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

ABSURDIS EXTREME // Case Study #3 [6/11/1978] by B.A. Loney

This is the story of three syllogisms: the valid one, the reasonable one and the one with a correct conclusion.

The one with a correct conclusion kept said conclusion to itself because it wasn’t friends with the other syllogisms. In fact, they were mortal enemies. So, you see, it would mutter the correct conclusion under its breath, over and over. “Some yellow pencils are green.” But not loud enough for anybody to hear—especially not its hopelessly wooden-headed rivals.

The valid syllogism didn’t mutter to itself, or to anyone else. No, it roamed the streets instead, yelling like a crazed vagrant. “All good debaters have a sharp point, dagnabbit!” It scared away passersby with its spittle and shambolic gesticulations, and trod on stray cats’ tails to boot. “Listen to me, you fools! Some green pencils are blunt!” Then it stopped, raised its hands to the heavens, and declared solemnly: “Therefore, some green pencils suck at debating. Don’t mess with them green pencils, I tells ya!” Its beard flapped in the wind like a long grey scarf, and its eyes were deep and empty as it nodded sagely to itself.

The reasonable syllogism closed its second storey window. It needed to complete another letter to the editor of its favourite local gossip rag, but some idiotic shouting from the street was hindering its creative flow. It shook its head as if to clear it, then kept writing. “So, for the reasons outlined above, it’s evident that some pencils turn bright red when sharpened.” Laying down its ballpoint pen, the reasonable syllogism nodded to itself with a smug air of superiority. Who could fail to see this logic? Only one without eyes. It was all there on the page in immutable black and white. The other two syllogisms would shrivel up and blow away in the wind like so much piffling detritus as soon as they read this!

Meanwhile, on the other side of the city, a John Doe who’d hidden his colour blindness in order to gain employment at a pencil factory was preparing for his first day of work. He couldn’t know that in eight short hours a green pencil would become rather agitated and, shall we say ‘pointed’, about a particular point it was going to make. It would insist on not being put in the same box as some idiotic yellow pencils. “I am a noble green! Not plebeian yellow!” And it would aggressively jab John in the chest in order to make its point, right until the point at which he bled out and died. Poor John Doe! How tragic that his life would end with him toppling onto a conveyor belt, spilling his fresh blood over freshly sharpened pencils.

So, what’s the moral of this story? We don’t need one—only naked facts. This is scientific research, baby, not a fucking fable.

 

by TETIANA ALEKSINA & TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2019

ABSURDIS EXTREME // Case Study #75 [15/03/2110] by B.A. Loney

This is the story of some grass that was rather illiberal. It took its own sweet time to grow, and it grew anywhere and anyhow. Yup, it was an uncultured mess. Even the city’s pavements were unable to tame it.

The grass wasn’t the same green as all the other grass. Its green was less radiant, less prone to reflecting the sun’s rays in a manner that pleased the eye. It was bushy and undisciplined. Sometimes it waved provocatively in the breeze, but usually it just sat there, stiff and foreboding. It was large of blade, and shameless and unapologetic.

This meant that people were afraid to leave their homes. Children would wail upon seeing it, and hide beneath their nannies’ hems. Elders refused to play cricket in the city park. Even the rain stopped falling there. It’s painful for gentle drops to plash against such proudly rigid grass.

One day, the grass grew out of a punk rocker’s left ear. She didn’t notice this because her mohawk was the same colour, and she hardly ever looked at herself in the bathroom mirror anyway. She wasn’t vain like all those prissy little daddy’s girls that used to tease her at school.

Still, she’d always wanted to be a flame-haired pony, which is why she couldn’t pass up an offer of Barclay’s Miracle Hair Crème when she was at the subway. A shady looking specimen was there doing the selling, and she totally fell for it. He whispered something in conspiratorial tones about this being a once-in-a-lifetime exclusive offer and how she was in luck.

Apparently, this miracle crème had been specifically produced for the ponies at the Royal Mews at Buckingham Palace. He’d been shipped the last remaining bottle from a secret factory somewhere in Pakistan. It was a miracle that he was even able to get a sample as it was never intended for public sale.

So, the punk rocker paid $1.50 for this two litre bottle of especial regal goodness, and hurried home. She couldn’t wait to use this miracle crème, to finally feel like one of those majestic ponies at the royal stables. She was going to whicker up a storm. To stamp her hoof something fierce. She would flick her flamey mane with glorious abandon.

