendish idea.  Could I write a coherent, amusing story using a selection of those keywords?

Since one of the keywords that shows up frequently on my web stats is “satanic marsupials”  (seriously!  what is wrong with you people searching for that?), I thought I’d combine the two into one Giant Keyword Amusement Challenge.   It should make the spambots, who unanimously requested more information about the very important topic of Satanic Marsupials, very happy. And you know how I feel about making spambots happy.

~~~~~~~~~~~

It was time for the Satanic Marsupial Uprising.  All the wombats, kangaroos, possums, moles, the last remaining thylacine, a couple of Tasmanian devils, bandicoots, wombats, koalas, and several other species you shouldn’t try to pretend that you know or understand, gathered in the town hall to discuss their evil plan of world domination.  Excitement was high;  glorious power would soon be theirs once a diabolical plan was crafted!

Without preamble, a skinny bandicoot arose and said “Strollers.  I think they could serve our ends nicely, especially some of those new strollers made for active parents.  You know, the Schobly brand or the Quinny strollers.  I’ve read some bloggers talking about how these strollers fiendishly remove babies from proper sensory stimulation.”

Everyone stared at the bandicoot in disappointment.  The Tasmanian devils made gagging sounds and a possum snickered.

“High-end strollers?  Really?  Is that the best you can do to achieve the complete destruction of society as we know it?  Now how about something really awful, like Monday Night Football?”

The bandicoot looked unimpressed.  “Oh brilliant, Carl.  Sure, my idea about corrupting youth in their most tender moments is pitiful in comparison to the dire threat of Monday Night Football.”

“I’m so glad you see the light –I mean, sinister darkness, Jeremiah,” said Carl.  “It will take too long to corrupt infants.  Have you seen how long it takes them to even walk?  By the time we can properly conquer their race, we’ll probably all be dead and our evil spawn won’t know what the hell we’re talking about.  Monday Night Football, now there’s something we can take action on right now.  Hex the football in the name of our Dark Lord, put subliminal messages into the advertising–”

Emilio the wombat snorted.  “Advertising is so twentieth century, Carl.  What you need is to cook a turkey using thermite in a tagine, which is a Middle Eastern cooking implement.  If properly coordinated, the resulting explosion could wipe the population of several American metros off the planet.”

But none of the satanic marsupials were smiling.  This was all boring, unimaginative, and totally displeasing to the Dark Lord, who would surely view it as something yanked in desperation from Google Trends or something.

Finally, the mole contingent spoke up.  “We have a trio of ideas,” said the largest mole nervously.  “We present them to you in order of importance according to the known preferences of our Dark Lord:
1)  A constant media stream of bipartisan whining about health care reform bills;
2)  An integrated attack of beaked whales upon California surfer competitions, which will lower the national morale and cause depression or narcolepsy or possibly swine flu;
3)  Incessant promotion of the latest fad diet, the “Optimal Cleanse” which is, according to their website, “is a pleasant tasting, rice protein-based functional food meant to provide Optimal Cleansing nutrition for those patients suffering from conditions and symptoms associated with toxicity” but of course, we would tweak the formula for maximum toxicity, a toxicity that we would augment with old re-runs featuring Tony Danza.

“Surely,” concluded the mole, ”under the combined attack of these three great threats, the denizens of the World cannot fail to endure.”

There was murmuring in the great town hall.  Some of the old marsupials approved of the Tony Danza idea, having witnessed his devastating effect on American society when “Charles in Charge” ruled the cable box.  The younger marsupials thought that the Dark Lord would particularly enjoy the term “functional food.”

Finally the cranky old thylacine yelled, “Popinjays!  You idiots, your plans won’t work without popinjays!  And why are you all focusing on America like it comprises the whole goddamned world?  Have none of you been to Luxembourg?”

But no one knew what a popinjay was or where Luxembourg was, and no one wanted to encourage the thylacine to continue a tirade, so no one responded.  It’s a pity, really, since a league of popinjays could have significantly benefited their mission, but the Assembly had moved on.  Could no concept come to their aid?  Could nothing spread the Vision of the Dark Lord effectively?  Would Satan’s heart be broken yet again by his minion’s measly efforts at colonialism?

And then a small kangaroo spoke clearly above the general muttering.  “Why don’t we just apply the Trachtenberg speed system of basic mathematics?”

