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This work is featured fiction.

What to Do if You Get Attacked by a Frog That Eats Mice:
A Compendium of Famous Ships
By: John Reb and William Yank, Men About Town

In modern times man has often times found himself saying, “Is the microwave really that practical? Would not a toaster function better in situations in which I want to use a toaster? Where are my shoes?” This becomes most evident during times of war. Man against machine, the way it was meant to be. But can one truly change his fate. Can he tempt the gods with grape juice so that God himself would say, “I sense taste in my mouth!” And man would look triumphantly upon creation and say, “This is…this kind of a ‘Zen’ moment, dare I say.” And someone would hit him in the forehead with a very hard rock or perhaps a cinder block. He would say, “I would enjoy the scent of this.”

I would drive a car. A good question, no? No is the correct answer. Clearly this is a question that reflects the feelings of the entire spider race. Or species. I don’t give a flying ****. In regards to Broadway, is singing and dancing truly a way of expressing one’s inner sense of low self-esteem? I have never punched a small boy, but I can say with little or no fear of monsters that the history of man kind is one of many many different colors. Because the greeks and their bronze colored helmets didst do many a battle with the Romans and their partaking of slaveholding. And of course the South won. The battle was fought once more on the plains of Martha’s Vineyard where Colonel Jennings said unto Private First Class Peter McGrath, “Bring me a frothy milkshake. We may yet buy new motorcycles." The western Europeans found themselves in a state of small bathing suit wearing. This was most disconcerting. It is because of this that the Louvre, which is located in western Papua New Guinea, once belonged to Henry the XXXIX. The Eagles went home the victors.

David was not about to let Goliath push him around, so with his last ounce of strength he summoned forth a hoard of fruit baskets. They were accepted with the open arms of the Pharaoh. His assistant Mnhotmnepthititi once said that it was like, “butter.” He was quite wrong because as we all know, fruit tastes nothing like butter. But what of the Cherubim? Were they doomed to peeing in the ponds of wealthy business men for the rest of eternity? It was Frank who first picked up his sword and cried out, “bring it, god, bring it.” He died immediately. From cancer. Because God has a sick sense of humor. God once filled a bag with dog poo and lit it on fire on John the Baptist’s front porch. John didst rush out crying, “damn you teenagers, I may or may not get you.” He died immediately. From AIDs. Because venereal diseases have sick senses of humor.

So it was Peter who first sat down at his computer to type the first ever book. It was entitled See God Run. It was a good book though it could have been better. Most of its 617 pages consisted of early 19th Century engravings. It was about this time in western Europe that George Washington invaded Chechnya. The Soviets did not hesitate to shake the hands of the Ambassador of Typekistan, a southern African country that does not exist. He was searching for “Justin Timberlake” on EBAY when he came to the realization that things could be better. He put on some weight and lived a good life. A bunch of people in Tibet think he is cool. Much better than Justin Timberlake. He had very nice hair. The girls who attended his high school would always comment upon it.

College was most often frequented by fifties style greasers. They rode motorbikes. They were often times toting chains or pool cues. They were violent. And that is the TRUE story of the Hell’s Angels. This led to a chain of events which resulted in the birth of the month we know today as Friday.

For it is in good humor that Pope Constantine once said, “Hey, free sun worship.” The birth of the Christian Empire took place not over a number of years but rather in a matter of seconds. You see, when the Christians did battle against lions they didst use the legendary and also infamous “Word of Many Bad Dirty Words.” I found it utterly inoffensive when Harold, king of the Jews asked me to be his blood brother. Or maybe that was Odin…Something about Jotuns or Jotunheim or some crap like that. Nobody was ever there. Except in Asgard where they all drank mead directly from a goat’s teats. So the brave went forth, spreading the word of the almighty Master Builder as he was known. He was worshipped by both the Mechanists and the Hammerites. They wore red. Not the Mechanists…they wore blue and gold. Light blue. Psshhhh…No! That’s probably the dumbest thing I’ve probably ever heard. Why would you even say something like that? Good. Don’t do it again.

Sweet merciful potato famine! No, I have never been there, although I wish I had.




