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The Goddesses of Walmart

01 Artemis Scene Composition II_01

The statuesque goddess was enraged after seeing Bambi’s mother, a sacred deer, being slaughtered by the human hunter. The killer in the cartoon reminded her of the evil monster MacHeath.

Earlier, Artemis was feeling down because she could barely squeeze into her five-thousand-year-old tunic and had to find her new clothes in the big and tall women’s aisle of Walmart. Those shopping trips would be Artemis’ fatal fashion mistake. One muumuu that she tried on, in full view of the security camera that afternoon could have easily tented the Barnum & Bailey Circus including the freak show, concessions, games, the petting zoo and a calliope.

Zeus and Leto often watched Goddesses of Walmart for entertainment. That night they were horrified when they saw their daughter dressed in the giant  muumuu while trolling the aisles for deals on chips and soda.

Then the following celestial evening, after 50,300 hits on YouTube the voguish goddess Leto was forced to watch (in shock and horror) a video of her daughter shopping while dressed in a hideous floral nightgown and tennis shoes.

The hotel phone rang.

Bernie picked it up and handed it to Artemis who was eating bon-bons on the couch. “It’s your dad.”

Artemis grabbed the phone. “Daddy?”

The voice on the phone was powerful enough for Bernie to hear every word. The voice was angry enough to generate lightning from the earpiece.

“Artie. Dear Artie. Your mom and I decided that you can’t come home until you lose weight and come to your fashion senses,” daddy Zeus had said. “And tell your hobo friend to hijack himself a new suit with real pants if he’s gonna paint the town with my baby. Bernie’s friend Frankie should have already told him that life’s too short to dress like a bum. And what the hell is that thing you’re drivin’?”

“Uh…” Munch, munch, munch. “Bernie rented a Chia.”

“Everyone up here thinks that you’ve gotten weak and out of control. We can’t afford to have the other deities think that the Olympians are pushovers.” Zeus shouted into the phone. “For gods and goddesses sakes, Art-Art, you used to knock ’em dead.”

“Art-Art?” Bernie heard that and giggled.

The goddess shot lethal optikos (eye) arrows at Bernie. “Shut up, sandal licker! No, not you, daddy. There is going to be an epic battle with MacHeath’s army, so I promised to help out Bernie and his trollop friend.”

“You mean Miss Soapy Puppies?”

“Yeah, Dauna.”

“Princess,” the voice said. “Don’t come home until you’ve cleaned up your circle of friends.” Zeus hung up.

“But, daddyyyyyyyy?” The heroic figure wept a flood of diamond tears.

A text appeared.

Final judgment came to Artemis swiftly in a furious “bolt of rejection.” The bolt was hurled in the form of an angry text, with an angry minotaur emoji attached.

Artemis had just been officially banished from her home and family.

“What family, pop?” she texted back. “Do we even have a family name?”

“Good point, pumpkin. Let me ask your mom,” he wrote.

Back on Olympus, Zeus asked Leto, “Dear? What’s our last name?”

He texted Artemis, “You still there? Okay. Your mom says that our last name is ‘On High.’ We don’t need a last name, pumpkin, unlike the Kardashians. We’re bigger than Lady Gaga. We only use first names. Oh, your mom wants to know…what the hell kind of shoes were you wearing on the Walmart show?”

Zeus’ mighty presence was suddenly gone, and Artemis was hurt, and that meant that she needed tacos.

Artemis had become “an embarrassment” to the fashion-conscious Olympian gods, who were tolerant to a point, often turning their backs on lesser Olympian crimes, such as torture, mass murder, incest, rape, infanticide and eating one’s own children.




 

The Collected Letters of Lord Huthbert Grieves and Lady Penelope Weeps from the novel BATS ^^o^^

images

From the celebrated Novel, Bats, by Lord Frederick Barnett of Kailuashire 

I.

