Christmas Time Is Here!

Ah! Beautiful snow! It is, as you might have guessed, snowing at the time of posting, so I decided to do a REAL post to please certain pink parties that I shall not name. Winter is so nice, and the snow covered hillsides summon poems from within my lizard brain:
"Ode To Winter"
The soft footsteps of the ag'd years
Have all tread lightly in thy fine powder
In thy slush, scores of mittens have been soaked
In the walks thou hast blocked, many a muffled curse word has been
Utilized while shoveling
The loving, fairy touch of snowflakes on my frostbit brow
The unconcerned cries of "****" and "****" as people slip, stumble and fall on thy
Icy sidewalks
Bring untold peace to the Holiday Season



Just Kidding.

For the pleasure of the audience....

..... I have updated the featured things.

Weltanshuuang

Ok, fine Rachel, I'll post. ............. .. .. .. , YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
*cough cough* *wheeze* *fall on floor, wait until my blood sugar goes down* *get up, dust myself off and continue with post* ANYway, I have nothing to post. *Sighs* *Thinks* *Lightbulb ignites over head*




The Custard Has Left the Creamery

Update No. 5

I forgot to mention that I received a very nice Takamine Jasmine S34C NEX for my birthday. That's a guitar, if you are wondering. I updated all my featured jigamathingies, and to appease the Madscientist gods, I used a guitar that WASN'T A GIBSON!! HOLY COW!! Refried beans rawk, amen.

Death In The Family 2

Pandora, my pet rat, died on Monday, I think it was a stroke. I knew it was coming for a while, so it wasn't a shock or anything, and I didn't want her to live too long after her sister died because she was so lonely.

Update No.4 in R major

I've updated the guitar, ride, quote, and have changed the featured livestock to featured livestock/RAT! Check it out, comment, and vote for Pedro.

Update No.3

Hello all. I've added the Featured Livestock, er.... feature under the Pajamas Media voting booth. The first featured livestock is an Ankole cow. Enjoy, live long and prosper, eat sauerkraut, and love rats.

Freestyle Writing pt.2

The pink fuzz shot out of the gaping hole in the space alien's scaly abdomen at such a velocity that Merv reformed into a puce hummingbird out of the pile of thousand island dressing that he was blasted into by the martians' freem death blasters.
The martians were clearly surprised, but that didn't last long. The opened up their pain-ray emitters, and despite Merv's ducking and weaving, he was hit in the middle of his little feathery tummy, and dropped into a vat of Mountain Dew. Of course, Mountain Dew is to hummingbirds as spinach is to Popeye, so Merv came back to consciousness with vengeance.
The air was filled with a bass thrum thrum thrum thrum. A giant hummingbird, streaked hot pink and lime green, rose from the vat dripping pop. It was at least six feet tall, and its wings created a ethereal blur around it. Its lengthy bill was razor tipped, a fact which the bird knew and utilized on three aliens before they realized they were getting attacked.
The beak was now covered with gore and green blood. Merv was mad, because they had killed his friend of course, but there was something about them killing him too that enraged him.


P.S. The featured guitar is hot, and I found someone who wrote just like me: Frederick Douglass. Read his book, The Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass.

Freestyle Writing/No, I'm not dead in a swamp in Cambodia.

Hello. I'm bored and have no homework, so I guess I'll post something. I'm going to write, completely out of my head, trying hard to avoid possible reader comprehension and always steering away from a plot. Here goes.
The woodpecker shuddered as a giant fireball careened off the magnetically sealed walls of the small condo in a suburb of Akron, Ohio. "Freedom!" he yelled with great conviction, as the alien skull-borer ray turned his brains into something resembling tapioca pudding. The faithful minotaur, Merv, seeing the contents of his friend's head dashed out on the sidewalk, was possessed with a determination and strength, and consequently resumed the brute for hoeing of his front lawn with vigor. Yes, all seemed lost, but the maxim of Merv's third cousin, thrice removed on his mother's side, came back to him through the red mist of anguish at the passing on of his dear companion: "Let your pancreas be your pair of galoshes." This memory gave him comfort in the dark world of hi-def TV, Little Debbie's, and electric toothbrushes.
The icky green stalk-eyed aliens shot five, 3.14-second bursts with their Freem Death Blasters, and he was reduced to a pile of thousand island dressing.

