Read Chapters from “The Worst Novel Ever Written”

I promised some fresh content, and I wanted this post to double as both fun and helpful.  Here’s a little background information on The Worst Novel Ever Written:

n5071f2c83ce28So it’s the end of 2009, and I had just wrapped up writing a lot of serious content.  And by serious, I do mean serious.  No one was messing around in my plots.  There was a joke cracked here or there, but for the most part, they were outlawed.  Characters who did mess around got killed.  But then my one story was shortlisted in this big competition.  I was like, “Hell yeah, this serious business is paying off.”  Medium story short, I lost to “sci-fi porn”.  Is that a genre?  If not, please credit me for all future usage of this label.

I don’t know about anyone else, but I work like a rechargeable battery, and I had just drained the entire thing.  But I have different batteries lying all over my house, so I plugged in some more.

I can’t not write, and my battery of seriousness needed some time to recover, so I did what any rational person would do in that position—I said, “@#$% this,” and started writing with the awesome power of sarcasm.  I thought about every trope imaginable, and I worked them into my writing, only over-exaggerated.  If there were rules some professional shelled out about writing, I said, “I’m gonna wreck it!”  Lol, look at me—suddenly I’m Wreck-it-Ralph.

Worst Novel Ever WrittenSimply put—I cut loose and decided to let whatever was swarming around inside my head pour out onto my Word document.  It was really therapeutic, and when I finished, when I put my serious batteries back in, I came back stronger and wrote some awesome stories.

But, whatever became of The Worst Novel Ever Written?  I sent out about 30 queries to agents and received 1 request for the first three chapters along with 1 request for the full ms.  The agent who requested the full ms liked my energy but was looking for something more straightforward.  I did cut off the first chapter and turn it into a short story, which was published by TheNewerYork.

Maybe I’ll go back and revisit this one day.  Maybe I’ll decide it’s good how it is and release it in its current form.  Maybe I’ll break off parts to form more short stories.  Who knows.  But this monster helped me get through some tough times.  It gave me a quiet place to rant.  It gave me a place to let my creative juices run rampant.  And in the process, it got me noticed by two agents and a publisher.

I’m going to share some random chapters of the book below.  There’s no real good way to do this other than to give a quick summary of the plot.  So here goes:

An invincible monster called Ultra Beast is created by a scientist, and it ends up destroying all life on Earth.  In the future, Ultra Beast is all alone and so bored that it starts going nuts.  It eventually discovers time travel and creates a demonic creature it calls Ultra Strong.  Ultra Strong is sent back in time to save the one boy, named You, who possesses the only object which can end Ultra Beast’s pathetic existence—the shoe of unstoppable force.  The plot follows Ultra Strong’s journey back in time, but of course he gets sent to wrong time periods and places.  When Ultra Strong finally arrives at his proper destination, he has amassed a band of misfit aliens from all across the universe.  From there, it’s a matter of keeping You alive (think Terminator 2, because I did), and waiting for the exact moment Ultra Beast is created so You can destroy it.  The only problem is, an evil alien, now part of the group sent to protect You, wants to kill You and keep the shoe of unstoppable force all for itself.

Ummm, what?

Yeah, that’s the best I got.  Take a look below to read some of the chapters I’ve pulled.  I hope you enjoy, and thanks for reading!  I’d love to know what ya’ll think in the comments. 




Supererogatory Primogeniture

A shiny, dotted, wet piece of sandpaper-coated muscle soars through the air.  It soars with urgency.  It soars with passion.  With intent.  With haste.  Horniness.  Pride.  Confidence.  Ambition. 

Like a spear, it soars.  Like an arrow, it soars.  Like (any projectile soaring straight that you can think of), it soars. 

And it soars so fast.  Like nascars.  Like that spear.  Like that arrow.  But all fast-forwarded.  32X speed.

It collides with another muscle.  Like two towels, they collide.  Like two balloons, they collide.  But not totally like them.  These two muscles, they smush together.  Their shiny dots of wetness eject, and project, and soar until they collide.  This collision splashes.  It creates bigger globs of wetness.  And that wetness rains down on two muscles.  Two muscles that are now locked in the ultimate wrestling match.

One muscle twists and turns and wraps and crawls and drags across the other, as the other does the same thing, but delayed by one second, so they form a twisty thing. 

Like they both got an A+ in gymnastics, these muscles unwind and perform the ultimate moves.  Aerial.  Check.  Front hip pullover.  Check.  Front pike somersault.  Check.  Somi-and-a-half.  Check.  Sticking.  Check.  Straddle.  Check.  Straddle split.  Check.  Swedish fall.  Check.  Check.  Yurchenko.  Now they’ve gone too far.

One muscle pulls back.  It’s panting.  It’s dripping saliva.  Right down to a row of teeth.  The teeth are white.  They were just brushed.  They were just flossed.  But a piece of beef is still lodged between the back molars.  So the tongue digs into those teeth.  But the smooth, fat, sort of oval-shaped tongue cannot pry the beef out.  The beef says, “Forget me, get back to business.”

And the tongue does.  It retracts.  It pulls way, way back.  It greets the tonsils.  The hanging thing, if that’s what it is really called.  It greets that thing.  It says, “Hello, I’m only here for one second, but I wanted to say hello.”

And it releases!  It soars.  It’s an arrow again.  It’s a spear again.  And it slams into the other muscle for a second time.  And now it’s a torrential downpour of saliva.  That’s how intense this meeting has gotten.  The mouths suck shut, creating a vacuum.  A tropical environment, because it has gotten so steamy.  It is very moist.  Damp.  Hot.  Bothered.  Muggy.  Dewy.

But the tongues continue to wrestle.  Fatigued, but more passionate than ever, they don’t stop.  They don’t even attempt a breather.  They just slide against each other, dissolving the saliva until none remains.  Grinding now.  Dragging sandpaper.  Turning bright red.  Flesh peels.  Blood seeps.  But just drops.  Not intense blood.  Just enough to make this official.  Shading the moment.

