The Patriarchy Stole My Nip-Nops

Good morning, deranged maniacs. Welcome to my home for freaky barbers, where it is a known fact that only schizophrenics talk to grues. My name is Al, I write things.

[kanayoshiko]

no

[belalegoshi]

[basementtwink]

Alex Andre Abernathy was a man who stood at 5’11 and smelled of cabbage-scented perfume- for no other reason than that it had been at the very bottom of the bargain bin and cost exactly half a penny, and was the closest thing he could afford to deodorant. It was often said that the temple wasn’t the same on days he wasn’t present, because the smell of cabbages was so associated with it by now that it simply felt -wrong- not to scrunch your nose up in disgust upon entry.

He had joined the brotherhood after a string of many failed career-attempts and general lifelong mockery- some, but not all of it caused by his name. Starting in elementary school, the other children would take note of his initials, cry “AAAAAAH!” whenever he approached and dramatically run away- a very spirited and original joke indeed. In middle school he tried introducing himself as Triple A, hoping it would sound badass, but merely received snide responses asking if he was offering road-side assistance. The only time it had ever truly benefited him was the day Johnny “Beat-your-ass” McLarty -finally- received a detention after hoisting young Alex into the air like a prepubescent, screaming battle axe and used him to beat another child about the head and shoulders over an argument related to obscure Magic the Gathering rules. Legend had it that under “reason for detention” it simply read “battery”.

So it was that he had taken the sacred pledge and now spent most days among his brothers, meditating, doing community work or generally trying to appear saint-like. On this day the Holy Father, Hubba Bubba John* had assigned him the task of constructing a new dais for the Room of Very Important and Holy Meetings**. The trouble being that Alex was not particularly good at constructing things, outside of a clay statue of a pig he had made in third grade which had won a blue ribbon made out of tissue paper.

How exactly did one -make- a dais or any other kind of platform? Was wood good? Could you use pallets? How tall should it be? Were polka dots worth considering? Did they make left-handed hammers?

His creation stood in the middle of the room, a misshapen lump of wood-planks and nails sticking out at odd angles. It was, possibly, the worst dais in history. As it turned out, polka dots had -not- been worth considering. Theoretically, it could be used as intended if one enjoyed being repeatedly stabbed- and, while far be it for him to kink-shame, the Brotherhood of BDSM was not generally invited to visit, and so this feature probably wouldn’t be appreciated very much.

He looked upon it forlornly and sighed. He would have to start all over. Perhaps he could order blue-prints off Amazon.

Thusly we begin the story of Alex Andre and the terrible, horrible, no good, very bad dais.

* Which was not his -real- name, but he had always liked the name “John”.

** The doorway to which was illuminated by a tacky neon sign that John had commissioned a junk-artist to build and which -technically- read “Room of Very Important and -Holey- Meetings”- luckily, the brotherhood had a sense of humor about it and now held “Swiss Cheese Sandwich Day” within once a month.

[basementtwink]

“You’re a very silly little bumblebee if you think I wouldn’t screw your great aunt Sally solely for the heck of it. As a matter of fact, I think I will. Mayhap I’ll propose and make an honest woman of her, if for no other reason than to see the look of utter defeat on your face as you succeed me down the aisle carrying the rings in your adorable little velvet suit. You might as well start calling me great uncle Scrumdidicus now, for all the good it will do you to try and thwart me. Here, have a dollar, go down to the corner store and buy yourself a lollipop, you traitorous little bastard. We’ll soon find out if your auntie is as tight as the grip I’m going to have on your neck.”

[basementtwink]

The Messy Ladybug

Once upon a time, there was a messy ladybug. His name was The Messy Ladybug, because fate was a cruel mistress, and also because his mommy and daddy were not very nice.

The Messy Ladybug was a ladybug who wasn't drawn very well. None of his spots were the same size, and his legs were different lengths, and his colors didn't stay inside the lines. The Messy Ladybug was a very sad ladybug.

