Archive | Skwibby fiction

The wonderful thing about tautologies

He’d started the usual way: he burst through the door, landing on the nearest (and fattest) person, introduced himself, and then sang the song. (He’d paid the Sherman Brothers a fortune for it, so he sang it at every opportunity. And he enjoyed the frenetic dancing and bouncing too.)

The wonderful thing about tiggers
Is tiggers are wonderful things!
Their tops are made out of rubber;
Their bottoms are made out of springs!
They’re bouncy, trouncy, flouncy, pouncy,
Fun! Fun! Fun! Fun! Fun!
But the most wonderful thing about tiggers is
I’m the only one!

“That’s a tautology!” the enormous biker he’d landed on said. The biker weighed about 300 pounds and had the most impressive mullet that Tigger had ever seen. It was magnificent!

“Thank you!” he lisped.

“It wasn’t a compliment. You can’t say you’re wonderful, and then prove that by saying you’re wonderful. It’s a self-reinforcing statement that can’t be disproved because you’re assuming you’re correct.”

The other bikers in the bar agreed, nodding their heads.

“If you’d said, Tiggers are wonderful because we’re bouncy, that would have been fine,” the guy behind the bar said. He was wearing a leather vest and had nearly as much hair on him as Tigger, though it wasn’t a wonderful orange color.

“But I AM wonderful!” Tigger said, confused. “The Sherman Brothers wouldn’t lie about it.”

“I don’t know who the Sherman Brothers are, but they have very poor logic skills,” said the giant biker Tigger was sitting on.

“And I don’t want to be one of those guys,” said the bartender, “but their rhymes are kind of pedestrian and that bridge does not scan well at all.”

He reached under the bar and produced a baseball bat.

Alltop is great, because it’s just so fabulous! Originally published January 2011, and now also in Pirate Therapy and Other Cures.

1

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.

0

It’s morning in the Singularity

cyborg at sunrise

Bob was not a happy cyborg.

He’d had to skip is plasma bath and neural detox that morning because his dick of a boss, a narcissistic self-sustaining photosynthetic artificial intelligence named TODD-bot, needed him to come to work early. And he was late. (Clearly his autonomic clock was in need of some debugging.)

But the early morning sunrise was suffused with peace. Bob watched the local star come up, even though the TODD-bot would rag him mercilessly for the wasted microseconds. (Approximately 300,000 of them, assuming it was only his internal alarm clock that was on the fritz.) His Nazi-3000 Hyper-Optics were capable of discerning all wavelengths of solar electromagnetic radiation, but Bob especially enjoyed the colors that his original eyes would have seen, if he still had them.

He remembered the simple joy of bacon and eggs for breakfast. That first sip of coffee. As if sensing this memory, his cybertronic neural implants signaled his FEED mechanisms, and injected protein slurry into his InCavity. His tastebuds were long gone, so he could only imagine how nasty it was. (And god help anyone who had to smell what came from his OutCavity.)

A Canada goose honked in the chill morning air, and Bob felt that old familiar despair. His implants had anticipated that already, and his morning protein slurry had been dosed with antidepressants, antipsychotics and for good measure, a shot of Nazi-3000s patented Assault Dopamine for Children (it’s “ragerrific”.)

Then, Bob was intensely aware of the weapons array sticking out of his trundle, looking like a toilet plunger, and all thoughts of the sunrise were erased. What kind of idiot designed something with a toilet plunger sticking out of it? he thought, really grooving to the Assault Dopamine for Children.

He would find the humans that did this to him, and . . . he couldn’t help himself. Bob felt himself utter the hated words:

Ex-ter-min-ate!

#

Discover a friendlier AI in The Fridgularity, as it takes over the Internet, and locks all of us humans out of it. Oh, and it has access to the world’s nukes, but still. Friendlier. Honest. Available on Amazon Kindle for $4.95 and now, for all the other e-readers, on Smashwords (same price, $4.95.)

As robots go, Alltop is pretty funny. Excellent dalek pic by Johnson Cameraface on Flickr.

La dolce vita

Dinosaur in shopping cart

It wasn’t always so easy. There used to be an anger in him. An emptiness that nothing could fill … nothing material anyway.

He fell through time and space, and into a kind of dream. And it seemed as though an age passed him by, the stars streaming through the sky as though he watched them in time lapse photography. A billion billion tiny wisps of light that reminded him of Carl Sagan’s wonder at the universe.

And when it all stopped, when the spinning ended, he was filled.

Though the cart was still empty.

Alltop has no idea what the fuck just happened there. Photo by mugley on Flickr.