The Collected Letters of 

Lord Huthbert Grieves and Lady Penelope Weeps

(1779-1790)

A Letter from Lord Huthbert Grieves to Lady Penelope Weeps, Ghoolkamish 

April 30, 1779

Dearest Penelope,

The artillery has stopped momentarily. As I lie awake in my muddy foxhole beneath the night sky of Ghoolkhamish — Alas, my angel, I can only think of you. 

When I come home, my dearest, though it may be five years from this day, I promise we shall marry. Your father hates me, I know, as does your dog — a part of whose shattered jaw is still attached to my buttock. 

Despite what your husband thinks, I know that we can make this marriage work. Though I lost half my face, one-third of my manhood and a nipple in the bloody trenches of Dyfthphedif, I promise that the cottage that I have purchased will be a happy one, surrounded by the warm laughter of children, or — at the very least — very immature adults. 

How is your cough, my Angel? I was distressed to find that your last correspondence had a small bloody piece of your lung stuck to it, Sweetheart. Please hang on to God’s precious gift of life until I can limp to your side.

Your precious letters warm my heart, Darling. I smell your perfume and, with a shield between my mouth and the envelope, kiss the lipstick on the seal before I dream my happy dreams every night.

With my good arm, I long to hug you and keep you warm, even when you cough (Though, alas, I regret, there will be no deep intertwining of tongues).

All my love,

Yours forever — Huthbert Grieves

 April 30, 1779

_____________________

II

The further love letters of Lord Huthbert Grieves and Penelope M. Weeps 

England 1769 -1784

(Sent from Port Apotty, Africa, May 31, 1784)

My Dearest Darling Angel Penelope,

Alas! This will be my last correspondence, my sweet, as I make my way home across the sea to your warm bosom after so many years in the muddy battlefields of Hominahomina. Please have a coffin and a plot prepared for me if I do not make it home alive. Our cavalry surgeon, Doctor Osândă, has informed me that the insect known as Arden’s creeper or the acid roach, has taken up residence in my ear, while I was stationed in the steaming tropical jungle of Haffarredrash. The creature has traveled to the part of my brain called the dorsal hypothalamic, which controls the heartbreaking spread of psoriasis especially in the remaining two-thirds of what the natives call my huk-huk.

Oh, blessed heavens above! Before we left port, I had received a correspondence from my servant, Mr. Upton. He says that you are now a free woman. Joy of joys! Could that be true, my angel of angels?

Upton had written that your childhood sweetheart and spouse of twenty years had passed on after receiving a dreadful blow to the skull. My tears are flowing for you, my love, like the mighty Incontinence Falls of the great Amazon.

Mournfulness overtook me when I had found out your tiny cherubs had been called to heaven on that calamitous evening as well. Your poor spouse and children—all dead—all on the same day! Oh, Providence! Forsooth! I had no idea that you ‘were with children.’ Eight? Well, fuck meself.

I had instructed Upton, my man Friday, to insure the safety of your children, but alas, it was too late. Upton reported that the fire had spread too quickly through the mansion. By the time the frightening oaf had arose from his drunkenness in the barn, the mansion had become a mound of ashes. Thank the Lord that Upton was able to rescue and deliver you to the safety of the barn before the fire spread.

About the pregnancy. For my part, I do pardon you your irresistible charm. Upton can be unruly and some days I question my hiring the brute from the Calcutta Circus. Be assured that he is my “responsibility.” Upton comes from fine stock and I will personally claim the cherub, Uptonette, as a Ward of Court. When he approaches his fourth year, the child will be assured a fine position in a reputable shop.

I am a gentleman, my love. I will support you both until I can find the guttersnipe bastard a suitable place of employment where the sun and lice shall not harm his fair skin.

 The hour of my arrival draweth fast on. Lastly, I vow that mine remaining eye desireth thou above most.

All my love,

Yours forever and ever,

Huthbert Grieves

___________________________

III

(Sent from Bristol, England, May 14, 1784)

My Dearest Darling Huthbert, 

Every day I look for your letters. Today, I feel that cupid is in the air.

A terrible thing happened at the Hollis’ grand mansion next door to my home this week. A terrible man attempted to kill neighbor’s entire family, except for the young wife, Hippolia, a woman who might be mistaken as my twin.

