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Apocalypse Cow

apocalypse cow

Never get out of the boat. Absolutely goddamn right. Unless you were going all the way. Kurtz got off the boat. He split from the whole fuckin’ program.

And me? I was off the boat the same time as Kurtz. Sure, I’d been obeying orders, but my mind was gone. I was in fields of green and clover. With milkmaids.

Oh man, those bullshit milkmaids…

But I had a job to do, and there would be no welcome, supple fingers pulling on my teats when we got to the end of the river. Only charcoal briquettes.

The barbecue … the barbecue.

Alltop is the catastrophic cattle baron of humor. Originally published on Name Your Tale, 2009.

5

The Lost PowerPoint Slides (Ides of March Edition)

Brutus -- the anti-kingJulius Caesar Presents: Won’t Be King (slide 5)

  • Don’t put that diadem around my shoulders
  • Only King in Rome is Jupiter
  • But you can call me King outside Italy
  • What, you got a problem with that?

Spurinna the Soothsayer presents “ooooooo” (slide 1)

  • Beware the Ides of March!
  • Cue the spooky music!

Caesar Presents “What, me worry?” (only slide)

  • Going to speak with the Senate at Pompey’s Theatre
  • You see, soothsayer Spurinna, the Ides of March have come
  • No problem.

Spurinna presents “you’re an idiot” (only slide)

  • It’s the Ides all day, you pillock.

Marcus Brutus presents “anti-king device” (slide 1)

  • Is this a stabby thing you can’t see behind you, Caesar of the Julia?

Marcus Brutus presents “anti-king device” (slide 2)

  • Nope, can’t see it now, ’cause it’s in your back.

Marcus Brutus presents “anti-king device” (slide 5)

  • And again.
  • Thus always to tyrants, even if they may be my father.
Et tu Alltop? Shockingly, originally published in 2006!

Tundra Reports: Tim Horton’s Honeys

Tim Horton's Christmas coffee cup
By Dr. Maximilian Tundra

Does anyone else find it mildly disturbing to be addressed as “dear”, “hon,” or “darling” by someone who is at least 10 years younger than you?

I have noticed over the past few years that Tim Horton’s has been hiring more young servers, and they have strangely taken on some of the matronly language of the more traditional Tim Horton’s Lady. (For those of you wondering if this has something to do with Dr. Seuss, miscommunication and my penchant for bad chemicals, Timmy’s is Canadian institution and chain of coffee shops.)

This morning was particularly uncomfortable, as the young lady serving your peripatetic doctor of peyote, was also a hottie. Granted, Timmy’s tries to disguise any attractiveness their staff may have with the brown, shapeless polyester atrocities they make them wear, but there was no pretending.

“Can I get you anything else, dear?” she asked me.

Thousands of inappropriate responses flashed in my mind, somewhat dulled as it was by the morning’s peyote milkshake. (Hence the need for the high-octane caffeine that is the only redeeming quality of Tim Horton’s coffee.)

“How about a beaver tail?” I said in a strangulated voice.

“We don’t serve that, sir.”

Phew, now “sir” was more comfortable territory.

Alltop also likes to wear brown shapeless clothing. Timmy’s Christmas cup by jumphawk. Originally published November 2007.

Clown Apocalypse

clown apocalypse

Years later, the survivors discovered the Bozo Virus got its start at Escola de Clown de Girona, near the end of semester.

The “Esclowna” was a kind of university/prep school for the international clowning set. The buffoons-in-training lived in common dorm rooms, and shared everything, so the virus spread easily within the school. There it incubated. (The school was at least 30 kilometers from the nearest village in Spain.)

They developed flu-like symptoms, and then recovered, but of course, everyone at the school was a clown, or a clown-in-training, already. So the worst of the symptoms went unnoticed, until after they matriculated. When the school year was over, the faculty, staff and students went to their respective home countries, throughout the world, and began to perform as clowns: at birthday parties, in old folks homes, in circuses, at rodeos, and on the street.

At first the virus was spread by contact. Then it mutated and became airborn. By the time authorities realized they had a pandemic on their hands, the virus had mutated again: you could catch it by even seeing a clown. By then it was too late. Only the most extreme coulrophobes and the naturally immune were spared the ravages of the disease: first flu-like, then the outbreaks of Red Nose, Sad Face, Happy Face, and of course, the grotesque, frizzy, multi-colored Goofy Hair.

The economy ground to a halt because of employee absences as the victims of the Bozo Virus spent their days making balloon animals, pulling down one another’s pants, and stuffing too many of themselves into small vehicles. (Many of these victims suffocated, instead of suffering the fate of the rest.)

The infection rate was 99 percent, and except for a few cases where it was possible to restrain the victim, lethal. The Bozo Virus was a cruel task-master. The infected could think of nothing else but clowning. Every moment they were conscious, they spent coming up with routines, acts, and “bits”. They didn’t eat. They didn’t drink. They only slept when their bodies ran out of energy. Eventually, they succumbed to the diesease, and no amount of horn honking could rouse them.

The survivors all agreed it was a tragedy. Hilarious, but a tragedy.
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