Carbodiophone

A (sort of) Daily Comic, Poetry Repository, Story Suppository, Art Fart

Arthurian Fan Fiction

"Oh no!" I yelled, throwing Arthur his Excalibur. "Look out!"

Arthur plucked the fabled blade from the air and smote the knight asunder, cleft from groin to shoulder.

"Thanks, Sir Hotbodric," said Arthur, tipping his Raybans down his nose to give me that legendary wink. "I never saw him coming."

"We’re not done yet," I said, pointing to our feet. "We’ve got to help these baby sea turtles reach the shore before being eaten by sea birds!"

"Damnable sea birds!" Arthur yelled at the gathering swarm above, shaking his chainmailed fist. "If just one baby turtle doesn’t make it to adulthood, I swear upon the bones of my father Sir Uther Pentdragon that-"

"-No time," I interjected. "They’re hatching!"

We ran along the shoreline slashing at birds above and ushering turtles below, barking words of encouragement to our vulnerable charges and curses to their winged foes. Many birds were cleaved that day; many pillows-worth of down littered the sand until not one turtle was left unhatched and escorted safely to the bosom of the sea by this humble knight and his most gracious liege. 

The setting sun baked us in our chainmail and armor. Thusly we stripped ourselves to the bare flesh. Our attentions strayed elsewhere, to merrymaking. We splashed in the salty brine and named the oncoming waves silly names and built sand castles until our arms could no longer bare the weight of the wet sand. Camelot, we called our castle. 

"I hope to have a castle all my own some day, Sir Hotbodric," Said Arthur. "A castle for two dudes, just you and me."

He laid his head down on my chest and traced circles around my navel. I wrapped my arms around his heaving freckled shoulders and told him that someday our dream would come true.

Sort-of Improvised Black Bean Stew Recipe

Put a roma tomato (fourthed), onion (a good amount), and orange/yellow pepper (half) on a baking sheet and drizzle with olive oil. Sprinkle on salt, oregano and thyme and mix it all around, put in a 350-degree oven and bake ‘til you think to stop.

Before you stop, though, get a biggish pot and heat the dang thing up and put two slices of uncured but FATTY-ASS bacon in, sliced and diced into small little fatty-ass postage stamps. Fry all the fat out of them and pour your baked veggies in and stir around, breaking up the veggies into clumps. Cook until the bacon fat looks to be absorbed. Then fill with water until before everything floats. We want little islands of veggie clumps peeking out from the - WAIT BEFORE YOU add the water, add more than half of a tube of GOOD QUALITY CHORIZO. The stuff that, when cooked, turns into crumbly little popcorn-looking meat nuggets, like italian sausage; NOT LIKE RED VOMIT. Anyway, the veggie clumps should poke out from the now red water (red from the chorizo). Put chicken powder stuff in until you think that ought to be enough given how much water you put in. Get it to a boil and then go do something else for a little bit. Come back and add a big can of black beans (drained) the add the rest of another can from the refrigerator from when you had black beans the other day. Total black bean inclusion is MORE THAN ONE BIG CAN. Not too much more, though. Anyway, mix it around and put it at a low boil until, when you stir it, you can see the bottom of the pan for a split second. This may take over an hour. During this time, the crimson-water and brown bean-water should combine into a nice earthy sienna. Eat it unadorned.

Existentialist Philosophers as WWE Wrestlers

KILLkegaard: “He’ll send you Søren out of the ring!”

Heidegger the Gravedigger: “Your Being won’t know what hit it!”

Camus-flage: “When you see him, it’s already too late; there is but one truly serious escape, and that is suicide!”


Sartre-throb: “This pretty-boy attracts all the ladies, but all his opponents are condemned to flee!”

Frederick the Übermensch: “For a complete outline of his wrestling moves, consult his ‘Thus Spake Zarathrustra’!”

