Friday, March 20, 2015

Phat and Sharpie

Mark, Mama Brain, and Lem were only looking for a dropped contact lens.

That's when shit went really Tarantino Apeshit on everyone involved.  First of all, man,
she wouldn't have been looking for it (the contact lens) in the first fucking place if the heinous smoke from the dive bar's too-small kitchen wasn't liberally billowing out onto the non-food-ordering public, causing her to rub her eyes uncontrollably, dislodging her lens and causing her to duck down and search--


--JUST AS several bullets shattered the window next to Lemtata.

The perp was a waif of a girl man, a skinny, cracked out Tranny who made trannies look bad.   At least a crackhead and probably an all out junkie omnidruggie, three highs short of an overdose, but that would take too long.  Lemtata stood up suddenly, and grabbed the nearest thing she could think of and lunged at the guy, even though he was four feet away through the newly blasted window, and standing nonchalantly holding a Gatt, on the sidewalk.

In two seconds she was holding the super fat Mega Sharpie she'd picked up off the counter, under his nose with the lid off.  The super fat aroma of the fumes made his nose drool, and he was caught off guard just long enough for Lemtata to root around in her jean jacket pocket and pull out--

--dental floss.  What the fuck!?

Thinking on her feet, Lemtata pulled out length upon length of floss and in three seconds had  fashioned a floss Garott, and was strangling the shemale into submission.  Police had to pry her hands from his throat, but she was never charged.

The incident would live on in infamy as the day Lem became a super cop.

Thursday, March 5, 2015

Joe Illustration #1 by R. Rial

"Joe would go into everything at a million miles an hour and then change his mind."-- Bernard Rhodes

Monday, March 2, 2015

Intermezzo: Poe Nutsyfooting Part IVb

Part IVb

"You don't need to punish yourself for drinking with more drinking. You don't need to punish yourself at all!" shouted a nearby can of Perrier.
"You are great and you don't deserve shit from outside, but sometimes you get it, and you can't change that easily, but you can at least not give yourself shit from inside!" it cried, and exploded in a blast of fizz.

"Oh yes I do," said Bugs Bunny, who had just meterialized out of fat air, "I'm a Baaaaaaad Baaad widda boy!"
The punishment fits the crime, thought Bob.

Bob morphed into librettist W. S. Gilbert, and Bugs Bunny into composer Arthur Sullivan. They began singing "A More Humane Mikado."
“It is my very humane endeavour To make, to some extent, Each evil liver A running river Of harmless merriment!” Bob-Gilbert exclaimed.

Hank Williams walked in and said unenthusiastically: "I'm gonna keep drinking until I'm petrified."

Seriously though, fuck this shit.
You haven’t committed any sin that needs this kind of punishment.

"Looks like I'm on the wagon for as long as I can hold out." said Bob.

A young Clint Eastwood rode past Bob's horse, singing "rolling rolling rolling, keep them dogies rolling, rawhiiiiide!"

Then he rolled another "dogie", which is kinda like a stogie, but made of wacky weed.

He and his pards rode their horses into the saloon in the next town to the toon of Riders on the Storm. The wind was purple that night.
The saloon-keeper was a little surprised to see five cowboys ride their horses right into the establishment, but... it was the West.

One of his pards, Bob, sat down at the bar and grinned. "I'm thirsty! How's bout a sarsaparilla, Gramps?!"
"Not whisky! I'm on the wagon, day Three!"

Clint puffed on his dogie some more. The man sitting next to him morphed into a cartoon dog and threw him a big thumbs up.

So Clint shot him with a Nerf crossbow, then settled down at a rickety table for a game of poker with Bob and Mr. PCP.

Mr. PCP found it hard to interact with people as a giant celestial manatee-bird hybrid thing, so he manifested as a 50-year-old Mexican woman. He was a cheating bastard whose every card was the ace of spades, the ace of spades. The ace of spades, the ace of spades!

Just then, Lenny Kilmister, Lemmy's younger brother and sleazy attorney, walked in and demanded that the narrators cease and desist to describe said cheating. Then he asked Clint if they needed a fourth, to which Eastwood almost imperceptibly nodded a curt acknowledgement.

