The bratender shakes his head and points at the sign by the door. "Sorry, mate. Milk's only for three-year-olds and younger".
"Huh. Oh, I thought it said 30 and under!" The first seal is broken, and a can of laughter opens itself, allowing the cursed giggles to escape into the world and soften the hearty guffaws of honorable men.
"We do have other products available" continues the bratender, ignorant of the plight inflicted on mankind. "Right now, the owner's at the gym, so we're having a special on sweat!"
"I'm...not certain that sweat's potable" said the dyslexic man, who's beginning to notice the bratender's heavy breathing and hairy palms.
"Oh, no! It's perfectly safe! After all, the sweat of the poor is what gives fast food its flavour." The second seal is broken, and the sky is torn open, revealing the ceiling of a sound stage. Men and women prostrate themselves in fear.
A shriek begins at the earth's core, slowly winding its way up to the surface. The dyslexic man cannot hear it, but it raises the hairs on his arm as he struggles to read the menu.
"I'll have the, uh, Sex on the Beach." The bratender pulls a schedule from what seems to be a fur-lined toque. It wavers with every breath he takes.
"Uh, nope, sorry. The owner's boyfriend doesn't get off work until ten, and the beach's closed for the season anyways." The third seal is broken. All around the world, abominations emerge in human form. Some carry coffee cups to and fro; others snort cocaine off the backs of the prostrate. The most twisted among them simply take writing pads in their claws and tentacles and take notes, chomping on cigars with their cavernous maws.
"R-right, just give me a moment then." The dyslexic man looks behind him and sees that there are no other patrons in the bra. He rubs his fingers together nervously. "Uh, if you don't mind me asking, who is the owner anyway?"
"Her name is Namira Basta. She's a graduate of Tulane University, where she majored in divinity and biochemistry. She has black hair, blue eyes and a forked tongue. She exercises at the gym every Tuesday and owns a pet ferret. She likes to wear long, flowing dresses when she takes walks in the park. Oh, and she's a C cup." The bratender pours himself a mug of sweat as the dyslexic man looks on in bemusement. Slowly, he drinks it, smiling, staring intently at the dyslexic man. When he finishes, he smashes the mug onto the floor and stomps on it, his smile never leaving his face. The dyslexic man could have sworn that he heard hooves instead of feet.
"So, are you going to order anything? I have to close shop eventually, and I think someone like you knows how hard it is to open a bra once it's closed. Ba-dum-tish." The fourth seal is broken.
We’ll be back right after this message!
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"N-no, I don't think I will."
"Aww, come on, do me a solid. To be perfectly honest, you're the only person who's been in here all day." The bratender looks at the dyslexic man hungrily. The dyslexic man notices that his teeth have a distinctly carmine tint.
Slowly, and then very very quickly, the dyslexic man flees to the nearest door. He flings the door open, only to find the bratender polishing the same mug he had just smashed against the ground. He stands in shock, his jaw opening and closing.
"What? You didn't know the bra had two cups?" The fifth seal is broken. The camera pans back to reveal that the universe exists in a TV. A white, surburban family and their German Shepherd are watching the TV in their cottage-like house. They share a bowl of lightly salted popcorn, because that's what white surburban families do.
The tall father whispers "continue".
The queenly mother whispers "please, carry on, please".
The kids sing "we would like some cookies please".
The dog coughs up a human heart and growls "brasilisk, awaken".
The camera pans out again, revealing a woman watching the white surburban family from outside the picture window in their TV room. The picture window is there because white suburban families tend to use them as status symbols. The woman is there because she was walking home and she saw something on the TV that reminded her of something she never knew. The woman is wearing a jogging suit. She has black hair and blue eyes.
The camera fades back into the bra. The dyslexic man has regained his composure. The bratender is smiling with his lips but pleading with his eyes, his very soul. The dyslexic man takes a deep breath and reads the menu again.
"I'll have your favorite." The bratender stops polishing and raises an eyebrow. The eyes relax.
"Certainly, sir." The bratender opens three kegs in sequence and passes the mug beneath them. The first keg spits out green sludge, and the second drips out something...carmine. The third appeared to drip out nothing at all, but there was a loud plop when the cup was passed under it. He gives it to the dyslexic man, who shudders at the very sight of it.
