Tuesday, March 4, 2014

Beowulf Project

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Friday, January 20, 2012


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Saturday, January 14, 2012

Satan’s Chest – Friday 13


Satan’s Chest – Friday 13

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Sunday, August 15, 2010

Unmeaningful Diversion

Simply put, the ham will not move on its own, states Lab Report 11391. Observation, it goes on to declare, is useless and a waste of time. Added stimuli will only prove to further frustrate and confound our technicians, who have been doing their best to entice this hock out of lethargy. No such luck, I am afraid, scoffs 11391. We have hitherto been completely unsuccessful, and this has been bad for morale. A one Dr. Swenson has required extensive debriefing and has requested to be removed from this project, stating “it is mocking me… I see it in my dreams,” and our routine scans of his brain have confirmed that, with increased REM activity in his pre-frontal lobes. 11391 suggests that this endeavor may be a quagmire. The ham, however, is unsure as to the veracity of these statements, and in addition has been contemplating ending this game of chicken and crawling around for quite some time now.

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Monday, April 19, 2010

Punctuation, Or “It’s Been Too Long”

Allow me to make a regurgitative statement, parliamentary dentures rattling with the most cursory clangor, great dolorous bloodshot eyes rolling: exclamation points, to the point of under-utilization, must die horrible deaths at interconnected points throughout this language, so that when the Chief Inspector places thumbtacks on his large map representing each crime committed he will find that they show him a picture of something highly disturbing yet only vaguely criminal in nature, a picture representing the changes of the ghostly tide sweeping over, over and out the opioid incandescence, these majestic husks. Too long the bastards have presided over our fair language, ya wee lit’l fuckers with yer wee lit’l balls under sum ugly, unfashionab’l vertical stripe! -See? Look how plain, how common, how clearly begging to be anesthetized, tied up and executed at the local dump the little bastards are- them ringing their bells on street corners, just demanding attention to unduly deserving sentences shrilly, repeatedly. Kill ‘em all, I say. Kill ‘em all. And when it’s done, construct me a giant papier-mache comma costume to wear at the masquerade ball tonight. I slay at dinner parties in that thing.

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Thursday, March 18, 2010

Maurice Visits A Nunnery

Well, well, well. You’ve caught me in the midst of a brief spot of spring cleaning, it seems. Please don’t mind the horrid mess over there on the couch, just sit down, pour yourself an ale, and I’ll tell you how all those pork rinds came to rest on my loofah and why I really can’t bother to pick them up right now- yes, I know what spring cleaning means, you fucking idiot! Uh, they’re just- well- this is embarrassing. You see, sir or madam, I was at a nunnery but scant hours ago.

It all began yesterday evening when I heard a terrifying sound from deep within the bowels of my home. It rasped, it grated, it all but begged to devour my soul! It was the furnace. “Normally my coal supplies last well until March,” I spoke to myself. “I wonder… can it be that my once-great bounty of earth’s most precious natural resource is dwindling?”

But no. When I wrested free the final padlock from the basement door and set the bolt-cutters aside, I knew then that my trove of coal was as unrequiring of repletion as it ever was, for I could see the customary mounds of it gleaming, heaped at the foot of the stair. But whatever in existence could have possessed my furnace to make those horrible noises, then? I ventured down into the cellar holding tightly to my electric torch.

I arrived at the furnace’s mouth some time later, having dug my way through piles of coal and assorted rodent-skeletons. It seemed to be in completely functional order… but what, then, could be causing its failure? It could only be one thing. I had clearly fallen out of favor with God, given what I had done at church the other day, and He had seen fit to curse my furnace forevermore. Either that or it was that I hadn’t fed Stephen, the little neighbor-boy who I’d lured into my basement and made to ceaselessly shovel coal into the furnace, and he’d died. I was banking on the first one, though, because it required slightly less subterfuge in its remedy, and so I slowly made my way to the stairs to prepare.

The local house of God at which I tried to worship last week had unwisely decided it was best if I kept my distance from them and their stupid fucking collection basket I didn’t even really want, so I had to think about where I could go to make my peace with the angered deity. I heard there was a church a few blocks away, but on the other hand there were also the google results from my botched attempts to find a nun who would be my wife (come to think of it, the two subjects dovetailed nicely!) that said there was a nunnery in Pennsylvania. God loves nuns, right? And so do I! I’d already found our common ground so early in the proceedings that I was sure I’d be draining a cold one with Him any minute now.

I arrived at the nunnery around midnight. Well, earlier, but I waited until they were all probably asleep so as not to disturb them with my troubles. Then I lit flares in a pentagonal shape all around the building, to let God know exactly where I was and whose furnace he was fucking with. What happened next was probably something I could’ve controlled, but I chose to allow human events to take course without interfering, as per the instructions in any good Time Machine manual.