And because no one knew what it meant but it sounded dreadful, cheering commenced and the Assembly decreed that it had found its solution.  It declared the little kangaroo to be its leader in bringing the Devastating Mathematical System to every door in America.  This was unfortunate because the Trachtenberg speed system of basic mathematics teaches people to do high-speed multiplication, division, addition, subtraction, and square root calculations in their heads.  By improving their mathematical skills, the American public also developed critical thinking skills and decided that they didn’t believe Satan existed after all.  Without the belief of the public, Satan’s power plummeted and all the satanic marsupials committed suicide.  This was ok because their children grew up to be great mathematicians and solved the problem of world hunger.  THE END.

Tags: Google Trend LOL, Marsupials by splarks
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This is a special post in honor of my friends who are heading off to Burning Man in a couple of weeks.

Coming home from a long, wearying business trip, you fly into Reno for a layover.  You stretch your legs, get coffee, waste two hours on compulsively checking your vast array of social networking accounts.  When you finally board your plane again and take off, you notice that something is … different.  What’s with all these brightly colored, dusty people crowding into the plane?  How the hell did they get on here?

“Oh man,” you hear a girl in a fuzzy neon green bikini say, “I’m gonna miss the Playa.”

With dawning horror, you realize the nightmare you’ve boarded.  It’s a plane full of Burners just emerging from the Burning Man event, and you’re lifting off!  There’s no escape, and here are ten ways in which you’re likely to die.

Situation One:  Death by shock and/or horror
Who’s at Risk: The elderly, those suffering from a heart condition, and uptight individuals
The Death: Your heart probably started pounding when you saw the chick in the fuzzy bikini.  The last time you saw such a thing was Never.  Your adrenalin circulates at dangerous levels, preparing you for possible unpleasant freaky experiences involving glow sticks and hula hoops.  Then you realize that the chick is actually a guy, and there’s another androgynous type with him/her/it in a matching fuzzy fuscha bikini.  Your heart protests violently, and soon you’ve keeled over into your martini.  That’s ok, it was made with really crappy gin anyway. 

Situation Two:  Choking on glitter/feathers/other ethereal decor
Who’s at Risk: Breathing individuals. 
The Death: You’re trapped in the middle seat between two exquisitely ornamented creatures.  It’s not so bad;  they’re quite attractive and friendly.  You relax as they wow you with stories about the Burn.  Suddenly, one of them sneezes and a cloud of glitter wafts from her wig.  It’s in your eyes, your nose, your mouth!  The other one leans over you to hand her a tissue, and you inadvertently inhale several flimsy feathers from the four boas wrapped around his head.  Clogged with pixie dust and feathers, you suffocate.  But at least it’s a very pretty, soft suffocation. 

Situation Three:  Bludgeoning by Platform Boots
Who’s at Risk:  Short people and children
The Death: The Burner next to you rises and says he needs to take a leak.  You are now eye-level with the tops of his fuzzy orange cowboy boots, which have, in your estimation, 10 inch platforms.  Said platforms trip over the flight attendant and the Burner goes flying.  You are smacked in the temple with the orange platforms, which causes a brain seizure.  As your consciousness fades into oblivion, you hear a Burner behind you saying, “Amateur.  I mean, I have stilts.”

Situation Four: Death by Contact High
Who’s at Risk: Those with lung diseases and low tolerance to altered states
The Death: You’re getting on great with your Burner seatmate.  He has fabulous stories about life on the Playa and the amazing Art Car he created, totally fueled by biodiesel and graywater.  You start thinking about that unused comp time you’ve racked up.  Maybe you could try this Burning Man thing next year!  You and your seatmate have gone through several beers, and you stumble to the bathroom.  Unfortunately, a couple of Burners have used the bathroom to surreptitiously smoke pot.  The heavy smoke overcomes you and your poor half-capacity lungs, and you crash to the floor.  The floor is nasty but the event of your death seems absolutely hilarious.  Your giggling so hard you cannot breathe, if there was air in here to breathe anyway.

Situation Five: Death by Pretty Lights
Who’s at Risk:  Epileptics
The Death:  You’re deep into your Harlequin Romance novel when the Burner next to you gets up to rummage around in the overhead compartment.  Triumphantly, she sits down and shows you her find.  “Check it out!” she says.  “It’s this awesome strobe that I traded for three hours of Reiki.”  Before you can stop her, she starts it up and the plane is filled with jagged flashes of red, blue, and green light.  As your temporal lobes cringe rhythmically in terror, you swallow your tongue and choke to death.  Damn it, you hadn’t even got to the bodice-ripping chapter.

