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Career Day for Jim

By on September 19, 2011 in But is it art?, Parody & Satire

the lure of the seaSchool was lame. Adults were lame. Life, itself, was a series of lame events. None more so than Career Day.

These were the thoughts of Jim as he walked into the gymnasium for the Beaverbrook High career day. At least he didn’t have to sit through the tedium and ennui of Mr. Leekie’s calculus class, or the thinly-veiled severe depression of Ms. Bentz, his English Composition teacher.

All that dark poetry….

Jim shrugged the painfully lame recitations of Ms. Bentz’s poetry aside, and checked out this year’s Cavalcade of Losers. These were the employers, the good corporate “citizens” of his home town with suggestions on how its young adults could plan for an exciting life serving hamburgers.

At least he wasn’t in class.

He had to admit, the selection was good this year, if pointless. There were some lawyers, some engineers from the city, and a large crowd of kids was milling around the booth hosted by a company in town that made web games. As if, Jim thought.

He sighed. This was his last year in high school and he still didn’t know what he wanted to do. His marks were good enough for university, but he knew his family couldn’t afford it — and the thought of taking all that debt was just too much. His family was on the verge of losing their house. He wasn’t supposed to know that, but he did. It was hyper-lame.

Then he heard a voice behind him, “arrr Jim, have ye’ considered a life at sea?”

Alltop be fond of Talk Like a Pirate Day. Have a good one, ye’ bilge rats. Moody picture of the sea by jjjohn.

Pirate Therapy

By on September 13, 2011 in Parody & Satire, Skwibby fiction

Pirate flagLaurence arrived a few minutes late for his regular Thursday morning session, but his therapist usually ran late, so he wasn’t worried.

From behind the door of his therapist’s office, he heard a blood-curdling scream, and then a thump. A door opened somewhere, and Laurence heard a strange sound, almost as though something heavy was being dragged. He heard grunts, scraping, and the rhythmical percussion of something booming on the floor. Laurence looked around, and realized the secretary was not there. He also realized he was standing, tense.

The door to his therapist’s office creaked opened, and he heard a rough voice shout: “Ahoy Larry! Be ye out there laddie?”

“Uh. Yes.”

“Come in, matey.”

Laurence walked unsteadily to the door and opened the door fully.

A pirate sat in his therapist’s chair. He had wild, unkempt hair held in by a greasy red bandanna, and a full dread-locked beard that looked like it was made out of black steel wool. He was wearing a stained white silk shirt, a sash of what was probably once a lovely dark green silk and pantaloons. He had one black boot, and he was missing a leg, which was replaced by a wooden peg that was carved into the shape of …

Laurence looked away.

“Arr matey, don’t ye like me leg?”

“Uh, it’s very creative,” Laurence said. “Um. Um, where is Dr. Glick?”

“She’s in-dee-sposed,” the pirate said. “She’s asked me to take care of her sessions today. Now, repeat after me: Arrrr!”

“Ar?”

“No, like ye mean it. Take a deep breath. No, don’t sit down. Ye won’t be sitting down this morning Larry, ye’ll be workin’! Now, say it: arrrr!!!”

“Arr.”

“Avast!” the pirate stood, the obscenely rounded end of his peg leg booming on the floor. A cutlass lay on Dr. Glick’s desk, and he picked it up. “I want to hear a real pirate yawlp before ye leave, ye bilge rat!”

Larry suddenly understood what that dragging sound had been. He looked around wildly for a weapon to defend himself; he picked up a pillow from the couch. Perhaps it would work as a shield.

“Would ye like a blankie too Larry? I won’t be caring if ye need to carry around a stuffed bear, as long as I hear ye. Now take a deep breath, and say it: arrrr!” The pirate’s voice was incredibly loud.

Laurence dropped the pillow and held his ears. He started shaking.

The pirate took a step closer and pointed the cutlass tip at Laurence’s throat; he lowered his voice and said menacingly: “I’ve slit the throats of better men than ye, Larry me boyo. Now say it, smartly lad, smartly!”

“Arr!” Larry managed, terror driving his voice several octaves higher.

“Grand! Grand!” the pirate enthused. “Now, let’s pretend you’ve got a pair, and say it again.”

“Arrr!” Larry shouted.

“Again!”

“Arrr!”

“Again! Louder!”

“Arrr!” Larry screamed.

“Arrr!” the pirate joined in.

“Arrr!”

“Arrr!”

“Arrrrr……..” Their joint shouting tailed off, and Laurence realized that the pirate was grinning at him.