After clubbing the husband, Rhynos Hollis, to death, and presuming that the children were all asleep in bed, the villain set the house on fire. Thank the Lord above that all eight Hollis children were spending the week in London’s Marshalsea Children’s Prison because of a misunderstanding over the property rights of a beaten elder, or they all would have perished in that fire.

 During the blaze, the wife, Hippolia, was dragged outside only to be violated repeatedly until the rapist dragged her blindfolded down to Cornwall, where she was spotted, by drunkards no less, laughing at the Duck n’ Fishes pub. The rough beast continued his assault upon Mrs. Hollis the entire weekend, attracting numerous noise complaints at the inn. Mrs. Hollis had managed to escape from the brute and seems to be handling her weekend of terror quite well. She did tell me that the impetuous monster has threatened to return again, here to Bristol! The cheeky devil warned Hippolia that he will hunt her down like a fox, and imprison her royal suite at the notorious Saint Germaine Hotel in Paris and prod her day and night until her wicked spell upon him is broken. The poor woman. How dreadful!

There is some good news—for you, my hero.

My husband, Owen, has left me, knowing that my heart belongs only to you—and his own heart belongs to his ballet coach, Fabricio. My two children are both fourteen-years-old and have moved away with their own large families. I sit, all alone, waiting ONLY for you, my love. I pray that I may be worthy of such a pure soul.

More good news! My consumption has disappeared entirely since I refashioned my diet to only simple sweets. You will find that there is much more of your dear Penelope to love when you return.

I hope you are well. Please tell me when your ship, The Obbrobrio (The Disgrace), comes into my port, my heart of hearts.

If the recipient of this letter is not my beloved Huthbert, please disregard, I prefer chocolates.

My love, you are forever in my thoughts and dreams.

Penelope

_________________

IV

(Sent from London, June 1, 1784)

Penelope,

Oops!

Yours,

Huthbert

One last abysmal Letter from Lady Penelope Weeps 

Sent from: Kent on Birminghanfordkingshire

To: Lord Thaddeus Huthbert Grieves— by way of Lord Ward Toady, Wraithamwichshire, February 21, 1790

_______________

V

 My poor dear Lord Huthbert!  I am in distress!

Since you wrote Oops! as the only and last word in your final letter, I’ve had troubling cogitations, my dearest. For aught I know that you may soon be with the angels, and after losing half of your face, one-third of your manhood, one nipple, and discovering that an acid roach that had entered your brain at Hominahomina, has affected the remaining two-thirds of your huk-huk. 

Three days ago, I found out that you were alive, my darling. Joy of Joys! While I was relaxing at the Drivel Pub in East Piffle I overheard the sailors, talking about how their frigate, the Countess of Cachtice, rescued a man who called himself “Huthbert” within the hold of an abandoned Chinese junk (?). One of the sailors at the Pub, who’d been given the epithet Jack-the-Gaff by his shipmates (Curiously, it was neither of Jack’s rough hands that were shaped like a hook), said that you were found nearly dead aboard a ghost ship adrift among the treacherous whirlpools of Vodu, West Africa. 

Oh dear, what were you doing in China? 

The Daily Advertiser directed me to Charity Hospital in Piffle. Alas, I was barred from visiting your room by the Empiric Doctor Phineus Osândă who instructed me to come back later in the week, as your medical situation was “extremely distasteful.” What could that mean? I thought.

 While resting at the Piffle Inn, I came across this story on the front page of the Journal. A similar story regarding your recent condition also appeared in Lloyd’s Post. 

“One unfortunate passenger, identified as London’s Lord Thaddeus ‘Huthbert’ Grieves was found below decks, soaked in his own blood. Specialists from Shire Bedlam Hospital reported the Lord Huthbert’s colon was “severely damaged by an Asian swamp eel” (Monopterus albus). The grotesque fish had chewed through the poor fellow’s colon!”

