Emmie's 10 Top Goofball Gore Fests

We all know it. There's serious horror. Then there's schlock. Schlock as I see it is gore meets comedy meets some subliminal sex/let's get laid kind of vibe. This is a list of my 10 favorite (in no particular order) "films" to play at parties for the sheer WTF factor.


House of 1000 Corpses--Rob Zombie's magnum opus that introduced us to the redneck charm of Captain Spaulding.

Nosferatu--I mean the old one, the version Florence Stoker tried to stop for copyright infringement. It's a good one, and I dare you not to do your own Count Orlock impressions.

Plan 9 from Outer Space--The worst film ever made by the worst director in history? Ed Wood gets a rough treatment from critics, but there's no way we can watch this and not get a good laugh.

Dead Alive--Once held to be THE goriest movie ever, this was directed by Peter Jackson before he went all Middle Earth. You won't want any soup for a while.

Q--That's short for Quetzalcoatl, the Aztec serpent deity who is alive and well and snatching big-boobed chicks off of rooftops in Manhattan.

Wizard of Gore--This often serves as the training film for people deadly serious about joining the ranks of the Horror Army. It's not the graphics that power the film, it's the sheer ambition.

Terror Toons--The object lesson as to why we need to make sure our mail isn't coming from Satan.

Brainscan--When does virtual reality become reality? I've been for the actual game to be available for years now. No luck. ;)

Satan's Cheerleaders--You probably already have figured this one out. Yvonne DeCarlo (Lily Munster) is an evil priestess and well worth watching.

Killer Klownz from Outer Space--This may be the best cashing in on the prevalent fear of clowns I've ever seen.

NOT A FILM, BUT WORTH WATCHING
Todd and the Book of Pure Evil--This is a Canadian gore, adventure, and humor fest that ran for two seasons before getting cancelled. Don't miss it!

Scarriemonster's "Ancient" History

I've been at this online thing long enough to have chronicled a good part of my adult life.  In this case, I apparently have a Live Journal that goes waaaaaaay back to 2001.  Shit disturbing is putting it mildly.  Anyway, in the interest of full disclosure, I present the time warp link.

15 Years of Digital Alchemy

Delicious and Disturbing

DELICIOUS AND DISTURBING

Welcome to the Mouseloaf Cabal, an Erisian Discordian Disorganization. As has been said, are we an elaborate scam disguised as a religion, or a religion disguised as an elaborate scam?

Who's Eris? Who's Discordia? And what can you do with them?

What the hell is Mouseloaf?

Who are you people and how did you get into this mess?

Is Mouseloaf anything like meatloaf?

Where can I find a cabal for meatloaf?

Are you threatening to eat me?

What's this going to cost me?

There's a chance you will find the answers to all your questions...then again, maybe you'd prefer to guess. It's all good.

Never fear, there's probably more stuff on the way, but we'd be untrue to our nature if we had any idea what that stuff will be or when that stuff will appear.

A BRIEF HISTORY OF MOUSELOAF

How does a successful, self-made businessman like Uncle Louie get started? According to Louie, it all starts with having a dream.

"My papa, he says to me," quoth Louie, "'Hey, Louie, you want you should know something? No one ever went hungry eating rodents.' So that was the point when I thought, 'I must make rodents tasty and convenient, so that every mouth on the planet might be fed mousey goodness."

And thus was MOUSELOAF born.

"There are companies out there who try and pass off processed Mouseloaf as the genuine article, but it just ain't so," Louie points out. "Those Slice O' Mice fiends, for instance. But they're missing the most essential point; Mouseloaf is best made at home, with freshy caught mice. There is simply no alternative to that homemade goodness which is worthwhile."

The Mouseloaf Corporation, therefore, does not produce Mouseloaves. Rather, Uncle Louie is responsible for the following, world-famous recipe, which has started what Spank magazine has called the "Mouseloaf Kulture".

Recipe For Mouseloaf

Catch yourself one hundred mice. Put one aside for aesthetics.

Bathe remaining ninety-nine mice in depilatory cream. This step can be omitted if you like fur in your Mouseloaf.

Throw micies into meat grinder.

Add spices of your choosing (Uncle Louis reccomends a Szechuan Mouseloaf, with ginger, or even a Cajun Mouseloaf, with file powder, cayenne and thyme. Standard American Mouseloaf generally includes pepper, nutmeg and cinnamon).

Take mouse meat and mold it into THE ORIGINAL MOUSELOAF PAN (see information and ordering instructions at the bottom).

Take the mouse you reserved in step one and insert it headfirst into the end of the loaf, so that its hind quarters and tail are sticking out of the loaf. THE ORIGINAL MOUSELOAF PAN is constructed to allow you to do this easily.

Bake.

Eat.

THE ORIGINAL MOUSELOAF PAN

A special cyber-offer from Uncle Louie

According to Uncle Louie, "Unless you manage to fit in that extra mouse at the end, it just isn't a Mouseloaf."

Realizing that conventional cookware just wasn't suiting his needs, Uncle Louie wandered out into his garage and invented THE ORIGINAL MOUSELOAF PAN. This special pan, with a hinged panel designed to accomodate the decorative hundreth mouse, is fully responsible for Mouseloaf being the highly valued aesthetic masterpiece it is today.

