ABSURDIS EXTREME // Case Study #20,913,067 [12/12/2024] by B.A. Loney

Adam Ant was crawling along a Möbius strip in the hopes of bumping into August or Johann—you know, to get their autographs and maybe even a selfie. The other ants hadn’t the heart to tell Adam Ant that this was unlikely to happen as his two favourite German mathematicians were long dead.

It was an arduous journey, but Adam Ant didn’t falter. He wholeheartedly believed that every new turn brings a fresh hope, so he went ahead carrying a grain of sugar, his gift to the geniuses he would never find. (All geniuses have a sweet tooth, you know. Glucose nourishes the brain.)

While it goes without saying that he never reached his intended goal, it should go with saying that somebody else did reach him. You see, Eve Ant was crawling along the Möbius strip from the other direction. Some would call it fate that their paths crossed. Others would call it inevitable because what other direction was she going to go in? Well, maybe in the same direction as Adam Ant but then they never would have met at all. Or maybe inward but then neither of them were overly given to self reflection, what with being as shallow as an aquaphobic amoeba’s wading pool.

Anyway, encounter one another they did, and so Eve Ant immediately asked if there was a hotel nearby. You see, she was bone-tired (perhaps because her skeleton was on the outside and she’d been walking on it for so long) and just wanted a place to put her feet up for the night. Adam Ant wasn’t tired at all because he’d been rollerblading the whole way (oh, did we fail to mention this earlier?), but he did rather fancy the ampleness of Eve Ant’s abdomen so he thought he’d stick around to keep getting a sweet, sweet eyeful.

So, Adam Ant took Eve Ant by the elbow (like a real gentleman) and escorted her right to the door of a nearby hotel. He even helped lug her luggage (that’s how much he was impressed with her abdomen). And, what’s more, he payed for the most expensive room for one night, and was so classy that he didn’t sleep in the giant, luxury double bed with her. That’s right, Adam Ant slept out on the giant, luxury double couch instead. Naturally, Eve Ant was so impressed by all of this that she found herself wishing she hadn’t torn off her wings and become queen of another colony already.

But, truth be told, Eve Ant had absconded from her duties as breeder and matriarch months ago. There was so much more to life than popping out millions of eggs until she resembled a desiccated ball sack. She wanted to see the world! And perhaps Adam Ant was the one she could share this dream with. Perhaps he wouldn’t even mind so much that she was no longer a virgin (didn’t some men like older, more experienced women anyway?).

As it happened, Adam Ant was desperate to have Eve Ant stick around (so he could goggle at her abdomen some more), so he invited her to sit at the edge of the Möbius strip with him awhile. Eve Ant was giddy with delight, and they romantically dangled their legs, ate from Adam Ant’s grain of sugar, and gazed at the stars. Their compound eyes were full of love hearts for each other an—

Somebody sprinkled dichlorvos on them and they died.

Adam Ant

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Believe in Yourself

It was a dark and stormy night. As always, I hid under the blanket with an apple, a copy of the Encyclopædia Britannica and a tiny flashlight.

On this occasion, I was engrossed with the sixth volume (Châtelet to Constantine), namely the entry on Christmas. I needed to prepare my arguments for next week’s theology club dispute. And I considered it a ‘dispute’ because rarely was the debate civil. It tended to be more like a wrestling smackdown of biblical proportions.

According to the text, the body of gospel tradition began not with the birth, but the baptism. And Herod the Great ordered the ‘massacre of the innocents’ which was news to me. Hm. Were there really three wise men? Mum and Dad never said anything to me about a census either. And why were the dates listed vague at best?

Anxious, I stared at the holes in my hands. There was no way I was going to win with such lame argumentation. In frustration, I bit my flashlight instead of the apple. Everything plunged into darkness.

But then I pulled myself together. No, those who’d believe would… well, simply believe. I adjusted the light of my halo over the page and read on.

Believe in Yourself

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Pop(u)lar Issues

The real God lives behind the comic book store that’s down the street from the hospital where the meth heads congregate to count all the crows circling above them. And it’s those very crows that are plotting to murder the fake God that lives in the next town over, who does so because he can’t stand the real God’s fakeness and the cottonwoods there that used to fuck with his hayfever when he was a small child god.

But this story isn’t about any of that. It’s about the aforementioned cottonwoods—those bloody cottonwoods, the bane of my youth! Ask me about the most paranormal things in the world. Bermuda Triangle? Pah! Just a mess of seaweed, plastic bags and used women’s pads fucking boats and planes up. Area 51? I beg you, try taking a peep under my grandma’s bed and you’ll discover a shit ton of extra-terrestrial civilisations that’ve been there from the dawn of time (if you don’t suffocate from the stench of crusty old socks first). But those cottonwoods? Now those were a completely different matter.

The cottonwoods were real mean motherfuckers all year round. Not only would they eat your balls whenever you played with them (no, not those balls—I’m talking about the ones you toss at windows), they’d eat your frisbees and hats, and even umbrellas too. And did you ever get any of that stuff back? Of course not! The upward facing branches of the cottonwoods exercised a death grip more potent than the kite eating tree in ‘Peanuts’. We kids were in a world of hurt that Charlie Brown could have only dreamed of!