It was then that Joseph awoke from a night of drunken sleep, mostly because he was sleeping on rusty nails and jagged stones. He groggily ran his fingers through his hair, trying in vain to remember the events of the night before. For a time he sat trying to focus his eyes on his surroundings. Then all at once, it hit him, like a bag of sweaty gym socks wrapped around petrified oranges; the City morgue. Had he been drugged? Was this just a dream?

He arose from his prone position and tried to breathe deeply. The air was stagnant like when you go to an old person's house and you're all like, "Just breathe through your nose and you won't get diseased." He coughed. His lungs felt as if they had been pierced by a thousand knives of fire and he winced in pain. He stood up to gather his thoughts but immediately stumbled and fell to the hard stone floor.

"WHOOPS!" said he in an exclamatory fashion. He noticed as he was getting up that he had torn his pants. "Damn! These were my good pants! My mom's gonna kill me!" He was in the process of examining his pants that he noticed a piece of paper in his pocket. He gingerly removed the paper from his pocket. It was a letter.

It read:

Joseph,

You got totally smashed so we thought it would moderately hilarious to leave you and the Professor in the morgue...on a bed of nails and jagged stones. Dude, you gotta admit that's pretty doggone funny. I just realized that I have puke on my boots so I'm gonna go wash it out.

Later Bro'

Who was this "Professor." Just then Joseph remembered; he had been with the Professor much like the letter had stated and then had indeed been most "smashed."

It was then that the Professor, an older gentleman with a moustache and beard, awoke. "What in the Good Lord's NAME!?!?!?!" Joseph rushed to his aid.

"Dude, the guys left us in the MORGUE! THE MORGUE, DUDE! THE MORGUE!"

"SMASHING!" said the Professor as he raised his pipe into the air in a most triumphant manner. The two of them, realizing just how creepy it was in the morgue, left the morgue promptly.




John-Harold felt uneasy in his seat. The movie was good but it was not as if he could actually enjoy. He had been to the doctor days before but he knew it would take some time to get the diagnosis. He would just have to wait patiently until then.What am I doing here? Of all the places to go, I picked the one place I could not possibly get a phone call. It was almost too much to take.

It had been only three months ago that his wife, Amy-Linda, a comely girl of virtue mostly pure, had left him in the cold with no place to go. Hmph! Good parentage indeed! thought he unto himself. Once more he felt a monsoon of unbearable depression growing beneath his eyes. He excused himself to the Men's room.

As he gazed into the mirror his thoughts darted from one place to the next. What's happening to me? He ran his hands through his beard. Were it not for his beard, he would be a rather attractive man but... But what?! thought John-Harold. It didn't matter; it would all be over soon. He sighed deeply as his eyes stared deep into the soul of the man in the mirror. He turned and left the theater.

The seat in his car let out a hissing sound as when he sat on it. He had always hated that, not to mention the car, an older, brown BMW. He adjusted his mirror and started the car. As he sat there he remembered his cell phone. He quickly ransacked his glove compartment in a desperate search for it. He felt around blindly for it. It was a dark night and he had, by sheer luck, managed to park under the one light that was out. He thought of turning on his dome-light but of course that too was broken. Oh how he hated that car. Soon enough his fumbling fingers stumbled upon his cell phone. He quickly, desperately turned it on. A message. His heart sank to his feet.

It was a stern, professional sounding man who spoke the words he had dreaded so. "Mr. Chirk, I'm afraid it's worse than any of us could have imagined."

There was a long pause. Each second to John-Harold was like week to him.

"Spanish Beard disease."

He slowly lowered the window and dropped the phone. It fell to the ground with a plastic clatter. He put the car in drive and sped off into the night.




Joseph and the Professor laughed whole heartedly about their short trip to the morgue as they sped down the interstate. The music was blaring through the tiny speakers in the Professor's minivan. "I can't believe we got so hammered last night!" cried Joseph.

"INDEED, and we were passed out in the morgue all day! I DO SAY!" It was indeed night, a dark one at that. Joseph sighed as he tried to stop laughing. It began to rain.

The road became slick very rapidly. But also were the Professor and Joseph rapidly driving. The Professor reached into the back to retrieve his bottle of rum. "Spiced rum, I do say!"

"Dude, Professor, should you be drinking and driving?" said Joseph in an obviously sarcastic tone. They laughed in unison.

Suddenly, car filled with a blinding light; an oncoming car. The Professor had not been paying attention to the road. He pulled hard to the left. CRASH! All went dark.

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