Tagged: tune in next time

My Outdated Woodchuck Lore

  • by Kentwhich is really my finger
  • roommate is tracking your pee schedule
  • saddest rendition of 12 Days of Christmas
  • some kind of caveman toilet
  • shoveling eggs into your gaping maw

Tune in next time part 590    Click Here for Earlier Installments

My outdated woodchuck lore was of little use to me now, and likewise my infallible direction finder, which is really my finger after I apply a bit of saliva, meant nothing when we had tracks to follow through the snow. But if there’s one thing they drill into you at the Academy, when the librarian is siccing ninjas on you to collect late fees and your roommate is tracking your pee schedule for purposes you don’t care to understand, it’s how to persevere in a desperate trek on improvised snowshoes.

To keep our spirits up as darkness fell, I began the world’s saddest rendition of 12 Days of Christmas. I was up to “11 ladies glancing away in remorse” when we abruptly reached the end of the trail. The foul photog’s footprints just stopped.

“Did you see a helicopter,” I asked Tessa, “or a really, really big owl?”

She shook her head, then pointed to the left. In the shelter of a copse of fir trees was what looked like some kind of caveman toilet. It was unoccupied, but surely seemed to be the best clue available. So we approached it.

“I bet you wish we were still on that boat,” she said.

“Nah. I wish we were on a cruise ship.”

She snorted. “I can just imagine you at the buffet, shoveling eggs into your gaping maw for hours on end.”

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The Isles of Bumpengrynd Were so Small

  • by jenwasn’t on any contemporary maps
  • a dismal little oil lamp
  • her American counterpart, Dr Roverpants
  • through brute force and righteous anger
  • every modeling agency, every dance academy

Tune in next time part 591    Click Here for Earlier Installments

The Isles of Bumpengrynd were so small and remote that the capital city, Twerkistan, wasn’t on any contemporary maps you could find on the internet. So of course this desolate rest stop lit only by a dismal little oil lamp was utterly vacant. The Tessabot sighed and plopped down on the primitive toilet. “Why are we even chasing this photographer?” she asked.

“To stop him from selling the pictures he took of us.”

“Why does it even matter? You can deny everything. You have a twin and no one will be able to tell which T-SSA Unit I am.” She went on to tell me about her American counterpart, Dr Roverpants, a Tessabot I had never met. That made at least three of them, and this Tessabot had ridiculous nicknames for the other two. Dr Roverpants, through brute force and righteous anger, took over every modeling agency, every dance academy, and the majority of the escort services in Miami. The one she called Professor Twinkletush was the one I’d seen thrown off a rooftop in Valentine Village.

“How many of you are there?”  I asked. “And what do the others call you?”

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“None of Us Know”

  • by Kentweird hiccup action
  • spontaneous in origin and artistically harmonized
  • Are you two brothers?
  • kinda fun, in a spill-proof way
  • slaughter any scouting parties we encountered

Tune in next time part 592    Click Here for Earlier Installments

“None of us know exactly how many others exist,” the Tessabot explained. “We’ve just run into each other now and then and shared info. My nickname is…” She rolled her eyes. “Do I have to tell you?”

I nodded.

Her voice dropped so much I could barely hear her say it. “The Toot Fairy.”

“Did you say ‘Tooth Fairy’?” I asked hopefully.

“No, the Toot Fairy,” she repeated. Each time she said the name there was some kind of weird hiccup action on the word ‘toot.’ She sighed. “There’s no real system to the nicknames; our goal was for them to be spontanous in origin and aritistically harmonized.”

“How about if I keep calling you Tessa?”

She nodded gratefully. “Even though it does sometimes give me an identity crisis.”

“That I can relate to,” I said. “Having a twin. As kids we seldom went around together, but anytime we did people would see us and ask, ‘Are you two brothers?‘”

She laughed.

I said, “We really do need to reach Twerkistan. Never mind the photographer, it’s a matter of basic survival.”

“Speak for yourself. I can last indefinitely in the wilderness. Being a TSS-A Unit has its advantages, and can be kinda fun, in a spill-proof way.”

“Spill-proof? And here I was counting on you to slaughter any scouting parties we encountered on the way.”

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“I’m Not Fond of the Smell in Here”

  • by jenenhanced by the extreme slipperiness
  • Then again, maybe it’s the perfect place
  • the librarians themselves did not have the slightest idea
  • where these fingertips came from
  • to believe in magic

Tune in next time part 593    Click Here for Earlier Installments

“I’m not fond of the smell in here,” I said as my nose wrinkled. “Twerkistan is primitive as cities go, but it’s got to be better than this poop shack.”

I opened the door and stepped out into a burst of sleet, which, enhanced by the extreme slipperiness of the Bumpbengryndian snow, dumped me on my ass. I grabbed the doorframe and pulled myself back in, saying, “Then again, maybe it’s the perfect place to ride out this storm.”

