ABSURDIS EXTREME // Case Study #6,027 [23/04/1998] by B.A. Loney

This is the story of my unfortunate and very short career in Hell. I hadn’t planned on visiting, let alone living there, but life will often throw these little surprises at you. It was so surprising that I forgot to pack some suntan lotion. And, sure, while there’s no actual sun in Hell, the Earth’s molten core may as well be the same thing.

Someone said I was lucky to be leaving the boondocks as they were miles from the nearest telephone or free WiFi—or pretty much anything really. That someone said I’d be moving to a place where hot water in the shower was no problem. That’s right. Hot water in Hell was actually hot, not like the lukewarm piss that dribbled down your face back where I came from. As a connoisseur of bathroom facilities, this was all I needed to clinch the deal.

So, no suntan lotion but plenty of hot water. What could go wrong? Well, plenty as it happens. I hadn’t counted on the natives. Those fucking feral natives! They were… well, strange. And not only because they wore iridium rings in their nostrils and braided chest hair. Nope. It was something else. It was the fact that they wore open business jackets and aviator goggles, but no pants. And they’d fly over you with those huge, leathery wings in the hopes of landing a huge shit on your head. What fucking weirdos!

Also, they were eager wranglers—like they’d been watching too many cowboy movies. I would even say it was their cacoethes (fancy word there). Firstly it scared me, then it became merely rather irritating. Being shat on then lassoed and transported to another postcode in Hell would really put a crimp on anyone’s day. The psychotic bastards just couldn’t help themselves! But I did eventually get used to it—strange as it soundsand even realised that I could turn this to my benefit. That’s right, I eventually figured out that I might be able to use them as free transportation to work and back instead of dialing an Uber. All I had to do was steer them like I was paragliding or something. Sure, they’d probably shit on you the entire way but all I’d need to do is wear a disposable raincoat and hat to compensate for this, and change into my work uniform when I arrived at the office.

Of course, you’re going to ask how any of this concerns science. Well, it has a direct and vital correlation with science! My top priority when I accepted the offer from Hell was not hot water and free transport (even though these tipped me over into saying yes). No, it was the chance to join an unique project where the most talented scientists from throughout time—from Jabir ibn Hayyan to Ortizphine Hunterpin CCCXXV—would study the cellular dehydration and osmoreceptor stimulation of Pompeii worms. Any true intellect would eat their own hat with a side order of fries from envy!

Such a pity that I never made it there. To work, I mean. It turns out that steering a batshit crazy demon just isn’t possible. It’s like trying to wrestle a rabid wolverine towards an anger management class. So, I would spend hours trying to reach my destination, only to end up nosediving into the roof of somebody’s house—all while covered in shit, of course. Can’t forget the shit!

So naturally, I was soon kicked back up to Earth for my constant tardiness. Scientists prefer it if you’re punctual. Bureaucracy is hell, man!

 

by TETIANA ALEKSINA & TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2021

ABSURDIS EXTREME // Case Study #2 [1/2/1983] by B.A. Loney

This is the story of a billboard. An old billboard on the corner of Big Lasher and 20th. It was covered in endless layers of shabby ads. A bit of text here. A model’s face there. Some bird shit.

The bird shit was like a spray of iron pellets embedded in the metal and paper. That’s how hard it had gotten beneath the harsh, bone bleaching sun. To the lonely earthworm looking on from below, these were portents of doom. Well, they would have been portents of doom had the earthworm been able to see.

The fact that this earthworm was as blind as a worm—and deaf like one too—isn’t terribly important for our super serious scientific research. A gust of wind flapped paper over the model’s nose with a loud pop. Now, that detail is important. As is the detail that upon not hearing this, the earthworm crawled up. We’re not sure why it crawled up. Perhaps it wanted a view it could not see to accompany the sound it could not hear. No one can know the mind of an earthworm, okay? You just need to accept this.

If, indeed, an earthworm has a mind.

So, anyway, the earthworm eventually reached the billboard’s top. Unsurprisingly, it saw and heard nothing. It wondered where it was now relative to where it had been, and felt similarly clueless. It’s really not easy being an earthworm.