Now YOU, TOO can own a complete set of Mouseloaf cookware, to suit all your Mouseloaf needs. For the coronary-causing low, low, low (cheap is the point we're trying to get across here) price of $19.99, you will receive five Mouseloaf pans, ranging from the three-gallon loaf to the mini-loaf for cocktail parties.

Mouseloaf...anything else is just food.

THE DOW OF MOUSELOAF

In which Queen Pepsishark IX and the Magnificent Gookoo encounter the goddess Eris, lately also called Discordia, and learn that in a universe of milk and chaos, only Mouseloaf remains true…

Pepsishark once thought that if there were an operative principle in the universe, it would be milk. Gookoo thought Pepsishark was a little eccentric, but then again she didn’t have any better ideas. Since Gookoo believed that people who didn’t have any better ideas should just shut up, that’s what she did.

Mouseloaf is perhaps the most remarkable substance known to humanity and in the universe itself. Being a food, a building material, a toy, a cultural rallying point, a political pawn, and an engineering phenomenon, Mouseloaf is an astounding success, considering its origins as a use for dead mousies. Mouseloaf—or what has been called Mausloaf Kultur—began in the Paramus, NJ kitchen of a man known only as Unca Louie. His idea for the something that could be anything has conquered the world. Two competitors, Slice O’ Mice and Mooseloaf, have tried to capitalize on Mouseloaf mania but failed so miserably that the Society of Suicidal Lemmings was formed from dismissed employees.

As far as Pepsishark and Gookoo knew, Unca Louie bumped into Eris just before putting Mouseloaf onto those first few lucky shelves. Eris showed Louie Chaos and the Holy Chao, and in seeing Chaos and the Holy Chao, Louie figured there would pretty much be room in the universe for anything, including loaves of mice. Eris was much pleased with Mouseloaf and granted Unca Louie a stick of cinnamon gum and the title Swell Pepsishark I.

Now Pepsishark IX was Unca Louie’s direct descendant in the Mouseloaf Empire. What happened to Pepsishark II through VIII is either unknown or unimportant. At her side went the faithful Magnificent Gookoo.

“I lament,” Gookoo said.

“You lament what, exactly?” replied Pepsishark.

“I lament that in a universe swimming in Chaos, order seems irrelevant.”

“Irrelevant?” Pepsishark tweaked Gookoo’s nose. “Don’t be a silly. Order is a defining instrument of Chaos. Order is what makes Chaos. Without order, Chaos would be nothing but Mouseloaf.”

“Mouseloaf?”

“A loaf of mouse.”

“Oh.”

Pepsishark and Gookoo jumped the fence and played a round of mini golf in the snow. It was an exercise in futility. After all, as it was Winter, the golf course was technically closed. No one was around to care if Pepsishark and Gookoo just dropped their golf balls into the holes and attain terrific scores. There was no one to reward their great talent with goldfish or stuffed dogs drinking beer.

Then in the parking lot, they happened upon an apple fashioned of gold. Let us point out that this is not a regular occurrence in our corner of the universe. Anyway, on the apple were the words “For the fairest”.

“That wouldn’t be me,” Gookoo said.

“Me neither. So what do we do with it?”

“Dunno.” Gookoo kicked at a patch of ice. “Sell it?”

“It’s probably just gold-plated,” Pepsishark said.

“You have a remarkable talent for spotting the valueless.” Gookoo took a step towards the apple oddity. “I like Red Delicious myself.”

Here ends the Dow of Mouseloaf as it has been revealed thus far. You could go back to the beginning and read it again, since beginning and ending are arbitrary anyway.

Return of the Corvids

I'm the angel who plucked too many feathers out of her stupidly designed unaerodynamic wings due to a nervous habit and plummeted to earth.

And I'm the daemon who drank so much root beer and managed to giggle myself right up out of hell.

Today, we're your friendly neighborhood corvids...

RavenBlood and RavenBran!

But since neither heaven nor hell, nor angels nor daemons exist...

We don't actually exist either.

So you might want to take what we say with a grain of salt.

Welcome to this, our Statement of Porpoise. Raven, do they have porpoises at Sea World?

Uhhh...dunno Raven. Never gotten to feel around the dolphin tank to see for myself. I never saw the porpoise.

Oh. Well, anyway, instead of posting some lame crapman piece of bureaucratic bullcookies explaining why we are, we figured we'd do it this way. It's kind of like talking to us.

Except you don't get to ask us any annoying questions.

But we'll try and be helpful anyway. Raven, I'll let you handle this one. We're the Osceola Corvids. But I bet the folks are asking, what in Sam Hill is a corvid?

When did I become an orinthologist?

Raven bonks Raven on the head with a spherical cow and threatens to withdraw all sexual favors.

Okay, I give. Raven doesn't play fair. Anyway, porpoises are NOT corvids, so let's get that out of the way first. "Corvid" is a cutesy way of referring to the Corvidae family of birds. It's a big'un, too. But in the Osceola Corvids, we're principally concerned with two birds, the crow and the raven.

Why? Well, mostly because we feel a kind of affinity for these black birds. In the traditions of many cultures, these are creatures of magic, mysticism, and wisdom. Keep in mind that none of us think we're ACTUALLY the birds we favor--although having wings wouldn't be bad.