Rub.  Rub.  Rub.  Like they’re creating FIRE!

Oh, oh, oh, oh, yeaaaaaaaaaaaaah!

That’s what both tongues say.  And now you can’t even see the muscles because they’ve created a sonic boom with their speed.  And they keep going.  And they keep going.  And they go a bit faster now.  And even faster.  Rub, rub, rub, rub.  32X speed.  64X speed.  Flips.  Somersaults.  A quadruple salchow and quadruple toe loop.

And now the teeth have joined in.  They’re grinding together, hardcore, like those bad kids at school dances.  And the tonsil feels left out.  It says, “Hey!  Stop!”  Like the chaperon at the school dance, because they’re mad they can’t get any action.  “It was fine when everyone wasn’t getting any, but now everyone is, so cut it out!” the tonsil yells.

And a big wad of saliva is formed.  The mouths swallow and that wad slaps the tonsil in the tonsil face.  The tonsil, in return, says, “Ah, that was good.”

Now everyone is involved.  Like a huge Orgy.  But not that kind of orgy.  I mean Orgy the band, because this is a YA novel.


That was how You was born.




Jump to the Past

I arrive at the end of the portal.  The time travel portal.  I step out of the spiraling vortex of psychedelic colors onto a platter of International Klein, ultramarine and very bluey blue grass ranging from six and three tenths inches to eleven and nine fifteenths inches.

To the three squirrels sixty-two degrees on my immediate left, I say, “What the HOWDY are you looking at?” and they run away.

All around me, I can see a forest.  There are exactly 1,249 trees.  Elm, juniper, sassafras, smoketree, walnut, coconut, zelkova, willow, cherry, cedar, redwood and butternut trees.  Now I’m hungry.

The clouds are fluffy and there are puddles everywhere.  Rabbit turds.  Vines.  Jelly beans.  Cotton candy bushes.  I try some.  Yum.  Chocolate bunnies.  I try some.  Not yum.

A man pokes his head out from the forest.  He’s blue.  Aquamarine blue.  Oval eyes.  Exactly two and a half inches wide and one and three sevenths inches long.  1,203 eyelashes, on both eyes, top and bottom lids.  A fifty-four degree sloped nose with twenty-nine centimeter diameter nostrils.  Three of them.  His eyes are colored exotic green.  And they are alluring, and homely, and hunky, and gay.  All the hair I mentioned, it’s brown.  His cheeks are bubbled at a height of one and eight ninths inches and his chin is pointed at forty-five degrees on both sides.  The hair on his head, all 403,291 hairs, raw umber colored, they’re pulled into pigtails, the first foot and six inches pointed straight out, and the tied parts, with bands wrap around them sixteen times, that part arcs over for the remaining two feet and four inches.

And that’s just his head.

Jump to my burnt, lava, crisp, crackled, red-veined, bright orange, black, hard, ashy, taloned, long, huge, awesome hand wrapped around Klumpysoaken’s thin, long, pole-like, nail-like, toothpick-like, twig-like, really tiny, small, puny neck.

“Where is the boy?” I yell, causing his stupid hair to fall out.  I have sonic breath.

He doesn’t even understand me, so he pees glitter and it gets on my ultra boots of damnation’s void.  That’s demon for awesome.

Out of nowhere, I make a lava shotgun appear in my hand.  I ram it into two of his three nostrils, and he complies.

Jump to Klumpysoaken leading me through a wooden tunnel.

Jump back to Klumpysoaken leading me through a puddle.

Jump to Klumpysoaken coming out of the tunnel.

Jump back to Klumpysoaken trying to kiss me.

I told him, “Not now.”

Jump to Klumpysoaken and me walking on a pathway made of people who look like him, just laying there on the ground, laughing as my awesome boots crunch down on their faces, their bellies, their chests, their thighs, and their HOWDIES.

Jump to me using a person who looks like Klumpysoaken to wipe my sweaty arm pits. 

Oh yeah, jump to Klumpysoaken’s point of view so he can describe me in all of my awesomeness.

Hello, Klumpysoaken here.  Mr. Ultra Strong is very intimidating.  His muscles have muscles, and he is black.  Not the race, but really black.  He has tusks and flaming purple eyes and a razorblade nose and fists on his fists and a squid for a tail and an I-pod part imbedded in his forehead and he has orange veins and a utility belt full of Ultra Water.

Okay, now jump back into my point of view.

Jump to me high-fiving someone’s hand off.

Jump to me being challenged to a game of Scrabble by the town’s chief.

Jump to him making the word jin with the j on a triple letter score and the n on a double word score for a total of sixty-four points.  He now leads by sixty-four points.  He offers me gin, because it’s close to the word he just used, and because he’s rubbing it in my face.  I say no.  No way.

Jump to me making the word lickmychest and I get too many points to count and win.

Jump to me shoving the lava shotgun into some kid’s face and saying, “Come with me if you want to live.”

Jump to me pulling out my blackberry and ringing Ultra Beast.  He says, “Is it done?”  I say, “Dude, you sent me to the wrong HOWDY dimension.”  He says, “How?”  I say, “I don’t know.”  He says, “Prove it.”  I say, “I’m pointing a shotgun at an elf.”  He says, “Okay, my bad.”




Solo for the Seven-year-old

This is my nineteenth time in jail since jail was created.  What can I say?, me, the Vampire leader.  I’m drawn to girls two-hundred years younger than me.  Especially girls’ whose age is only one digit.  So hot!

But now I’m in jail.  In a jail cell.  Eating jail bread and jail mustard.  And there’s this jail guy named jail Jim in here with me.  He’s already thrown me like ten times.  Says he used to be a javelin thrower, and now that he’s found God, this being after he killed twenty-eight people, that God provided him with me, an armless guy, so he could start practicing javelin throwing again.  It’s his reward.