Situation Six: The “Real” Synth
Who’s at Risk:  Anyone
The Death:  Your seatmate looks suspiciously at you over the top of his chunky chartreuse glasses.  You kindly decided to put him at ease and ask him about the band t-shirt he’s wearing.  “What kind of music do they play?” you ask politely.  Before your sentence is finished, he’s pulling out a strange contraption from his bag.  “This is a real synth,” he says conspiratorially.  “It’s not that fucking K-mart shit that most people use.  I play actual experimental music with this, you know?  I built it myself from parts I scavenged.  You seem pretty cool, like you really care about music.  I’ll let you play it.”  Nervously, you touch a key, brushing an exposed wire.  Sparks fly and you die, your last screams destined to be sampled in a psytrance song.

Situation Seven: The Art Installation
Who’s at Risk:  Anyone
The Death:  “I don’t do drugs,” announces your new Burner friend.  “I’m an artist.  I protect my brain chemistry, you know?  So that nothing messes with my creative impulse.”  You nod.  You’re a bit of an artist yourself, you tell her.  You did a couple of still life pieces in watercolor during a college art class.  Then you find yourself pressed against the window frantically trying to avoid the enormous mass of springs, coils, and wires that she just pulled from her pack.  “It’s my art installation,” she beams.  “It even glows in the dark!”  But you’ll never see it glow in the dark.  You’ll never see anything again.  One of the springs pops loose and embeds itself into your eye, poking through into your brain.  You die on the spot.  What a pity.  When it was all assembled, it was really cool.

Situation Eight: Death by Shpongle
Who’s at Risk: Anyone flying low-cost air carriers
The Death: Squeezed into your tiny seat, you breath a sigh of relief when you see that your seatmate isn’t much inclined to talk.  He’s blissfully glued to his iPod.  You can hear the tinny sound of “doof doof doof doof” emanating from his ears.  His foot starts tapping, which you ignore at first.  Then he starts wiggling up and down in his seat and singing along with the voice samples in a screechy falsetto.  He throws his arms in the air and sways his head from side to side.  Stop staring dumbfoundedly!  You should be more concerned about the integrity of your seating.  The Burner’s constant, violent motion has shaken loose a crucial screw in the seat, and you both crash to the floor during a bout of turbulence.  As you fall, the latch on the seat tray stabs you in the throat. As you lay bleeding, you realize this would never have happened in a more upscale, spacious airline with seat trays a safe distance away.  But you get what you pay for, don’t you?

Situation Nine:  Poi Mishaps
Who’s at Risk:  Anyone
The Death:  Ignoring the protests of the flight attendants, a troupe of fire spinners begins a performance.  You watch in simultaneous fear and awe as they twirl flaming objects, spit fire, and cavort half-naked in the fiery aisles.  The flight attendants band together and wrestle away the butane, shrieking that they can’t spin poi on a plane.  “No worries, sorry man,” says one.  “We’ve got these nice fabric ones.  No fire danger there whatsoever.”  The fabric is shiny and glittery, and very strong.  You discover this unfortunate fact as a dancer flings it over your head, where it falls and tangles around your neck.  You choke, you die.  The other passengers don’t complain too much, though–they’re clapping too hard to hear your strangled cries.  Did you see that girl with the flaming hula hoop?  I mean, wow!  How did they get that stuff on the plane, anyway?

Situation ten: Plane Crash
Who’s at Risk:  Samuel L. Jackson and Everyone
The Death:  Samuel L. Jackson is in first class, unbeknownst to you, and he’s tired of this shit.  He bursts into economy class and shouts, “I want these motherfucking freaks off this motherfucking plane!”  Unfortunately, this triggers the guy next to you who is coming down from a two-week multi-drug trip.  Screaming in terror, he bolts from his seat and rushes to the emergency exit.  Samuel realizes that he’s not equipped with any kind of weapon since this is real life and not a movie, and Security confiscated his guns.  He is too late to stop the Burner from  kicking open the door, and you’re all sucked out of the plane.  You die happy, though.  You saw Samuel L Jackson in real life, and he said “Motherfucking.”

Tags: Based on a True Story, Subcultural silliness by splarks
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