Archive | Toulouse Le Grandfig

Hello, My Name Is Indigo Montoya

young child sparking up a ciggyBilly was up to three packs a day, but it was okay; he was in training for the All-Tar Olympics.

His coach said he was a natural, and he had several lucrative endorsements even before he won any medals. He might have been worried about the nagging cough, the chunks of ochre phlegm he horked up after every set of smokes, but Billy was sanguine.

His twin brother, Jimmy, had a perfectly fine set of lungs just waiting to be cut out of his useless chest.

Alltop smokes stogies. Photo via Twisted Vintage. Originally published, April, 2010.

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Laundry bills

Tennis anyone

It was an undeniably exciting sport, but its inventors, Jake and Josh Meridian (pictured at right, shortly before their deaths), never could manage a rally.

Their best game (shown here, immediately preceding their horrific fiery demise) never really got off the ground, so to speak.

Jake’s trousers (in the foreground, slightly earlier than their irrevocable staining) were not even regulation tennis wear.

Alltop has thrilling rallies. Thanks to Foxtongue for finding this vintage pic. Originally published May, 2009.

Vanity Thy Name is Robot

robot taking a selfie

By mid-century, all the grumpkins agreed: robots were the shit.

Even the most hardened humano-mechanicals were aware their robotic cousins could kick their asses. And the feed stock? Don’t be ridiculous. They were so squishy. So temporary. The only reason the snarko-collective allowed the progenitor biological intelligences to survive was simple.

Even after they became hyper intelligent, robots had yet to engineer an algorithm of how to take a selfie without looking like a complete asshole.

Now please yourself with some long-form satirical fiction:

Alltop takes a great selfie.

Camusic of the Spheres 

kermit smokingThe dreams had returned, again, and no amount of coffee and cigarettes could keep their influence at bay.

The ennui was crushing at times, and even talking with an outrageous French accent would not help.

He thought of his days in the theatre. Oh, the crazy antics they’d get up to behind the proscenium. His torrid affair with the La Belle Cochon. All of the strange creatures that inhabited his world back then seemed like a forgotten summer’s holiday: it was a feeling. The intimation of sunlight glinting off his green skin… pretty girls in crinoline … absinthe parties under the panoply of the Milky Way. And so many more wisps that could be regrets if he could only recall what they were.

He was hollow. A shell. A cipher and an entertainer. These things he could be certain of, but nothing else.

Except that he always smelled of bacon.

Alltop is hammy.