Huthbert my love, how on Earth did that abhorrent creature end up inside your lower intestine? What were you doing in China, my heart of hearts? Who were these “opium men” who were “playing a trick” on you, as per the article?

I fear that this may be the last chance to tell you that you have always been the Love of my Life, my greatest thrill, equal to my recent swim in a vat of chocolate, with the two equally pale Cadbury Brothers at their new desert parlor in London. The brothers playfully nicknamed me “Bonbon.”

I ended up marrying the elder of the brothers, Sir Richard Cadbury. I never saw his very wealthy brother, Sir Simon, alive after our dip. The police had come over one afternoon asking questions about a public argument that the two brothers had had in the Lamb’s Lair Pub. It is as though the thick London fog had swallowed Simon. He was a nice lad.

My new husband, Sir Richard, it seems, has had a number of wives but only keeps a picture of his first, Hermia, upon the piano. The sorrowful man had lost Hermia along with his only two children when the three sailed into a maelstrom, though, this time, near the island of Bermuda. Richard often talks of her beauty and her long red hair and warned me that his deceased and beloved Hermia, managed to ruin his following six marriages and mysteriously drove all the ensuing wives away! Richard fears that I will also disappear because of an apparition. You, of all people realize that I am made of sterner stuff.

Oh goodness! As I look from the front window into the moonlight, I can see a woman with long red hair, with two barely clothed moppets in tow. Poor things, so pale and hungry. I will not wake our butler, Grieves, who has already turned in for the night. 

I’ll try to write again, soon. The children are crying just outside my door. They seem to be asking for pudding, of all things. Poor dears. Their cries are weak.  I’ll offer them a warm fireplace and something to eat. 

My heart-root, I have addressed this letter to your very close friend, Ward Toady, at Wraitham, as I cannot seem to locate you, my love, my life. 

Yours in Eternity,

Lady Penelope Cadbury

P.S. Richard said that he would post this for me on the morrow. It is time to greet the poor family outside. More crying. I must go and answer the door.

________________________________

VI

This last express post was sent on August 6, 1790

From: Lord Ward Toady / Wraitham Hospital, Southeast Londonshireham

To: Lady Penelope Cadbury, London

This letter was never read by the recipient, Lady Penelope Cadbury *Lady P. never had a chance to read her last mortal link to her beloved Lord Huthbert. The letter was found unopened at the Cadbury home a week after her disappearance.

_______________

My Lady Penelope Weeps Cadbury,

My god woman, did you not hear? It is with great sadness that I must inform you that your love, my oldest and dearest friend, Lord Huthbert Grieves, had been brutally murdered in the early hours of February 18. I pray that you will not take umbrage. I was certain that you, yourself, had been murdered back in February. The Lord’s assailant was a maniacal woman with long red tresses followed by two young children. 

The trio were seen by my own hospital staff, hovering near the stone path leading into to the hospital grounds at two in the morning.

No one knows how the fiends had gained access to Lord Huthbert’s private room, as several members of my hospital staff were awake and on duty! 

My primary nurse, Mrs. Walinkova, was first alerted when she heard the voice of a woman screaming your name from the garden. “Penelope! Penelope’s gray matter will be my …pudding!” The woman’s screeching was followed by the wailing of children (“Pudding! Pudding!”) which was heard by the entire hospital staff. 

 The cacophony outside was followed by the agonizing scream of our dear  Lord Huthbert. His private room was on the second story. The staff and I ran to Lord Huthbert’s door. It took four people, ten minutes to force the door open as it was being held shut by a ghostly gale of wind. When my four servants were able to gain access the wind came to a sudden halt. They found Lord Huthbert in the closet, hanging by the neck. My scullery maid, Fifi LaDerrier, reported that the poor man’s skull had been gnawed through as if by a giant rodent. 