English Towns I’ve Visited Lately

Mallard’s Rest

Browfurrow-and-Plankpunch

New Hammondschool-upon-Ivan’s-Even-Needles-Keatles

Dykescratch-beyond-Wilfredstown Commons

Handslapsond-within-Hammerthrow

Norwelsh straddled-between-Updownton-and-Pigslaughter

Increasetown (pronounced ‘Inkstain’)

Inkstain (pronounced ‘Increasetown’)

Fordfindon

Comeuppanceberg

East Lunch

Pigfind

PiddleGranite

West Bucket

Northcram

St. Matthew-in-the-Glen

South Rape

Brian Klein

Brian Klein

A Short Poem About A Turtle Before I Go To Work

Blue turtle: O Blue turtle!

Exhalted, shelled and slow!

How I love thee!

Accept these hallowed lines

I hath writ for thee

in this enraptured state

thou hast caused.

If any a creature be

whom I desire to lift me

and carry me to safety

from some calamity,

be it fire, man-made or otherwise,

it is you, O amphibious one,

who I would so choose to do

that thing I said.

If any a creature would grow

opposable thumbs where Nature

is not want to put,

it would be thee, O turtle,

who I would want to draw me

naked, amidst my many

velvet throw pillows.

No such creature as thee,

O turtle, has been touched

by such divine Providence,

your little squeeky noises

when I feed you lettuce

is a more sacred afflatus

than that of the many-winged

arch-angle Gabriel, your

shell: brighter with the rays of the sun

than that most revered angel’s trumpet,

his trumpet’s blast,

the harbinger of holy fire

and the final eternal judgement,

cannot compare to the little squeeky

noises that I mentioned earlier about the lettuce.

Rod Sterling in Triptych

1.

Rod Sterling waits in line at the grocery store. There is one person ahead of him. He puts his items on the conveyer belt when there’s room. It’s his turn now. The clerk smiles and says ‘hello’. Rod nods and grimaces as he puffs his cigarette.

"Credit or debit?" the clerk asks as Rod swipes his card.

"Imagine, if you will, a small town, full of ordinary people no different from you or me-"

"-Your total is $56.77-"

"-living their lives without reflection or notice of the inscrutable forces at work among them. The town is a layer cake of deception, the people: its frosting-"

"-Sir, credit or debit-"

"-and the baker is a madman who bakes in an oven of insanity-"

"-Sir-"

"-and mixes his batter with the eggs he collects from his hen house of madness-"

"-Credit or debit-"

"-occupied by hens of antipathy-"

"-I’m going to have to-"

"-whom the baker feeds with seeds of-"

"-I’m going to have to ask you to leave."

*    *    *

2.

Rod Sterling waits in line at the post office. It’s not his turn. He says:

"I’d like to mail this package."

"Alright," says the mail lady. "Can-"

"A package, the contents of which would drive a man to the brink of insanity. It has no sender; no recipient. Yet it must be sent. For to not send it would be foolish, for if it were opened, the toll to our mortal world would be incalculable-"

"-Can I please-"

"-because it is not meant for our world: It is the ambrosia of the Greek gods, a libation of inextinguishable divine fire brighter than the flames of Hades and hotter than the fury of Ares-"

"-Please step out of line, sir."

*    *    *

3.

Rod Sterling sits at home watching football. His home team misses a field goal in the last seconds that would have won the game. He looks into his glass of scotch.

"Sport. A simple diversion or the embodiment of Man’s highest ideals? I submit that it is neither, that the answer lies in madness. Imagine a man pushed to his very limits, at the proverbial one-yard line, inches from the end zone, moments from victory, only to find he cannot go further. Not a fault of training or of mental acumen but of flesh. He has reached the peak of human achievement but is not allowed beyond. The trophy is not awarded to him. It is not awarded to anyone because it is a trophy of madness. And the grass: a field of madness. The game is over. The referee blows his whistle of madness. Into the showers and deep into the recesses of the mind as our hero, our Prometheus, washes away humiliation with the shampoo of madness."

Rod’s wife comes in from the kitchen.

"Who likes porkchops?"

Rod Sterling points to himself.

"I like porkchops."

A letter

A letter

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