Jail Jim is bored and killing our other jail mate, jail Greg.  I hear Wolfboy howl at the moon a few jail cells down.  Someone yells that he is not in tune.

My juices get flowing.  I long for my love, Michelle.  My juices, yes!

I hum.  I air drum.  I play an air guitar solo and jail Jim and half-dying jail Greg applaud.  I clear my throat.  I hit the invisible whammy bar.  Now jail Jim and half-dying jail Greg are swaying back and forth.

I sing, “Oh, Michelle, oh, oh, oh, ohhhhhhhhhhhh!”

Jail Peter and jail Brad, the jail guys next door, they grab onto the cell bars and push their faces out.  They are in love with my first line.  They even sing it as backup vocals.  It is a nice touch to the beginning of my song.

I sing, “How I long for your love, how I long for your touch!  I want to cradle you in my arms, just this much!”

I spread my legs, because I don’t have arms, and jail Jim and jail Greg can see how much, but no one else can, but they know, from the emotion in my voice, the tone I’m using, that I mean a lot.

I sing, “I bet you didn’t think an armless man could give so much!”

Jail Tim and jail Lester join in now with jail Peter and jail Brad.  They all sing, “So much!  So much!  So much!”

Three times was nice.  Nice touch guys.

I do a split that destroys the meaning of a split because my legs bend upwards and I turn into a V and jail Jim and half-dying jail Greg are like, whoa, this guy is good.

I sing, “I would sniff the fleas right out of your hair, just for you, just for love!”

And guard Henry, he pushes his face into the bars of my jail cell, and it gets all red, and veiny, and intense, and wide, and long, and longer, and hard, and pulsy, and real big, and he screams, “Yes!  Sing it!  Sing it louder!”

Jail Jim agrees but jail Greg does not because he’s dead.

I sing, “I will not wait another year, dear!”

“No, he won’t,” sings my chorus of jail men.

I sing, “Just because you are seven, doesn’t mean I still don’t loathe your piece of Heaven!”

And the music stops.  And guard Henry opens all the jail doors.  And everyone is in my cell now.  They look mad.  They get undressed.  I say, “Solo?”




Tautological Interminable

I’m disturbed by thoughts of a baby’s bottom of a face.  Puppy dog eyes, sparkling like chlorophyll.  A voice that hums like a chordophone.  Camarilla.  Confluence.  Cockaigne choler.

I could do this all day, seriously.

Clams.  I have nightmares about clams every single night.  Seventeen years of snapping.  Almost two-thousand years of roaming.  Teleporting from fluffy bunny-run lands to snuggling molesters.  Annoying elves who demand to be walked all over and zombies with IQs of 270, who can talk, and think they’re smarter than you.  How I wish they could only mumble.

Mr. Malediction is the zombie’s name.  He’s antediluvian.  He’s sempiternal.  He thinks he’s sapient but he’s really brummagem.  He extols his existence.  He always gives Hobson’s choices.  He wears a tattered pair of swamp green pants and a half-buttoned, torn at the sleeves, button down shirt, but he’s fop.  He thinks it’s kitsch.  My sobriquet for him is Footless.

And imagine this, he thinks he’s smarter than that paragraph.

What an asshole.

And don’t get me started on Woofy.  He’s the snuggling molester we picked up on Snuggletron.  As I speak, he’s trying to wrap two bands of hair around me and squeeze tight.  He travels a half mile per hour, so I always try to manage sixth tenths of a mile an hour.  The problem is, he has unlimited stamina.  So when you sleep, he gets you.

And to top things off, not only is this elf that only has one hand named Klumpysoaken here, but the leader of the clams is also here.  He sprouted legs and arms on our final day on the clam planet and somehow warped with us.  To say the least about him, he’s explosively snappy.  Tell him his L-shaped legs look nice and he’ll bite your kneecap off.  I know.  I only have one left.

And then there’s this guy, apparently he’s a demon, and he’s the entire reason we’re here.  He’s so full of himself.  Always talking about himself, abusing the word “awesome.”  Calls himself Ultra Strong.  I call him Ultra Narcissism.  And he usually chops me in the throat.  If it were before the time warp, I’d be dead, but traveling through time like that, it has made us all immortal and invulnerable. 

Imagine spending over two-thousand years with a handful of people you hate, trying everything to kill them, only to get snuggled, snapped at, told you’re inferior, lectured about how awesome some other guy is and begged by some other guy to abuse him, only when you do, he doesn’t die.

That’s my life.

But finally, after all of these centuries, I’m traveling through the final worm hole.  On the other side is the final destination.  The boy named You.  The boy who possess the Shoe of Unstoppable Force.  The boy who tried to destroy me, alien leader.  See, when You thought he made me explode, he didn’t.  Ultra Strong’s genius creator actually time-warped me, and thus I became part of this group. 

How ironic.  The group that was meant to save You’s life now contains his arch enemy.  I will kill that boy and take control of the Shoe of Unstoppable Force.  And then I will kill this band of traveling misfit idiots!





Jump to me and You.

A woman drives a car, through space.

We are in space.

The woman, whose name is Earl, gives us a ride and drives us crazy.  This goes on for like nine days.

Jump to me and You being warped back to 1850.

Jim Joe Jimmerson stands in front of me in a denim onesie.  He says, “You back fo mo pain, boy?”

Jump to 2002 or 2003.  I show You how he was created.  He is scarred for life.

Jump to 3290, the celestial year of multiplication.  Don’t ask.

You here, this is intensified!

Ultra Strong again.  Now jump to Monsteria!  A place where the grass is monster grass.  Olive green with arms and all.  And each blade tries to kill you with claws or chainsaws. 

So we stay on the monster path—a monster tongue made of monster parts like limbs, eyeballs, jelly beans, hoola-hop intestines, kayaks (don’t ask), claw clippings, hardened food, big toes, linked fingers, greeting cards (one which says ‘Hi, you’re dead’) and a bunch of Firestone tires.