He takes the cup and pulls it to his mouth. His entire body trembles as he struggles to part his lips and drink.
"Come on..." whispers the bratender. The dyslexic man feels every meal he ever ate fighting to get out of his stomach.
"Come on!" The dyslexic man is crying. The lips begin to part.
"You're inside a woman's bra! This is no time to be backing out!" The sixth seal is broken. Every living person is given the script to their lives, from their birth to their death. No one can get over how badly written the plot is and how unrealistic the characters are. They attempt to change the scripts, but they're all laminated. They try to kill themselves, but it's not time yet.
The cup falls to the ground, empty. The dyslexic man falls against the bar, barely supporting himself. The bratender waits in silence. After a few minutes, the dyslexic man stands up.
"Well, that was certainly a drink. I believe I'll be on my way now." The dyslexic man stumbles towards the exit, where light shines through the cracks. The bratender sighs and leans against a keg. The sketch has ended, and the world will continue.
"Oh, one more thing" said the dyslexic man, turning around at the threshold. "I have to say, I enjoyed this experience. It was nice to get a feel for this pla..." The man stops. He silently mouths "I'm sorry" to the bratender.
The seventh seal breaks. ABC picks up the pilot. CREDITS
The Dyslexic Man............Tom Hanks
The Bratender...............Idris Elba
Canned Laughter................Will Ferrell
Prostate People..............Who Cares
Abominations......................Neil Patrick Harris
You are the end result of a “would you push the button” prompt where the prompt was “you have unlimited godlike powers but you appear to all and sundry to be an impetuous child” – Zero, 2022
-- yarrunMace [YM] began pestering trevorWhatever [TW] --
I don't know if those are their actual chumhandles and i don't care
You are the end result of a “would you push the button” prompt where the prompt was “you have unlimited godlike powers but you appear to all and sundry to be an impetuous child” – Zero, 2022
A replacement for the 4th bad thing that happens, for publication purposes.
We’ll be back right after these messages!
Do you have low self-esteem and money? Want to bring a momentary piece of happiness to your dull, dull life? Want to feel like an equal with others in your social circle? Well, have I got a thing for you! Introducing Stuff, the new corporeal extravaganza that has everybody and their therapist talking about! Make friends with it! Make enemies without it! Walk outside your house beside it! Impress your neighbors! Make them jealous beyond human understanding! Have it stolen from beneath your nose! Cry yourself to sleep because of the hole in your life! It’s fun for the whole family, even though you'll stubbornly keep your parents from messing with it! Stuff! That’s right, you guessed it, it’s called Stuff.
Comments
i get so angry sometimes i just punch plankton --Klinotaxis
Assassin poems, Poems that shoot
guns. Poems that wrestle cops into alleys
and take their weapons leaving them dead
And the bratender says "what'll it be?"
So, the man says "just a glass of milk, please".
The bratender shakes his head and points at the sign by the door. "Sorry, mate. Milk's only for three-year-olds and younger".
"Huh. Oh, I thought it said 30 and under!" The first seal is broken, and a can of laughter opens itself, allowing the cursed giggles to escape into the world and soften the hearty guffaws of honorable men.
"We do have other products available" continues the bratender, ignorant of the plight inflicted on mankind. "Right now, the owner's at the gym, so we're having a special on sweat!"
"I'm...not certain that sweat's potable" said the dyslexic man, who's beginning to notice the bratender's heavy breathing and hairy palms.
"Oh, no! It's perfectly safe! After all, the sweat of the poor is what gives fast food its flavour." The second seal is broken, and the sky is torn open, revealing the ceiling of a sound stage. Men and women prostrate themselves in fear.
A shriek begins at the earth's core, slowly winding its way up to the surface. The dyslexic man cannot hear it, but it raises the hairs on his arm as he struggles to read the menu.
"I'll have the, uh, Sex on the Beach." The bratender pulls a schedule from what seems to be a fur-lined toque. It wavers with every breath he takes.
"Uh, nope, sorry. The owner's boyfriend doesn't get off work until ten, and the beach's closed for the season anyways." The third seal is broken. All around the world, abominations emerge in human form. Some carry coffee cups to and fro; others snort cocaine off the backs of the prostrate. The most twisted among them simply take writing pads in their claws and tentacles and take notes, chomping on cigars with their cavernous maws.