One morning, he got out of his little ladybug bed, in his little ladybug house, that was made out of sticks and leaves, and he looked out the window. When he did, he saw a frog hopping in the creek. It was trying to catch flies with its tongue.

The Messy Ladybug looked at the frog for a long time. And he thought to himself, "I could have been a frog in the creek."

But he wasn't a frog in the creek. He was just a messy ladybug.

And the frog hopped away.

The Messy Ladybug didn't have any friends. None of the other ladybugs talked to him very much. Sometimes he thought they would all be better off without him, and sometimes he wondered if he would ever find a nice girl ladybug who would like him-- or a nice boy ladybug-- but he didn't think there were any ladybugs who liked messy ladybugs.

That afternoon, he took a walk through the forest, which was full of plants and big trees, and while he was there, he saw a bird in a nest. It was feeding its babies with a worm.

The Messy Ladybug looked at the bird for a long time. And he thought to himself, "I could have been a bird in a nest."

But he wasn't a bird in a nest. He was just a messy ladybug.

And the bird flew away.

The Messy Ladybug wasn't very good at anything. He couldn't dance or sing, and he couldn't play the saxophone. He couldn't knit or sew, or play sports, or paint pretty pictures. Sometimes he thought that he made good lasagna, but he was the only one who had tasted it.

That evening, as The Messy Ladybug was walking back home, he took a detour and walked up the dirt path to the tall hill, where he could hear crickets chirping, and leaves rustling in the evening breeze. While he was there, he saw a shooting star, way up in the sky. It was shining and twinkling, streaking across the night and helping to light the way for any other ladybugs who may have been wandering around in the dark.

The Messy Ladybug looked at the shooting star for as long as he could see it, and he thought to himself, "I could have been a star in the sky."

But he wasn't a star in the sky. He was just a messy ladybug.

And the star disappeared.

The Messy Ladybug wondered why he had ever been born. He wasn't pretty, and he wasn't very smart, and he wasn't good at anything, and no one liked him.

There was a deep ache in his little ladybug heart. Day in and day out, it ached, and burned, and thumped in his little ladybug chest, and sometimes it ached and burned and thumped until The Messy Ladybug began to cry. He would cry and cry, and sometimes he hoped that if he cried enough, his tears would run down and wash away all his colors and lines, and then he'd be all-gone. But no matter how much he cried, and how much he hoped, he was always all-still-there.

Why couldn't he have been a frog in the creek? Or a bird in a nest? Or a star in the sky?

Every day, The Messy Ladybug did the same things, and thought the same thoughts, and hurt the same hurt, and went to bed at the end of the day, all alone.

... Help me ...

That night, The Messy Ladybug laid in his bed, staring up at the ceiling. And he thought to himself,

"... No more.

No more hurt, no more lonely, no more ugly, no more tears...

No more messy ladybug...

I'm going to blow up the moon!"

[basementtwink]

In the year 2020, a lazy inter-dimensional maintenance crew decided to skip the mid-decade check-up on the pillars that separated the varying realities, in favor of a drunken game of strip cosmic-destroyer. This was a mistake.

If they hadn’t, they would’ve realized two things. 1) The pillars were disintegrating, and 2) They were tacky, and didn’t match the rest of the décor. It is possible both these things could have been fixed, had they been caught in time.

As it was, on a seemingly normal morning when all the children were vaping in one dimension and The Bovine Sirens were holding a benefit concert for under-priviledged calfs in the next, and so on and so forth, that simultaneously, and at the same time, about half a dozen pillars gave out completely.