I look up, because it’s the only thing to do.  The sky is a monster sky.  Yellow with pimple clouds.  And guess what it rains here?

We run into a monster.  Actually, we walk into the monster.  And we don’t really walk into him, but we come to a slow halt three feet before him.  It’s a monster monster.  Blue and tall and skinny and spiky and playing an accordion and Polka dancing with laser beam eyes and twenty-some hands on twenty-some arms and tank treads for legs and an ice-blaster canon for a tail and a pin pinned through his throat which reads, “Information Monster.”

I say, “Information monster, can you tell me where the age monster resides?”

And the information monster dances a monster dance, which is like a real dance, only he shoots laser beams out of his eyes with each step, and they disappear into the distance.  Seconds later, you can hear a random monster die.  It’s a funny sound.  Like when you roll dice.  Or not.

“Eat cardinal rule,” the information monster says.  But he really mumbles it.  I’m just awesome at deciphering idiot.  But how the hell do you eat a cardinal rule?

The information monster removes some hands from the accordion to pull out a piece of paper.  I catch the writing on the paper before he shoves it into his chainsaw mouth.

I read it out loud.  “There are good men out there, so don’t think you have to throw yourself at the first man that comes along.”

“What ever does it mean?” You asks.

“I think it means this is ridiculous, and you’re to blame because you couldn’t just like Michelle.  She’s gonna get a breast enhancement, dude.  What’s your deal?”

“But I feel it in my heart.  I must open myself to becoming more.  And more might come in.”

The information monster smiles, and his chainsaw teeth grind into each other, and I cringe, and am annoyed.  He says, “Eat ‘nother cardinal rule.”

I’m like, “Tell me where the age monster is, dude.”

He yells, “I wanna eat ‘nother cardinal rule!” and during the yelling, his head explodes into spider webs which get all over us.  Now I’m sticking to myself.  And don’t worry about the information monster’s head, because he has another one that pops right up.

I’m like, “Okay, go for it.”

He does.  This cardinal rule he eats says, “Patience, grasshopper.”

“I’m trying,” I say.

“Let me eat five mo cardinal rules, then I talk to you,” he says.

I just fold my arms and let them stick to my chest.  You is half in a cocoon.

The information monster eats, “Consistency is key to establishing a lifestyle brand”, “Do not wear white even if you are on the white team”, “Never critique other people’s methods for making coffee when you are visiting someone’s household”, “Get to know your fellow carpoolers” and “Cut back on cologne or perfume consumption.”

I’m like, “We good?”

The information monster poops onto the ground.  The poop, which is a monster poop, explodes into a monster butterfly.  It has two gigantic monster wings with murals on each of them.  One has a mural of a choir of monster children singing.  The other has a mural of a taco salad.  Don’t try to make sense of them.  They mean absolutely nothing.  Anyway, the monster butterfly is as colorful as a jar of seventy-two dum-dums.  And the thing does flips as it flies. 

The monster butterfly says, “Follow me if you want to live,” but it sounds like, “FOLLOW ME IF YOU WANT TO LIVE!”

And I’m like, “Dude, STFU!  We’re standing right here.  No need to yell.”  But it doesn’t hear me, because it’s flipping away.

So we jump after it.




Poo Ball Attack

“Tell me you’ll always love me,” says Gloria Riveria Jumbeano Comador Williams, because to be a hardcore lover, you need at least five names.

Juan, a necessary name in grand master loving, leans in over the table, which is outside, and cups his hands around Gloria’s three-inch layered foundation cheeks.  He leans in some more and gets spaghetti sauce all over his full-blown tuxedo.  It is ninety-some degrees outside.  People think he is ridiculous.  His hair is not slicked.  It is soaking wet with sweat.  He did not just go to a water park.  He is soaking wet with sweat.  His water glass is not filled with water.

Juan says, “I will always love you, my dearest.”  He leans in more.  Now he is on the table like he is a surfing amateur.  He looks into Gloria’s reflective goggles because they take up half of her head.  He sees his long, flowing, sweaty, shiny, black, jet black, polished, sparkly, dewy, conditioned, soaped, cologne-filled, steroid-filled, pest-resistant-filled hair.  He says, “I will eat one end of a noodle, and you will eat one end of that same noodle, and we will meet at the lone meatball, and I shall allow you to eat that meatball, not because I’m a vegan, but because I love you so much more than the moon loves to run from the sun.”

Gloria rips off her long flowing ruby red dress because underneath is another dress, but this one is a long flowing black dress.  The idea was to change dresses for when they went to do the tango, but it is too damn hot out.

Juan says, “I love when we match.  Like when we go to reach for the remote, punching each other in the face, but like lovers do, lightly, with sex-appeal, only to find out when one rips the remote away and puts on Lifetime, that we truly do match on every dimension eHarmony said we did.”  He sticks his tongue out.

Gloria reaches for her purse.  She puts a finger up to Juan’s tongue and says, “Hold on, my dear.  I need to floss.”

“But my dear, we only ate spaghetti.  How ever did you get noodles stuck in-between your beautiful teeth?”

Gloria just starts dancing.  She forgets her floss and dances.  This dance is insane.  It incorporates “the snake”, “the tootsie roll”, “the booty pop”, “krumpin”, “the caterpillar” and “the cabbage patch.”

Juan pulls out his pool cleaning pole, which was under the table’s fabric, which was touching the ground, and he extends it to the full twenty feet.  He waves it around in a circle.  He catches Gloria in it.  He didn’t think he’d have to use the pole until later, when he was sent to clean the Robinson’s pool.  Now he has more miles on the pole than he ever wanted.

Gloria is reeled back into her seat.  She says, “Okay, I’m ready now.  Stick out that Juicy Couture tongue, my dear.”

A deer is next to Juan, so he doesn’t know who she’s referring to.  He says, “Who are you referring to?  And where did this deer come from?”

