Alright /lit/ in this thread we write the most absurd thing we can. Try to write something unbelievable bad or funny.
OP here with my original short story entitled 'Elizabeth learns about communism the hard way'
She peeled her ass cheeks apart while staring into a mirror. The great mass of cellulite churned in her pale hands. As she gazed into her gaping asshole it seemed as if she were staring into the very eye of God. The poop encrusted hole appeared so mysterious to her, and she imagined it to be a portal to another dimension. "Elizabeth it's time for judo training!" Jackson cried from the other room while fumbling over his whiskey. "Ok" Elizabeth replied. she duct taped a triple strength maxi pad on and pulled a pair of adult diapers up to her waist.
Several miles down the road a group of gorillas congregated in the local zoo. Benjamin the gorilla was different from the other gorillas. you see, Benjamin was a communist. Benjamin would often mash his own shit between his fingers. "God is dead" he would exclaim as doo doo residue gathered beneath his fingernails. The other gorillas thought Benjamin was a poop stain on their otherwise perfect gorilla utopia. News of Benjamin's intellectual tirades deeply angered the Orangutans who were at the top of the social pyramid. Benjamin was pummeled with rocks daily. He suffered multiple concussions, and had severe brain damage, but somehow managed to carry on.
It was customary in ape society to mindlessly repeat hollow slogans such as 'Capitalist utopia' very loudly during debates. "PROGRESS! PROGRESS! PROGRESS!" a male orangutan shouted at Benjamin just inches from his face. Benjamin gazed into the orangutans eyes with a look of disturbed bewilderment as diarrhea streamed down his leg. 'Progress' Benjamin thought, and he was suddenly caught up in a flashback.
Meanwhile at the gym Elizabeth was delivering swift judo kicks to the back of Jackson's head. Each successive kick felt like a bucket full of rocks smashing against a wall. Luckily, Jackson's skull was as thick as a goat skull. Her feet flickered back and forth like a flame dancing on a candlestick. The kicks picked up pace. Jackson felt himself begin to relent to the hailstorm of pain. Her blows were as swift and precise as the stroke of a paintbrush across a canvas. Jackson fell to his knees and collapsed.
"Well I guess it's time to go to the zoo. Don't be a poor sport." Elizabeth proudly stated. "Ok thats fine. You really know how to move those hips!" Jackson replied as blood gushed out of his nose. "Yeah let's gooooo!" She roared
"You say this is a progressive society Benjamin, but you fail to define the ultimate aspiration of such progress. Progressing towards what? You keep going on and on about progress. Until you define the premise and goal of this progress you are doing little more then spouting verbal diarrhea." Charlie the chimp remarked. "Furthermore it strikes me that your notion of progress is as vague to me as it is to yourself." The wily chimp continued. Benjamin reeled in near disbelief. It was in that moment, as Benjamin's ideology was throughly dissected before his very eyes that he came to the cold realisation that he didn't know what he meant by progress. He would just repeat it over and over again like a mantra. The platitudes he espoused lacked definition and seemed to be imbued with an almost lullaby like quality. The consecutive repetition of this lullaby of slogans brought ease to Benjamin's tormented heart. It was in this moment that Benjamin knew in the depth of his soul that he was destined to lead the communist revolution.
Benjamin suddenly jolted out of his flashback as the orangutan grew even more discontent with the gorilla's silence. Old benny knew it was now or never. He delivered several judo kicks to the orangutans throat and fled to the most isolated part of the zoo he could find. Gorillas were seen as the lowest caste in ape society. An assualt on an orangutan was a death sentence for any ape, let alone a lowly Gorilla. The Orangutans were responsible for the Capitalist uprising of 2056.
Maria left the classroom crying. John watched from a distance. Her (ex-)boyfriend, Steve, broke up with him two weeks ago, her allowance was cut in half and, apparently, she just failed her final. John knew that if he was good at anything, it was helping people smile. When he was 14 years old, he was very depressed over getting a C on a math test and decided that he would dedicate his life to helping others; since then, he believed he was rather good at it. He approached Maria and said, "How are you?"
She said, "I'm good," though she sounded sad and not at all good.
"Do you want to grab a drink?"
"Not really, I kind of want to be alone right now." She chuckled.
"Come on, grab a drink with me."
He stepped in front of her and his size, relative to her, must have comforted her for she said, "Fine. Sure."
He drove her to a quiet bar a couple miles away from campus and ordered a scotch for himself. He wanted to get her a scotch too, but she stopped him while he was ordering and said, "A beer is fine."
As they waited, he asked her, "How are things with Steve?"
"Oh, you know."
"And how about your classes? I heard you were studying a lot for them, haha. Being a civil engineering major must be tough."
"Is that so?"
She didn't respond. A few minutes passed. He said, "Are you still interested in Steve, or..."
She paused, stuttered, "I have to go," left five dollars on the table and ran outside. The drinks hadn't even arrived yet and he knew she didn't have a ride yet. Odd, John thought. Maybe another time.
