A Dearth Of Creativity

Here's another one, and not a minute to late by my reckoning. Enjoy!

Hi there. OK, that felt weird. I just scratched the words "Hi. there." into a piece of lousy plastic. Who's gonna enjoy looking up from their big business and reading about some guy saying hi? That is about as interesting as watching fungus grow on a fresh bologna sandwich. Not fun at all. The other day, I found a maggot in an apple. What a cliche. Why can't it for once be an earthworm or a earwig or even a tarantula? Why must it be a maggot? Sometimes, I really feel as if my life is kinda boring and predictable. No, I'm not an emo-head. 

What does emo even mean? Does it like mean emotional? But aren't emo people lacking emotion whereas emotional people are full of it? This guy doesn't understand at all. Well, what's next? I suppose I should tell a story. 

Once upon a time...

That was cheesy. Stories shouldn't start like that. They should start in the most explosive way possible. That might either excite them till they wet themselves or it might just kill them .OK. Let's scratch out amazing idea #963: Placing fireworks in books. But it could be a good idea. After all, who doesn't want to see beautiful fireworks jumping and leaping out of the book as soon as you turn the page? Of course, the smoke trails from the fireworks might smear the pages and the heat might cause the books to catch fire, but a small price to pay for an amazing read. 

I suppose you've guessed it by now that I probably have ADHD. Oh yeah, did you know that I've already completed my uhmmmm... business several minutes ago. Don't know? Well now you do. I am really bored right now. Nothing is flowing, and that includes my business as well as my thoughts. Oh look! There seems to be scratches here. It looks as if someone used their fingernails to claw at the plastic. This is weird. I wonder what happened. Hey! There's some sort of darkish red stain on the side wall! 

It looks like blood. Ewwwwwwwww. I wonder what it tastes like. 

On second thought, maybe not. It's probably infected with E.coli or something like that, or maybe it's got herpes on it. I don't wanna get herpes! Herpes is lame. Hey, why is the ground around me rumbling? Is there going to be an earthquake? Wait a minute, this place doesn't get earthquakes! So, what is it? It seems to be coming from underneath this portable commode. Weird. Maybe it's pranksters. The other day, I pulled a prank on this guy. It was so funny. I'll tell you guys about it. It all started with a roll of toi---

At this point, the etching is cut off, with a huge spatter of blood underneath it. On further inspection the blood spatter is covering a series of etchings by different people, all seemingly saying the same thing: HELLO!

The toilet seat itself looks as though a man has been dragged through it, though that's probably just my imagination. On the ceiling is yet another carving, reading: Est hoc monstra latrina patera. Cave!

The Fall Guy

Here's another one, found begrudgingly at the bequest of someone who shall not be named.

Autumn time. I just love it. The amber leaves, the crisp air, the sounds of houses burning down, and the sad screams of suicidal people. Autumn always seems to bring the best out of people. I love autumn. Oh wait. I already mentioned that. Well, all the better to get my point across. So, let's get down to the nitty-gritty. Firstly, I am not a poet. Do not expect the works of Shakespeare, Joyce, and Keats to spew from the walls of this portable commode. The only thing spewing is, well, you get the idea. 

So, autumn. Why is it so great to me? Well, for starters, I burned down my first house in autumn of '81. It was so beautiful. The glow of the flames was just fantastic against the backdrop of drooping autumn leaves. Which reminds me, I've got to go and burn someone else's house down later. It's the 30th anniversary, don't you know. The first time, I was still an amateur. I used kerosene and matches, can you believe that? This year, I'm going high tech. I'm using something like a Nerf gun, except that its not. It's a flamethrower. Yes, I know, it sounds lazy, but remember, this is my 80th house. 

So anyway, the house I'm going to burn down belongs to some widow. Don't judge me. At least I'm doing her a favor. This time tomorrow, she'll be eating cakes in Heaven with her husband. I hope so. Wait a minute. What was that? Oh, it's just some rain trickling in. But why does it look greasy? Phew! The temperature just increased! It's really hot. Wow, this is really redefining my opinion of autumn. I'm sweating like a pig. Huh. Who would've thought you could sweat like a pig here during autumn. Ouch! The wall feels hot! What's happening? There seems to be an orange glow around this commode. Plus, it's now really hot. 

