You are walking down the street, minding your own business when a strange vehicle, driven by some kind of diminutive fish pulls up next to you. The vehicle is roughly half your size. You feel a pinprick of pain in your neck, and then, you black out.

You come to, briefly, to discover that you are immobilized, held in a net, and somehow, thousands of feet above your city. It is a disorienting, emotionally distressing moment and you pass out again.

When you awake, you find yourself in a small cell, roughly the size of a large handicapped washroom. There is enough room to take a couple of paces and turn around. You are not claustrophobic, but you now understand the phobia. All the sides of your new home are enclosed in glass, beyond which you can see little. The good news is the top of your cell is open to the sky. That is also bad news, because it is raining.

One of the tiny fish creatures is sitting on top of the cell, its legs dangling over the edge. It starts to make noises, which sound a little like crickets, or perhaps clicks. You realize its coming from a miniature speaker, when you see its head is enclosed in some kind of diving helmet. It has strange prosthetic arms and legs, which you believe is called a waldo.

What is this bizarre little cyborg-fish? you think. It throws something at you. You almost missed it, it was so small, and then you realize it’s part of a cheeseburger. Not even a bite. You let it sit on the ground.

It chatters some more at you through the speakers. You ignore it. It jumps on your shoulders, straddling your neck with it’s bizarre little waldo-legs. The chattering rises in intensity, and you try to ignore it. Several hours pass, and a half-dozen pieces of cheeseburger are lobbed at you. You ignore them all, and lift the creature off your back. You place it on the wall, where the chattering rises in intensity. Eventually, the sun sets, and the thing leaves.

You try to escape, but the cell is just tall enough that you cannot pull yourself out. They are too thick to be kicked in, besides which, you think there might be nothing but water beyond them.

That night, you fall asleep curled in one corner of your new home, wondering what the hell is going on, and what this is all about.

You awake the next morning, ravenous. You also need to relieve yourself, and you realize there is no facility for this in the tiny cell, even if it is the size of a public toilet. There is no choice, really. You soil the cell.

The creature returns, and throws another piece of cheeseburger at you. This morsel you eat hungrily. As you gulp it down, you realize you’ve never felt so hungry, nor been so thirsty.

It chatters some more, pointing to your left. Perhaps it wants you to move that way? If I move that way, will it give me a drink of water. Or the whole cheeseburger? You hope so, and so you move that way. Another morsel is thrown at you.

The morning passes in this productive manner, and just when you think you’re going to die of thirst, another little fish-waldo creature — you’ve decided to call them Baldos, because of their hairless bodies — has some kind of argument with the first one. A hose appears at the top of the cell, and water trickles out. You drink from it. You had never felt so thirsty.

After this paltry drink, the chattering and cheeseburger bits return. You keep trying to comply, because let’s face it, the only way you’re going to keep up your energy enough to escape is to eat those little bits of cheeseburger.

You start to understand what hell is.

The day passes in a blur of bits of cheeseburger and chattering. The idiotic little thing jumps on your neck again, and you get that you’re supposed to jump up and down while it’s there, so you do. Another trickle of water and cheeseburger bits arrive. After the little creature and its companion leave (the Baldo with the water), you try pulling yourself up out of the cell again, but you realize it’s just not going to happen. If anything, you’re weaker than you were the day before.

That night you have trouble finding a place to lie down that isn’t covered in your own bodily wastes, or bits of cheeseburger. Nothing is free of at least a skim of water. After a good cry, you fall asleep.

Several more days ensue, in a similar pattern, and after a week, you feel that tell-tale pinprick. This time, though, you realize you’re merely tranquilized; you watch absently as a crew of the tiny creatures comes into your cell via a miniature door — a gush of water comes with it — and they clean the cell. Not really well, but they do clear out the worst of it. (You have designated one corner as “the latrine”, and you’re happy to see they concentrate their efforts there.)

The next day, you discover the cell is actually made out of some kind of transparent material, and you can see through it. Beyond it are rows of the little dudes, except none of them are wearing the arm and leg waldos. They look like miniature killer whales, or perhaps large dolphins, but it’s impossible to see what color they really are through the wall.