As if that wasn't enough excitement for 5 minutes, the saloon doors soon crashed open again, this time parted by a 4-member time-travelling biker gang parking right in the saloon.
"Who are YOU guys?!" shouted Lemmy drunkenly. He definitely was not on the wagon
"Kings of speed," said one.
"Kings of speed," muttered another.
"We're gonna make you kings of speed," stuttered a third.
"We're, uh, kinda like the Borg," mumbled the fourth.

"I think we should copy and paste these last days of chat narrative into the blog, and I'll draw a cartoon for it!" shouted Bob into the ceiling.

It had been snowing for days in the desert that August, and the roof was nearly at the breaking point. The sonic impact of Bob’s voice gave it that last little push it didn’t need. A spiderweb of cracks began evolving out from above and in front of Bob’s head, growing in strength and weakening the ceiling until with a crash and a sploosh, pounds and pounds of snow fell on all the poker players’ heads.

Clint was completely unfazed, of course.

The biker gang found this development very entertaining, and it became quite obvious that they were all high as kites when they began rolling around in the snow and making snow angels. The barkeep was beside himself and was already on the old fashioned telephone calling the local carpenter.

A few days later, Richard Carpenter arrived on a donkey.

Intermezzo: Poe Nutsyfooting Parts I-IVa

Part I

Be sure to wear a condom when you Fuck the Man

as in Eddie Condon?

I don’t know, can you wear him?
Joe walked in, wearing a Condon. Eddie Condon was as unamused as a mummified corpse could be.

Eddie harumphed indignantly and began strumming his 1912 Gibson Tenor Guitar with fervor, only noticing that his fingers were flaking away when his index bone broke his g string.
"My thong!" he yelled

“Thing, thong
, de witch is thead!” cried an aging Hervé Villechaize.
oh shit, the poor guy committed suicide
never knew

, said Joe to Eddie.

“Eh? Who committed suicide?” said a confused, and still aging Hervé.
“Uh... you?” replied Joe.

"Ah..." said Hervé. Then he keeled right on over! Joe looked at Eddie. "Got any mustard?" said Ed.

“De plain! De plain!” cried Joe.
...that was a *horrible* pun.

Eddie shook his head. An ear fell off. "Dijon,"he uttered, stooping down to pluck the ear from the dirt. "Welcome to Condiment Island!!" hollered Joe.
"It's Condon-ment." Eddie grunted, stuffing his ear into his valise.

The Anti-Tinkerbell fluttered into the smoky bar through a window. “Welcome to Nixyland!” she crooned.

Out of nowhere came a novelty giant flyswatter and smashed her into a post. At the other end stood Dustin Hoffman, dressed as Captain Hook.
"Vermin!" he announced.

The actual Tinkerbell was close behind. She flew to attack him, but clumsily missed and flew into the Anti-Tinkerbell. They exploded in a burst of fairy radiation.

The resulting injuries to the patrons of the bar would not become apparent for fifteen years, when all would die within weeks of each other from cancerous ulcers in the nose, throat, and ears.

But until then, they would wander the world, possessed with an urge to do good. One of those patrons had a cocker spaniel.

That cocker spaniel ended up outliving them all, and is now 132 in dog years. His name is Clarence Harris, and he now lives with his family in Tehran.

He has but one mission: to send a love letter to Taylor Swift. Not a letter of carnal love, or brotherly love, but the purest of platonic affection, the kind that only comes from a mutant dog with just a touch of fairy radiation.

It took him two years to complete, including months of painstaking editing. He contacted Taylor Swift's publicist, who gladly parted with knowledge of her mailing address once Clarence informed him of his identity. How he understood dog language must also have something to do with fairy guts/radiation.

It must have, and it did. For the publicist had been there on the day of that great explosion, and he too, contrary to our previous statements, was still alive to this day, and he too was 132 in dog years. For he was secretly a dog!
I guess, like, fairy radiation does not cause premature death in dogs, maaaaan. Hey, don’t Bogart that!

Hey, man. Bowzer's got the keg.

I sure hope Mom and Frank don't get home.

Part II

Suddenly, everybody died.