But that wasn’t the worst thing about those cottonwoods. Not even their godawful fluff that’d bung up your nose and mouth (and other more unseemly holes) whenever you passed them in the summer. That fluff, at least, had the decency to catch fire easily, burning quickly and amusingly (and that wooden barn was old and abandoned anyway). No, that shit was fine. It was the fundamentalist numbats that had taken up residence in the cottonwoods—they were the worst thing! They should’ve been living out their lives in the gum trees or pubs (or wherever the hell such things live), but decided instead that tediously evangelising far and wide was more important than their evolutionary roots.

Well, actually, you know what? When I come to think of it, I think I could have even borne their endless chittering about the immortal soul and perishable body, and how people who pick their noses and say ‘fuck’ won’t get into heaven, and how one can be best buds with the real God and other such bullshit. But that creaking! Do you know how awfully creaky cottonwoods are? The sound was like two Skeksis mating shamelessly on a pile of jinky bed springs—I don’t know how I know that, but trust me, that’s exactly what it was like! And I hate it! Why were butt ugly Skeksis getting some and not me? I was a pretty enough girl when I was in my teens! Why weren’t guys falling all over themselves to get inside my panties?


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ABSURDIS EXTREME // Case Study #1,009,851 [06/09/2087] by B.A. Loney

This is the story of my sincere attempts at following some good advice. I was concerned about spending too much time in front of my PC, but seeing as this was part of my job, I also felt that I had no choice. So, I needed to take care of my posture, maintaining the correct height, and maintaining the correct distance between my eyes and the monitor. As per the occupational health and safety standards, I had to be hypervigilant about angles, space, eyelines, blah blah blah. All of this bullshit was key.

The problem was, I had a spine that had the bendiness of a Slinky. It’s a wonder I managed to successfully navigate stairs without spilling my way down them, ending up in a tragic heap at the bottom! Of course, I had to concentrate, and wearing an unusually stiff jacket usually helped, support wise. Showers were a fucking nightmare, what with having to hold onto the taps for dear life, just in case my stretchy spine decided to suddenly lunge my skull into the bathroom wall. And looking in mirrors? Let’s just say I had to wear a helmet in case.

Don’t think I haven’t tried to find a solution. My best idea was to remove the head cushion from my office chair and slip my spine down the back support shaft. It seemed to work quite well while I was sitting, but my every attempt to stand up, move, or bend only ended with me collapsing all over the floor, the high-pitched squeals of my colleagues being a clue to how freakish and dire my situation actually was. Because, of course, I kept forgetting that firstly I needed to take my spine off the shaft. I’m such a butter brain sometimes!

After the fifth incident, my boss called me into her office and gave me a good dressing down. This whole situation was ridiculous, she said, and I needed to come up with a solution fast if I wished to have a future with the company. Needless to say, my confidence took a huge hit with that ultimatum, and I left work that day with more wobble in my step than I would have liked. I even tipped into a duck pond despite all my efforts not to. I was not in a good way.

When I was sitting near the pond, sad and wet, smeared with muck and duck droppings, I noticed a fat tube man. He looked very happy, his long, thin moustache all twirled and oiled at each end, and a pizza in his hand that looked like a billion dollar feast—it looked that good! I felt a twinge of envy. It could’ve been me in his place. I wasn’t worse than him. No, I was even better! And my back was way more bendy after all.

The next morning, I found myself outside our personnel department with an application in hand. The personnel officer hadn’t even looked at it—such had been his delight at my proposal. I was leaving his office, having secured for myself a newly created role, that of the company tube man. I could stand out the front, flitting and flailing in the breeze as much as I liked, bending this way and that to attract attention to our company and whatever the hell product or service it actually provided. This would be the perfect job for me. I wouldn’t be stuck in front of a PC all day. I’d get plenty of fresh air. And flexible working hours! The perks were many.

But my favourite moment of the day was when my former boss was passing me on the street. She was accompanied by a gaggle of my former work colleagues. It was a golden opportunity for me to formally recognise for myself that I’d come to the end of my time with them. So, I loosened my valve at just the right moment, and let rip with a burst of high pressure gas. It was such a distinctive sound, one that could not be ignored by anybody!

They all stopped, saw me—a mere tube man—then looked at one another. Who had let off that fart? No one was willing to own up to it. And though they were all innocent, I wasn’t about to own up to it either. I watched smugly as they all turned and walked back to their stuffy offices. And here was me staying outside, free and happy—and with extra days off whenever there was rain.

Tube Man

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100 WORD SKITTLE // Pranayama

It’s hard to breathe with your feet. After all, they’re usually pressed to the ground. You can’t run, jump or dangle them all the time. That’s why you can sneeze and choke.

Same with your hands. They’re so eager to roam around and touch everything. But you’re doomed to wash them repeatedly, trying to keep them clean. That’s why you can splutter and suffocate.

Same with your arse. (We’ll trust you with the reasoning on this.)

So, it’s better to pull your nose out of others’ business and use that for breathing instead. Hasn’t it been Nature’s plan all along?


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