The waiter, a guy, he comes by with a towel draped over his arm, which is holding up a silver platter with a golden egg resting on a heart-shaped pillow, and he says, “The city has been having deer problems.  Stupid deer.”  He spits but not really.  It was just an act.  He’s an actor.  He explained that to the couple already.  Once he hits it big, he won’t be a waiter guy anymore.  And hopefully Juan can clean his future pool.  “They’ve even unionized.  Got the city to put up deer signs and all.”

The deer kicks the waiter in the waiter face, then scurries off like deer do in that hoppity-hopping, zigzagging way.  Once the waiter is on his waiter feet again, with a missing cheek, he says, “Can you believe that’s legal?  It’s in their constitutional rights now.”

Some high-fashion model slaps the waiter in the face, breaking her hand off in the process.  The dude she’s with says, “I told you being in the negative body fat range was dangerous.”  The high-fashion brood drills the dude in the forehead with a toothpick, which is really her other arm, and says to the waiter on the ground again, “I said I wanted the chives cut into the neon-lit Dance Dance Revolution arrows.”  She fixes her torso, which is just boobs.  She says, “I wanted to dance.”

Gloria nods.  She says, “All rich women just want to dance.”

And Juan needs to reel her in again.  He leans in and opens his mouth.  His tongue is running rampant.  He’s saying, “Let me be your pool’s filter.”

And before Gloria can lean over the spaghetti-covered table, a ball of poo the size of a five by seven picture, if it were rounded, and 3-D all around, falls onto Juan’s tongue and splashes into his mouth.

A passerby yells, “What a poophead,” and he is politically correct.

Everyone in the city is laughing, even the deer, who returned to see the carnage.

Juan is standing there, mouth wide open, eyes wide open, arms wide open, and he says, “Do I have poo in my mouth?” but it sounds like, “Goo a poo in butt?”

Everyone is on the ground, throwing up from laughter.

But while everyone in the city has their mouths open, a giant ball of poo, bigger than the city, not bigger than the world, is seconds away from striking!

“Oh…my…God…poo…balls…from…space!” someone yells. 

And like that, like a ship docking, the entire city is covered in pooy-poo-poo-pooy.  And the saddest part is, someone was running a half marathon but got knocked unconscious by a ball of poo.




The Epic Dance

“Nice boots,” the one frogman says, as we’re walking, this way.

I’m like, “Word, and by the way, what’s your name?”

“I’m Longest,” he says and points to his homebro.  “And he’s Close to Longest.”

They show me their tongues, and by show, I mean whip ‘em out, wrap ‘em around two tress and pull ‘em down to the ground.  Leaf crap explodes.  Because we’re in a forest.  Walking back to their spaceship.

“Nice to meet you bras,” I say, but also add, “Nice ship.”

There it is.  Straight ahead.  A lily-pad spaceship.  The legendary lily-pad spaceship.

“Why thank you,” Longest says.

And I’m like, “Dude, that was a joke.  Your ship sucks.”

The lily-pad opens, slightly, ajar-like, and it’s green, the whole thing is, but a giant tongue, pinkish metallic, with warts, because frogs have warts for pores, the tongue springs at me, and zooms at me, and is coming right for me!

In that split second divided by a whole lot of numbers, I’m like, F no, dude, I didn’t mean it!

But the tongue, in a very misleading way, zooms past my face and impales a dude in a brown trench coat and a matching paper bag over his face.  He goes, “Gulp!  Spit!  BARF!” before he falls limp, onto the tongue, and becomes a stuck corpse.

Ninja dude has his sword drawn, so I have to be like, “Ninja, please.  The situation is already contained.”

“But who was that?” he asks.

“Who cares.  He’s dead now.”

“An assassin,” says Longest as he lets some flies roll into his mouth from a bag as if they were Skittles.  One gets in his eye, and his eye eats it.

“They aggress with a melange of veritable, pernicious exemplars,” says Mr. Malediction’s head, which I nail-gunned into his chest because carpentry isn’t my thing.

I’m like, “The dude sucked.  He’s dead.  Awesome assassin.”

“There will be more,” Longest says.

And I’m like, “Not if we get in your ship and get the F back into space.”


Everyone agrees.  We keep walking with the assassin being dragged alongside me.  I kick him a few times in the dead face.  Why doesn’t the tongue recoil as fast as it sprung out?

And then, like nothing, Longest trips over a little bush.  He goes flying.  Like really dramatically.  Arms flailing.  Feet flailing.  Pretending he just got shot in war.  About thirty times.  In slow motion.  All that crap.  Then he falls, and our whole group goes to console him.

And all I hear, in this tiny, bitsy, itty-bitty, cute, pee-wee, midget, teensy-weensy voice is, “Mother HOWDY!” and it comes from that little bush.

And the frog, in all of his faking injuries, jolts upright and does fifteen flips through the air until he lands right next to the bush.

“What’s gonna happen?” someone whispers, but I don’t know who, but I do know they’re right, what IS gonna happen?

Wham!  A bunny rabbit hops out of the bush and lands on Longest’s frog foot.  And this cute, tiny, fluffy, forest-fiend, bean-dipping, happy-howling, nugget-thugging, rooster-moosting rabbit looks five-feet straight up at his adversary and goes, “POOP!”  Poops right on Longest’s frog foot.  It may just look like another wart, but Longest knows.  So does his bro, who is now holding a boombox over his shoulders.  And before anyone can be like, WTF is going on?, the boombox starts blasting some African war chant music.

It goes, “Humdey, do, DA, DA, BOOM, BOOM, your fingers are severed!  And your mother, BOOM, BOOM, is reborn, in a kiwi from the damned!  TA, TA, little boom.  Silence.  Rattles.  Cowbell.  Cereal for YOU!  Cereal for ME!  BOOM, TING, DING, RATTLE, CRASH, POUND, EXCAVATE!  Cereal of drip-dried, pain-filled, goo-goo, goons!”

