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The General of Ice Cream

The General of Ice Cream had a dilemma. Too many people loved eating ice cream!

“Good god, man!” the general exclaimed. “Ice cream is a finite resource and every day we’re eating it faster!”

“So what?” the people all said. “What do you know? You’re just a general!”

“Fair enough,” the general said, “My years of logistical management in service of optimizing my people killing more people (over ice cream, always over ice cream, that damnably sweet stuff) don’t really qualify me to have educated opinions on much of anything except, well, exactly that.”

“Don’t worry about it!” said all of the actors. “That’s never stopped us before! Having an opinion (or acting like you have one) is fun!”

“Thanks, actors! I owe you one,” the general said.

“Don’t mention it,” said the actors, as they only pretended to eat the ice cream. “It’s hard to say your lines with a mouthful of ice cream,” they whispered. “If you watch us closely, you’ll see that we eat really oddly in movies and television.”

The general tried to get other people to listen to him. Everyone pretended like what he had to say was Really Quite Important, but eventually the general realized it was only an act.

“Oh what’s the use,” the general said, and ate some ice cream–one scoop rocky road, one scoop strawberry.

“Delicious!” the general said.

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Thoughts on 3 Amigos!

When your name is El Guapo, you better be either really handsome or really ugly. 

The “male/mail plane” joke is funnier in the edited for TV version, oddly. 

That really is a nice pocketwatch. 

There’s something about mixing up English with other languages that’s inherently funny (to me). (eg, “three amigos”)


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Granted, There Never Was a Time When That Wasn’t True

(You know I’m talking about ice cream!)

A few commas here, a couple semi-colons there, a dash of quotation marks, and hey–why not?–some parentheses, and Voila! instant story.

What? You want some words in there? No need! Take a look at this beauty:

“”(–);.. ‘ . . .,, ,,, “” “” . , ” () “” !

I rest my case.

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Grommets and Lugnuts

Judicious use of marmalade aside, what’s the benefit of tossing the Sasquatch away?

I’m allergic to Sasquatches, Yetis, and other furry cryptozoological creatures, for one. 


I’m so glad you approve. 

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Just So

Ordinarily, the gentleman screamed, I would be having beans on toast, but now! Now! Now!

I see I’ve mistaken you for a scoundrel, when in fact you are only a sullen child. A dullard, lacking wit, and a timely sense of what’s what. Time was, on the worst days, when even your most outrageous exploits, outbursts, mindquakes, seemed, if not charming, at least, well, sincere. Now, even your restrained cracklings seem like the torn scribbling of a layabout’s tear-stained maunderings. Too much ruminating in solitude leaves one with pretty threadbare illusions, no?

But, but, but…  Toast? sobbed the impeccably dressed fellow, blowing his nose on his silk, lavender tie. 

Here’s your toast, you emotional simpleton. Hush now, hush now. Take comfort in the fact that you’re as easily consoled as a spoilt child: all we have to do is give you what you want. Even now, see? Your tears swallowed up by the ruined desert of your face. Oh? Did I say ruined desert? I only meant handkerchief. 

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Once, when the moon hung low and the stars flashed incandescent in the night, all the children slept fitfully in their beds, dreaming of space aliens that might rob their very souls, only, in time, they came to realize that the simple expedient of drawing a person would confuse the aliens and lure them away, and so it was, and all the children slept peacefully once more.


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All In, Contrariwise

The Archetype of Hunger reached for a donut. 

“Really! Haven’t you had enough?” the Archetype of Meddling in Other’s Affairs said, slapping the Archetype of Hunger’s hand playfully, but not really. 

The Archetype of Hunger reached for some bacon instead. 

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Underground, like a Blushing Beet

“Yeah, there’s a stop-gap in the glargleflargle. Gotta rumsticate the trackladackle and stromglobulate the unicrat.”

Simon Gyrees glared at the worfler. He only understand about three out of the ten words the guy said, but he was still pretty sure he was being taken for a ride.

Junia Bea twirled around the room.

The worfler adjusted the bill of his hat (his “volpnek”) and spat onto his shoe. A guild thing, Simon Gyrees supposed. The worfler said, “Contrariwise, yoinking the sproykoidal is gonna leave in a whole mess of yuptchez!”

Junia Bea cackled.

“Sir! I’ll thank you to leave that kind of language on the doorstep outside.”

The worfler mumbled something like sorry but didn’t appear very much to be. He twirled his, Simon thought he’d called it, igglestax and cleared his throat. “The whole thing’s probably gonna starch you three hundred twenty stackers.”

Simon Gyrees goggled. “Come, Junia Bea. We shall have to fromulgate our crapsinac somewhere else! Good day to you, sir!”

Simon Gyrees and Junia Bea stepped into a teapot and vanished.

The worfler went back to eating his trepuscular and ham sandwich.

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Chatting with Max and Alice #2

Flush from their first foray into podcasting, we recorded this one the very next day.

Alice talks a lot about AdventureTime and Regular Show, and what makes those shows so awesome! I tried to change the subject a couple of times, but nothing doing. (Sidenote: Alice hasn’t seen either of these shows for several months now…)

Max geeks out about Starbound, a computer game that he and play from time to time. He also talks some about his own video game ideas. The world is not ready for Coo Coo Clocks and Dynamite Falling from the Skies!

I had a lot of fun with this one, and mostly just tried to get out of their way.

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And Ne’er the Twain Shall Meet

(Or is it Clemons?)

“Nyah nyah! Your name rhymes with lemons!” said the alarmingly irritating and pimply young lad.

“Doesn’t,” he said, smoking furiously on his pipe in spite of also being an irritatingly young lad sans pimples. For now. Also, even though he was twelve, he had a large white bushy mustache.

The other fellow balled up his fists. “…Does!” Was probably expecting a better class of retort, but found hisself resorting to what amounted to nursery-level exchanges.

With finality: “Does.” Twirling mustachios was a new and eminently satisfying activity. If he must say so hisself. And he did. The other boy looked like he was going to cry. Maybe he would. Sure enough, there went the waterworks.

Helped along by that stomp to his toes acourse.

He wandered off, leaving the crying boy to his dusty tears. He was going to write an international best seller, no doubt about it! Yessir, just as soon as he finished whitewashing this whale.

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