After the staff and I had taken Lord Huthbert’s body from the closet and lay him on the bed, Fifi, whispered in my ear — with hot breath — in French, that poor tortured Lord Huthbert was finally at peace. As we drew a sheet over Lord Huthbert’s face, we both caught a glimpse of the Arden’s Creeper (the acid roach from the jungles of Hominahomina) crawling behind the headboard. I could no longer blame Lord Huthbert’s insanity on my souple pâtisserie Fifi! Indeed, It was the roach, boring into the afflicted man’s brain that drove him mad enough to harbor eels in his bottom!  

As the Lord’s body lie covered, a quartet of my servants, who were embracing and adjusting one another’s bed clothes at the chamber window, were frozen by a spine-chilling scene in the garden below. They had become transfixed by three pale figures beneath the cold moon, screeching like Irish banshees and dressed in thin white shrouds — It was the red haired demon and what must have been her two children. As if gliding on wheels, the phantoms left a trail of fresh sea algae along the cobblestones before vanishing into the woods. Wraitham is a two day’s journey to the nearest coast.

Dearest Penelope, I am so sorry to be the one to impart this terrible news.

May our Huthbert rest in peace,

In friendship, 

Lord Ward Toady

P.S. Mrs. Walinkova says that she was familiar with you from the circus days at the Drury Lane theatre. She asked me to relay this message: 

“Cheers, Penny! I am well, and though I no longer soar above the crowds at Drury, Toady says that I still defy gravity. The silly man! Please stop by for draught someday.”

_____________________

:-* Artemis Steals Bernie’s Cat :-*

(From Shark Fin Soup by Fred Barnett)MoonGoddess

The goddess refastened Orion’s Belt around her waist and said, “Remember, I’m a goddess. Not some half-assed straaaaanger. Let’s go, Bomba. We know when we’re not appreciated.”

“Hey, that’s my cat! You can’t take my cat! Wait! I mean, ouch!”

“Yeah… It was nice, Bernie. Sorry about your sheets. Goodnight!”

“What? What about my sheets?” Bernie looked toward his feet. “Holy!” This hoity-toity Artemis person had left a cosmic trail of liquid shimmering moon dust the length of his entire body. The sheets, indeed, smelled like gardenias.

“Don’t go!” Bernie let out the most pitiful wail that the world had heard since that god-forsaken day in 1942 when Bambi’s mom was shot.

Artemis, soft as the moonlight upon her fair skin, leaned over the suffering Bernie’s pillow. “Calm down, earthling. Breeeeeeathe.” She reached between her thighs and produced a golden flower. “Peace and love, Mr. Establishment!” Magically, she’d made him laugh. And so, so pretty. She twirled the alien blossom, beneath his nose.

Bernie’s brain flipped upside-down within his skull.

Bomba licked his paws as he stared out of the window, embarrassed for his damaged human. His new stripes were blushing pink. The cat tried to console Bernie. “I too tried to resist her too,” Bomba said with his eyes.“But then…the cheeeeeeseburgers…”

“The sun will be rising soon, Bernie.” Artemis patted Bernie’s exhausted little head. “Its safe to sleep now, but from now on, you’ll have to do your sleeping at work like everyone else.”

Artemis petted the cat with her right hand while she attempted to hold Bernie’s arms in place beneath the spread of her infinite thighs. Somehow, thanks to his sturdy American pioneer upbringing, Bernie had managed to cup a mighty goddess ass cheek. He’d never felt anything so smooth. Though the pain rushed in like a wave, Bernie bravely refused to release his firm grip. He found out that it  was foolish to challenge the gods, as Artemis slapped him so hard that he imagined his head unraveling as it spun over the bleachers at Ebbets Field. She’d made him pay dearly, for his indiscretion.

Bomba purred and pulsed with new blue stripes as he faded away. The cat’s smile was all that remained until the yellow sun peeked into Bernie’s room.

Artemis leaned her forever body back and away from Bernie. When he saw his dream melt into the morning light, away from his grasp, he let out the most pitiful wail that the world had ever heard…since, well, the preceding wail—you know, the Bambi one.

Artemis gets Her Perfect Ass Banished

New Shark Fin Titled

One celestial evening, after 50,300 hits on YouTube the voguish goddess Leto was forced to watch (in shock and horror) a video of her daughter shopping while dressed in a hideous floral nightgown and tennis shoes.