A nun jumped out of a window, screaming. I couldn’t quite make out her words over the klaxons going off from within the abbey, and she wasn’t going anywhere with those broken legs, so I inched closer so I could hear if God forgave me or whatever.


So that’s what nunneries are for, I thought- but it was no time for thinking. Clearly, I was not the only person who had heard the sister’s shrieks, for from within the abbey an odd-colored smoke began to rise, as did a foul chemical odor. Quite curious. I ran up to a stained-glass window of John the Baptist and poked holes out where his eyes were. I placed my eyes there in his stead and gazed into the abbey, where I beheld the nuns’ true nature: there were several tables bedecked with beakers, tubes, and other apparati required for the production of methamphetamine, blazing unnatural hues of flame as nuns threw match after match at them, circling about the tables in what appeared to be a very disorderly ritualistic ceremony. Upon closer inspection, however, they were not moving in any type of organized fashion- rather, they seemed to be compelled to jitter about and stay in perpetual motion. They were all grinding their teeth, as well, and it seemed their eyes were bloodshot and dilated… it was as I made these observations that I began to feel more than somewhat concerned for my own personal safety.

Just then, a nun noticed my eyes darting about in the place of John’s. The jig was up now. She pointed, and opened her slavering mouth to denounce me. “THE HOLY EUCHARIST HAS COME TO LIFE! SISTERS! SEE HOW HE BEHOLDS US WITH HIS IMMORTAL GAZE! WE MUST PRAY TO HIM!” While this was far from ideal, it was also much better from being barbecued by meth-crazed nuns. Still, I had to escape, and I had the perfect plan. I spoke in a rich baritone, as John the Baptist would have:

“My daughters, I forgive thee thy sins. Go about thine business, and make no notice of my flight from this coil. It is said that the most holy of lambs is that which has sacrificed its eyes’ sight, and thus I must renounce the sin of my eyes by making them go away. Be thou not suspicious!”

The nuns all gasped in reverence. “Tis the truth!”

“Yes,” I said, stately as a Baron.


And with that, they all blinded themselves with petrochemicals.

When I got home, I fished Stephen’s corpse out of the basement and then ate dinner.

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Friday, March 12, 2010


In today’s episode, we learn where dolphins come from, and exactly why that sandwich you’re eating tastes the way it does (hint: it has to do with dolphins and their delicious beaks, which the FDA unfairly deemed illegal to use for scrapmeat but totally fine to use as pimento substitute), as well as what I’m going to do with all that goddamned fake pimento loaf that’s been sitting in my fridge for weeks.


I used to think, probably naively, that you could learn whatever you wanted about a species just by kidnapping a sample from the local zoo and having sex with it or trying to teach it English with a flash-card based system until it was either dead or pregnant. Now that I’ve learned that my dreams of having a harem of English-speaking koala mistresses are devoid of any potential to become true, I’ve lost interest and begun to spell my name out in Lego bricks, over and over again- wait, this has to relate to Dolphins somehow. Dolphins, while smarter than koalas, exist solely in a space-time continuum made of water, which is the opposite of how I’ve spent much of my post-natal life. Except for that one time I tried to see if hot-dog vendors can swim in the local fountain, which, it turns out, is a crime. Like most good things in life.

But back to the issue at hand. Even water could not defeat the indefatigable call of science plus my obsession with acting out scenes from my pirated Korean copy of the Doctor Doolittle porno spinoff (strangely, still starring Eddie Murphy), and so one fine morning I drove my rented Kia Sedona into a nearby lake in search of dolphins. After the paramedics revived me, I decided to go to a zoo. I’d like to think we all learned an important lesson here, which is that brain damage isn’t permanent when water is involved and foremost dolphins are really more of a concept than anything else so where they come from doesn’t matter.


My old Civics professor once told me, “Stanley, killing dolphins is wrong.” Stanley was the name of the student sitting next to me, and he was actually the one being addressed but ignorance is a sweet and semi-precious thing that I must retroactively cultivate as quickly as I can before my memories make me drown myself for what I did at that nursing home. Nevertheless, killing dolphins is probably more ethically dicey than, say, killing squirrels maybe. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned other than the aforementioned, it’s that if you kill something for meat society won’t care, unless it’s a person or a mailman. Which is exactly why dolphins are so valuable. If  you don’t see where I’m going with this, just go down to your local “tuna”-cannery and ask the man behind the counter labeled “dolphin meat expert” if he’s doing his job correctly. When he points his finger at you and screams, don’t be alarmed. That’s how you know it’s time to document his existence using that photocopier you brought with you! Basically, dolphin jackets are wrong but if you eat yours then it’s significantly less wrong, but only because nobody can see it anymore and it technically won’t exist.