Your buddy, the chattering asshole in the waldo, appears at the top of the cell and gets all the fish excited about something. It motions for you to come over, and you do, hoping to get a bit of cheeseburger. You’re starving. And dying for salad. But never mind. If there’s food on offer, you’re game.

It jumps on your back and you jump up and down, and the tiny whales on the other side of the glass move their heads up and down. You wonder what that means, and think, maybe it’s applause.

And then you realize you’re on show. Some kind of terrestrial show for these marine motherfuckers. And that’s when you grab the creature on your back, rip off its waldo arms and legs (you may have got a fin in there, though it wasn’t really your intention) and its diving helmet, and drop it on the bottom of your cell. (Yes, in the “latrine”.)

The head-bobbing on the other side of the glass stops, and it looks like you’ve caused quite the sensation. The crowd splits as fast as a crowd of fish can.

When the other Baldos appear on the top of cell, you reach up and crush them. More appear at the tiny door in your cell, water gushing in, and you step on them easily as they try to get to your trainer, who is suffocating in your shit.

Another group appears at the top of the cell, but before you can grab them, there is another pinprick of pain.

And then a kind of freedom.

Alltop loves a good human show. Orca photo by Franco Felini. Cheesburger by Tom Spaulding.

“This traffic is the End.”

“Don’t be such a drama queen.”

“Everything depends on this meeting.”

“Dude, relax. You can’t do anything about it.”

“You could . . .”

“I don’t work for free, man . . . Seriously? You’d pay it?”

“Yeah.”

“What’s the angle?”

“No angle. I NEED to make that meeting.”

“Who could be scarier than me?”

“Who do you think?”

“Shit. He’s taking a meeting with YOU, dude?”

“Yep.”

“And all I have to do is get you there? ”

“Yes . . ..”

“Okay. We’re here, dude. Tell the big guy I’m ready.”

“He knows.”

Originally appeared on Name Your Tale (last week). Alltop has entered into a Faustian bargain with humor bloggers too. Fire photo courtesy of Paul+Photos=Moody.

“Mr. President, we have to talk about the unit.”

“What unit, Minister?”

“Remember the regiment that was forgotten in the Peltarsh Mountains?”

“Right. The unit of horse archers. Did we ever figure out what to do with all those old compound bows? I’ve got one in the armoury — it’s quite ingenious in design, you know, thought it’s primitive. Did you know it uses horn?”

“Yes, sir. We auctioned most of them off on E-Bay. The idea was to help pay for the retraining.”

“Excellent. I like to see our Departments using our resources efficiently. How is the unit shaping up?”

“Well, not as well as it did with our cavalry units. We had a surprising number of troopers who were able to fly the helicopters, and the rest really seem to like the idea of being called air cavalry.”

“And the horse archers?”

“Most of them seem to think the helicopters are some kind of god.”

“I see. Well we had to expect some problems. They were isolated in the mountains for centuries, without any word from us. If I remember the file, the country was still under the control of the ancient dictator Slagothon the Bloody when they last heard from the capital.”

“Yes. We’ve been trying to educate them and bring them into the 21st century. It has, uh, been somewhat costly.”

“How much?”

“About ten times what it takes to upgrade our cavalry units.”

“I see, and the recommendations?”

“Well, we think we can do it, but we may lose the unit cohesion that we were trying to save. The unit has quite a storied history. Did you know they defeated the Horde of Logdor on their own?”

“I see. Naturally, these are their descendants. So how much more do you think it will cost?”

“Estimates are high. Possibly 500 million.”

“And they think the helicopters are gods?”

“Yes. Every time a pilot gets into the cockpit they scream in horror. They think the god is eating them.”

“And when they come out?”

“Well, it’s a miracle to them. They’ve started worshiping the pilots. Or stoning them to death. It has started a small religious disagreement.”

“Could we just send them back to the mountains?”

“Sure. They’ve been guarding that flank of our country from the barbarians for centuries. I say we give them some rifles, a few officers with modern training, and let them do it.”

“So we have a plan.”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

[pause]

“Well?”

“There’s just one other matter. You know our territories down in the Glotharian jungle? Well it turns out we have a unit of warriors down there.”

“What do you mean, warriors?”

“Well, it’s hard to define.”

“Give it a try Minister.”

“I should probably start by explaining that they’re armed with clubs . . .”