The subject, Raven.

Well tell me you wouldn't like to be able to fly?

At any rate, the Osceola Corvids are a bunch of creative and fun people who happen to identify with ravens and crows. Usually, a member will take a name for use among the murder (that's our equivalent of "flock") or for when acting as a member. You'll notice that we here are calling ourselves RavenBlood and RavenBran, and you probably deduced that these aren't our legal names. Uh, I hope you did.

Essentially we're all about friends getting together to be creative, express ourselves, and have a good time. Late night gatherings at various Denny's--
--they haven't tossed us out yet, and I applaud them for their tolerance--

--are a typical and frequent event. We're not hard to spot. We'll be the laughing crowd hidden in the back dressed, of course, in black.

The Eric Draven fashion is always popular--you know, the hero from the film, "The Crow" or the hero from the original graphic novel by James O'Barr? Of course no one thinks they ARE Draven, but it's fun to see what Crow statements people devise. The face paint is always popular, and many dress right down to PVC and electrical tape. Others wear their old but loved Crow t-shirts.

Even these two Ravens become Crows. It's not all make-up and costuming, though. We have people show up just as they are in everyday life, and that's fine too. Anything goes--but don't push us, because we do take that literally.
She's not kidding.

We also gather at The Nest, which is our own home. You'd be surprised. Very often we get into reading and/or philosophical discussions. Of course, we also get silly. A favorite activity is watching horror films or even "The Crow" for the millionth time, reciting along with the movie.

So who can become a Corvid? Well, usually we ask an interested person to hang with us and see if they feel at home with us. Interest is really the only requirement, although I prefer if new folks have a good sense of humor. There's no alcohol served at any Corvid function, but I still prefer members to be over the age of eighteen. Frankly, we may get into discussions of things or watch things deemed unsuitable for younger people, and we'd prefer not to get into a sticky entanglement with angry parents.

You understand.

I'm sure.


Pearls of Wisdom

"Well, DUH!"
"It's exactly the same, except almost completely different."
"This is a no-Zen zone for the next fifteen minutes."
"I'm king/queen of my cube!"
"NOT"
"Pro-Fucking-Choice!"
"Happiness is where you are, not where you'd like to be."
"AMAZON!"
"We need more people like us and fewer like them."
"If space and time are curved, then where do straight people come from?"
"Self-respect before respectability."
"We've been too nice for too long."
"That's not Spam, that's my husband."
"Silence is not protection."
"Oh, EVOLVE!"
"I love everybody and you're next."
"Unique, just like everybody else."
"Control your destiny or someone else will."
"Don't follow me, I'm following my bliss."
"Don't piss me off. I'm running out of places to hide the bodies."
"Don't start with me. You will not win."
"Eat right, exercise, die anyway."
"Your village called. The idiot is missing."
"Bubble wrap is cheaper than therapy."
"VEGETARIAN = Lousy hunter"
"So what about the speed of dark?"
"If at first you don't succeed, skydiving is not for you."

Solving School Violence

Do you know what can stop school violence? Polar bears!

I'm not entirely kidding. They need a new habitat and our schools need better guarding. Let's bring in polar bears that are released into empty halls during classes. The schools would have to be kept really cold, so that might take some of the fight out of the blighters. Then if kids are skipping or causing trouble, let them take it up with a hungry polar bear.

After all, polar bears don't know class distinction. They don't care about race or gender. It comes down to hungry or not hungry. How many kids would have to be eaten before the school population got the message to stay in class. One? Possibly two?

The way things are going in Ackerland, is this really any more ridiculous than what's already going on? Bring on the polar bears!

Late Night With Henry Tudor

A little background...I submitted the following to a Tudor parody contest in 2012.  Hence, it's a parody of Tudor England.  If that doesn't really explain anything just do a quick search.

The following is the transcript of a broadcast from March, 1539.

Accompanied by raucous applause, the lute and tambour band break into “I’m Henry the Eighth, I Am” while the camera pans out over a live audience of peasants, cattle, ducks, and armed soldiers.

WILL SOMERS: Live from the Adulation Hall at Greenwich, it’s Late Night With Henry Tudor!  We’re featuring the music of Ned Sackbutt and the Poxy Seven.  Everybody in the crowd!  Get to your feet and sing for your king!

The crowd, both two-footed and four-footed, jump up and sing along with Sackbutt:

I'm Henry the Eighth, I am,
Henry the Eighth I am, I am!
I got married to the widow next door,
She'd been married seven times before.
And every one was an Henry
It wouldn't be a Willie or a Sam
I'm her eighth old man named Henry
Henery the Eighth, I am!

WILL SOMERS: And now…the star of our show!  The guy on the coins…the man God calls for help and advice… that jolly fellow who can feast you today and eviscerate you tomorrow…give it up for your sovereign lord, Henry the Eighth!

Wearing a bold red tunic encrusted with gold and jewels and white hose that would have looked much better on younger legs, Henry sprints onto center stage, the cries and applause of the crowd carrying him to the bonfire-powered spotlight.  Inspired by the soldiers bearing pikes who stand at each end of every row, the crowd continues to cheer for the king.  Henry blows kisses, randomly points at people in the audience, and wallows in the orchestrated merriment.  This goes on for a full ten minutes before Henry decides he is bored.  