Wait a minute, I think that's fire! Oh, no. I suppose this is what it feels like to be an arson victim. Wow, I really envy them! It's almost like a sauna. I should be charging them for this! I wonder what fire feels like. Ouch! It's hot! I'd better get out of here, I think. Well, time to sign off. Hey! I can't open the door! Help! Someone! Oh wait, why am I writing this down? I should be screaming. Just a second. Okay, no one's hearing me. I'm so dead. Well, this is the end! I just wish I'd done something more with my life. Goodb-

The rest of the transcript is smudged out by black soot and there is what seems to be a human femur jammed in the toilet bowl. What truly happened, we will never know. In the soot is smudged a phrase reading, "Ignis nunquam utor secretum cum."

THE END

Purgatory

It's been a while, but finally I managed to find something good for this blog on the back wall of a Port-A-John in Cuba. Enjoy!

Purgatory. The word describes it all in a nutshell. Imagine working in a factory 8 hours a day not including overtime and also having to pay for it! But that's nothing compared to the purgatory I'm going through. I am having constipated diarrhea, I am losing my house to my kids, and most of all, this portable toilet smells as though it hasn't been emptied in several years. 

Well, I don't have much space to write, seeing as the bottom half of this wall has be blackened by human excrement so I guess I'll just have to keep this short and sweet. Where should I start? Oh yes, purgatory.

I don't know how many of you out there actually want to hear about the purgatory I'm in. But still, here goes. I am a businessman. I'm currently on a business trip to Cuba. I know. Odd, isn't it? Well, let's just say I have my perks. Before any  of you judge me, let's get back to the story. On the flight over here, I had to sit next to the wettest man ever. Even at 12000 feet, he was still sweating like a pig. The seat was drenched and water was soaking through his clothes. And the smell! It was horrible! But not as horrible as the smell of this toilet. 

The moment I got off at the airport, some small kids tipped me and my suitcase into a fountain. My case snapped open and all my manly unmentionables spilled out. I think I managed to get all of them back, but I think I've lost a pair of Calvin Kleins. Well, I suppose I'll buy some later. The odd thing was, I saw a pair of CKs that looked like mine hanging on a line somewhere. But I don't think they sell Calvin Kleins with personal monogrammed initials done in gold thread. At least, I think it was gold thread. For all I know, it could just be some excrement finger painted on. The next thing to happen was just horrible. But for some indescribable reason, I can't remember it. Well, till next time then. Oh wait, there won't be a next time.

Did I mention that the sun here is terrible? I know the brochure said "Get a tan in Cuba!" but I didn't realize that the tan would come with hot sun. Even the cigars here are expensive! Come on! We pay a bomb for cuban cigars in the U.S., but here in Cuba we still have to pay a bomb? Where do these cigars come from? China? I don't know. In fact, everything advertised has turned out to be a sham! So where will I go next? Ireland, I suppose. To see if their shamrocks have now been replaced by real rocks, i suppose.

What's that sound? It sounds like a construction site coming to life. I'd better get out of here. But no! I must make my mark on this portable toilet! Just one minute...

At this point, there is a small score scratched into the plastic that looks like the opening bar of Beethoven's 7th and a small inscription that reads I regret nothing, except maybe the Cuban cigars.

And below that, there is another inscription gouged in reading, "Quid sibi vult ista wikipedia stercus semper referendo?"

The Most Pointless Story Ever (Candidate4)

After a long wait, here's the next candidate for the title of Most Pointless Story Ever. Enjoy!

We shall begin our story with a house on a hill. No, this isn't Little House on The Prairie. Inside this house, there are several rooms. In one of these rooms lies a magical box. In front of this magical box sits a zombie. At first, you might be forgiven for thinking that this zombie has already passed on the energy stage, but look! His hands are twitching. The fingers on those hands are moving actually at near the speed of light. In those hands, lies a magic wand, of sorts. This magic wand is what keeps the magic box alive and well, supplying fantastical imagery to the zombie's mind. 

The zombie licked his lips. They felt like dry sandpaper. Well, he hadn't drank for more than 16 hours already. He blinked his eyes slowly and used a hand to rub his parchment-like skin. He lifted his arms and smelt his armpits. Ewww. As soon as this was done, he thought, I'm gonna need a shower. He refocused his eyes on the magic box and concentrated. With a sudden dexterity that hadn't been present earlier, the two thumbs on his hands flicked and jerked on the magic wand, causing even further enjoyment to scurry through his mind as the magic box responded quickly and clearly to his commands. He leant in towards the magic box, every ounce of concentration focused on it. Even though his body was completely dehydrated, a bead of sweat still managed to drip down his temple. I was agonizing, but he dealt with it. 