“So how do ye feel matey?”

Laurence wanted to say he felt good, but he know that wasn’t the right answer, so he just muttered: “arrrrr.”

Less than a week to Talk Like a Pirate Day everyone! Alltop be wanting yer attention too, the scallywags. Originally published when yer Internet was gleam in yer father’s eye, in 2007.

Pirates, Vikings and The Lost Boys

By on January 25, 2011 in Parody & Satire, Skwibby fiction

Norse PastafarianismAs he watched the proceedings unfold in court, Dr. Maximillian Tundra was starting to understand how Mohammed or Jesus might feel if they could see what had happened to their teachings.

Of course, all great prophets someday have their ideas formalized and turned into religions, but Dr. Tundra had just not been thinking about that when he formed his own sect of Pastafarianism, the First Church of the Noodly Norsemen.

Like other Pastafarians, they believed that the universe was created by the Flying Spaghetti Monster. But while other worshipers thought it was the declining number of pirates that has caused the increase in global warming, hurricanes and earthquakes, Dr. Tundra had been preaching that, in truth, it was a lack of Vikings.

And now a radical sect of his very church (popularly known as the Norse Pastafarians) had been arrested for planning an extensive terror campaign against the misguided pirate-based version.

They called themselves the Lost Boys and planned to eradicate the pirate-believers. And they had been caught, because of Dr. Tundra.

He’d really had no other choice. The lead terrorist, who called himself “The Peter”, had been unwilling to listen to Dr. Tundra’s arguments.

“Peter –” he had started.

“THE Peter,” The Peter had interrupted. Continue Reading →

Cheese Pyrates! Revenge of the Crimson Parrots

By on September 17, 2010 in But is it art?, Skwibby fiction

Cheese Pyrates!It were 2011, and a year had passed since the Le Fromage de Satan had sunk our frigate with an exploding cheese, killing all hands except for meself, Jim Quinn, and the chef’s assistant, Paul Le Whisk.

Arrr!

Le Whisk gave up yer life at sea after his near brush with the Belugas. And I? Well, after the disaster that befell the HMCS Shag Harbour, it were clear to me His Majesty’s fleet was not going to capture the worst of Canada’s curdaneers, Captain Jacques LaBung. It would be up to me to get LaBung and his ruthless gang of cheese pyrates, whose savage bowel obstructions were infamous along the Gold Coast.

So I hit upon the idear of luring them in, so to speak, with me own tempting cheddar. I resigned my commission, and entered the shadowy world of bathtub cheese making. Dangerous work for sure, keeping clear of the authorities while yer curds age, and I almost lost me good hand in the press one time. But soon, I had load of unsanitary cheese, ready to lure LaBung and his plugged-up pyrates with.

I let it be known that I were transporting my salmonella-laced booty that night, and knew the word would get out to LaBung. Even if he suspected its quality, he could never resist a boatload of gold. My launch were a sturdy craft, but it would not survive the explosives I’d put in the hold. Me plan was to destroy the ship when La Bung and his constipated crew came on board.

I were willing to die for me revenge, but it were not to be.

Sure enough, their awful ship, Le Fromage de Satan, came at me as soon as I was in the St. Lawrence, but before they boarded me, a swarm of birds rose from the craft. It were a flock of aggressive parrots, trained by the demon La Bung himself! They came at me, screeching profanities in Quebecois, and pecking at me good eye! They stunk of the ship’s bilge, where La Bung had been keeping them, driving them mad with the reek.

Ashamed as I am to admit it, I panicked, and abandoned me wee launch to the feculent birds.

I dove under the water, and swam away as fast as I could, knowing the pyrates would stop for the cheese, and leave me be.

But I could hear the roar of LaBung’s laughter, above the din of evil parrots, screeching: “Kétaine! Vas te faire foutre!” I vowed (yet again) that revenge would be mine.

Arrrr!! Two more sleeps to Talk Like a Pirate Day! Part one of Cheese Pirates! here.

Authorities seize “bathtub cheese” | Flock of Houdini birds hits city | Other sources of giggle-guano can be found at alltop.

Cheese Pyrates!

By on September 16, 2010 in But is it art?, Skwibby fiction

A saucy cheese pyrate (with parrot)The year were 2011 and I joined the Navy for one reason alone — to get me vengeance on Le Fromage de Satan, and her scurvy master, Captain Jacques LaBung.

LaBung and his crew of plugged-up sea-dogs were known all along the Gold Coast — the north shore of the St. Lawrence. The bilge rats were infamous for their cruelty, their addiction to Quebec water-aged cheddar, and their malignant bowel obstructions.