"R-right, just give me a moment then." The dyslexic man looks behind him and sees that there are no other patrons in the bra. He rubs his fingers together nervously. "Uh, if you don't mind me asking, who is the owner anyway?"
"Her name is Namira Basta. She's a graduate of Tulane University, where she majored in divinity and biochemistry. She has black hair, blue eyes and a forked tongue. She exercises at the gym every Tuesday and owns a pet ferret. She likes to wear long, flowing dresses when she takes walks in the park. Oh, and she's a C cup." The bratender pours himself a mug of sweat as the dyslexic man looks on in bemusement. Slowly, he drinks it, smiling, staring intently at the dyslexic man. When he finishes, he smashes the mug onto the floor and stomps on it, his smile never leaving his face. The dyslexic man could have sworn that he heard hooves instead of feet.
"So, are you going to order anything? I have to close shop eventually, and I think someone like you knows how hard it is to open a bra once it's closed. Ba-dum-tish." The fourth seal is broken.
We’ll be back right after this message!
Are you in need of fandom service? Want to get embroiled in constructive discussions about social justice? Have strong opinions against vegans? Well have I got a site for you! Introducing Tumblr, the new blogtastic extravaganza that everybody and their horse persona’s talking about! Make friends! Make enemies! Make your own posts! Reblog other people’s significantly more popular posts! Collect followers! Cry yourself to sleep whenever one of them unfollows! It’s fun for the whole family, even though you’ll never let your parents see your blog! Tumblr! You guessed it, we’re called Tumblr. –sobs–
Now back to our program!
"N-no, I don't think I will."
"Aww, come on, do me a solid. To be perfectly honest, you're the only person who's been in here all day." The bratender looks at the dyslexic man hungrily. The dyslexic man notices that his teeth have a distinctly carmine tint.
Slowly, and then very very quickly, the dyslexic man flees to the nearest door. He flings the door open, only to find the bratender polishing the same mug he had just smashed against the ground. He stands in shock, his jaw opening and closing.
"What? You didn't know the bra had two cups?" The fifth seal is broken. The camera pans back to reveal that the universe exists in a TV. A white, surburban family and their German Shepherd are watching the TV in their cottage-like house. They share a bowl of lightly salted popcorn, because that's what white surburban families do.
The tall father whispers "continue".
The queenly mother whispers "please, carry on, please".
The kids sing "we would like some cookies please".
The dog coughs up a human heart and growls "brasilisk, awaken".
The camera pans out again, revealing a woman watching the white surburban family from outside the picture window in their TV room. The picture window is there because white suburban families tend to use them as status symbols. The woman is there because she was walking home and she saw something on the TV that reminded her of something she never knew. The woman is wearing a jogging suit. She has black hair and blue eyes.
The camera fades back into the bra. The dyslexic man has regained his composure. The bratender is smiling with his lips but pleading with his eyes, his very soul. The dyslexic man takes a deep breath and reads the menu again.
"I'll have your favorite." The bratender stops polishing and raises an eyebrow. The eyes relax.
"Certainly, sir." The bratender opens three kegs in sequence and passes the mug beneath them. The first keg spits out green sludge, and the second drips out something...carmine. The third appeared to drip out nothing at all, but there was a loud plop when the cup was passed under it. He gives it to the dyslexic man, who shudders at the very sight of it.
He takes the cup and pulls it to his mouth. His entire body trembles as he struggles to part his lips and drink.
"Come on..." whispers the bratender. The dyslexic man feels every meal he ever ate fighting to get out of his stomach.
"Come on!" The dyslexic man is crying. The lips begin to part.
"You're inside a woman's bra! This is no time to be backing out!" The sixth seal is broken. Every living person is given the script to their lives, from their birth to their death. No one can get over how badly written the plot is and how unrealistic the characters are. They attempt to change the scripts, but they're all laminated. They try to kill themselves, but it's not time yet.
The cup falls to the ground, empty. The dyslexic man falls against the bar, barely supporting himself. The bratender waits in silence. After a few minutes, the dyslexic man stands up.
