... blong?

So I haven't been bothered to post for the last, you know, year or so. But I have exams coming up and it's amazing how the stress and pressure of having to actually succeed at something can motivate you to do all sorts of irrelevant bullshit.

Couple of short stories here that I wrote a while back. I may write some more after the exam season is over... you know how testing those things are.

Saddened by global warming, the planet cries Arctic tears. She groans under the strain of metal girders strewn by us brutal beings over her skin. Pollution gives her a bleak outlook and an acid temper, and the penguins have nothing to stand on. Only Captain Gobstopper can save us from our plight.

"Stop gobbing on the streets, youths!" decries the noble Captain, speeding past some dribbling drunk yobs. "And quit dunking those drinks with your gobs!"

Awestruck and gobsmacked, their jaws dropped, the slovenly kids stop spitting and gaze at the perfect sphere flying off into the urban sunset.

"I'm so high right now," he yells back at them, gaining altitude by the second. "Fucking drugs or some shit!"

"I tuck my legs in whilst flying," shouts the Cap, "to lower air resistance! This decreases the rate of entropy increase throughout the entire universe!" When the mountains nearby don't crack up with laughter he burns them to the ground.

"I'm making this shit up as I go!" he declares, "y'know, winging it!" A flock of geese don't get it, so he punches them in the mind and makes them cough medicine.

Sailing onwards, he hits a time barrier. Looks like the planet's salvation will have to wait until instalment two of Captain Gobstopper!

Blackpool is a seaside holiday resort filled with rollercoasters and sweat. Its rich heritage consists of Victorian peasants and workers staying there for the weekend to laugh and shout and piss in the sea. Everyone there nowadays is mighty unhappy; the single recent sighting of someone having fun in Blackpool resulted in a massive overdose on a combination of sea and other people's envy.

Let me tell you a tale of this rich cultural centre: a tale of adventure.

Mr. Al was a typical Blackpool resident; he had sat and saddened patiently next to a teddy bear during his childhood whilst a clown taught him the art of mime. Instead of washing, he relied on the salty sand-stung wind to erode dirt from his skin faster than it could accumulate. The bleached seaside planks and roadways were his only friends. Whenever he got lonely, he'd sit at the end of the pier talking to the seagulls, but even they only ever shat on him.

In short, he was dissatisfied. Too lonesome without human contact, Al stuffed his bags with a day's supply of sand, packed his pockets full of fish and went on his way to London.

When he arrived in London, he was confused. See, they do things differently over there. Instead of their food being served up by Nature herself on a beach full of seagull shit, some of their food has plants and animals in it. Instead of fish, they have cars and dogs and prostitutes and children, some of whom you have to pay to stick your penis into. Truly, this was not the free city Al had been expecting.