Death in the Family

For those of you who don't know, my rat Penelope died of unknown causes on August 26th. That's all.

Update No.2

Quote, ride, and guitar are changed. I think they're all perfect, especially the quote. (Xenophon is an awesome name)

Bob Ch.1, again.

Sorry I tried to edit Ch.1, and it disappeared. But, here it is again. Ch.2 is below this post.

Bob the final conflict, Pt. 1

Chapter one

When Bob glanced at the dense foliage where the rustling came from, his gut did a few calisthenics, and sat down, trembling from the exertion. The blond hair on the back of neck stood up, stiff as a cadaver, quivering with excitement. The words of Bob’s Grandmamma Lena came rushing back: “Always trust your gut, Robert. Heed his advice above all others’. Unless, of course, it would be the hair on the back of your head’s.” Bob was getting the same message from both organs: RUN!

Bob ran, his fuzzy and distressingly chartreuse bunny slippers pounding the moist loam of the deciduous forest, his face torn with the daggers of fierce bramble, his hands deflecting Hoochletmuffin-Tree trunks, their dark cubic leaves and hot pink fruit raining down on him.

Bob looked back feverishly, to find that mist had obscured the forest behind. The full moon had been masked by dark clouds. Bob’s pace quickened to a full out, fear-fueled sprint, his red cape flowing out behind him dramatically, exposing his violently violet corduroy bellbottoms and “VOTE FOR PEDRO” T-shirt.

He heard a vicious keening evocative of a craven banshee, and a ravenous growling, reminiscent of a starved coyote, accompanied by snorting, roaring, barking, scraping, shrieking, hissing, whooping, cheeping, screaming, and burping redolent of various other organisms. Once or twice Bob saw disgustingly contorted black shapes through the billowing smog that was following him as fast as the multi-lingual horror was. Bob now had a firm conviction that a pack of many depraved beasts pursued his person now.

While running through the seemingly endless forest, red fungi rushing by with un-fungal speed, vegetation and rock also hurrying past at an exotic haste, Bob drew his trusty .38 Sig Sauer magnum from his orange hemp belt and grabbed his loyal serrated, double edged, hand brushed titanium knife with the ebony hilt. He spotted a stout Frogbane tree in the distance, and steeled himself for the fight to come.

He arrived at the yellow tree, and instead of dodging it he applied his back firmly to the smooth bark and let loose two flashing bullets.

Due to the ravenous evil that closed on him presently, he was prevented from shooting a third.

Bob Ch.2

Ok, people. Here's the second chapter of Bob, The final conflict Pt.1 Mr. Fluff-butt can read it now. Enjoy!

Chapter two

When Bob recovered his consciousness, he first noticed that, contrary to popular belief, and (it seemed) demand, he was fully, unequivocally, gloriously alive, and that realization, the thought that he was truly animate instead of half digested, blinded him to the fact that his right leg had been chewed off brutally, and that his pancreas was woefully absent, though no clear mark, wound, or scar existed on his abdomen, an important detail that led him to speculate, for one wild moment, that he never had a pancreas (come to think of it, he wasn’t sure what a pancreas was.)

Bob sat up, and was immediately greeted with a rushing pain emanating from his starboard thigh. He looked at his stump and suddenly felt a terrible loss. His favorite leg was gone. He started to cry, mainly from the pain, but the feeling he got when he looked at the empty space where a valuable appendage used to be definitely contributed to the intensity of his sobs. Once he was done weeping, he looked around. He was sitting in that same wood, and bright morning sun was filtering through the trunks and leaves, creating beautifully dappled patterns of green and yellow on the leaf litter and vegetation. Bob was momentarily awed by the splendor, but then his soldier-sense kicked in. He immediately searched for his weapon, and found it fully loaded and clean. His knife was stuck into the ground beside him, shinier than it had ever been. His garb seemed like it had been dry cleaned, and his right pant leg had obviously been rolled up before the monsters had chewed his extremity off.

Bob wondered where he would go from here. He had stopped hurting miraculously, and he felt completely normal. He was not bleeding, though it seemed that he hadn’t at all, a very peculiar thing, considering that his whole leg had become a meal only a while ago. He sat there thinking about strange It All was, and would have probably kept on thinking if he had not notice what looked like a neatly scrawled missive pinned to his left (duh!) slipper. Bob picked it up, relishing the feel of linen paper beneath his fingers. It looked like it had been written with thick India ink, quite possibly with a quill.

