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Stories, Fairy Tales

The Reason Pigs Fly: A Manifesto

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There once was a town in east Oregon named baloopateeassssiville. Believe it or not it was a clown nudist colony. Now you may ask yourself. WHAT THE HELL ARE CLOWNS NAKED FOR! I am here to tell you. My name is Horatio the weasel clown and this is my manifesto.

It was a hot afternoon in mid September. The bees were out, the bees are always out. There are so many god damn bees. Back to the story. Well I was out walking my french poodle name Jose, when you know who I ran into? It was my ex-wife btichass the clown.. This was about 6 years before we became a nudist colony. That happened after the war. Well as I was saying I was walking when my little doggy took a little poopoo. Well you would not believe this but my ex wife comes and picks it up, puts it into a paper cup, adds water and PRESTO you have poop water. I was in the middle of throwing up when she asked what the matter was. I can’t believe you did that you swappy* bitch, that was dog shit yo (I was in the middle of the phase where I was talking in strange tongues). She said yes but it’s good for my asthma. I said yeah right skank, I challenge you to a duel. She said in a very feminine voice “Oh, is that like a party”. I said smirking “yeah kinda”. She said “Great, I’ll bring crumpets”. Her ignorance brought me to the point where I wanted to cut her and eat her heart. I settled for a piece of broccoli and corned beef.

Well it was the day of the duel and as was expected, she brought the damn crumpets. We sat down for a few minutes. We talked of the current japanese invasion of Virginia and caught up on the local news, movies, and books. I was almost beginning to revoke the proposal of a duel, when she brings out the biggest fish I Have ever seen. Even more amazingly, she had two. She said, I figured instead of a duel we could throw these fish. I said “I suppose so” with a sigh of relief. We mutually decided she should go first as she brought the fish. She threw it, and man the bitch could throw. Paranoia began to leap over me. What if I could not beat her throw I would be the laughing stock of the town. I began to sweat intensely and began drooping. She handed me my fish and said “Beat that if you can” she said. I said “I think I will if you don’t mind”. Well the winds had been kind that day and my throw was possibly a world record, I kid you not. That’s when the attack kicked in. I became dizzy and I was shaking like you would not believe. I collapsed in a sudden big heap. You would not believe the intensity I felt. It was like being reborn. They say I’ve lost it. But I’ve stopped listening to them. They can never take me again.

Stories

I LOVE MONKEYS

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I love monkeys. The pet store was selling them for five cents a piece. I thought this was odd since they are normally a couple thousand apiece. I decided not to look a gift horse in the mouth, so I bought 200 of them. I like monkeys. I took my 200 monkeys home. I have a big car. I let one of them drive. His name was Sigmund. He was retarded. In fact, none of them were really bright. They kept punching themselves in the genitals. I laughed. They punched me in the genitals. I stopped laughing. When I got home, I herded them into my room.

They didn’t adapt very well to their new environment. They would screech and hurl themselves off the couch at high speeds and slam into the wall. Although humorous at first, the spectacle lost its novelty halfway into it’s third hour. Two hours later I found out why all the monkeys were so inexpensive: they all died. No apparent reason. They all just sort of dropped dead. Kinda like when you buy a goldfish and it dies five hours later. God damn cheap monkeys. I didn’t know what to do. There were 200 dead monkeys lying all over my room; on the bed, in the dresser, hanging from my bookcase. It looked like I had 200 throw rugs. I tried to flush one down the toilet. It didn’t work.

It got stuck. Then I had one dead, wet monkey and one hundred ninety-nine dead, dry monkeys. I tried to pretend that they were just stuffed animals. That worked for awhile, that is, until they began to decompose. It started to smell real bad. I had to pee but there was a dead monkey in my toilet and I didn’t want to call a plumber. I was embarrassed. I tried to slow down the decomposition by freezing them. Unfortuantely there was only enough room for two at a time, so I had to change them every 30 seconds. I also had to eat all the food in the freezer so it didn’t go bad. I tried to burn them, but little did I know that my bed was flammable. I had to extinguish the fire.

Then I had one dead, wet monkey in my toilet, two dead, frozen monkeys in my freezer, and one hundred ninety-seven dead, charred monkeys in a pile on my bed, and The odor wasn’t improving. I became agitated at my inability to dispose of the dead monkeys and I really had to use the bathroom. So I went and severely beat one of the monkeys. I felt better. I tried throwing them away, but the garbage man said the city was not allowed to dispose of charred primates. I told him I had a wet one. He couldn’t take it either. I didn’t bother asking about the frozen ones.

I finally arrived at a solution: I gave them out as Christmas gifts. My friends didn’t quite know what to say. They pretended to like them, but I could tell they were lying. Ingrates. So I punched them in the genitals. God, I love monkeys.