A curt wave of the arm advises the crowd to settle down and the band to stop playing.

HENRY: Let’s hear it for Ned and his boys!

The crowd applauds once more.  Ned Sackbutt turns around and waves his lute in the air.

HENRY:  I’m God’s anointed representative on earth, and this is my show.  Welcome!

Applause.

HENRY: Well folks, I’m afraid it’s finally happened. (pause) I have been importuned to marry for a fourth time.  Again.  Yeah, I’m not so wild about it myself, which normally would mean a few executions.

The audience laughs.

HENRY: Apparently my counselors don’t have the same degree of faith in me that I have.  One son just isn’t enough.  I need at least one more son, which means taking one more wife.
God’s troth, I will admit it.  My track record and my Parliament have two things in common.  They both stink and neither is my fault.  Look at my situation here.  I have three kids.  One kid hates me, one kid will hate me when she’s old enough to understand, and the third kid is more like a fat dressed capon in royal swaddling.  So all right, I need another son.  But clearly I’m more likely to become a hermit with Francois of France!

Yet again, the audience laughs.  Everyone knows Henry would tap dance in hell before going anywhere with Francois.

HENRY: The bad thing is that getting another legitimate child means surrendering myself to the bonds of marriage, and I don’t mean the fun kind.  Marriage has swived me like a poxy Scot too.  My first wife slept with my late but lamentable older brother, and by that she was never really my wife at all.  My second wife, well, you heard the tabloids.  She was a succubus, an incestuous witch woman who was no less a threat to my kingdom than a united Holy Roman Empire.  Hey, I’ve always been the premier knight in all of England, and so I slew that dragon.  My third wife, God assoil her, was an amenable and pleasant lump of suet pudding, which was exactly the diet I needed.  I lost her, but I did gain a son.
So here I am, going bride shopping.

Henry turns towards Will Somers.

HENRY: What think you of the matter, Will?  You always have a clever riposte.

WILL: Sire, it seems to me a better thing to burn rather than marry!

All action pauses as the audience laughs, driving home that the remark is witty.

HENRY: All hellish matrimony aside, I have a great show for you tonight.  We’re going to be playing everyone’s favorite game, Treason or Not Treason.

More cheers from the audience

HENRY: After all, folks, what is treason?

AUDIENCE: Whatever you say it is, Henry!

HENRY: Damn straight.  We’ll get into the game in a few moments.  First we’ll have some messages from Tudor-certified businesses that have paid an obscene amount into the royal coffers.  And I just can never say no to money.  Here’s Ned Sackbutt to take us to our first break.  Hit it, guys!

Henry the Eighth I Am, Reprise

ANNOUNCER 1: Enjoy all the eel you can eat for a steal of a deal!  Bring the whole family on down to Pieworthy’s, which has been serving up the best eel in the London area for three centuries.  And now we’re outdoing ourselves with our all you can eat eel buffet during Eel Fest.  Smoked eel, fresh eel, eel and chips, eel in cream sauce, broiled eel, eel pie, eel nuggets, eel pudding, eel stuffed eel, dried eel, and many other eel dishes are available on the buffet.  Remember that it’s nothing but eel for a steal at Pieworthy’s!

ANNOUNCER 2: Like dresses?  Like meat?  Come to the shop that brings both together—Sally’s Sleeves and Beeves!  Give any garment a fashionable overhaul while munching on a fine boiled beef.  Not hungry?  All of Sally’s meats are available in convenient take-out packages—your family will adore you for it.  At Sally’s Sleeves and Beeves, we know what really matters!

ANNOUNCER 1: You stink!  You know it.  Maybe you can’t tell your own stench from the smells of the people around you, but it’s there.  Stop smelling like an aging corpse and get on over to It Makes Scents, London’s own heaven for the nostrils.  Smell great!  We offer pomanders for people from every walk of life, from a studded orange to a gold sphere holding special oils.  We also distill essential oils from fresh herbs and flowers.  Visit It Makes Scents today for a better smelling future!

As the band continues to play, we see King Henry sitting behind a desk and holding a turkey leg.  He looks up and smiles.

HENRY: So Will…

WILL: So Your Majesty…

HENRY: Methinks it would be meet to go right to tonight’s main entertainment.  It’s time for—

AUDIENCE: Treason or Not Treason!

HENRY: Ah, Treason or not Treason. (pauses to take a hefty bite out of the turkey leg) And once again, good folks of my audience, what is treason?

AUDIENCE: Whatever you say it is, Harry!

HENRY: Indeed. (drops the turkey leg on the floor) Ho, Will!  Have we got a villainous trio of potential traitors tonight?

WILL: They look like real scum, Your Majesty—the wasted tears of cursed mothers!

HENRY: Some business before we begin. (Henry leans over to pick up a trencher bowl and starts to chew on one of a number of small birds in the trencher.  He eats for a while and then, remembering the audience, he puts the trencher down in front of him.)  Your sovereign lord is being fed tonight by Kensington Fried Quail.  A secret blend of three herbs and spices!  Freshly-killed quail!  These are some damn good birds, ladies and gentlemen.  Run out after the show and pick up a trencher of Kentucky Fried Quail!  That’s law!