Me own father had been a boson on Le Fromage de Satan; killed by LaBung for some minor offense. Arrr!

They Strapped him to the Wheel. This was the worst fate yer cheese pyrate could suffer, worse even than keel-haulin’. When yer underwater cheddar goes bad, that wheel of cheese is used as an anchor — or in the case of me Da’, he were strapped to it, and tossed over to be Mocked By the Belugas.

Down to Davy Jones he went, and I vowed me revenge. So now here I am, Ensign Jim Quinn, newly minted by His Majesty, and ready to take on the worst of Canada’s curdaneers.

Avast! There she be, heeling out from Baie des Ha! Ha! in full flight. But she’s no match for our frigate, the HMCS Shag Harbour.

And then, the milky whey of fate stepped in, and a fog bank came up to obscure our prey. We had to slow, and we thought we’d lose them, but then we heard them in the fog, laughing at us.

Our captain piled on, and the Shag she responded! We could hear their laughter above the roar of our engines, and then I noticed it in the water.

“Hard a larbord!” cries I, but too late. We hit the cheese-barrel dead-on; I was abaft, and so, were thrown overboard in the blast, not kilt outright.

The bow of the Shag were in flames, and then it began to sink, taking me crew with it. Me captain had been caught by one of the oldest tricks of yer Quebec curdaneer — the exploding cheese.

The flames went out as the Shag Harbour went down, and Le Fromage de Satan disappeared into the fog, the laughter of her pyrates mocking me, me Da, and those few brave seamen who’d survived the wreck.

Mocked me, they might have, but killed me they hadn’t, and vengeance would still be mine. I’ll see you in Davy’s yet, LaBung!

Tomorrow: The Revenge of the Crimson Parrots

Three more sleeps to Talk Like a Pirate Day!

Sunken Quebec Treasure | Photo by fourthirtythree | Other bunged-up bilge-rat humor at alltop. Originally published in 2005. Arrrrrrr!

Norse Pastafarianism — an interview with its leader, Dr. Maximilian Tundra

By on December 3, 2009 in General Skwib, Parody & Satire, Skwibby fiction

The Norse Flying Spaghetti MonsterThe Skwib: Thank you Dr. Tundra for agreeing to chat with us about your controversial new sect of Pastafarianism. Could you explain to our readers, in case they don’t already know, what the differences between your group and other Pastafarians are?

Dr. Tundra: You’re welcome. Well, as you know, Pastafarianism is about worshiping the great Flying Spaghetti Monster (FSM), in all its noddly goodness. In most respects we follow the teachings of its Prophet, Bobby Henderson, but in one important aspect, we differ. We believe it is Vikings, not pirates, that cause the multitude of ills that affect us: global warming, earthquakes, hurricanes, and other natural disasters.

So, naturally, instead of wearing full pirate regalia, we like to trick ourselves out in Viking gear.

The Skwib: Yes, I was going to say that is a very impressive horned helmet you are wearing. My understanding is that it’s a myth that Vikings wore them, though

Dr. Tundra: It’s true — the historical Vikings rarely wore them, and we would never wear them if we were going into battle. But the FSM said we should make it easy to see we were the true religion.

The Skwib: Are there any other differences between you and the pirate-loving Pastafarians?

Dr. Tundra: Oh, we love pirates too, but they are not the cause of global warming. Much of our new creed is still being revealed to me by the Great Pasta. But we believe it is more than natural disasters that are caused by the lack of Vikings. The increased number of orphaned socks, for example.

Now, one of the first missions of the First Church of the Noodly Norsemen is to increase our numbers.

The Skwib: Really, the Noodly Norsemen?

Dr. Tundra: We’re still working on the name for our Church. What matters is that we follow the Prophet’s teachings.

The Skwib: So what drew you to Pastafarianism in the first place?

Dr. Tundra: Initially I was drawn to the flimsy moral standards, but I also like the Friday religious holiday.

The Skwib: So you got into it for crass personal reasons? We note that you have a rather suspect career. Is it true that you have lost your license to practice medicine?

Dr. Tundra: Ah, ah, I’m having a vision …

The Skwib: And is it also true that you have a, shall we say, somewhat avant garde approach to the use of pharmaceuticals?

Dr. Tundra: The Great Pasta is speaking to me … O’ ramen pasta yum! O’ ramen pasta yum!

Alltop and humor-blogs.com believe global warming is caused by a lack of laughter. Believe it or not, this post was originally published in August, 2005!