Artemis grabbed the phone. “Daddy?” The voice on the phone was powerful enough for Bernie to hear every word. The voice was angry enough to generate lightning from the earpiece.

“Artie. Dear Artie. Your mom and I decided that you can’t come home until you lose weight and come to your fashion senses,” daddy Zeus had said. “And tell your hobo friend to hijack himself a new suit with real pants if he’s gonna paint the town with my baby. Bernie’s friend Frankie should have already told him that life’s too short to dress like a bum. And what the hell is that thing you’re drivin’?”

“Uh…” Munch, munch, munch. “Bernie’s Chia.”

“Everyone up here thinks that you’ve gotten weak and out of control. We can’t afford to have the other deities think that the Olympians are pushovers.” Zeus shouted into the phone. “For gods and goddesses sakes, Art-Art, you used to knock ’em dead.”

“Art-Art?” Bernie, her human, heard that, and giggled.

The goddess shot lethal optikos (eye) arrows at Bernie. “Shut up, sandal licker! No, not you, daddy. There is going to be an epic battle with MacHeath’s army soon, so I promised to help Bernie and his trollop friend.”

“You mean Miss Soapy Puppies?”

“Yeah, Dauna.”

“Princess,” the voice said. “Don’t come home until you’ve cleaned up your circle of friends.”

Zeus hung up.

“But, daddyyyyyyyy?” The heroic figure wept a flood of tears. A text appeared. Final judgment came to Artemis swiftly in a furious “bolt of rejection.” The bolt was hurled in the form of an angry text, with an angry minotaur emoji attached. Artemis had just been officially banished from her home and family.

“What family, pop?” she texted back. “Do we even have a family name?”

“Good point, pumpkin. Let me ask your mom,” he wrote. Back on Olympus he asked his wife, “Leto, dear? What’s our last name?” He texted Artemis, “You still there? Okay. Your mom says that our last name is ‘On High.’ We don’t need a last name, pumpkin, unlike the Kardashians. We’re bigger than Lady Gaga. We only use first names. Oh, your mom wants to know…what the hell kind of shoes were you wearing on the Walmart show?”

Zeus’ mighty presence was suddenly gone, and Artemis was hurt, and that meant that she needed tacos. Artemis had become “an embarrassment” to the fashion-conscious Olympian gods, who were tolerant to a point, often turning their backs on lesser Olympian crimes, such as torture, mass murder, incest, rape, infanticide and eating one’s own children.

Moonlight, Artemis and Cheeseburgers

Bernie cracked open an eyelid. The lunar light had filled the room. Light as a feather, the specter of a tall pale woman had settled astride his waist, replacing his cat who now sat at the foot of the bed. A long black braid, full of stardust, tumbled down her bare right shoulder. The light danced across on her long white legs and silk tunic. The folds of her garment fanned out like gardenia petals. With each of her deep breath the white cloth fluttered and teased across Bernie’s chest. She leaned close to see if he was still asleep.

There was no scent of flowers when she exhaled above his  lips. That would have been simple and pleasant. Poor Bernie Benedict never knew what hit him. A goddess! The woman’s lips had been anointed with the divine.

A dazzling blend of home-made chili, tangy American cheese, fruity floral onions, crisp kosher pickles and magnificent beef accords.’ 

MoonGoddess

The Tale of Jonah (for Shark Week).

Cover Bloody Good 2013Jonah “The Prophet” (when he was still operating as a non-prophet)

Swallowed By “Great Fish”

 

JOPPA, Mediterranean Sea

Monday, Fifth Century A.D.

…..They continued to pray, and finally, after ten more lovely coeds drowned, God stopped the storm. They then threw Jonah, the  party pooper, overboard.

Jonah immediately fell into the open jaws of the “fish.”

Miraculously, after tree soggy days and three glorious smelly nights in the great fish’s belly, the prophet was spat out alive (and whole), which may have been due either to Jonah’s legendary lack of personal hygiene or near-constant flatulence.