Thomas Timely and the Tower Torturers wheel out three battered and filthy prisoners.  Each prisoner is chained to his own wooden backboard which is styled to resemble the rack.  All three squint in the candlelight of the stage.  The man on the far right manages to mouth “Hi mom!”

HENRY: Thomas Timely, how are you sir?

THOMAS: I’m well, Your Majesty.  But as you know, what happens in the Tower stays in the Tower!

Everyone bursts into patronizing laughter.

HENRY: I like that.  I may take it as my new motto.  But let’s start with Wretch #1.  Thomas, please tell us the charge leveled at our fettered fiend here.

THOMAS: Your Majesty, this is Arkel Slopsmith.  He is accused of saying, and I quote, “I like sheep.”

A unified gasp issues from the audience.  Henry turns to the shocked audience. 

HENRY:  Ladies and gentlemen, what is treason?

AUDIENCE: Whatever you say it is, Harry!

HENRY: Darn tootin’.  So let’s think on this cryptic utterance.  “I like sheep.”  Sheep are fundamentally opposed to everything royal, which makes sheep my own enemy.  Sheep are weak.  Sheep only follow.  Sheep give us wool, but I’d gladly trade my wool codpiece for a good slab of mutton.  I find that sheep are shifty, dishonest, deceptive, manipulative, and untrustworthy.  Therefore, when Arkel Slopsmith declared his admiration for sheep, he was also indicating his approval of these traits while implying his disapproval of me.  Treason or not treason?  I declare this to be treason!

A roar of applause rises from the audience.  Ned Sackbutt leads his band into the Late Night standard “Condemned for Treason.”

WILL: Arkle Slopsmith, thank you for playing Treason or Not Treason!  You’ve won a one-way trip to exciting Tyburn and an appearance in the mass executions of Tyburn Tuesdays!

Slopsmith is left to his sorrows while the onstage focus shifts.

THOMAS: Your Majesty, have a look at Wretch #2.  Grover Stinkinbishop is an apprentice in a Thames barge transportation company.  He is said to have stated, and I quote, “The Thames used to be cleaner.”

Henry shakes his head, clucking in distaste.

HENRY: You foul knave, you did not even bother to conceal your contempt for your sovereign.  You have dared to suggest that what has come before me was somehow better than the conditions of my England.  I have dirtied God’s own water of the Thames as surely as I have polluted the spiritual streams of my beloved England.  We’ll continue after these messages.  Watch them.

ANNOUNCER 1:  Have you paid good coin to be bled or leeched?  Was the treatment worse than the ailment?  Did the treatment cause pain, blood loss, demonic possession, allergic reactions, or loss of limbs?  Are you buried in debt and looking at a long stint in debtor’s prison?  Stop wasting your time and hire me!  I’m Will Bill, master of law, and I’ve been fighting for people like you for almost a full year.  Together we can bring quack physics and soiled surgeons to their knees.  Don’t delay!  Send a messenger today!  And remember I get paid whether we win or not.

ANNOUNCER 2: Now let’s hear about a tasty new snack!

It’s a banquet!  It’s a munch it!

Try Blackmanger in a Biscuit!

You can pop it!  You can chew it!

It’s Blackmanger in a Biscuit!

Get the taste of that special treat

Why steal bread when you could eat

Blackmanger in a Biscuit?

New Blackmanger in a biscuit is available at your nearest Hal8 convenience market!

HENRY: We are back with the loathsome Grover Stinkinbishop and I am about to declare my conviction.  Treason or not treason?  I declare this to be treason!

Again a roar of applause rises from the audience, and Ned Sackbutt leads his band again into “Condemned for Treason.”

WILL: Grover Stinkinbishop, thank you for playing Treason or Not Treason!  You’ve won a one-way trip to exciting Tyburn and an appearance in the mass executions of Tyburn Tuesdays!

Attention turns to the third prisoner.

HENRY: Thomas, what about your third prisoner here?

THOMAS: As you wish, Your Majesty.  This is Rhys Wynwyn, the Welsh wit who coined the phrase “a win-win situation.”  But things have soured for Rhys.  He is reported to have said, and I quote, “King Henry is an overblown goofball.”

The crowd swarms into a sea of angry voices, but Henry only laughs, and gestures to the audience to take their seats.

HENRY: Methinks you will all be most surprised at my decision.  This man obviously understood that his statement was ludicrous, for what fault can any man find in me?  I answer only to God.  He could not have believed that anyone would think him serious.  Twas but a jest, everyone.  I know it.  And therefore I declare that Rhys Wynwyn is not guilty of treason against me.

The band launches into “Henry the Eighth” yet again as Thomas frees the prisoner.  Henry takes center stage again.

HENRY: Well, that’s our show for tonight.  We’ll be back right here tomorrow night, when I’ll be interviewing the minds behind Misrule Instant Frumenty.  I’ll also be playing my newest song, a ballad to my unknown Wife #4.  My gratitude for the loyal subjects that help me put this show together night after night—Will Somers, Ned Sackbutt, Thomas Timely, and the Poxy Seven!  Have a wonderful night, and remember how luck you are to live in the England of Henry the Eighth!

Meet The Gang

Well, it sure looks like today's gonna be another wet one here in the fish tank! Ha ha, just a little goldfish humor there, folks. Every day's a wet day.