I’ve heard that dolphins are able to detect breast cancer. Now, since I’m not a developmentally disabled three-year-old and I don’t believe in magic anymore, I know that the only way they could possibly be able to attain this knowledge is if they put the cancer in there. Kind of like Christmas presents: the only people that know what’s in the box is the person who put it in the box and the guy at the store who sold it to them. And even then, if they do know what’s in the box, is it dead or alive? Dolphins and cancer are like that. The true question must be, then, if they put it in there why do the let us know? I believe, after a comprehensive study of pictures of dolphins from the children’s section in my local lending library, that I have the answer. Dolphins, like cigars, are only dangerous if you put them in your mouth or use their hot ends to set fire to buildings. The only way to stop dolphin-related death is to spread awareness through well-placed advertisements, such as the one below which I have taken painstaking care to create. Send it to your town board today, and see dolphin-cancer victim statistics drop significantly!


Posted by Maurice in 15:36:46 | Permalink | Comments Off

Wednesday, March 10, 2010

Canada: A Return To The Mine, or The Thrilling Pre-Denouement

I awoke to find myself inside of Clefty Francoise’s humidor. Chains held me fast, and the most I could do was pitifully bang my forehead against the glass and whimper at him. To this day, I must confess I do not know whether my muffled curses reached his ears through the barrier of the humidor and across his snow-leopard-skin rug to where he sprawled in a gigantic recliner in his own image, but he took notice of my newly-regained consciousness. I could not hear his joyous cries, but he seemed to be laughing and drooling at me through his cleft as he strode towards the humidor. His evil, blank little eyes came parallel to mine, and he reached for something next to my prison. A crowbar! The glass broke open, and his grunting and labored breathing was now quite audible. His robotic claw came through the hole, and grasped my neck.

“I don’t care if I ruin my cigars, Maurice. You’ll pay for what you’ve done to my good hand!” He rasped. Although I was unable to speak, due to collapsed lungs , Francoise could see the denial in my eyes. “You did this to me! I’ll kill you, for traveling backwards in time and fathering me with your sister! Or something! Oh, right. Betraying me and discovering all the gold.” It was clear he was insane- I could see every tiny, red vein in his eyes as he tottered backwards and forwards in front of the splinters of his cigar-case.

“Francoise, we were friends so long ago. What happened to that magical friendship?” I managed to wheeze. Maybe if he dropped his guard, I could convince him we were still friends.

“My cleft happened!”

“You had that when we met.” At this, he squealed in rage and beat me mercilessly with the crowbar.

“Never mind the cleft! You left me to die in that mine.” It was true. I had left him to die in that mine, but I hadn’t thought in a million years he could have ever dug his way out of the collapsed tunnel.

“It’s true. I had left you to die in that mine, but I hadn’t thought in a million years you could have ever dug your way out of the collapsed tunnel.”

“It was three feet of dirt that you dumped on me while I was sleeping!” This was also true. The memories were all coming back to me now…

to be continued…

Posted by Maurice in 15:39:35 | Permalink | Comments Off

Monday, February 15, 2010


Lurking in the depths of the sewers one night (I dare not disclose where lest my constantly vigilant enemies exhume Pres. Reagan’s corpse and dangle it by the cave entrance so as to lure me from my current habitat), I was gnawing on the bones of a particularly succulent specie of vermin when I heard something- something I had long sworn would be the herald of my exile from the sewers, and my reintroduction of penis-mounted hand puppet street performances to civilization at large: it was the grinding clank of a manhole cover being rent from its resting-place! I scuttled to the safe cover of a large pile of filth-soaked rags, and listened intently. I heard the tinny blast of a transistor radio, and the gruff voice of what could only be a migrant worker.

“Ah! You are worthless, like the many hairs on a camel’s back! I cast thee out, I say! Out!”

Then the manhole was replaced.

Slowly, slowly, I crept out from behind the pile of rags. The radio was still playing, and although the antenna was bent it seemed to get the one station very well.


It was too much! The radio would only play one song, and I couldn’t change the station because rats had eaten all my fingers in a surprise attack at dawn. The little bastards had courage, that was for sure, but I had intelligence and size on my side… oh, I’d hunt them down, and then I’d eat them all. I could still chase after them and try to gnash at them with my mouth if I lunged low enough. My only comfort was Britney Spears’ hit number one single, “If You Seek Amy,” which only made me cry because I couldn’t seek Amy and the radio wouldn’t stop for some reason.