And that is seriously the music playing before us.  The group has backed off and now Longest is circling the hopping rabbit.

But the hopping rabbit goes, DOO, DOO, DOO!  And now he’s just as big as Longest.  Longest smiles.  French kiss coming?  Someone whispers that.  I’m wondering too.

The music is going, “To the roof, BOOM, BOOM, of caveman’s basement in bungalow sixteen.  DOOM!  DOOM!”

And the rabbit throws a paw.  Longest catches it.  And the rabbit throws another paw, but this one is a paw haymaker.  Longest cannot withstand the blow, to the shoulder.  He wails about and does like ninety twirls.  He tornados to the ground.

Ninja dude does a pretty drawing in the sky of a butterfly with his ninja sword and says, “Longest, what do you want me to do?”

And I push him into a bush and say, “Just protect that bush.”

I turn to Longest, who looks like crushed twigs, and I’m like, “Dude?  WTF?”

“Stay away!” he spits, and by spits, I mean all those unchewed fly particles splash me in the ultra face.

The music is going, “ROMP you!  ROMPY, ROMP!  ROMP me!  Du, dum!  Spoons are melting…your FACE!  BOOM!  BOOM!  Tickle.  Trickle.  Cowbell.  Sizzle.  Silence.”

The rabbit goes rabbit shit and scurries this huge five-hundred-foot tree.  Then he scurries back down, and the music continues, “Thump it out!  Let rubber thumbs enter velvet mustard seeds!  DING!  TINGLE!  EATS YOU!”

Longest it upright again, like someone gave him some of my water.  And he meets the rabbit half-way, to the middle, of where they were, and they connect fists, all four fists, and air blows everywhere, and then nothing happens.

The music ends with, “The end, CLICK.”

And the rabbit and Longest shake hands before hugging and massaging each others furry and slimy backs.

Jump to me being like, “Yo, WTF was that?”

Jump to Longest putting a frog arm around rabbit dude and being like, “This here is the leader of the legendary bunny rabbits, Fluffiest.”

Fluffiest shows me his fluffy tail patch.

I’m like, “That’s gay.”




Jeremy the Lumberjacking, Head-severing, Necklace Maker

“So tell me what happened again?” asks Ham, standing there with Dudemon, both stupefied.

Alien leader is soaked from head to alien toe in blood, hamster hair, a few broken nails, and ice cream.  In his left hand is an invincibility piercing beam gun.  In his right are Ham junior and Dudemon junior’s severed heads.  He tied their hair together so they look like cherries or a pair of nun chucks, but really so they were easier to carry.

Alien leader clears his throat of a hairball and says, “Well, the plan was working…”  He can’t help but stare at a giant ball behind Ham and Dudemon where hundreds of hamsters are pooping into.  “Excuse me, but WTF is going on over there?”  He points right at the poo ball.

“We’re preparing another attack on earth,” Ham says.

“Right.  Okay.  So, the plan, it sucked.  The bunnies were supposed to distract Ultra Strong while we slipped into the ship.  Well, that part went fine, but the frogmen were waiting inside.”

Dudemon gasps, because he knows what comes next.

“Don’t worry, we killed those fools.”

Dudemon goes, “Whew!”

“But your son is still dead.”  Alien leader holds the heads up.

“Oh, right.”

“It was this guy named Jeremy.  He messed everything up.”

Ham does seventy Kung Fu moves.  “Who the F is Jeremy?  And where does he live?”

“Jeremy is just this lumberjack who was jacking lumber in the woods.  He was in a tree at the time.  A real big tree.  And he saw everything that was going on.  Did I mention the tree he was in was right next to the ship we were in?”

“No, don’t think you did,” Ham says.

“Okay, well that’s important, because Jeremy leaped out of the tree and landed on our ship’s lily-pad wing thingy.”

“Mother spray-painter!” Ham yells, pulling out his license to kill.  He pumps it several times and says, “I’ll use it!”

“Okay, calm down and let me finish.  So Jeremy, with his axe, which is a battle axe and totally illegal for lumberjacking, he uses the battle axe to slice off one of our wings.”

“Huh?”  Dudemon scratches his left kneecap.  “The ship you came back in didn’t have any damage done to it.”

“Let me finish.  So after he hacks off one of the wings, Jeremy leaps inside and puts the blade of the battle axe, which is huge, right up to all of our throats.  He said something like, ‘I’m Jeremy, and I’m trying to make a necklace.’  But get this, our ship was crashing because it didn’t have a wing, so we’re going down and all, and I’m like, ‘Jeremy, we’re all going to die because you cut off one of the wings!’  And he’s like, ‘Darn!  I didn’t mean to!  I just wanted to see what was going on in here, and ask if you guys had any beads for my necklace.’”

“This Jeremy, he seems like a nice guy,” Dudemon says, tickling Ham in the armpit, because that’s how hamsters get each other’s attention.

Ham goes, “Yeah, he really does seem nice.  Like he made a mistake and was willing to own up to it.  I admire that.”

“Great,” Alien leader says.  “So we’re crashing and all, and Jeremy, like the lumberjack he is, hurries to pump out a wing made of wood.  After he nails it together, we’re back in the air.”

“How intense,” Dudemon says.

“I know!  But then Jeremy severed your son’s heads in one swing and vanished with them, because really, all he wanted was to make a hamster head necklace.  I barely managed to escape the war on the ground.  I don’t even know who won.”

Ham is running inside a disco ball.  He goes, “So, if Jeremy took our son’s heads, then why are you holding them?”

Dudemon is doing the limbo.  He goes, “And why doesn’t the ship you brought back have a wooden wing?”