As Elizabeth pulled into the parking lot Benjamin was already organizing the ape revolution. Each of his speeches were filled with fire and passion. The gorillas hung on Benjamin every word as if their very lives depended on it. Benjamin could see how his diatribe deeply resonated with the marginalized apes and he knew this was the moment. "LETS FUCK THEM UP!!!!!!!!!!!!" Benjamin screamed. Hordes of gorillas erupted in fanatical screeches. As the mass of apes began to charge the Orangutan stronghold Elizabeth stepped through the entrance of the zoo. She peered on puzzled by the mayhem. This feeling of confusion soon transformed into anger as she realized that these apes were pinko scum. "OH HELL NAW!!" Elizabeth exclaimed. She vaulted over the wall of the exhibit and delivered several hearty judo kicks to the back of Benjamin's head. Of course the Apes were no match for her mighty Womanhood. She smacked the shit out of each one of those motherfuckers. Benjamin was crying like a little bitch. The End.
Tums buzzurd or spunny hoppers? plop-piloting
tamblasted in a candefrascated nol-wave did
verily thneed an obixnocan poppy (tart).
Oncasted a matinor of prodyhumous sizzle
whomin purrslickutted begilth a wratten por.
I have a baby face and think about sex often. Come sunrise and the tent is pitched; petrified wood buttresses wooly sheets. In the morning, I’ll make toast, read the paper, and possibly meditate. After my morning ritual, I’ll masturbate until my little, freckly hands start to ache. You see, people see my baby face and presume I don’t have sexual urges, but the truth is quite the opposite. I have very intense urges and very wild fantasies; babies don’t have urges like I do, but people still group me in with them. You see, all I want in this life is to release these urges with an older woman, preferably in her forties – again, you wouldn’t expect this from a baby face like myself. I want her to suck my engorged phallus while I admire the coordinated symphony of atrophied facial muscles contract and release. Her age-driven insecurities would be cast asunder as I cherish the gentle wiggle of cellulite about her hips; her head oscillating North and South like a spring. This is my fantasia and ecstasy, but to my deepest dismay, I am yet to find the women of mature existence who finds my rounded face attractive. Older women are drawn to the handsome men with stubbled jawlines and heavy, worn brows. My jaw is gently encased In a cushion of puff and my brows are lifted with an everlasting expression of infantile enthusiasm; I am cursed with a certain desire and a face that ensures I never actualize it, a true tragedy. All that I can to do is masturbate until my little, freckly hands ache and my tiny, freckly heart nearly gives out.
When, in the course of one’s formulation of a carefully compiled fragment of public oratory for presentation among the educated milieu, he feels the life-blood, which heretofore made its normal and much desired passage throughout the veins ensconcing his unmentionable bits, begin to overstay, at least in part, its welcome among the aforementioned parts which Adam deigned to cover at the dawn of his sin, the resultant swelling produced, the base offspring of some stray fragment of uncoordinated thought, turned (as they so oft’ do in these wretched times) towards the production of an impromptu and unabashedly lustful dumb-show within the mind, utterly wanting in wit, correct structure, or any of the goodly number of elements, the delicately managed combination thereof resulting, God willing, in a suitable piece of instructive poesy, which in its noblest and most incorruptible form inevitably shall bring due glory to King and Country, he should, in manner and practice bend every effort toward the reigning in of such stray thoughts so as not to reveal to his audience--if that portion of his person most physically altered by such idle wanderings (surely the devil’s tool if ever there was) has not the fortune of the relative protection of a podium or other structure which could possibly obfuscate the vision--the evidence of his private infraction, that will, if he proves himself able of properly countenancing the sundry phantasms of his mind, in the due course of time find itself slowly disengaged from that particular state in which Nature decreed it would be most suitable for that task, known to Christian men of our nation but unspoken of by that token of grace what sets us apart from the savage Mohameteans and sundry other heathen peoples, which has the sole purpose, apart from the vice and idleness in which men and women of sin partake of its grave and damnable misuse, of propagating the race as the Lord has instructed us to do since the time of Abram, the accomplishment thereof effected through the complete turning of his mind away from sin and vice and toward peaceable reflection upon ecclesiastical matters or perhaps one of the compositions of good Saint Paul on the teachings of the Apostles (the more fortunate reflection thereunto being all the more expediently accomplished should he already have been carrying goodly discourse upon such matters) but not that Song of Solomon, in which may be found a clever metaphor of relations between Christ and Church that the minds of fallen Man have subverted and taken for a song of praise to certain practices, already mentioned and noted by the Christian reader, which bear the sole purpose of matters related to the conception and birthing of sound babes, always to be silent in their obedience and mindful of their studies of the teachings of Our Lord and those blessed souls, who,
in their collective state of divine illumination, have been graced with the token fortune of entering into a state of moral certitude in which, as Inspiration so has it, an audience with the Godhead may be achieved via the scriptures and due reflection thereto.
