Like you, I always wondered what to do with the delectable green brine left lonely in a
pickle-less jar. As usual, the internet has all the answers. Take a look!
August 2010 Archives
The screams of the women - they haunted him. Dozens, even baker's dozens, of those from his past who just... couldn't... take it. He couldn't take it. He couldn't take the echoing shouts, wails and screeches reverberating inside his scull. These screams, these vivid spectres of the past, they were not screams of pain, or sorrow. They were screams of pleasure. Moans, cries and howls of pleasure. For it was his gift, and yet his most unfortunate talent, that every time he made physical contact with someone, they would orgasm. Hard.
High fives lead to disaster. Handshakes required an immediate cold shower, and handshakes - forget about it. Even his moment of birth had been so physically rewarding to his mother, that she actually tried putting him back in.
His first kiss, his first hand-hold, his first sly brush on the shoulder - all these women had been instantly and embarassingly incapacitated the moment he laid hands. This, of course, meant that he could never make meaningful contact with them, or anyone. To prolong contact meant only to prolong the climax - too much for many to bare. And so he was alone in the world. Alone with the greatest gift, and the most unfortunate talent.
This is a very special Punday Monday. Firstly, because I'm actually updating on Monday. Secondly, it's a bunch of illustrated Tom Swifties. Ch-check it out!
What follows may have actually happened, or it may have been a response to a writing exercise. Believe what you will....
As I stepped out of the corner store, my eyes caught it. Double breasted, broad lapels, horn buttons, slit cuffs. None of that mattered. I pressed myself back into the entranceway, steadying myself. Looking at it made my stomach churn. It was an impossibility, too thick. I remembered the thickest wool I'd seen, a 32 oz. felted winter blanket. I looked again. This was maybe eight times thicker, or maybe eighty. Tension, then pain. The thought couldn't fit in my head. Distorting with every loop, a mic too close to the amp. My mind was being overdriven.
Yes, too thick. They don't make needles that big. You can't wear something that can't be made. Was it even being worn? It smudged my thoughts. Surely everyone else on the street had missed it, or they'd have done something. Right? I'd been watching for half a minute now. I couldn't believe it'd gotten away with it for this long. Any second I expected a shopkeeper to hurdle through their display window and throw it to the ground and stomp it into nothing. They'd be a hero. Like someone diving on a grenade. I watched as its woolen dissonance started to catch on the brick storefronts, tearing off in wads, dampening all reason. It was getting harder to hear myself talk. I'd be the hero. I was right. And I knew it.
As I stepped out of the corner store, my eyes caught it. Double breasted, broad lapels, horn buttons, slit cuffs. None of that mattered. I pressed myself back into the entranceway, steadying myself. Looking at it made my stomach churn. It was an impossibility, too thick. I remembered the thickest wool I'd seen, a 32 oz. felted winter blanket. I looked again. This was maybe eight times thicker, or maybe eighty. Tension, then pain. The thought couldn't fit in my head. Distorting with every loop, a mic too close to the amp. My mind was being overdriven.
Yes, too thick. They don't make needles that big. You can't wear something that can't be made. Was it even being worn? It smudged my thoughts. Surely everyone else on the street had missed it, or they'd have done something. Right? I'd been watching for half a minute now. I couldn't believe it'd gotten away with it for this long. Any second I expected a shopkeeper to hurdle through their display window and throw it to the ground and stomp it into nothing. They'd be a hero. Like someone diving on a grenade. I watched as its woolen dissonance started to catch on the brick storefronts, tearing off in wads, dampening all reason. It was getting harder to hear myself talk. I'd be the hero. I was right. And I knew it.
Continue reading The Gargoyle Destroys a Coat.
Rather inexplicably, I've become quite taken with firing things out of cannons in recent weeks. I can't really explain it; it's just become my go-to when confronted with a problem, situation, or someone I've never met before. Toaster not working? Fire that thing out of a cannon! Computer working slowly? Make it airborne! One of your friends borrowed your car without asking? Now they're a circus act with no net. Cannons have pretty much endless utility.
Pictured: Problem solving
Pictured: Problem solving
Continue reading Cannons, Firing things out of.
Don't: Buy from that guy outside of BTB at 3am. "This shit is b-a-n-a-n-a-s, man. I'm practically giving it away at $20 a banana, yo!" All this man is giving away is that he's a dumbass. You're better off scraping your peel for banana-resin and buying $20 worth of burritos instead (which is still a stupid idea).
Do: buy that cheap quarter from the guy who just came back from his hometown in Podunkville, MI. It won't be any discernible strain, but a penny saved is a penny earned, right? Your parents would be so proud of you.
Don't: pay in advance. You trust your friend, your friend trusts his friend, and he trusts his dealer's mother's new hookup, but somewhere along the line, someone's too full to give a fuck. Someone will flake out, and you'll be shit out of both luck and bananas.
Continue reading Dos and Don'ts of buying bananas in Ann Arbor.
Gargoyle Magazine readers utilize moving companies and moving services at the end of each semester to help move personal belongings to and from school.