I'm Carlotta. I'm a fish. And I talk, and think, and write, and have other intellectual pursuits. So don't laugh; fish don't have good senses of humor. Zippy is my pet. Well, okay, I guess its the other way around...but not in my little world.

I've been chewing on these stupid rocks all night. Where's Zippy with my food? Damn it, I'm starving. I guess calling for pizza is out of the question. Maybe I'll nibble on these nice leaves here. Rats, I forgot the plants are plastic. Artificial food. Chalk another one up for the ape. I imagine Zippy serves friends wax fruit!

"Hey there, fishie! How are you?" Zippy grinned.

"Humph! For your information, I'm famished. Starving. Weary. Hungry. Wasting away to almost nothing."

"You are not!"

"Okay, but I have the munchies."

Zippy was just about to get Carlotta some fish grub, when Janeless Lament knocked on the front door. "Hey there, Zip-ness! Like, how's it falling?"

"Into place, I guess."

"Coolness. Mind if I come in out of the cold?"

"It's seventy degrees outside."

"Babe, everywhere's cold when you think you're from Venus." She stepped in. Carlotta groaned loudly. "Hey, how's the little talkin' fishie?"

How to describe Janeless? Well, let's just say that dumping her into a river would be illegal in most areas.

"Carlotta, you remember Janeless, don't you?"

"Do I remember Janeless? How could I forget that great day when she had a runny nose but not a tissue and decided to remedy her situation by hanging her face over my tank!"

Janeless sniffed. "I'm sorry. But you sure hold a grudge."

"You did this last week, foolish ape."

"I'd be mad too if you snotted all over me," Zippy said.

"Don't be gross!" Carlotta snorted.

Janeless changed channels. "Fishie, I have a question for you..."

"Uh oh."

"I promise. It's not too dumb."

"You don't know what my thresholds are."

"Can I ask you something or not?"

"If you must."

"How do you know you're female?"

Excerpt from By Way of the Dodo...

Carlotta turned bright red. "What...do...you...mean?"

"Just that. See, by looking at you, I wouldn't know. So I was wondering how you can tell."

"I don't know! I just can, okay."

"How?"

"Well, how can you tell you're female? I sure can't!"

At this point, the conversation was getting to be too much for Zippy. She threw three slices of leftover pizza into Carlotta's tank. The fish shut up.

"What the gerf kind of fish is she, anyway?" Janeless asked.

Zippy peered into the fish tank. Carlotta had a golden body, with ruby-red fins, a violet tail, and dark blue eyes. Actually, Carlotta was Her Imperial Highness Princess Carlotta, in line for the throne of the water planet Xanthus 12. In the midst of a political coup against her father the emperor, Carlotta had been sent to earth. But by some bizarre stroke of fate, she had ended up in the pet department of Fluffy's. That's how Zippy got her...for seventy-nine cents.

"Uh, she's a...rare species of goldfish from Tanzania."

"Wow. Now that's really Perdue."

Janeless wore a barbarian smile.

"What's with you?" Zippy asked.

"Do you notice anything different?"

"About you?"

"Yeah."

"You smell better than usual."

"Thanks. I showered. But other than that."

She hadn't lost or gained any weight...Janeless was as scrawny as always. She hadn't pierced her ears again. There were no new tatoos on her arms. Zippy didn't see it. "I give up. What'd you do?"

Janeless frowned. "You can't tell?"

"No, I can't."

"You can't tell I had my hair dyed electric violet?"

"Janeless, your hair's always been purple."

"No, not purple. Bogus, Zippy! It's violet now. See?"

Zippy saw no real difference in Janeless' hair color; it was still dark purple. Poor thing! She'd been taken again. Zippy bit her lip in invocation, and Janeless' hair became a brilliant mane the color of Carlotta's tail. "Yeah, okay. I see it now."

Janeless, thinking her hair had been dyed correctly the first time, was oblivious to the
magical change. "I have another surprise, too!" Janeless grabbed the zipper of her snakeskin jacket. "Now don't go squirrely on me. Are you ready?"

Zippy nodded.

Janeless unzipped the jacket to reveal a neon-yellow t-shirt underneath. The words "Sugar Bangs" were printed in paisley across the front. "Is this Perdue, or what?"

"Wow! You guys got your own shirts!"

"Pretty bitchen, isn't it? This guy in Purgeberg is printing them up for us. We're selling them at the gig for ten bucks a piece."

"Cool."

"So, are you coming or what?"

"Am I coming where?"

"To hear us play at the Summit Club tonight or what? We're gonna be like Party Central."

Party Central, in Delaware Valley terms, loosely meant any place where more than five people would gather at a time.

Zippy had to shudder at the thought of a Sugar Bangs concert. They group couldn't quite play their instruments; the amplifiers were always turned up twice as much as for other bands; Nuclear Vikki often jumped into the audience and attacked; and rare was it when Ginger could remember all the lyrics to a song.

Zippy supposed a magic without a sense of ethics could have turned them into the greatest most popular rock band in the world. Zippy wasn't such a magic. Success was something they needed to achieve on their own, however improbable it was in their case.

Yet Janeless was her friend, and this was their first concert with the new shirts. Besides, Zippy reasoned, she could always change the music for her own ears into something she could listen to. "I wouldn't miss it."