The predator was first assumed to be a cetacean (i.e. a whale, a mammal). It was most likely a shark… and a shark of that size was probably a White Pointer (i.e. Great White).

Sharks can turn their stomachs inside out (yeech). expelling foreign objects, such as prophets, whole!

(This story reached our city desk at 8:30 P.M., 467 A.D., just a few centuries after the event.)

Though the “oral” tradition of storytelling is a vast improvement over the “anal” tradition of story telling (Speaking out of one’s ass), some minor details may have been altered over the years.

“We do know that most of this tale is true, though the facts may not be ‘written in stone,’” said our editor Mr. Hezekiah.

“THE MAN WITH ONE DEAD SHOE”

New Shark Fin Titled

“THE MAN WITH ONE DEAD SHOE”

Thursday 13 November, 2003, 04:34 GMT, The Lunch Times of Fiji posted this headline:

“A 136 year apology becomes just another ‘roast’ for the descendants of Thomas Baker”

The local inhabitant’s of Nabutautau have been suffering more than indigestion after eating Thomas —the English muffin — Baker over 136 years ago. So a tribal ceremony included a Baker’s Dozen — I meant to say — a dozen of the reverend Baker’s descendants.

Prime Minister Laisenia Qarase and 600 people, attended the tribal ceremony.

The Prime-cut minister said: “The Reverend was good and good for you and we’re honored that his great-great-grandson Geoffrey could attend. And though Geoffrey’s a Baker by name, he appears to be a roaster.” (He paused for laughs.) None came. The audience was getting restless. Bibs were being tied.

The local inhabitants believe their village has been suffering bad luck ever since the cannibalism incident in 1867, and hope that saying sorry will help their fortunes.“We believe we must have been cursed. When we have made the apology we will be clean again.”

Back In 1867, The Dinner Times Published this article: July 21, Nabutautau, Fiji

The Reverend Thomas Baker, from Playden in East Sussex has passed away. Baker was killed on Monday, in Nabutautau.

The Reverend spent many years in the interior highlands of Viti Levu trying to convert the Natives who were reluctant to give up their God, Bau, who is said to be ‘really cool.’ It is possible that the Reverend Baker may have offended some villagers with his holier than Swiss cheese attitude.

Only Reverend Baker’s right shoe remains today. The Hotat tribe ate the rest, including his hat, the left shoe and his spectacles.

The reverend’s cause of death is unknown, though it may have had something to with him getting his brains bashed out by chief Mbunji’s men.
One report says that the revered and untouchable chief, Mbunji, ‘borrowed’ the reverend’s comb while the missionary was out savoring…er, uh, saving the nearby Huk Huks.

When Baker returned that evening to his adopted village during that evening, he recognized his beloved comb still stuck in Chief Mbunji’s fancy hairdo. The reverends last words were, ”I hope that you don’t have cooties, “ when he pulled the comb from Chief’s sacred  ‘do. ‘

The villagers, enjoying their Bloody Mary and Venous Victor cocktails were astounded when they saw the Reverend touching Chief Mbunji. The chief’s should never be touched by a commoner. When a Fijian chief uses a cannibal fork, he will not let the ‘meat’ of his lowly prey touch his esteemed lips.

Then one of the local’s lowered his cup of Kava and  spoke to Reverend Baker: “O.K. Baker, pick your favorite sauce.”

“We ate everything,” one environmentally conscious 10 year old boy said. “If it weren’t for his horrible   stink foot we would have eaten both shoes!“

Services will be held at 5 p.m. on July 29, at the Jesus Shall Tender-Rise Chapel. In honor of the Reverend, guests are requested to wear only one shoe. The celebratory dance afterward will be a hopping good time.

There will be an open casket, a size-10 tissue lined box.

#

It was a ‘repentant consumer’ that lead a mission teacher to the tree limb where Baker’s shoe was perched.

The Reverend’s one leftover shoe is now on exhibit in Fiji’s Culinary Arts Exhibition through January.