The judge was explaining to me just where I went wrong, but I knew he was a liar. Leaving the sewers and taking my act to Broadway was the best decision I had ever made, and if I had a budget so I could use an actual hand puppet instead of a hollowed-out rat the world would’ve agreed with me, too. I shook my shackles and bared my teeth to show the judge I was friendly, but that didn’t work so I tried to bite the lawyer. That got everybody’s attention.

It was then that I heard the song again, playing from the next room! Damn it, Britney Spears brought me back to the bad times with the rats. I had to get out of the courtroom, so I quickly stabbed myself with my last syringe of pollen and went into anaphylactic shock. Then, when the paramedics came I killed one and stole his uniform, and I was back on the street again! And when I say “the street,” I mean “the courthouse.” Because I hadn’t left the courthouse yet.

Still, after hanging the obese janitor with a belt and then wearing his skin like a Halloween costume, I was able to move around without attracting too much suspicion. I decided I shouldn’t try to leave yet, because the other janitors would be able to smell the difference, so I snuck into the hearing, where the Britney Spears was still blasting.

“It is of my opinion, sir, that this song was liable for my client’s actions.”

“Objection! Just because the song spells out “F-U-C-K me” and it was written intentionally that way doesn’t mean that it was supposed to sexually provoke people, your honor.”

“Sustained. You’re out of order, defense. I’m going to hold you in contempt if you don’t stop playing that song.”

“Fine. But my argument still stands that the song can be legally interpreted as consent.”

“Not if when the party in question jumps on the defendant and tries to have sex with them repeatedly while shouting the lyrics off-key they tell them to… uh… what was the transcript, again? We have it on tape. Just a second.” The attorney fumbled around with his papers. “Oh, yes. Here it is. ‘Stop, stop, help me, please stop raping me oh no please stop I don’t like this.’ I would say that’s the opposite of consent.”

“Well, I’d say that in that case she’s really more ambivalent than outright denying consent.”



“Fine. But there’s still reasonable doubt to whether or not it was rape. I hold anybody that sings the song is legally giving consent.”

“Not when the defendant is your client’s twelve-year-old daughter!”

“She was asking for it!”


At that point, the camera crew for the local news noticed the man wearing janitor-skin masturbating and breathing heavily in the back, and I was politely asked to leave. So I did, and then I was arrested, and that’s why I have to come to kindergartens and encourage you kids not to do what I’ve done. After all, that’s the most important part of my job here at the department of education!

education-1the dept. of ed’s new and improved seal.

Posted by Maurice in 15:18:04 | Permalink | Comments Off

Thursday, February 11, 2010

Regarding A Breach In Security

Of course the title is misleading, what did you morons expect? I may write this blog from atop a shining tower, but sadly that isn’t enough to keep you limp-wristed little dullards on your filthy alpaca farms from reading such glorious wisdom. A bullet point, for your consideration:

- (This is tastefully italicized) The local senator won’t return my calls, so my hopes of reinstating child labor and immediate incarceration of the lower classes (e.g. you) is dwindling, day by day. I can only assume this means my brain has been taken over by robot witches on tiny metal broomsticks.

-Records Deleted- And don’t you think I wouldn’t do it, either- fire is the only way to get them out. Just like the prisons full of poor people I told you about earlier. The only way to truly free their souls/absolve them of their sins is with a BIG FIRE. And if I’m wrong, it doesn’t matter because all the witnesses are dead, and can’t tell on me. I was doing them a favor, really. Prison is a horrible place. More bullet points, to illustrate my (bullet) point!

-In prison, you only get like three marshmallows in your cocoa on “sledding wednesdays.” It’s awful.

-Prison is where I learned the rule “it’s not gay if you start crying afterwards.”

-The guards in prison don’t break up tickle fights until way after you’ve run out of breath laughing!

-Sometimes, in prison, they take your stuffed animals away, because they’re full of needles. Sharp needles, that people could put an eye out with. Nobody wants that.

-After the groundbreaking “KB Toyz legislation” of the mid-nineties the prison warden will use prisoners for cheap labor to produce plush toys… and we get so angry about it, we have to fill them with needles.

My advice to you? Prison is a worthless experience, even though it seems exotic and exciting in the brochures. Trust me. That smiling black guy they photoshopped onto the cover? He won’t be there. He was a trained dog wearing a costume that they paid in kibbles and mice made out of rubber. Have you ever seen an astronaut? Yeah, me neither. But I bet that’s what’s in there, behind that glass mask-thing. Dogs. Because since the 1970′s, I’ve been hiding dogs. Everywhere.

Posted by Maurice in 14:07:41 | Permalink | Comments Off