Apologies for any readers who have never played Civilization (IV), a strategy game, which is digital crack. Alltop is all about the humor victory. Thanks to Stuck in Customs for photo.

It was the best game of zenball ever, and the crowd was wild with excitement: the whisper of butterfly wings was deafening.

The Rotrovra Koan Kangaroos had just scored their first all-in kensho, and the Targenville Half-Lotus Lions replied with a double-satori. The Roos launched a full-out dharma walk, but they were unable to penetrate the Lions’ impressive grasp of paradox.

The Roos had to do something or the Lions would surely win. The hush of the field filled with the deadly susurration of arrows, as they invoked the five second rule.

Afterwards, only the voice of a bamboo flute.

Alltop is the sound of one hand clapping. Originally published on Name Your Tale as The five second rule. Buddha courtesy of Kim Denise.

The problem with the apocalypse was there was no single event.

You couldn’t say, “where were you when . . ..” The day the asteroid hit. The day they nuked Milan. The towers fell. They shot JR. Or Kennedy. Our apocalypse was a creeping end. Like zombies, or carpet beetles.

Instead, we talked about the clowns .

Tonight Julie is on about the fucking clowns. I hated the clowns. We all hated the clowns. But it’s done, I mean, why do we have to keep hashing it over?

“And do you remember her book? Going Maverick? Do you remember that?”

Alltop is always on about the clowns too. Originally published on Name Your Tale, as Story #713.

“Never was so much owed by so many to so few.”

–Winston Churchill, shortly after Pepper, of the Glorious Jack Russell Ratter Brigade, landed in Berchtesgaden, leg-humping Der Fuhrer, and violating his German Shepard, Blondi.

Later that week, the Germans invaded Russia.

Alltop is the only one to survive the vicious leg-humping. RIP humor-blogs.com. Photo by Susanna’s. Originally published April, 2007.

Stockholm. Evening. Harold Pinter is introduced to the Swedish Academy. He enters from stage left. He wears a loose-fitting tuxedo.

PINTER: Your Majesty. Members of the Academy. Ladies and Gentlemen.

(beat)

PINTER: Thank you for this honour.

(pause)

Pinter removes a pistol from his tuxedo jacket and places it on the podium.

PINTER: When I began writing, I had no such aspirations, but I can see the logic of your choice. And yet . . . it seems as though this took too long for you to realize it. Do you see?

(pause)

PINTER: We live in an age of menace. Of dangers both spoken . . . and left to our impoverished imaginations, assaulted as they are by technology, faith and above all, politics. We live in an age of menace.

(beat)

PINTER: I do thank you for this honour . . .

Pinter places his hand next to the pistol on the podium.

(pause)

PINTER: But I am uncertain about how to respond to the tribute, tardy as it is …

(beat)

Pinter taps his fingers next to the pistol.

PINTER: Yes, we live in an age of menace. Of evil that is banal. Civilization itself, it seems, is a thin pretense. Language is used to obscure and distort reality. Because we fear it?

(pause)

PINTER: And so, tonight, I would have you all think about that.

(pause)

(pause)

Pinter taps fingers again.

(pause)

Alltop and humor-blogs.com love the theatre of menace. More about the plays of Harold Pinter. Originally published, October 2005.

Dr. Maximilian Tundra was heading home again for the holidays, dread clutching his heart like an iron fist. He’d managed to avoid Thanksgiving, but there was no escape from The Feast.

The Feast, as it was known amongst Clan Tundra, was a toxic stew of carbs, fats, and pharmaceuticals that had a tendency to drive the family bonkers.

Not that they weren’t certifiable to begin with.

Dr. Tundra’s sister, Eugenie, was a brilliant “installation” artist, who was nevertheless, seriously bi-polar. His younger twin brothers, Xavier and Xenophon, had never really recovered from their childhood “incident” — as the family called it — following a plane crash in the Andes. His Da, Dr. Halvard Hemming Tundra, seemed perfectly normal; of course, the Great Danger of attending the Feast was that Dr. H. H. Tundra didn’t attend, and that he sent his doppelganger, Mr. Angry McBucktooth in his stead. His Mum, Beatrice Pelagia Tundra (nee Sweeney) was in denial, but otherwise safe to be around.

And that was just the nuclear family. Getting the extended clan together required a number of court orders, insurance waivers and to be on the safe side, Da usually hired off-duty members of the SWAT to patrol the grounds.