it's really not very funny or good. i get that its supposed to be some kind of zarathustra parody but the only """"funy"""" part seems to be "heh i'll stick a bunch of bible words next to modern day swear words like this guy is seriously out of touch and im happily self conscious about my style get it"
Dopers and drinkers struggle together without shame at the buffet and in the kitchens, ransacking the lcosets, licking out the bottoms of casseroles. A nude bathing party passes through on the way down the sea-steps to the beach. Our host, that Raoul, is roaming around in a ten-gallon hat, Tom Mix shirt and brace of six guns with a Pecheron horse by the bridle. The horse is leaving turds on the Bokhara rug, also on the odd supine guest. It is all pout of shape, no focus to it until a sarcastic flourish from the band, and here comes the meanest customer Slothrop has seen outside of a Frankenstein movie--wearing a white zoot suit with reet pleats and a long gold keychain that swings in flashing loops as he crosses the room with a scowl for everybody, in something of a hurry but taking the time to scan faces and bodies, head going side to side, methodical, a little ominous. He stops at last in front of Slothrop, who's putting together a Shirley Temple for himself.
"You." A finger the size of a corncob, an inch from Slothrop's nose.
epically awesome I love you so much better if it is not the same thing to say I have a great way of the year and I don't think that I have a great way of the year and I don't think that I have a great way of the year and I don't think that I have a great way of the year
No! It is you who is the fool. His Medieval Latin and Old French would have been perfect. He doesn't speak any Dutch though, and this is further proof that your chronicle is but a shameless gimmick.
Then i fucked Kara sweetly and roughly. Moans of pleasure filled the room's air that now smelled of her sex in doggy style position on the black sofa in dim red light of masturbatorium intensity. I could hear her breath and the fucking crow outside the window. You know why? Because, it was all a dream. I was taking my NEET afternoon nap.
I had a great idea for a book series. You know that book everyone poops? It can come in a three-pack- everyone poops for the kids, everyone masturbates for teens, and everyone dies for the elderly.
"Highschooly" pastedonthewallofacanteen turgid shit.
Alphabetic reorganisation as a form of futurist liturgy by means of which uneducated unemployed pieces of plastic, alloy, metal, glass, people'd computers, wired cities, piss [ochsenfjord] and dried semen pretend they are carrying sables. Pieces of bound tree as ammunition through which criminals shoot in to the crowd, lazily and with eyes closed. Earthworms think of Earth and nothing else. They secrete their juices over unseen places and meld in to the walls, carpets [ochsenfjord] and cities made of vomit, climbing over each other and dripping from the bottom of bins, frightening the girls. They don't eat at the café, nor eat with knife and fork [ochsenfjord] and have no goals but to wriggle and decease [yet even when you try and cut them]. Consider abandoning participation. Why have ears when there is nothing to hear? What does the dribble that is spat in to the webbed wasp's aural cavity and is dressed up as conversation matter? Contemplation has ended where contemplation is nothing but repeated platitudes and uninspired banalities. "Why had we even walked here when we could have stayed at home?" Familiar? The life that has already ended requires no general practitioner nor consultation. Why leave the cave? Metal and Plastic reality has already seized our cities with a klang klang boom and we've made good use of her clowns and whores. Isn't Marinetti standing amidst the humming wires that sit like the nerves of the city above the tram tracks and glass? Hadn't we imaged ourselves storming throught this or that alloy manifestation of electrical paralysis?
Hadn't we been lodged between these two buildings before and had let their glass and alloy grow like lichen upon these ivory shapes? What is wrong then with letting metals and plastics [and thunder channelled through copper] infect the other end of this sinking platform? The mental faculties are in disrepair and there are no more aphrodisiacs with a strong enough poison to make extension erotic to these yellow crusted eyes. Aren't there those weeks where upon our paralysed motions and upon our turgid reflections sits the illusion of transcendence, naked and white with a little death around the eyes? [And that we know that our only chance at fucking the whore is in doing something reprensible]. Wasn't the aphrodisiac a boredom of listlessness? For bowmen who sleep on the roof in winter there is only that and nothing else. The rest is merely dressed up pieces of cardboard. Is it right to drink the nectar? Or wrong? It would seem one day both and the next day neither and if only the latter then it is the most necessary of aevyls. There is no charity but in giving absolute hegemony over extension toward yourself. It can not be shared with anything but the smallest of audiences who stand on tippy toes to hear for something that may very well never come. [And how could I possibly share the steps that lead to the illusion of transcendence with anyone but someone who is willing to understand it even if it is wrong?] Splendour is only available to those with the weapons necessary for its acquisition [one for the dagger and one for the sable] or an infinite amount of daggers and no sable? [For who can really say they are Achilles?] Consider[...] nowhere is paradise written but in the non-sequacious dribble that drips from gutters, old bridges and train stations in disrepair [only in drinking these poisons do we imagine we have seen Zarathustra in the rusted metal chassis swinging beside a half-broken stone gate near the metal tracks and pebble stones]. That is paradise. Because that is all we know, we will continue to commit crimes both literary and otherwise, through humiliation and embarassment. I've seen veneration of a leaf, but this is not to be praised. This is to be feared.
It waits to be ripped down by some fuccboi.