It was on this cusp of despair that the earthworm felt something like hard peas digging into its ribs. (Do earthworms have ribs? Gah. Anyway.) The earthworm could have sworn it was feeling a letter ‘A’. Of course, every earthworm knows Braille. It’s the first thing wormlets are taught in school. So, yeah, this was definitely feeling like the first letter of the alphabet…

The earthworm fidgeted a bit, edging its body over to the right. Yeah, an ‘A’. Driven by curiosity, it started to move along the trail of fossil bird shit, not knowing that it was fossil bird shit. You see, earthworms are not only blind and deaf, they also can’t smell for shit. Still, it was old, dried up shit, so the shit no longer retained its shitty smell, thus the earthworm couldn’t have smelled it even had it possessed a nose—which it clearly didn’t. (We can’t believe how often we were able to squeeze the word ‘shit’ into this paragraph!)

It took nearly two hours, but the earthworm was patient. It painstakingly moved its clammy, naked body over every shitty bump at the top of that billboard. It got turned on a few times during this process, but earthworms don’t have penises to get boners with, so the arousal was strictly cerebral. We suppose this means earthworms have minds after all, and that the mind is the most powerful sex organ.

But, again, we must omit this fact for now because of its quantifiable littleness. That very same day, the old billboard on the corner of Big Lasher and 20th was scrapped and sent off to be melted down. It was turned into a dozen new shiny shovels that every day since have cut many earthworms into halves, giving them all a new life that has been twice as good.

 

by TETIANA ALEKSINA & TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2020

BUT IS IT ART? // Man’s Best Pal(indrome)

 

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TONY: There’s a time when I wouldn’t have dared to draw something like this.

TATI: Uh huh. You usually only dare to draw dildos and boobs.

TONY: Yes, now I can add shit to the list.

TATI: Wow. Now you can be considered a mature artist.

TONY: What does that even mean anyway? How mature is it to draw a dick and balls instead of covering them up with a pair of underpants? No, I just drew these things because I wanted to. Nothing more, nothing less.

TATI: Definitely, the name of Tony Single shall now be featured alongside those of Odd Nerdrum, Pieter Bruegel…

TONY: Who?

TATI: Artists. Who drew shit.

TONY: Oh, what they drew was shit? Or they literally drew with shit? And it was shit? Or brilliant.

TATI: They drew shit. Literally.

TONY: Oh, shit. Really?

TATI: Shrilly.

TONY: Well, aren’t you just in a silly mood today!

TATI: And you’re in a shitty mood.

TONY: Well, I’m trying to have a serious conversation about god being a palindrome of dog—god being a dog’s leavings, if you will. Perhaps god’s not the great almighty being we make him out to be. Perhaps we ought to hold dogs in higher esteem.

TATI: What a weird concept. Was it a car or a cat I saw?

TONY: Huh?!

TATI: Perhaps cars are not the great almighty beings we make them out to be. Perhaps we ought to hold cats in higher esteem.

TONY: But… but… Cats. Cars. They’re not palindromes! You’re completely ruining my whole point!

TATI: But… but… Your ‘shit’ doesn’t spell ‘Tony’ backwards!

TONY: Are you calling me shit?

TATI: No way! I’m honestly trying to follow your shitty logic.

TONY: I’m wondering how many times we can get away with saying the word ‘shit’ in this discussion…

TATI: I suppose we’re going to get beans anyway, but not because of some doo doo balls on your picture, Tony.

TONY: I literally have no idea what you just said.

TATI: I suppose our readers will tell you. I just know I don’t want to get beans.

TONY: What the shit does your ‘get beans’ mean? I’m so confused!

TATI: Wait and see.

TONY: Erm… Okay? How about we just move on from shits and beans and… well, talk about the ‘god’ part of my illustration?

(Tati begins to walk away.)

TONY: Tati? Hey! Wait! TATI?!

(She pays absolutely no attention to him.)

TONY: Well… shit.

 

by TETIANA ALEKSINA & TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2018

Don’t!

Fuck… sometimes all what we can do is shout, “Don’t!”
I’m so sorry, buddy. Be strong.

PROSPERMIND

No!!
I don’t want to believe this shit!!!
What the fuck?!
Why HER?!

Please don’t!!
DON’T!!!!
… .
Just don’t take HER away from me,
she is all I’ve got!

Why?!
Oh god, why??
I don’t want to believe this shit!

Let it be me instead!
Please!!!!
Don’t take her away from me,
she’s all I’ve got!

Please, don’t!!

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