Perhaps it was for that reason, or perhaps it was the family’s iconoclastic nature, but The Feast was never celebrated on Christmas. It always happened on the Solstice.

The darkest day of the year. Of course, it also marked the start of days getting brighter and brighter. The rebirth of the sun, his Da called it. But when it came to the holiday, his family and The Feast, Dr. Tundra was definitely a glass-is-half-empty kind of guy.

The policeman checked his ID, and waved him past the checkpoint, a set of gates loomed ahead, which would let him into the Tundra compound. A high fence, razor wire atop, surrounded the area. Guards and German shepherds patrolled the grounds, checking the fenceline for weak points.

It would do no good. It never did.

He parked, put on his flak jacket and entered the Tundra mansion. The smell of roasting turkey and peyote stuffing filled the house, and Dr. Tundra shuddered.

An outside observer would wonder if that was a shudder of anticipation, excitement, or perhaps the thrill of visceral familiarity that we get when we return to our childhood places.

But no, it was dread.

Alltop and humor-blogs.com freebase their turkey. The reasons why festive feasting can cause family fracases.. Thanks to ckirkman for the turkey pic. Originally published December 2005.

A public service announcement from The Skwib

This time of year can be troubling for bloggers; the days get shorter, the holiday season has its own particular stresses, and for those running weblogs, there are the dangers of SAD.

Statistical Affective Disorder (SAD) is caused by an abrupt and inexplicable drop in the visitor statistics to your blog. Early symptoms include:

• sudden weeping
• shout at the ceiling: “why, why, gods of blog … why?”
• desperate attempts/plans/Fred Flintstone-like schemes to boost readership including:
• massive increase in Tweets
• hyper-active friending on Facebook
• increased meme generation.

As the disorder progresses, you may find yourself:

• bitter
• angry
• drunk.

And in the final stages, SAD can even lead to:

• apathy
• self-loathing
• watching TV and reading books.

If you have any of these symptoms you may have SAD, and should seek qualified psychiatric help at the first opportunity. Alternatively, you could just turn off your damned computer.

Alltop and humor-blogs.com both suffer from FUN (Frequent, Uncomfortable Noobishness). Originally published in December 2005.)

London, Ontario (The Skwib) — Global warming is caused by a lack of Vikings. So says the charismatic preacher, Dr. Maximillian Tundra.

He is the leader of a sect of the Pastafarian religion, which posits an omnipotent creator-being called the Flying Spaghetti Monster (FSM), and has deemed Friday a religious holiday.

“Other worshipers of the Flying Spaghetti Monster have claimed that it is a declining number of pirates that have caused the increase in global warming, hurricanes and earthquakes. In truth it is the lack of Vikings that has caused these ills, indeed, most of our problems are because we lack Vikings,” Dr. Tundra, the self-proclaimed Prophet of the Pasta told The Skwib.

And he says he can prove it.

“The false prophet Bobby Henderson has claimed the FSM favours pirates, where clearly it is Vikings that nestle in the noodly heart of our God. In Henderson’s so-called ‘proof’ he shows a decline in the pirate population coinciding with global warming. Recent studies by the British government show piracy is up 168 percent since 1992. But the temperature is still going up!”

Bobby Henderson counters by saying modern pirates are “guys with machine guns, cruising around in power-boats. Real pirates use swords (cutlasses, actually). And the song-downloading ‘pirates’ are smelly nerds, and therefore not real pirates.”

Dr. Tundra says: “that is a tautology. Look, piracy is robbery committed at sea. It’s not about whether they use cutlasses or machine guns. Besides, many of the pirates that Henderson is talking about do say: ‘arrrr!’ Besides, the Lord’s not a Flying Spaghetti Monster, it’s a Flying Linguini Monster.”

The First Church of the Noodly Norsemen (popularly known as the Norse Pastafarians) meet every Friday at Hooters, decked out as Vikings, for worship and “lutefisk” shooters.

Related news: What to do with pirates?

Previous Pasta-riffic Episodes:
An Interview with Dr. Tundra | Original Reutars Story | Dr. Tundra Hits His Peak

Alltop and humor-blogs.com have their “offices” at Hooters. Originally published November, 2006.