podcast

Alright, this is a song written and performed by a new punk duo called Mummified Fetus. I'm on drums and Professor_Zoom's on guitar and vocals. We never wrote any lyrics or practiced at all, which is part of the reason that it sucks so much. The other reason is that our friend who's a good guitarist didn't show up, and this song is about him. As a warning, there is a lot of vulgarity, hate and suckiness contained in this file, so beware.

Caught in mid-sniff, she realized that the owner of the bush was currently mowing his front lawn. He was Italian and currently beet-red. Needless to say, we fled - giggling madly like children having just stolen a sweet treat from the cookie jar the whole time.

Circling one the asphalt of a parking lot, I noticed, and pointed to, a large swingset. Immediately she parked her bike and ran full tilt towards it. I followed suit shortly after, leaving my helmet dangling limply on the handlebars. We hit the swings at full speed, and, using our momentum as a kickstart, soon were swinging wildly.

As the ground became to hard to look at and I became dizzy, I slowed to a drift. Stepping off, I looked back in time to see her perform a spectacular backflip onto the grass (with a perfect dismount, too!). Clapping, I ambled towards a gazebo that looked to provide the only shade in the entire complex.

We sat there, silently, with nothing to say as our minds frantically groped for a handhold of conversation. Sentences would start and end with nothing actually being said. We launched into random anecdotes about our lives in the hope that the other person would respond and take the burden of interaction away.

Her hands were too stiff on the wheel, her eyes too searching. She muttered distractedly at cars as they cut her off and turned, even going so far as to curse at one of the farm vehicles native to Vermont countryside.

This mellifluous pastiche
imbues both grace and cynosure,
Blandoliloquent esoteric
syzygy rhapsody,
conflating lithe gossamer
into obsequious elixir ,
envisaging potamophilous from the lips of the perciever
to the caliginous kiss of the scenerist.

So, this was an idea me and secular.mosh.pit. had, where we decided to try and write a short story. There was one main condition: We had to start the story with the sentence "The sea was filled with angry monkeys", and figure out the rest of it from there. The one other requirement was that the phrase "hairy ocean fruit" had to be used at least once in the writing. So, without further ado, here is what I hope you will see as an extremely bizarre piece of writing.

The ocean was filled with angry monkeys. Not just any monkeys, mind you, but angry ones. And you won’t like them when they’re angry. I should know. Pardon me, I forgot to introduce myself. I’m Edward Fox, professional monkey fisherman. Now, when I said “angry monkeys”, I mean it. Normally they’re all docile, just floating peacefully in the waves like hairy ocean fruit, ready to be picked.

Not so when there’s a storm at sea.