A final ‘Foot’ note:

In 1926, Andrew Merrit, a young Mormon from Utah became the last known ‘missionary’ victim of Fijian cannibals. Only his Sunday-go-to-meetin’ suit remained after the attack.

The wealthy Merrit family tried to sue the British Government who controlled Fiji during the 1920s.  A justice of the Supreme Court spurned the litigation by proclaiming:

“This suit holds no Merrit.”

Note:

The Reverend’s humerus bone, attached to his leftover shodden foot was recovered twenty years later from fork of large shaddock tree.

No. The humerus bone is NOT the funny bone. Nor is it even attached to the foot. The humerus is connected to the shoulder bones on top. The lower humerus is connected to the wrist bones. The wrist bones are connected to the hand bones, which in modern man is connected to the iPhone.

They were given the traditional drink of kava, and attended ceremonies on Thursday, at which they were to take part in a “symbolic cutting of the chain of curse and bondage over the village.” The chain happened to be adorning the neck of a church elder.

A Methodist pastor, Iumeleki Susu, a descendant of the only surviving member of Thomas Baker’s doomed group, was also present.

 

Bats ^^Ö^^ The Dinner Hall Scene

“No one tells my Gibor children what to do, Gretel Van Helsing!”roared the twenty-foot tall Saturn who had burst through the door and took a place in front of Vlad’s crew. He squatted and opened his arms to the stupid trusting Gibors. “Come to Daddy, kids!”

“This doesn’t look good, brother!”said Gretel. “We should make like lightning, and bolt!”

Always obedient, the repulsive Gibors ran into the arms of their daddy, who had created their miserable but delectable race long ago in ancient Mesopotamia. Daddy Saturn began to bite their heads off in quick succession. The entire room, already sick to their stomachs, was startled to see a continuous splattering loop of Francisco Goya’s Saturn Eating His Son. Drooling, the giant smiled with his mouth full, burped and asked, “Who’s got the Sriracha?”― from “Bats”

^^Ö^^

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An Interview with Kālī (from Shark Fin Soup)

New Shark Fin Titled copy

It was 6 p.m. The end of Bernie’s first day at the Interpol office in Los Angeles. He was beat. The agent’s job at the agency was based on his ‘talent.’ Bernie had been hired because he was not only able to see, but also communicate with religious apparitions.

Bernie’s first day on the job ended with a short, unscheduled, but action-packed interview in his office with the Hindu goddess  काली (Kali).

A few minutes earlier, Kali, being her usual sweet self, looked down at Bernie through the splinters of his new desk and grinned her blood covered rack of 14K gold teeth.

“I AM THE GREAT KALI!!!!” She circled the desk and castrated its four legs with a swipe of the four Jambiya  घुमावदार चाकू in her four hands, pinning Bernie to the floor in the middle of the rubble.

“Please, stop, काली!” he pleaded.

“Call me DOOOOOOOOOMMMM, Agent Benedict,” the Goddess of Destruction hissed, “AND you will thank me for beating this lesson into your sappy skull. My गुंडापन Thuggee followers, who number in the millions, still send me sweet little boxes containing their progeny’s still-beating hearts on Saint Jack the Ripper’s Day. I just want you to know that what, I, THE GREAT KALI!!!!, am capable of. What I can do to you…is NOTHING…Mwahahahaha…Nothing, compared to what that Brazen HUSSY Dauna Robinson will do to your maracas before you leave the building TONIGHT! … By the way,” Kali said, while grooming her fluttering eye lashes with her flaming jalapeño tongue, “This is hard for me to ask.”

“What? Anything! Anything! Spare me, oh, great Kali! Your wish is my command, oh fearsome goddess!” said the fetal quivering loogie named Bernie.

“Stand up, Agent Benedict. I was only joshin’ with ya,” Kali said, while brushing the wood dust off of her armored golden sari. “Do you think that you can set me up on a date with your friend, Frankie?”

“The Sumatran?”

Kali softened her voice. “I’m asking you as a friend

.…Or else, Worm!”

 

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