Brock says: After a couple of weeks without, we picked back up on the weekly writing exercise.

Karaoke is over. Nobody is singing because they’re too drunk to work the machine. It is sincerely amazing that they had “Somebody Farted” by Bobby Jimmy and the Critters. People bitch because I don’t sing, but they never have songs that I know. Me and my two best dame friends woulda tore the club a new earhole if they had “Keep It Goin’ Louder” by Major Lazer featuring Nina Skye, because I do an uncanny impression of autotune. Our private room is strewn with emptied Soju bottles and shattered affections. We have one of those in-bred circles of friends that you couldn’t bring a member of the opposite sex to without causing at least a little disappointment, if not full-fledged heartbrokenness. Don’t fuckin’ fret. Those shards would be swept into the bin on the way to the next friend in the circle by next month, if not next week. Jimmy brought Giselle (Jizzelle), so Tina is outdoors smoking a cigarette to stave off panic and keep them out of her eye line for, like, five minutes. She’s thinking desperate thoughts like, “If I don’t mean everything to you, then I might as well mean nothing.” Poor Tina.

I am drunk and wearing my cock on my sleeve, so I address Janelle, the tall blonde with the most beautiful backside I’ve ever ogled. What I like most about her is that when presented with a complimentary rhetorical question, she answers it honestly. “Janelle, you’re smart, you’re funny, you get hotter with age, and not in a desperate housewives kind of way. Why don’t you have a husband?”

“Because I’m smart.” Continue reading Karaoke Is Over

So, you’ve probably noticed that the comic strips have dried up. BEEow dot com is hard at work producing animated propaganda short films, succeeding the grand tradition of wartime racism established by Warner Brothers with cartoons like the absolutely NSFW “Bugs Bunny Nips the Nips.”

Keep an eye out for “Swamp Chicken and the Nadir of the North Koreans,” “Pyrotechnic Porno Babies Put Afghanistan On Its Ass,” and “Emily Edison Racists the Ethnic Stereotypes.” Coming soon!

I know. You say, “But BEEow dot com,” using the full name so formally, “America isn’t at war with North Korea!” To you I say, stop shouting. After we figure out we can’t win in Afghanistan and withdraw, we’re going to need somebody to shoot at. Voters will be so sick of hearing about war in the Middle East, that we’ll leave Iran on the back-burner and deploy to the Pacific. Enjoy this preview of rough storyboards from the Swamp Chicken short. One continuous shot:

While on his way to arm himself, Swamp Chicken encounters animals who don’t look like him and offers derogatory remarks related directly to their species. Though it may appear to be a friendly, interspecific wave in the third row, it is actually a rude gesture. Swamp Chicken can be such a sass-hole, but it’s totally justified during wartime. This lone animator’s process is still experimental, so god only knows when we’ll see the first short. More to come!

Brock says: I started us off this week with the sentence in bold.

The cheerleaders were too spirited, the band girls were too brassy, the theatre girls hogged the spotlight, the 4H girls hogged the hogs, and the anime club girls were too withdrawn. Them soccer broads could kick my ass, the student council dames could kiss it. The color guard girls were, well, they just weren’t hot enough to make the cheerleader squad. The science chicks were too controlled, and the math ladies wouldn’t let me divide their legs. The English skirts were too pro-noun and anti-verb, and I was looking to make sweet verbs. Maybe I was being too picky. On the swim team, Valerie looked good to me, in spite of her slight frog eyes. Heather was an amazon, with the body of a goddess, but taller than me, so I don’t know if I can reach around her to unfasten her bodice. When he who has eyes to see, sees sweet, Southern Baptist Alexis it will transfigure his day, but those religious girls are too marriage-minded.

It’s my own fault if I die alone.

Brock Says: The other writer participating in this weekly exercise, Megan Renart, started us off with this sentence:

This fish tastes terrible.

“This fish tastes terrible. Because it’s fish, I guess. The only time I ate fish that tasted any good and wudn’t a fish stick, was in Vagina Beach, Vagina. Bourbon braise’ salmon with like dese little shave’ almons up top. ‘Cept for the texchure, you couldn’ tell it was fish. Not like this. This, is shit,” is what some woman was saying so everyone who wasn’t deaf in the restaurant and on the surrounding pier could hear.

“Have we been seated near an audition for the Real Housewives of Some Other Shitty City?” some dude with skinny jeans and gauged ears was saying so only his table could hear.

Nothing, is what his partner in sarcasm was saying, because though he wanted to let his friend know that his remark was humorous, he could not allow so much as one genuine, positive expression to seep from inside him into the atmosphere. For instance, a laugh. Just farts, carbon dioxide, and cynicism. He hadn’t the wit to compound the joke, so silence. Nothing to hear.

“Please, god, even if you never do anything good for me again, please let this bitch order dessert,” is what the vengeful chef was saying under his breath, so only the popcorn shrimp could hear. This matter was out of god’s hands, so the prayer went unanswered. Continue reading This Fish Tastes Terrible

Brock Says: I’ve begun a weekly writing exercise with another writer, in which we take turns sending each other a sentence and filling in the remainder of a short fiction of indeterminate length. This week, I took the lead.  The starting sentence:

My horse has cancer.

My horse has cancer. They say, “Cure cancer? We can, sir, if you turn on the funding faucet.” The spelling of faucet was different around the time of Farrah’s death. This is totally unrelated, but, do you think it’s disrespectful to jerk off with photos of deceased celebrities?

The fact is, we probably won’t cure it, and most certainly not in time to free my horse. We can cut it out, irradiate it, and fill her blood with bone marrow and hair follicle cell disintegrating chemicals to chase it away, but we’re really just helping it build a tolerance to come back stronger whenever it decides it wants to relapse. I’d say, “Cancer can go fuck itself,” but I’m afraid it might hear me. Continue reading My Horse Has Cancer