A few eye-witness accounts say this event was accompanied by ominous rumbling. Others maintain they heard nothing, or nothing more than an ear-piercingly loud rendition of Moonlight Sonata (that being the sound associated with horror in that particular dimension, so written by either Beethoven or Mr. Backyard von Bottomslash III, depending on where you hailed from, although the latter version was known for it’s accompanying jaunty congo-bongo-beat). A few dimensions got about 200 pages of explosions and tidal waves. Regardless, most of the effected dimensions had a sneaking suspicion that something was amiss. Where Christianity existed, members of the faith declared that Armageddon was upon them, and eagerly awaited the arrival of Christ. Thusly, it was especially jarring for them when what descended from the sky was more along the lines of a failing cupcake dispensary, a group of pro-wrestling direwolves in diapers, and in one case, Mecha Jetpack Hitler, scourge of Michio 5 (12,998th off-shoot of Earth, Timeline 4, Branch 86), who, sensing an opportunity, promptly proclaimed himself as such.

To say it was pandemonium would be an obvious understatement. Some people encountered multiple versions of themselves, while others were erased from existence entirely. One interesting case study was Thomas Marsh, an ordinary man from Neo-Chicago who would appear and disappear at random intervals, in the same bumper car, in the same bumper car ride at the same amusement park, but with a different kind of hamburger hidden in his backpack each time. Being an obese man, the park eventually had to ban that particular car from use after several children were crushed.

Making this all the worse was the fact that The Soul of Liberace, Supreme Overlord of Space and Time, was on vacation that day. Efforts by the Time Bureau to reach him were in vain, as he was having such a grand old time at the beach that he never thought to check his Instagram. By the time he returned, dogs and cats were living together, 14 Taylor Swifts now governed Russia*, and some furries had found and resurrected Jimmy Hoffa, who was running for secretary of state in all 16-79 states.

Suffice it to say, he was not pleased. The maintenance crew whose neglect was responsible for this catastrophe was promptly fired, and denied unemployment benefits. Afterwards, The Soul of Liberace got himself a pumpkin spice latte, sighed heavily, and went to work. This was going to take at least a week to fix.

Unfortunately for the citizens of the newly formed mishmash of six dimensions down below, a week for a cosmic being such as The Soul of Liberace was not the same as a week for them- any of them. Lacking any other recourse, they had no choice but to seek some form of normalcy in the strange world they now lived in…

* News Outlets at the time reported that Putin did not appreciated being told to “Shake it Off”.

[basementtwink]

Sometimes you just feel comraderie with a strange older fat man- especially when you’ve been turned into a llama as a consequence of being a little shit.

[basementtwink]

The world is a cold and lonesome place for Ranger Jewbottom- not least of all because his name is Jewbottom- but also because the vast majority of the rest of humanity had perished in the giant sand worm attack. Day in and day out he strolled the empty streets, kept company only by tumbleweeds and the sorrowful twangs of his late mother’s banjo as he strummed the strings wistfully.

The banjo only, not the tumbleweeds, mind you. They were not personally much for strumming on, and only liked to play 70’s jazz besides.

Ranger Jewbottom often thought of what life had been like before the attack- eating steamed croutons in his great aunt’s cabin and recording TikToks of himself making love to nectarines. Did any of his bastard nectarine children survive? Would they come after him some day for post-apocalyptic child support?

Child support. He shuddered at the thought. That had been why he chose to become a ranger in the first place. Deep in the mid-American wilderness, Bertha could not find him, and his demon spawn would know no excess birthday gifts. Never stick your dick in crazy, kids. Hell hath no fury like a middle-aged Mary Kay saleswoman who had given birth to your baby and was jonesing for a new pair of shoes.

[basementtwink]

Parents of LGBTQ+ be like “I miss the false version of you that you created to appease me.”.

[basementtwink]

Thurber had always been told he had chiseled, equine features, which was a nice way of saying he had a horse-y ol’ face.

[basementtwink]

When I was a young boy, my father took me into the city, to see a marching band. He said, “Son, when you grow up, would you be the savior of the broken, the beaten and the damned?”

And I said, “No, sir. I’m five years old. I shouldn’t be making those kinds of promises.”.

The old man was pretty disappointed, but he never did ask again, and died shortly thereafter.