Alien leader smiles, and grins, and simpers, and expresses friendliness, and sniggers and teehees.  He says, “Let me finish.  So I’m flying back to space, and before I reach the…ultradonistegiansphere, my ship gets struck by…an air balloon!  And before I know it, I’m plummeting back to earth.  It took five minutes of falling until I crashed into the ground.  But somehow, whether it was the position I was in, or the fact that I used the ejection button at the last possible second, I managed to survive.  And as I floated toward the ground, because I was wearing a parachute, I found Jeremy running away with your son’s severed heads, and I said to myself, ‘Alien leader, you need to get those heads back now so they can be returned to their fathers!’  Luckily, Jeremy threw his battle axe at me, and I caught it.  So I used the axe to hack down a tree which landed in front of Jeremy, causing him to trip.  I hacked down another tree, and this time, it came down on him, killing him instantly.  Once I landed, I retrieved your son’s severed heads, with honor by the way, and made my way to the second, untouched lily-pad spaceship.  And now here I am, with two severed heads, one invincibility piercing beam gun, and no shoe.”

Ham and Dudemon are standing there, side by side now, holding each other’s caps, and tearing up in the process.  They both go, “Whoa.  You’re a semi-hero.”

“Thank you.”  Alien leader takes a curtsey before he blows Ham and Dudemon’s heads off with the invincibility piercing beam gun.




Gifted Child

My rich dad is such a thug!  He said, “Listen, son, about your request for 2.5 million dollars for your Super Sweet 16 birthday party…”

And I’m like, “Tell me, dawg.”

“It’s been declined.”

And I went apeshit, you know?  How dare he!  I traded his Porsche for a sticker that said “Massive Heart Attack Survivor” and I crossed out the “Heart Attack Survivor” and wrote in pen “Loser” so it said “Massive Loser.”  Eat that.  Then I terminated all these contracts for his record label.  And I smacked my moms across the face.

He came back with a 2.2 mill offer, but my lawyer was like, “Dude, WTF?  Why you being such a homes?”  Then he went, “And by the way, here’s a book filled with how we’ll beat yo ass in court.”  He literally threw the book at my dad, and it was totally legal and all.

Needless to say, my thug dad caved and gave me my freaking 2.5 mill.  That doesn’t include the price of my custom exotic sports car present.  I get that for being rich.

So here I am, Jasper Jackson, but all the poor people have to call me Lil Heart-throbbing Genius/Rap Mogul of the Future, and yeah, they have to say the entire thing or else my lawyer bitch-slaps them with an awesome lawsuit.

I took a life flight helicopter here, not because I couldn’t get a stealth bomber, but because I can.  You see, some scrub needed the chopper to live, so to prove even in a life or death situation that I’m a billion more times important, I took it.  Ask my lawyer.  Now.

Dad said, “Why don’t we have a team of scientists resurrect a T-rex for your music video which will play at your party?”

I seriously smacked my moms across the face when he said that.  Then my lawyer put in a request for my dad to serve a year in the pen.  In court, we struck up a deal.

And now I’m sitting in the Ultra Beast’s mouth, pretending I slayed the shit out of him.  Holding his razor lame jaw open, because I’m massively strong, not a massive loser.

My rap song blasts in the background.  It goes, “Oh yeah, pump yo pelvis!”

And I pump my pelvis like five times, because five means you’re pimp.  And every time my song comes on the airwaves, which is a lot, and I hear myself throwing out commands, I’m so damn important, I gotta do whatever I say.  This one time I was getting a pedicure and my song said, “Kick a poor bitch right in the face, then have her fired,” so I did.  Then I burned the store down, just because.  Then my lawyer handled things.

Right now, Little John yells, “PUMP!  PUMP!  PUMP!”

He’s okay at singing one word in every song.  I won’t sue him for nothing yet.

The chain I gots around my neck is as thick as a thick scarf, but it’s made of all the platinum teeth from poor rappers I sued because they didn’t deserve ‘em.

My song goes, “My pelvis makes yo BEEP, BEEP broccoli BEEP, BEEP, BEEP, BEEP, BEEP in yo library of BEEP, BEEP, BEEP ask my lawyer!”

Little John goes, “ASK!  ASK!  ASK!”

The director, some douche who’s lucky I’m letting him film my music video for free, goes, “Breath fire!”

And I’m like, “Stop the music!” and it stops, because when I talk, every MF’er listens.

I step out of the mouth and do an intimidating pound shuffle over to the director.  I let him sweat and pee his pants for three minutes before I smack him across the face with a baseball bat my lawyer handed to me.

As he’s bleeding on the ground, I go, “Yo!  You just told me to do something, bitch!  What’d my lawyer tell you about that?  How about the agreement you signed?  I could kill you now and take all your crappy stuff and not go to jail.  Want me to do that?”

The douche is twitching.

I beat him in the head and say, “Twitch again!  I dare ya!”

“No, sir!  I won’t, I promise,” he says.  “I’m so sorry.  It would be my pleasure to re-ask you that horribly phrased question in the most esteemed way.”

“Then do it!”

“Sir, would you like to breath fire now?  And by the way, your baseball bat is the best baseball bat I’ve ever seen.”

I’m like, “I don’t say thanks to no one, but if I did, I’d send one your way.  The reason I don’t do thanks is because I got nothing to be thankful for.  Everyone in this world has to be thankful for me.  Ask my lawyer.  He’ll tell you the law.”

But WTF ever.  I hop back inside the Ultra Beast’s mouth, and I’m like, “Get some poor people up here to pry this thing’s eyes open so it looks more real.”

And like forty people rush to help, just because they know my needs are more important than theirs.

Once the eyes are open, my song gets back to blasting.  I hear myself sing, “I have a weightlifter friend who lifts weights, and then I have his muscles surgically removed and put onto me, because I’m as ripped as a BEEP, BEEP, BEEP drawing of a BEEP, BEEP, BEEP ripped guy!”

There’s a sea of losers here.  Most call ‘em fans.  I call ‘em lucky.  Lucky I don’t have the snipers shoot ‘em for not buying my tee-shirts.