Let us take a minute from our story to focus on another story arc.

In the town below the hill, a storm was brewing. It was gonna be a bad one. Thick thunderclouds the color of night scurried across the evening sky. Huge drops of rain spattered down on the inhabitants of the town. Some people tried to take cover under any type of shelter. Others ran into any adjacent building they could find. Small bolts of lightning were zapping down from the heavens at random, as if Zeus was having a temper tantrum. Larger bolts soon followed. Zap! A nearby tree caught fire. Zap! The steeple of the church snapped off. All of a sudden, Zap! The electrical cable connecting the town generator to the lonely house on the hill had been struck. The cable snapped completely, causing a power surge throughout the whole town. Whole buildings were shorted out by the surge. The entire town was coated completely in darkness. 

Back to the house on the hill.

The zombie was awakened out of his stupor by the power being cut off from his house. He watched in anguish as his Xbox died a horrible death without him saving the game. He pressed a few buttons experimentally, but nothing happened. No. It was over. And he was so close.

The anguished yell that came from the house on the hill caused everyone to jump out of their skins. Literally. Some people actually died from pierced eardrums.

THE END

A Random Story

Here's a story I found carved into the frost on a Port-A-John in the middle of a park Northern Hemisphere.

It's cold out here. Why did I even choose to go out here? Oh wait, it's because I don't have a home. I see bare trees, bare in the way polar bears aren't. Ha ha. Bare and bear. Geddit? That is just not funny but I suppose I have to write something here. Well, what shall I write? I should have brought a book to read. But what's done is done, there's no turning back. 

Where shall I start? Oh yeah, the other day, something odd happened to me. A small kid threw a snowball at me. Me! Gullie Bulfool the third, the CEO of BananaBuilder Industries. For your information, we do not build bananas, rather we process them. Ever eaten banana jam? It'll be the next big craze, that I can tell you. Oh wait, gotta pause, something's coming. Ah... that's much better. 

OK, where was I? Oh yes, the banana jam. I can't tell you exactly what's in it, but I can assure you it has something to do with bananas. Great. Now I'm out of ideas. What's next? Oh yeah, my court hearing is next week. My wife is suing me for $20 000 just because I haven't spoken to her in two weeks. Oh come on, it was just two weeks! I'm a very busy man, don't you know. So, the bottom line is, I've got a lawyer who claims that he'll win the case for me. His name is Mr. B.A. Deliar. Weird name, I know. He has a pet monkey, you know. 

I love that cute little critter. Especially when boogers start to drip out of his nose. That always happens when he goes out in the cold for a while and then comes back in. I wonder what his boogers taste like. Do they taste like fish? After all, they say monkey tastes like chicken. Therefore, by the law of averages monkey boogers should taste like fish. Maybe they have a show on that on the Animal Planet. I should probably check it out when I get home. I'll be right back, something else is coming. 

Man, that felt good. Now what? There's this new social networking tool on the line, or so I'm told. The call it Facebook or something like that. I don't get it. Why would they call it Facebook if the people using it weren't actually facing real books? Or is it something like Macbook, something that you can carry around? I don't know. Well most of my staff are already using it, so why not? I might sign up for it later, as soon as I get out of this hellhole they call a portable toilet. Whoa, what's happening? The whole thing is shifting, as though it's being carried. Oh my God! It's hooligans! Help me! I need to get out! There are so many things that I need to know! What do monkey boogers taste like, for instance. Oh no. I'm being carried right now. Thank goodness, I'm back on solid ground. I'll just get out now and run home as fast as I can. Goodbye.

At this point, the carving gives way to another, detailing the many ways to cook rat meat so that it may be edible. Further under that, there in another inscription, barely visible under the frost. It reads, "Evolve animalia populo autem stercoris semper eadem manet."

THE END

I HAVEn't THE REMOTEst idea.

