Astro Sod


Burt looked out the window. And gasped. He hammered on the glass.
“Get the hell off the grass!” He yelled, spit spotting the pane.
“What’s going on, Burt?” She called from the kitchen.
“There’s a damn thing on the damn lawn!” He said, eyes staring daggers through the glass.
“Well, didn’t it see the sign?”
“Of course it did!” He cried, “how could it not!” He pointed at the large placard that stood purposefully at the edge of the property upon which large, stern letters declared ‘STAY OFF THE LAWN. ASSHOLE.’
“What’re going to do?” She said, poking her head through the doorway.
Burt shook his head and didn’t look at her. He was studying the interloper.
“Son of a bitch,” he said.
A chubby, pink globule about the size and shape of a couple sacks of shit sat there in the middle of his freshly mowed, perfectly green patch of suburban pride. It casually raised its globby head.
“Blurmp,” it said and a sticky wad of red slime plopped out of the hole in the middle of what may possibly be somewhat accurately described as perhaps its face and splat onto the grass with a sizzle. Where it landed smoke rose and the blades of grass blackened to ash.
“SONOFABITCH!” Burt cried.
“What happened?” She said.
“He’s killing my boys! The squishy creep is killing my baby boys!!!” He turned to face his wife, “Violet, get my gun.”
To be continued…


Orbiting the planet of broth


The lizard man, in his little ship, hovering above the earth, looking down, and wondering, why is that child crying? Does it want some candy? Does it need a hug? Is it because we are stealing the water for our alien soups and stews? Don’t knock it ’til you try it, kid. It may smell bad but it’s nutritious and it’s not easy to make. Especially since our world gone and done dried up. It’s really made everything taste s bland. So we came here to planet earth, to check it out, and fornicate with your women, and jack the juice and squirrel it away and use it in our alien cuisine. Which is good eats, I tell you. You have to try it, little boy, it’ll change your life. Trust me, your palette will think it’s died and gone to taste heaven. Of course, us lizard people know there is no heaven per se. It’s infinitesimal mud hut full of slobbering reptilian sex organs that pleasure you for eternity. Put that in your pipe and smoke it, kid.

Dr. Robotnik’s gonna soothe your moons off

She sat back in the jacuzzi.

“Pleasing you to letting the hot gurgle water bubble blow your obvious fatigue and other neagtivities away,” the metal man kind of whispered. More dialled down his volume really. To like a 3.

She felt his alloy fingers slip over her shoulders, cold and lifeless. They began a complicated rhythm of kneadings that worked her tension filled muscles.

“Does this massage algorithm working for you? Or would you be pleasing something more Asian? Or Italian?” He monotoned soothingly.

“No, no, please, It’s nice like that,” she said, and he let out a satisfied beep and his servos locked in and whizz-grrrr’d with what can only be described as moto-aplomb. 

Her flesh began to melt.

She let out a moan.

“Moaning is an accurate sign that your body skin muscles etcetera are begin to succumb to the hot water and my digital manipulations,” the auto-dude droned. Volume up slightly, say 3.27, “Would you be desiring whale song?”

She murmured, her mind lost in the smooth, confident handling by this gear-driven body worker.


Her body was weightless. Her mind was removed from form and function. Like she was drifting in space. Beautiful space. Away from all her cares and worries. To a better place, a place she would choose to live for all eternity. It was sublime.

“Oh, Dr. Robotnik, you’re so–so good,” she gasped, “will you marry me?”

He gripped her tightly with his metal hands and turned her to face him. His red glowing eyes bored into hers, the wire mesh of his mouth, his complete lack of a nose, his guidance dome, all there, all for her.

“Yes,” he intoned, “that will be fine.”

The Voyage of the USS Velvet Tomato


“And the voices of the children, joined the worries of the elders–“


“For those who’d risk their lives, to journey to the stars–“


“And their hearts beat faster, and their eyes filled with tears–“


He turned his chiselled face as much as the harness would allow, “whuh?”

The equally chiselled but more boyish face beside had maneuvered as much as it could in its seat to stare at him, “we’re deep into go time here, I don’t think the singing is appropriate.”

“Aww, c’mon, lieutenant, you know you love it. This is exciting. We’re blazin’ a trail here. And the clouds, they all parted, and the sun was a shinin’, and the stars were a callinn-nn-ng–“

“Control, can you please remind Commander Davids that his sopranic croonings are not part of the program,” the lieutenant said into his headset.

“Roger that,” the speaker squawked, “Commander, please be advised that high-pitched vocals are not one of the mission parameters.”

“Copy that, control” Commander Davids said, “but I just want it noted for the record that you’re all art blind.”

“Copy that, commander,” control said, “you copy, lieutenant?”

“Copy that, art blind, check,” said the lieutenant.

“Control, just a final thought from all us here in the cosmo-craft Velvet Tomato, that thanks for all your hard work and that we are all looking forward to one helluva ride,” Davids said.

“Roger that, VT-one, a hell of a ride it is going to be. And now, VT-one, we are a go for launch,” control said, “final countdown, commencing, ignition in ten, nine–”

Across the ocean, athwart the fields–“

“–eight, seven–”

“Up, up the hillside, and through the trees–“

“–six, five–”

“Over the mountains!”

“–four, three–”

“Onto the launch pad!”

“–two, one. Ignition.”


The united neighs of a billion flaming horses rumbled up through twenty-five stories of alloy and engineering and two entire generations worth of man hours into the tiny cage of heroism that sat atop it like a cherry on the most dangerous sundae in the universe and then slowly lifted itself into the sky, seeking the stratosphere, reaching for outer space, to take to the limit, and beyond–THE MEN WHO SHALL PUNCH THE SUN!



His tan is so deep his bones are brown.


She rested her head on his chest. It was like listening to rawhide breathe.

“I can’t hear your heart beat,” she said.

“It’s there, baby,” he cooed, “beneath the lotion, beneath the bronze silk made by the licking of the Sun. Listen deep.”

She did. ba-dump. ba-dump. ba-dump. Yes, it was there, like some deep snuff-coloured planetoid floating in a crimson void. And on it was a civilization of sensual intellectuals whose culture was steeped in a copper-toned mysticism that radiated out across the universe uplifting the spirits of any and all lifeforms that were bathed by its waves of mahogany goodness. She imagined Jesus himself, lying out on the beach by the Sea of Galilee with Simon Peter and a couple of the other apostles, maybe Phil and Judy and Jimmy the Lesser, soaking up some rays, and these magical vibes giving him a solid tan and inspiration for the Sermon on the Mount.
She looked up into his bisterous face.
“Teach me to tan,” she whispered.

His eyes looked into her, into the well of her soul, sending a bucket of knowing into its waters and he intoned, “I will teach you. I will tan you. We will become one. In ecru.”

She knew then that she had finally–



It’s more than just a pickle, Pete, it’s the Universe

monekysonraft1Floating with an infinitely casual attitude through the vast black velvet brine of space the little cuke made its way. From here to there and everywhere. Just being its own dill self, jamming with the cosmos. “Heylo, Supernova, what blows?” “What’s tricks, Space Moon?” “Looks like a gooder you’ve got going on there, Planet of Sexual Maniacs.” Traversing the megacosm, letting it all hang out, Polski Ogorski style, this pickle is now and then and future forever. A trans-galactic sweet and sour sandwich snacker. Man, is that pickle some kind of inspiration out there in the Ocean of Emptiness. This gherkin is the void’s dream. Shine on, cornichon, shine on.