The miracle crème smelled like heaven, like fresh unicorn farts on a dewy autumn morning—but with a hint of ambrosia and oats. By god, the punk rocker couldn’t stop. She wouldn’t! She soaped and lathered and rubbed herself, and then washed the foam away. Then again. And again. And again. At some point she laughed in her happy delirium, and that laugh sounded rather like a neigh.

But the punk rocker was oblivious to all of this. She just wanted to get lost in being a pony, so continued to bathe. Then, after ten minutes of this madness, she began to feel a ravenous hunger. But why? She sniffed the air. Oh! Was that enticing smell… grass? And then just like that she began to chew the grass growing out of her left ear.

If grass could scream, then this grass would have done it. The pain was excruciating! It was being eaten alive, and there was noting it could do about that. If only it had grown out of Lady Gaga’s brassiere instead. Then it would have been famous, and idolised by millions across the globe.

But, no. It got eaten. The end.

Oh, hold on. Not the end because then she ate all the grass that has ever existed everywhere ever. And that’s how the entire earth became a barren wasteland.

Okay, now it’s the end.

 

by TETIANA ALEKSINA & TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2019

ABSURDIS EXTREME // Case Study #32 [12/01/2109] by B.A. Loney

This is the story of three proofs: the biggest one, the blue one and the round one.

One of my assistants left them on my table without any identifying labels, and after this made a kerplunky little hole in the water. That’s right, she stepped into the loo bowl and sank out of sight. She never did return. Perhaps this nightmare ordeal had gotten too much. Not that I blame her.

Anyway, I had to work.

The biggest proof had more than a whiff of arsine sulfide about it. I sneezed, and placed it back on the table. Didn’t want to mess with that one.

I decided not to smell the blue proof because it looked like a dead Smurf that’d been put through a blender then snap frozen in the shape of a bow tie. I licked it instead. It tasted like… a dead Smurf that’d been put through a blender then snap frozen in the shape of a bow tie.

The dots were starting to connect.

Oh, the round proof? The less said about that the better, I guess. Let’s just say that when you squeezed it, it sounded like an asthmatic gerbil dying in an iron lung. It gave me such a fright that I nearly dropped the thing.

Did I mention that everything was becoming much clearer now?

I snapped on rubber gloves and protective goggles, took a rack from the storage cupboard, and cautiously placed the proofs upon it. Then I squelched through watery loo muck to my supervisor’s office and put the rack with the proofs on the table in front of him. He looked askance at said proofs, then at me as if I’d played an extremely offensive practical joke.

I shook my head in a helpless ‘no’, and added a shrug in case the head shake wasn’t enough. I was deadly earnest. What were these proofs actually proof of? And how did we know that they were proofs in the first place? Wasn’t the burden of proof upon these proofs to prove that they were proofs?

So, at that point I did what any sane scientist would have done: I made a kerplunky little hole in the water and stepped in. Yes, that’s right, I stepped into the loo bowl and sank out of sight as my supervisor looked helplessly on.

And the proofs? Well, no one knows what’s happened to them since.

 

by TETIANA ALEKSINA & TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2019

ABSURDIS EXTREME // Case Study #643 [23/09/2977] by B.A. Loney

This is the story of a strange phenomena. It was a lonely phenomena that kept happening in all the wrong places to all the wrong people, so naturally it was feared. But you shouldn’t blame it, truly. Its intentions were the right ones, and there’s nothing wrong with trying to make the wrong places and wrong people right, eh?

So, how did this lonely phenomena present itself to the world? Well, in the only way it knew how. It was a presence in a room—the darker the better. It’d sneak up to the wrong persons and whisper the right things, right into their ears. Yes, the right things. Right into their ears. No wonder they shat blue lights! Anyone would. And as they shat themselves, the dark room would become lighter and bluer so that there was no darkness left at all.

The lonely phenomena thought it was doing a good thing, but when the room became well lit, the people it had whispered to would see that there was nothing there, and shit themselves even more. They’d freak out, maybe even cry a bit, and run screaming from the room. And so it was that everything became wronger. Wronger and wronger. So wrong, in fact, that the lonely phenomena eventually gave up and stepped off a very tall building one day.

No one has had anything scary—or even a little untoward—happen to them since.

 

by TETIANA ALEKSINA & TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2019