To keep you tiding over, here's another story I found engraved into the walls of a Port-A-John.
The sun shone down strongly on that bright summer afternoon, illuminating and heating everything in sight. Leaves were dried to a crisp, pools and ponds all dried up, and suntan lotion had never been more in demand. People dared not to go outside for fear of being singed by just the tiniest ray of sunlight. Indoors, people either splurged on air-conditioning, or lazed around in baths consisting completely of human sweat. People died just from sweating. And yet, in the midst of all the suffering and strife that was faced by the people, there was a man, a man so comfortable in his mobile home. 

The A/C in his home was turned on full blast, transforming the home from a sauna into an igloo. The man sat lazily in his deck chair and stared aimlessly at the idiot box. His favorite program was on, and it showed, well mainly people being hammered by other people. Oh, how he loved it. He felt no pity for the poor sods who suffered just meters away from his house in their own houses. In fact, he felt that they had received their just desserts. However, all this lazing was taking a toll on him. He felt that he should do something productive. 

An idea plopped into his mind like and egg plopping into the sea. Let's change the channel. Let's watch something new! He grinned to himself and reached forward to take the remote. Inches away, his hand stopped. It was as if he had come up against an invisible electric fence. Pain sizzled up and down his arm, sending hurt jolting through his arm every time he tried to move it. Unaccustomed to such pain, a fat tear rolled down his cheek. He slowly moved the other arm round and used it to inspect his injured arm. Apparently, it was a cramp. He massaged it slowly, willing the strength to come back to his hand. 

Finally feeling ready, he extended his arm again. Only millimeters away now, when another tragedy hit him. It was the wrong remote.  He cast his eyes around frantically for the correct one, his heart rate climbing up and up and up. Finally he found it. A low cry of relief escaped from his lips. Salvation was near. Twisting his arm around, he zeroed in on his target and moved in for the kill. Yes, it was there for the taking. Ever so slowly, his fingers extended to their full elgth and wrapped themselves around the remote. Almost there...  

Even so, at this late stage in the game, Fate would not allow him to win. With one last almighty push, Fate rolled the dice for him again and yet again, his dice showed SNAKE EYES. 

The mystery man watched helplessly as his fingers clumsily knocked the remote of the table and it smashed onto the floor below, along with his hopes for a better life (possibly). 

The post was followed by an inscription done very meticulously that read... 
O magnum. Stercus non mi exi me. Auxilium!   

THE END

The Most Pointless Story Ever (Candidate3)

Here's another one to keep you readers satisfied. Enjoy!

Rain fell heavily, lashing at the single sheet of zinc that formed the roof of the small box they called  home. In actual reality, home consisted of just four large pieces of wood covered by the sheet of zinc. But the condition of the house does not concern us. What concerns us is what happens inside. Inside the house lay a table. Well, more of just a overturned wooden carton than a table. On the table lay the most wondrous thing in the world, which for security reasons shall not be named. Around the table were eight people of varying ages, heights and genders. Normally, there were usually only two or three people in the house at any one time, but today was special. No it was not because of the rain, though that did help put a damper on the evening. It was because of the item on the table that everyone was gathered around looking at it, giving it their fullest attention. 

The tallest person in the room suddenly announced "It's time." Automatically all heads turned to him. Digging in his pocket, he was stunned to find out that he only had one match. This was going to be hard. Taking in a deep breath, he fished it out and turned it so it was facing the right way up. He licked his lips and used his fingers to dry a section of the box so that he could light the match properly.

Meanwhile, the youngest person in the room, who shall only be known Timmy, peered through the gloom at the tall man. In his mind only one thought ran through his head. Why doesn't he light the match? We're running out of time! His young mind had yet to fully comprehend the complexities of this ceremony.

Back to the story. The tall man took a few breaths to calm himself down. If he missed this opportunity, Tommy would never ever speak to him again. Licking his lips again, he struck the match. It flared for a few seconds before finally, it caught. Time seemed to stretch as though elastic. Slowly, ever so slowly, his hand extended down to the table. He had only one shot, one chance, there was no doubt about it. Sweat trickled down his temples, but there was no time to wipe it. The match was burning out. Only microseconds left before the flame was extinguished. Where was it? Frantically he moved the match around, trying to spot it in the dim light. There! On his right! He quickly moved it down to the candle and held the flame against the tip. 

And not a moment too soon, by his reckoning.

All the occupants of the house watched in wonder as the single candle atop Timmy's birthday cake flared into life. The wonder turned into pity the moment the match burned out and the burnt stump singed the tall man's fingers.

THE END