Bob suddenly stopped slobbering over a note, and read. I enjoyed our little game, Bob. Your leg was very good grilled with a mint-lemon sauce. Next time, I’ll eat your entire person. Sincerely, Hugh. P.S. You owe me for dry cleaning your clothes and cleaning your weapons. I thought it the least I could do, have chewed your leg off, but undoubtedly you’ll be all ungrateful and stuff, and try to kill me. I wouldn’t advise it, but there you are. Human nature is not to listen. P.P.S. The Cyborg leg is on me. I thought it would be more sporting to let you walk.

Bob crumpled the note. Anger filled his mind. First, he missed his leg. Second, the note was very confusing, rambling over several different and not altogether lucid subjects as it did. Third, he hated people named Hugh. Fourth, this Hugh character seemed a very slippery and arrogant guy. Fifth, the letter mentioned a Cyborg leg, something that perplexed poor Bob even further. And sixth, it made no mention of a pancreas, and that threw doubts and yet more uncertainty at Bob. Had he ever had one? If so, where was it? How the heck did he know it was gone? If he knew it was gone, then it surely had to have been sometime, right? If he never had, a pancreas, how had he lived thus far? And again, What in blue blazing barbecued barnacles was a pancreas?

Bob concluded that no, he never had a pancreas just to settle his mind.

He scooted backward until his back met a tree, and leaned against it wondering what he would without a leg. By the end of his wondering he was quite depressed, because he realized that he could not go anywhere quickly. Bob, having hunted these woods before, knew that immobility spelled death because of the large packs of Northeastern Roaming Creepclimbers and numerous Bulky Hairless Flesh-Eating Slime-Panthers the forest supported. Bob picked up his gun and laid it on his lap, stroking it. It was a comfort thing.

Bob sat stroking for an hour, and then realized he was hungry. He supposed he should look for a berry bush or some kind of edible tuber. He decided he rather have the berries. He sheathed his knife, and put his gun in his pocket, and got down on his belly, ready to crawl like a worm, when he felt his remaining foot hit against something hard, and definitely non-organic. He turned around cumbersomely, still on his stomach, and looked. There was a largish black case near the tree he had been leaning on.

Bob turned over so that he was once again seated, and picked the box up. He listened for a ticking time bomb. Having heard no ticking, he tapped it in various places to see if there was a mechanism that would expel a poisonous gas if opened the container. There was no audible irregularity, so Bob opened.

He first saw a packet of antiseptic powder, which he opened and rubbed into his wound. Under the disinfectant was a Cyborg leg! Complete with assembly and attachment instructions! Bob quickly read the manual and directions, and simply fit the Nerve-O-Receptotron socket onto his stump and screwed in the Multiple-Tite-Fit©-Fastening screws, primed the triple Calibrating Orbs, and stood up. His new leg moved lithely and naturally, and when he rolled his pant leg down (his bunny slipper was already on it), he could barely tell it was mechanical. He kicked out at a sapling, and it snapped in two easily, the Patent-Applied-For-Carbon-Fiber-Pressure-Absorbing-Octobonds disposing of all shock, so his leg was undamaged.

Bob was whole again. He stood, and started to run. In minutes he found a clear brook to drink from, and had filled himself with berries.

It was afternoon now, and the sun was orange and warm. He found a shady, Fuzz Moss clump and lay down, his hunger gone and thirst quenched. He lay for a few moments, and started dozing. In an hour, the forest was dim, and Bob was fast asleep.

Bob was in very deep sleep, not twitching or murmuring. He slept like the large granite boulder he rested by, a fact that was not lost on a particularly fearsome female Hairless Slime-Panther.

Announcement

Everyone, don't say my real name for security reasons. There are presently four countries after me for various illegal enterprises, and if they knew you knew me they would surely kill you. Just FYI. Just call me Peacefinger, or The Finger, or Fingo-rama, or Finginator, or Peace-ola, or Your Imperial Awesome Illustrious Royal Highness Master-of-Everything, Sir, or whatever. Just not my real name, got it?

Quote

I love the quote for this week. Check it out. I've removed the featured article thing, because I realized that no one cares.