Slay Ride

Normally the person who answered the front door at Jeff's knock wouldn’t be smiling, but today Judy Claus beamed at him while exhaling a deep sigh of relief. “Thank you so much for coming so quickly,” she said, ushering him through the peppermint painted workshop door. “Can I take your scythe?”

Instinctively, Jeff gripped the hardwood handle. “Thank you no,” he said. “I have to keep it with me at all times. You know how it is.”

“Indeed I do.” Judy led him down a short hall, bright with a cascade of tiny gumdrop lights. They came into a sitting room, where two plush chairs stood near a red brick fireplace complete with a perfect fire. Judy motioned to Jeff to take a seat, and then sat down herself.

Jeff thought the whole place seemed deserted. “Where is Kris?”

Judy put her head in her hands. “That’s why I called you, Jeff. We’ve never had an emergency like this before. Kris is down and out and in bed, and the elves all died last week.”

“I saw all the little lumps of snow on my way here,” Jeff said. “Elf tombs, if I’m not mistaken. What’s going on, Judy?”

“It’s the Pig Sick. Happy Snappy Elf went down into the world to be in some parade and caught himself the Pig Sick. Happy Snappy Elf is one of those snow mounds now, but he brought the Pig Sick to Santa’s Workshop. Kris is out of commission, Jeff, and I’m desperate. But you’re Death. You’re part of this Figmentsphere. You’re the only one I can trust.”

Jeff might be a skeleton but his mind remained sharp. True, he and Kris Kringle and Judy June had all been dorm mates at Figment College, and Jeff had been best man when Kris married Judy, and they had all stayed tight friends in spite of occupational differences. But asking Death to be Santa Claus? Did Judy have any idea what she was doing?

Then again, what choice did she have?

Judy led Jeff to the stable. The reindeer, or what was left of the reindeer—Comet, Blitzen, and Rudolf had all succumbed to the Pig Sick as well—stood at attention when they saw Judy. Then an amazing yowl and the stomping of rhythmic hooves rose from the reindeer, a sound of savage panic and fear. In an instant, they had jumped their gates and bolted for the opposite end of the stable, away from the presence of Death. “I don’t know how they are for flying, but they run fine,” Jeff said.

Judy let loose a naughty word she’d picked up back in college and only rarely got a chance to use, usually after four straight hours of Kris practicing his ho-ho-ho. “I hadn’t thought of this, Jeff. The reindeer know who you are. They might be as dumb as fruitcake about most things, but they know all about saving their own asses.”

“This doesn’t bode well.” Jeff chipped at an ice patch with the bottom of his scythe. “NORAD is fine with a sled and reindeer, but I don’t know how they’ll take to Death in a sleigh. Maybe I can take some elves with me?”

Shaking her head, Judy explained, “If we had elves I would give you as many as you need. But, you know, the Pig Sick is especially bad for creatures with the immunity of taffy.”

“And now they’re all dead.” Jeff glanced around, listening to the wind whistle through the hollow stable.

“Every one.” Judy whipped an embroidered handkerchief from her apron and dabbed at her eyes. “We had universal elf care, too. But we were too late. I’d think you would have known about this.”

With slight indignation, Jeff replied, “Judy, I have enough to do in the human realm. I don’t have time for fantasy fairytale creatures. How am I supposed to do this?”

“All right Jeff, I’m going to let you in on the biggest secret at the North Pole.” Judy leaned into his black cloaked figure and motioned as if whispering into his ear. “That Clement Moore fellow—may tainted plum pudding take him!—got everything wrong. Can you imagine circling the globe in one night with enough toys and crap for every little blighter who’s been brainwashed into believing? Hell, I don’t even know what a sugar plum is, and a long winter’s nap sounds more like your usual territory.”

“Indeed.”

“Anyway, what Kris brings is presence. Presence! Not presents! It’s his presence what puts gifts under the tree. He doesn’t literally bring presents himself. So now here we are, completely distorted by the media. Our dead letter office is the largest on the planet. You think Kris reads all of those thinly-disguised epistles of greed?” Judy let out a long breath. “He used to let the elves do it, if they wanted. But now we don’t have elves.”

Suddenly Jeff appreciated the barbaric simplicity of his own responsibility. A person died, he appeared, he released the spirit, and that was it. He didn’t even have to be personally present, since his effect was so pervasive on the earth. But the Claus clan had some real problems, tied up in the imaginary bureaucracy of an earlier age. The least he could do for these old friends was to get them through this Christmas catastrophe. Afterwards, when Kris was well—if he ever got well—Jeff could help them rebuild their establishment.

“Judy, I love you and Kris,” he said, careful not to touch her. Even Judy Claus might be put off by the touch of Death, however friendly. “I’m happy to fill in for him tonight.”

By Way of the Dodo

In a large, pink-metallic office building, on the 234th floor, the third board room on the right after passing the exploding water fountain and the tempermental stairway, Dratnal Fjord was not happy. However, the stairway had just met with its psychiatrist, and felt rather well after a hefty dose of Soopem-Up-Feelem-Good pharmaceuticals.

It is the year 2314, and there are still office buildings and boardrooms. In fact, there are more office buildings and boardrooms than had ever existed before. Elevators are the subject of massive wildlife conservation campaigns as they are being replaced all over with empty vertical corridors and personal jet packs--more expensive, more neurotic, but considerably less safe.

