ABSURDIS EXTREME // Case Study #101 [6/6/1969] by B.A. Loney

This is the story of a hurricane. It was a cute little hurricane that lived in a cup of green tea, and there was no one alive that was able to get close enough to drink it. Believe me, many have tried.

How did the little hurricane end up in a cup of green tea? Simple. A gloomy young witch pouted so hard during a trigonometry lesson one day that she ended up farting out the other end. Thusly was the little hurricane born. In a flurry of excitement at the newness of its existence within an exciting new existence, it whirled under a row of seats, sending students flying in every direction. Then off it went out the door and up the hallway to freedom.

Well… it would have been freedom had the school principal not been in the way. She’d made herself a cup of green tea in the teachers’ lounge, and was walking out the main entrance to catch some fresh air. The day had been long, tiresome, and the students insufferable, so she’d planned not only to catch said air, but to befoul it with some calming, medicinal puffs of her favourite smoking pipe. All while standing behind the bike shed out of sight, of course. Wouldn’t want any stray students—or worse still, malingering parents—to get the wrong idea about her!

Anyway, it was a fine cup made from a delicate Chinese porcelain, the kind of porcelain that tinkles in an alarmingly fragile sounding manner whenever a small something or other smacks around in its liquidy insides. The principal narrowed her beautiful, myopic eyes and peeped inside. She supposed it was a stray piece of plaster or a nasty bug with entirely too many legs and eyes. Anyway, it looked as if the tea was spoiled now… and so her mood along with it.

Of course, the little hurricane was having none of this. It saw the principal’s expression, decided she was being an unreasonable fag hag, and stirred the cup’s innards more vigorously. “Yeah, bitch!” it piped up, with a meanness that was rather out of proportion with the situation, “I’m gonna stir up your Camellia sinensis leaves until the whole lot’s as lukewarm as shit. Then you won’t want it any more. You dig?”

Of course, the principal’s first reaction was to ditch the cup’s contents over the cactus garden near the school’s main entrance. But it was not to be! The little hurricane grabbed hold of the cup’s brim and began belting out crude couplets—mostly to do with the alleged backasswardness of the principal’s sex life. It wasn’t holding back! In fact, the more it ranted on, the stronger it got. There even came a point when the principal dropped to her knees, overcome with dizziness and shock. What was this? How would she deal with it?

It was all she could do to place the cup carefully on the pavement between her knees. The principal then tried to cover it up with her hands. She really needed to mute this stream of profanity-laden abuse before anyone else could hear, but the little hurricane sunk its tiny sharp teeth into her pinky finger. She howled in pain, and in a moment the little hurricane joined in with its own howl of victory. “Yeah, that’s right, you dried up old slag!” it crowed in exultation. “I drew first blood! What are ya gonna do about it, eh?!”

And so the principal’s patience snapped in two. Blind with rage, she took a wild swing and threw the cup into the school building’s formidable limestone wall. The hell with this! The delicate Chinese porcelain was probably a cheap counterfeit anyway—though she would never admit she’d thought this. The principal needed to be free of this clusterclot of trouble, and now!

Naturally, the cup didn’t shatter. It didn’t even so much as crack or crickle. That would have been too easy. No. It just thudded to the ground, landing brim side up with all of its tea present and accounted for. That’s right. Not a dribble or drop touched that earth beneath the little hurricane’s frothing and seething tempest. It was as if the little shit was indestructible!

“So, what happened next?” you may be asking. I think some of you may already know this as it was a story that was on everyone’s lips some short while ago. As for the rest of you… well, there’s Google. You can easily find the details should you so wish. What I’m conducting here is a scientific investigation into why all young witches are so weak at trigonometry.

You see, after the tiny hurricane incident, all trigonometry lessons were banned from being taught in witch colleges nationwide. Initially, the purveyors of all that is moral and right wanted to ban farting during trigonometry lessons, but the witch rights activists were strictly against this.

And now no one can decide if this was a loss or a win.

 

by TETIANA ALEKSINA & TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2020

TATI’s & TONY’s DEAD POET TOUR // The Sissy Boy by Edwin C. Ranck

Beware the Sissy Boy my child,
Not because he’s very wild;
The Sissy Boy is never that,
Although he’ll run if you say “Scat!”
The Sissy Boy’s infinitesimal,
He is not worth a duodecimal.

If you should take a custard pie
And hit a Sissy in the eye,
He would not go before a jury,
He’d only blush and say “Oh Fury!”
For he is perfumed, sweet and mild,
That’s just his kind, my dearest child.

One should never strike a Sissy,
He is too lady-like and prissy.
You do not need to use your fist
But merely slap him on the wrist,
And if this will not make him budge,
Then glare at him and say “Oh Fudge!”

The Sissy sports a pink cravat
And often wears a high silk hat;
His voice is like a turtle dove’s
And he always wears the “cutest” gloves.
At playing ping-pong he’s inured,
And his finger-nails are manicured.

He uses powder on his face
And his handkerchiefs are trimmed with lace;
He loves to play progressive euchre
And spend his papa’s hard-earned lucre.
He wears an air of nonchalance
And always takes in every dance.

Socially, he’s quite a pet
And always fashionably in debt.
He hates to be considered slow
And poses as a famous beau.
He loves to cut a swath and dash
When papa dear puts up the cash.

This, my child, is the Sissy Boy
Who acts so womanly and coy.
His head’s as soft as new-made butter;
His aim in life is just to flutter;
Yet he goes along with unconcern
And marries a woman with money to burn.

 

by EDWIN C. RANCK (1879-?)
Public Domain Poetry

the spark of life (headshot)

fear the gawking dead
they look without seeing
but it’s the gawking alives
who see without looking
that are way scarier

so kill me if you please
headshot me into a sense of life
trigger my release

force is no answer
raised fists only make more
and reason is empty talk
i can no longer bear this
please bury me under a socle

so kill me if you please
headshot me into a sense of life
trigger my release

and if i do arise
from the grave pyres of alives
i pledge to rub my wild eyes
then look you full on face
not eat it, only feast my ravenous heart

so kill me if you please
headshot me into a sense of life
trigger my release

 

by TETIANA ALEKSINA & TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2019

GUEST POST // Within by Niharika Jaiswal

I see people scowling and screaming
Raging and waging war on others,
Angry at each other or something else
But most of all angry at themselves.
They need to win a fight, any fight.
With whom, for what, it doesn’t matter,
It’s not about wrong or right,
It’s about the fight,
A way to take the anger out,
The anger that’s burning them inside,
The anger at nothing and everything.
I have been there myself at times,
And after you win the fight,
For a moment it feels like you can breathe again
It’s a good moment, you feel light
But in a little while, the anger returns
Deeper and spreading like a fire.
And the thing about fire,
You can’t throw it out the window
And on to the streets and get rid of it,
That only increases its reach.
To extinguish a fire one must remove
One of the three things that create it,
Heat, fuel, and air. The way I see it,
Pain is the match that creates the heat,
Our insecurities are fuel it feeds on
And our ego is the air that fans it.
I see people burning themselves,
And those they love, those around them,
Burning their houses and their cities,
While fighting fire with fire
And looking at the skies for a rain
Never realizing that the fire that starts within
Can only be extinguished from within.

 

by NIHARIKA JAISWAL
© All rights reserved 2017