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Category Archives: Free Association

Zach Xyzzy was, once pon a time, quite confident in his quacking xylophones.

However, it came to pass one day that his gargantuan army of spiders with their heads engorged to a frightful size could not quite keep up with the sad-sack sandwiches of his youth. Which is to say, Zach’s passion was gone. He released the spiders in a small Midwestern town, hardly even giggling at the pitiful amount of carnage presented to him. With that much pathetic inhibition, Zach’s xylophone project seemed immateral and jejune.

Zap-Quack. Zap-Quack. It was unfortunate that the machines ran on electricity. Had they only been constructed to feed off biological life-force, Zach might have had an army of musical man-eaters on his hands. As ’twere, he had nothing worth writing home about.

And so he died, without even a project that could sustain him for more than a few short paragraphs.


Why was there a teacup made of meat? It didn’t know. It was born that way.

Nobody wanted to drink tea from it, because it was made of meat, and the blood and viscera seeped into the tea, producing a most unladylike sheen upon the surface of the liquid. How did the blood continue to ooze after seventeen years? The meat teacup did not know. It would have shrugged its shoulders if it had any shoulders, but it did not. Instead it sat there, and sort of shimmered.

Eventually someone – a man named Alistair Buick, with a hard nose, a soft abdomen, and gray, wispy eyebrows –  decided to eat the meat teacup. That was a mistake. Ten years later, Alistair died of cancer.

“My only regret is that I got cancer,” said Alistair Buick. Then, as previously mentioned, he died. The meat teacup would have been pleased, had it not been consumed, digested, and turned into shit some ten years earlier.

Instead, the meat teacup simply decomposed. Like you will, someday.

The first time Donkey laid an egg, he didn’t think much about it.

“I suppose this happens to everyone, now and then,” he thought.

Not knowing what to do, he gave the egg to his friend Mongoose, who cooked and ate it for his supper. Donkey was shocked when he found out.

“What did you expect?” asked Mongoose, irritably scratching himself behind the right ear. “I don’t have anywhere to put an egg. Anyway, I think there was something wrong with it. My stomach has been tumbling all morning.”

At this, Donkey became so upset that he stomped away without saying a word. If he had stayed, he might have noticed Mongoose really didn’t look so good.

The second time Donkey laid an egg, he resolved to take care of it himself. To his surprise, however, when he reached the little shack he called home, a nest was all prepared for him, complete with pillows, shell ointment, a very large backscratcher, and a lifetime supply of nutritious ooze – everything a growing egg could ask for.

“Who can have done this?” thought Donkey. But he never knew.

Sammy the Spaceship was achingly lonely. It had been six months since he had launched on his first mission – he was supposed to collect Glubworm larvae from the seventeen-headed mushroom cats of Proxima Valerii VII – and the solitude of deep space was beginning to get to him.

“If this keeps up,” he thought, “I’m going to have to kill myself.”

But how do you kill yourself in deep space, with nothing and no one around for light-years in any direction? If there were something to kill himself with, Sammy realized, he wouldn’t be so lonely, and therefore would not need to kill himself.

So he decided, instead, to fly to Space Hell.

The space demons were rather surprised to see a spaceship willingly fly straight toward them. There was a great deal of disappointment as the demons realized they would not be able to drag Sammy, kicking and screaming – well, as well as a spaceship can kick and scream – into the pits of their dark black fiery tomb.

No, he just shot right in, happy as a lark, and asked to be tortured, please, thank you kindly.

So the Space Devil assigned a torture demon to babysit the spaceship, but the torture demon wound up so depressed that he couldn’t do his job anymore.

“I used to really love the screams of the damned and the wails and the gnashing of teeth, but with Sammy it’s different. I feel like he’s just happy to get the attention. I asked him about it, and you know what he said? He said no matter what I do, it’s better than being alone forever. That thought was so depressing that I just… I just couldn’t go on.”

“We have a problem,” thought the Space Devil.

So he called up Space God, who at that very moment happened to be playing Space Tennis with Space Woody Allen, Snoopy, and some sort of crab-like parasite that Space God didn’t even recognize. Frankly, he was happy to have the excuse to get away, as the crab-thing – which nobody could remember inviting – kept telling really boring stories about its mother’s ovipostor fungus between serves.

However, when he heard about Sammy, he was NOT pleased.

“I sent that spaceship out myself on a Very Important Mission!” shouted Space God. “He was supposed to save the Glubworms from extinction, be exalted as their savior, have a statue erected in his memory, and seven hundred years later, when the planet explodes, that statue is supposed to fly past Senator Don Killjoy’s office at precisely the right time to convince him to run for President of Earth! Do you know how difficult it will be to inspire a politician to seek power in some other way?”

“That does sound difficult,” said the Devil. “Is there anything you can do about my problem?”

“I’ll see what I can do,” said Space God. And he flew to hell, where Sammy was writhing in agony, having the time of his life.

“Oh, hello, Sir,” said Sammy. “I have some questions I have always wanted to ask you.”

Unfortunately, hearing the Q-word sent Space God flying into a rage. He ripped Sammy the Spaceship to scrap metal with his bare hands, flung Space Hell into the nearest black hole, and made a boulder so heavy he himself could not lift it – even in zero-G.

In fact, the boulder was so heavy it promptly crushed God to death. And that is why there is no afterlife in space.

Once upon a time there was a man who liked chili.

However, this man would not be content with ordinary chili. He had to have magic chili – the kind that could turn you invisible. So he went into the swamp, and he located the Chili Witch, who lived in a three-foot house beneath the mushroom which, legend had it, would one day slay several tourists by running over them with a zamboni.

“This is no good,” thought the man. “However am I to get into this house? It is only three feet high!”

No sooner had he thought that thought, however, when quick as thought, a panther pawed out of the swamp and mauled him to death. “This is no good,” thought the panther. “All he wanted was some chili.”

So, the panther left him on the doorstep of the witch’s house, and went off into the swamp to see if he could find any resurrection spheres – rumor had it Wally the Alabaster Dodo had some, but he was stingy about lending them out to strangers.

While he did that, the man who liked chili simply lay there, quite dead. Eventually, the witch came home from her grocery shopping to find his corpse lying all dramatic and bloody across her threshold. She rolled her eyes, shrunk him so that he would fit through the door, and propped up his body in the living room.

“Well, he’s quite dead NOW,” thought the witch, “but I’d imagine he must be rather friendly, if only he were alive. Look at those eyes! And besides, as he is he makes a very handsome coffee table.”

So the witch sat back, put her feet up on the bloody carcass of  her visitor, sipped some tea, and awaited the return of the panther.