All that remained alive in the universe was one hand, clapping.

and half of one anus, crapping

and half of one bitch, slapping

and half of one kitten with a saucer of milk, lapping
and a lone D & D geek, fervently mapping
and a Kanye West CD, vapidly rapping
as of someone gently tapping tapping t my chamber door
The one hand had a lot to clap about.
The End
The curtain rose, and all 232,238,492,203 actors in The Epic of Joe came out onto the stage, causing it to collapse into a black hole.
The black hole, who was named Clare, went on to have a successful film career, with a cameo in 2001: A Space Odyssey, and a Disney film called, yep, The Black Hole.
Claude Debussy thought she was from the moon and dedicated to her “Claire de lune,” the third movement of his Suite bergamasque.
Then Claude got tired of waiting on de bussy and decided to hail de taxi. Inside the taxi the driver was listening to the book on tape of The Epic Of John, as read by Leonard Nimoy.

“Johhhhhn, Johhhhhn, leeeeet’s hoooooope for peeeeeeace,” Nimoy wailed in a stirring duet with Yoko Ono.
(out of character - this is very reminiscent of the old Joe stories and their chaoticness :D)

Nimoy and Yoko melded into one misshapen being and started howling "Don't worry, Shatnerrrrr!!!!"

They were joined by Eddie the Cocker Spaniel, who wasn’t a person so he didn’t die when everybody died. Also, he was now 10^234 dog years old. “Hoooome, hooome on the raaaaange,” he howled adorably in human-speak.

Then, he died.

The ghost of Alanis Morrisette raged at the irony of it all.

Part III


No, this is Bob. Erik?

No, this is Frank. George_


George, can you tell Bob that Joe called Sally “Marge”?

Part IVa

, said the sad little pebble.

The knot chalk misunderstood and became hurt. Hey Erik, what if I did a Sharpie drawing for Eoj?

Drawings fit on a blog just as well as text, have at it, I say!

Once there was a boy named Joe The Imperious. He was pretty sure he'd been referred to in a previous story, but couldn't remember which. So...he got drunk. Then his wife asked him why he'd been drinking so much lately.

“I drink to forget!” he raved.
“Forget what?” asked a Russian blues guitarist.
“I forget!” Joe shouted, and smashed a beer bottle against a passerby’s forehead.

The passerby, Alfred E. Neuman, mumbled, "What, me Forget?" "Isn't it actually 'What Me Worry?" asked the Russian blues guitarist.
Alfred held out his hands like a beggar. "I forget?" he postulated.

Then and there, Alfred and Josif Duma, the guitarist, decided to found Postulism Records, “your source for incomprehensible sounds recorded on wax cylinders.” Hipsters the world over rejoiced and began buying Postulism’s wax-cylinder recordings of washing-machine noises en masse.

When Postulism released Provol's Magic Birds, as well as a series of canary training cylinders, said same ran out and bought out the local pet stores bird population.

Little did they know that was actually MR. PCP!
, the talking manatee.
, disguised as a bird. Somehow.

The talking manatee would record your outgoing answering machine message if you answer a riddlle

The manatee escaped his cylinder and floated in the sky, magically visible to and understandable for everyone in every city and village worldwide, posing his great riddle: “Why do I drink??”

Both Joe and Mr. PCP answered at once, "To kill the pain of longing and heartbreak, and out of frustration, boredom, self spite and general malaise?
GENERAL MALAISE entered in his finest dress uniform, farted, and puked two pints of whiskey onto the floor.
"The Answer!" shouted the manatee.

“Whuk wheezh... needs. Is da sellllf... reinforshing. Problem!” slurred General Malaise. “Thash whatz we need. Thas whatz we... NEEDS,” he insisted to nobody in particular. “Itsh... our... specialty! And I am yerrrr... General Malaise! And whash we need iz a self reinforshing problem! I tellz ya!”

He stumbled into a space-age plastic chair, waving his whiskey bottle pointedly at someone only-imagined.

"The problem intensifies when you drink half a fifth of bourbon and feel as if you've only consumed half that amount." chipped in Jack Nicholson dryly.
"This leads to escalated bingeing as one struggles to attain Te desired effect," he continued.
The desired effect , rather.
"and this problem is called tolerance. What we need is more intolerance!"