“It be a rainin’ on dees luckies!” my song says, and like that, an overhead blimp releases like five-hundred grand.  People are eating each other for the monies.  I’m pumping my pelvis.

The director is strapped to a gurney when he says, “Could you, oh awesome lord of the world, please shoot fire from your mouth?”

And I’m like, “Yeaaaaaaaaaaaaah,” and this invisible device rigged to my face blows fire, and it looks like I’m a MF’n dragon!  I blow so much fire, that people are going up in smoke.  F ‘em, ya know?  My lawyer agrees.

As I’m slaying the luckies, some hoe comes up with like twenty bouncers and goes, “Yo, Jasper!  It’s my turn!”  That’s Jasmine Capri Johansson Richbastards.  She’s like the second richest kid in the world.  I’m the first.  Ask my lawyer.

“Jasper!  I wanna get my professional, professional, pro pictures taken, and you’re hogging the Ultra Thing.”

“It’s Ultra Beast, you whack white bitch!”  I scream that because I can.  I got my lawyer on my side.  And Jesse Jackson.  So if anyone says I’m being racist, JJ will just play the race card, and I’ll win.

Did I mention all the kids who are gonna be in the upcoming MTV shows are here.  They all wanna get pictures or videos of them next to the Ultra Beast, because it’s like getting your picture or video taken next to dead Hitler, or the 2004 Tsunami, or the Vietnam War.  It shows class.  And how rich we is.

I have my lawyer hogtie Jasmine.  He also serves her with a restraining order.  And takes her Lakers tickets.  So now I’m going to a Lakers game.

My song goes, “Be a pimp!  Show some hungries your status!”

My lawyer pulls an Ethiopian out of his pocket and tosses him at my sneakers.  A big wagon of food is next to me.  The Ethiopian is drooling a river and saying, “Please!  I hungry!”

And I’m like, “Watch this!”

And I breath fire all over the wagon!  And the food goes up in smoke.  Too funny.

And seriously, the most annoying bitches be these 16 and Pregnant chicks.  They’re all like, “Get F’n done, Jasper!  My future baby needs this picture or else I’m selling ‘em.”

Funny idiots.  They aren’t even preggers yet.  MTV just picks some random dead-beat moms and then pairs ‘em up with some stranger and then makes ‘em do it to get preggers.  Then they start filming.

My lawyer pulls out a flamethrower and warns the crowd.  He says, “Look on page 309, paragraph 18.  It clearly states Jasper is better than you.  It passed through both the House and the Senate.”

Now I’m being filmed behind the Ultra Beast, pretend-doing him beast-style.  Fireworks are being set off overhead.  They explode and turn into awesome pictures of me riding a whale, pushing over a skyscraper and draining Lake Michigan.

My song goes, “Get space exploration shit done so I can go to a different planet and conquer its ass!  I’ll ride the Ultra Beast there so I can enslave all the alien idiots!”

And I ride the Ultra Beast.  It’s too funny.  I am so great.

I nickel-whip some lucky in the face with a roll of nickels.  I have a bunch of people arrested for doing nothing, because I can.  I slap my moms in the face until monies pour out of my thug dad’s pockets.  I have this Breakface dude shaving my nine straggly chin hairs off by plucking them out with his teeth.  I love demeaning people who think they’re important.

My song goes, “God, you should be praying to me and saying how thankful you are I got created so perfect!”

Little John goes, “PERFECT!  PERFECT!  PERFECT!”

And all the sudden, some MF’er is all up in my grill.  Some grade-school foo.  I’m like, “Get yo young, poor person ass outta here.  And by outta here, I mean the country, because I own most of it.”

And he’s like, “Want me to kill you?”

And I’m like, “Lawyer!”  I snap my fingers like I won the world snapping championship tournament of 2006.  “Have this grade-schooler extradited to New Jersey.”

My lawyer hands him a stack of papers.  The top page says, “Report to New Jersey tomorrow.”

And the kid pulls out a bag of Cheetos and nods at them.

I’m like, “They’re my Cheetos now.  So hand them over.”

And he smiles.  He goes, “All right.”  He opens the bag and throws it at me.

I call, “Assault!”

And my lawyer hands him a fine for too much monies.  But get this, the lucky is standing there laughing his grade-school ass off.

I’m like, “Yo, foo, what’s so funny?”

And he’s like, “The name’s Denny.  Denny the badass.”

And before I can say anything, seagulls!  Seagulls are all around me!  I’m like, “GTFO bird idiots!  Lawyer!  Deal with ‘em!  Hurry!”

And my lawyer serves them all papers.  All three-thousand seagulls.  That’s how fast my lawyer is.

But they don’t listen.

I scream, “You bird bastards have to listen!  I own all the animals of the world!”

Denny here.  Jasper is dead!  Mark another one up for the Cheeto Serial Killer or CSK.  I love lifting weights.  And killing.

After I killed John, with a machine gun, cops got me.  But I was released.  Because ten-year-olds don’t kill.  Usually.  And my mom threw a fit.  And kissed the guard.

There are like millions of people here.  To see the Ultra Thing.  They are all partying hard because I killed Jasper and his lawyer and all of the other MTV kids.  I came with my knapsack filled with Cheeto bags.  The twenty-five cent bags.  And I worked my way down the line.

They say, technically, I’m not killing people, the seagulls are.

I remember my first victim.  You’s step-mom.  I tried to hook up with her, but she was too busy practicing rollerblading, so BAM!  I Cheeto-whipped her until she was covered in Cheeto cheese, and then the seagulls ate her in the air as she tried to perform the ultimate rollerblading move.  Denny doesn’t do no.


All of the sudden, millions of people are running away.  Then it happens.  The Ultra Thing is alive and standing and trying to fight off three-thousand seagulls!

I didn’t want it to come down to this, but with my seagulls almost certainly going to get killed, I take off toward the Mech Robot I stole last week.

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