Dratnal Fjord was an angry man. Due to a horrific accident involving stupidity, plutonium and juggling chainsaws, most of his natural body had been replaced. Now he was a patchwork of different colored plastics and metals. The only prosthetic arms available to him at the time of his accident were of infant-length; he lacked the patience to wait for a more suitable pair. Dratnal did not like being called Stubby. His employees knew that calling him Stubby would result in their instantaneous vaporization, in spite of the union ruling against vaporization of its members.

Of course, they also realized it was just one of the professional risks of working for the Whoopie Fun Ice Cream Company.

Dratnal's glowing red eyes made everyone in the boardroom uneasy. He drummed his fat yellow fingers on the table as his head was enveloped in the smoke from his atomic cigar. If he had friends, they would have encouraged him to quit the nuclear stogies, or at least cut down. But Dratnal Fjord didn't have any friends, and he liked it that way. No one to annoy him with their concern for his health. He puffed.

Mutter Haslow and his pet briefcase Bork finally arrived in the boardroom. Mutter scurried over to Dratnal, and bowed humbly. "My corporate lord," he pleaded. "I am very sorry to be late."

Dratnal spoke no words, but grunted. Mutter looked for his left hand, and discovered it had been vaporized. He smiled in relief. "Oh thank you, thank you, sir, for your leniency." Mutter and Bork assumed their seats.

With a wave of his hand, Dratnal closed the doors of the boardroom. A loud clank resounded as the room was locked. The twenty-odd assemblants--human, creature and briefcase--quickly jumped to their feet and began to sing:

"All hail the corporate master we love
With the skill of adept and the smell of a glove
To you, oh master, we pledge our devotion
And not just for the chance at a promotion
Oh no! We live to serve you, and we rejoice
We wouldn't quit, even if we had the choice
May you forever over this world reign supreme
Great Dratnal Fjord, of Whoopie Fun Ice Cream!"

They sat down.

"Mumford," growled Dratnal. "You didn't keep in harmony."

"Sorry, sir," the feathered man with the fluorescent cock-comb apologized. "My cat ate my ears this morning."

"How many more times will you use that excuse?"

"I can't help it. My cat has weird tastes."

On a normal day, Dratnal would have pursued the matter to such extremities that extensive proof of Mumford's indiscretions in the company would be created, and, more than likely, Mumford vaporized. But Dratnal had bigger things on his mind.

Dratnal Fjord cleared his voluminous throat with a noise not unlike an elephant imploding. "This is Dr. Slime, from the Time Travel Institute." He motioned to a large beige blob sitting on the table in front of him. The blob opened its blue eyes, and sprouted an arm. It waved.

Everyone envied Dr. Slime. Dratnal had almost never vaporized a guest.

"Dr. Slime approached me last week about a discovery his team had just made at the institute...a discovery directly affecting the Whoopie Fun Ice Cream empire. Naturally, I was eager for this information, and so I pooled all of your salaries for the next three years in order to make an offer for which he would negotiate his ethics."

"I assure you, Dratnal," Dr. Slime spoke from some unseen orifice in a nasally, congested voice. "It was a bargain."

"Oh, I agree." Dratnal puffed harder on his cigar. "So I have brought him here to tell all of you what he has told me. Then we can do our dictated democratic process."

The board members all nodded eagerly.

"I'll cut to the chase. The Whoopie Fun Ice Cream Empire is in dire danger. It will be completely erased from existence, utterly destroyed."

Mutter Haslow paled. As did his briefcase. "What do you mean, erased?"

"Just that. Just like it never existed. Eradicated. Kaplooie!"

A panicked murmur overwhelmed the room. "Now, hold on," Dratnal shouted. "It won't happen, because the good doctor will tell us how to fix everything."

Dr. Slime moved in something like a nod. "As you all know, the Whoopie Fun Ice Cream Company has been in existence for four hundred years. It has ruled the world for two hundred. Before that, it held the monopoly on ice cream and other frozen treats in the western world."

As we have discovered, the past is not solidified. Through the process of time travel and universe-shift, our pasts and futures are able to be altered. Such an alteration is going to occur that will destroy Whoopie Fun."

Unless," the blob gargled. "We stop it!"

Mumford squawked. "What do we have to do?"

"Time travel," declared Dr. Slime. "You must choose someone to go back and sabotage the one who shall destroy you."

"And who is the wretch."

Dratnal lifted a poster board from under the table for all to see. "And this is the trouble maker. Lute Napper."

Mumford chirped in horror. Mutter looked away and wretched quietly. A board member with long fangs and scaled skin screamed in terror.

"Hideous!"

"Abominable"

"Evil!"

"And so, here's the mission," Dratnal growled. "You, Mumford. You will go back in time. This Lute Napper lived in this very geographic area, 350 years ago. You will use the Institute's Phenetron Generator."

"I understand," Mumford said.

"According to our history files," Dr. Slime added. "The one who you seek was working in a university laboratory, but was fired. However, a time swerve is bound to occur, that will keep that one from being fired, and will lead to your destruction." Dr. Slime coughed. "It is up to you to correct that time swerve."

"I will do so," Mumford declared.

"You'd better," spat Dratnal. "Or I'll vaporize you twice."