"Well, that was certainly a drink. I believe I'll be on my way now." The dyslexic man stumbles towards the exit, where light shines through the cracks. The bratender sighs and leans against a keg. The sketch has ended, and the world will continue.
"Oh, one more thing" said the dyslexic man, turning around at the threshold. "I have to say, I enjoyed this experience. It was nice to get a feel for this pla..." The man stops. He silently mouths "I'm sorry" to the bratender.
The seventh seal breaks. ABC picks up the pilot.
CREDITS
The Dyslexic Man............Tom Hanks
The Bratender...............Idris Elba
Canned Laughter................Will Ferrell
Prostate People..............Who Cares
Abominations......................Neil Patrick Harris
W.B. Yeats.................A Skeleton
Scourge..................Lars Ulrich
Tulane University...............Duke University
Ferret.........Joseph Gordon-Levitt
Rat King......................John Travolta
White Surburban Family.......Themselves
German Shepherd..............Robert Pattison
Namira Basta.........Zooey Deschanel
Script Readers............Again, Who Cares
Falcon Trainer...............Falcon, Falcon
Mysterious Fluids Provider..........Skeleton
Physics Defier.....................Keanu Reeves
Teeth Tinter......................Skeleton Again
Camera Guy...................Different Skeleton
Skeleton Manager.......Tim the Necromancer
Director, Producer, etc..........Institutionalized
We Would Like to Thank our Friends for Their Support, the Local Cemetery for their Continued Silence, and Viewers Like You, But Prettier.
i get so angry sometimes i just punch plankton --Klinotaxis
tiny tense nitpicks in the 3rd seal and sweat-drinking paragraphs
otherwise flawless
Assassin poems, Poems that shoot
guns. Poems that wrestle cops into alleys
and take their weapons leaving them dead
Assassin poems, Poems that shoot
guns. Poems that wrestle cops into alleys
and take their weapons leaving them dead
Thanks, Bobby.
Frigging tenses, man.
Assassin poems, Poems that shoot
guns. Poems that wrestle cops into alleys
and take their weapons leaving them dead
Anything on how to do this? Any mystic techniques that we can use?
i get so angry sometimes i just punch plankton --Klinotaxis
☭
B̤̺͍̰͕̺̠̕u҉̖͙̝̮͕̲ͅm̟̼̦̠̹̙p͡s̹͖ ̻T́h̗̫͈̙̩r̮e̴̩̺̖̠̭̜ͅa̛̪̟͍̣͎͖̺d͉̦͠s͕̞͚̲͍ ̲̬̹̤Y̻̤̱o̭͠u̥͉̥̜͡ ̴̥̪D̳̲̳̤o̴͙̘͓̤̟̗͇n̰̗̞̼̳͙͖͢'҉͖t̳͓̣͍̗̰ ͉W̝̳͓̼͜a̗͉̳͖̘̮n͕ͅt͚̟͚ ̸̺T̜̖̖̺͎̱ͅo̭̪̰̼̥̜ ̼͍̟̝R̝̹̮̭ͅͅe̡̗͇a͍̘̤͉͘d̼̜ 
⚢
Originally I thought it was just a surrealist story where, at regular intervals, the world became more convoluted and meta.
Assassin poems, Poems that shoot
guns. Poems that wrestle cops into alleys
and take their weapons leaving them dead
Assassin poems, Poems that shoot
guns. Poems that wrestle cops into alleys
and take their weapons leaving them dead
We’ll be back right after these messages!
Do you have low self-esteem and money? Want to bring a momentary piece of happiness to your dull, dull life? Want to feel like an equal with others in your social circle? Well, have I got a thing for you! Introducing Stuff, the new corporeal extravaganza that has everybody and their therapist talking about! Make friends with it! Make enemies without it! Walk outside your house beside it! Impress your neighbors! Make them jealous beyond human understanding! Have it stolen from beneath your nose! Cry yourself to sleep because of the hole in your life! It’s fun for the whole family, even though you'll stubbornly keep your parents from messing with it! Stuff! That’s right, you guessed it, it’s called Stuff.
Now back to our program!
Assassin poems, Poems that shoot
guns. Poems that wrestle cops into alleys
and take their weapons leaving them dead