Tessa slammed the door closed. I stripped off my now-soaked clothes and began the very slow process of drying them by the heat of the miserly oil lamp. Tessa took up the newspaper that was on hand for use in butt-wiping, and read to me an article about a gruesome discovery at the Twerkistan public libraries. “The librarians themselves did not have the slightest idea where these fingertips came from, or whose they were. But they quickly grew tired of finding them in the card catalog drawers every morning. Usually not ones to believe in magic, they made an exception and called upon a local wizard for help. After his visit, there were no more fingertips in the card catalog. Instead they were found, first thing each day, stuck to the keyboard of the public computer.”

A shiver ran down my spine — not one caused by the icy conditions outside. “Fingertips! You know what that means.”

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Tessa Leaned Her Head to the Side

  • by Kentnot allowed to wear pants
  • there are no rules when you’re moving backward
  • moving at a sloth’s pace
  • darker than the Devil’s ass
  • accompanied by a reporter and police officer

Tune in next time part 594    Click Here for Earlier Installments

Tessa leaned her head to the side, pondering. Then she gave it a fetching little shake.

“Fingertips, in the library?” I waved my hands so emphatically that I banged them into the walls of the outhouse. “Add that together and you can only get one answer: biblio-zombies. People who died with unfinished reading.”

“Wouldn’t that be most people?”

“Well, there is a bit more to it of course. Necromancy, of the kind where you’re not allowed to wear pants. And if you accidentally put pants on, you have to walk backward because there are no rules when you’re moving backward. But the zombies are fragile, dropping pieces even when they’re moving at a sloth’s pace. The wretched things, borne of magic darker than the Devil’s ass, and their fingertips are the most delicate of all.”

Tessa looked worried. “This all sounds weird, even for you.”

“Look at the article,” I implored. “It’ll say that the wizard wore a robe — no pants — and I’ll bet anything our nimble photo-ratface was involved.”

She consulted the page again. “It says the wizard was accompanied by a reporter and police officer. Suppose the reporter is our paparazzo. How does the cop figure?”

My jaw clenched. I had a fair idea who that was, too.

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“There’s No Time to Explain”

  • by jengiraffe bikini
  • making laser noises from the shadows
  • thick, plastic liquid that hardens in a few hours
  • brothers and sisters I’ve apparently never met
  • gripping the animal by its dainty hooves

Tune in next time part 595    Click Here for Earlier Installments

“There’s no time to explain,” I said. “We have to get to Twerkistan.”

“We can’t.” said Tessa. “The weather is awful, and all you’re wearing are giraffe bikini briefs.”

I sighed. “You’re right. I wish my clothes would dry faster.”

“So since we do in fact have the time, why don’t you tell me who you think the cop is.”

“She’s not really a cop. She just likes to dress like one.” I tried to think how best to describe her. “Her name is Jessamin. She’s my sister, and she’s a villain. I’ve been chasing her for years, and she’s always one step ahead of me, making laser noises from the shadows and laughing. Once she broke into my room and dipped all my most precious things in a thick, plastic liquid that hardens in a few hours.”

“You have brothers and sisters I’ve apparently never met,” Tessa said.

“I have brothers and sisters I’ve never met. My parents got around.”

I shuddered at the memory of my stuffed pegasus, once so soft and cuddly. I pictured Jessamin preparing to encase it in plastic, gripping the animal by its dainty hooves, a wicked grin on her face.

But what was she doing interfering with a police investigation in Twerkistan?

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Maybe This Was A Lucky Break

  • by Kent“Now, there’s an exhibition of ball control,”
  • a girl who’d never been touched in a barn
  • also making tiaras
  • iconic red and white stripes
  • if thrown at your brother’s head

Tune in next time part 596    Click Here for Earlier Installments

Maybe this was a lucky break for me in my pursuit of Jessamin. This time she wouldn’t know I was so near. There was no way she could have known I would be arriving here, when I hadn’t even known it myself. But it was hard to shake the feeling that it fit her pattern perfectly for her to have gotten here first.

As thoughts about my villainous sister swirled in my head, I shifted my damp clothing around in hopes of drying it faster. Tessa sat in silence for a long time, until at last she said, “Now, there’s an exhibition of ball control,” at which I glanced down and noticed for the first time how close to her nose my giraffe bikinis were.

“Pardon me, not much room to operate in here.”

“No, it’s quite alright. The animal print is… evocative. I mean, did you think I was a girl who’d never been touched in a barn?”

I looked pointedly at the print on my briefs. “Must have been a tall barn.”

She nodded. “It had four levels. The animals stayed on the first two, and the upper ones were used for offices and also making tiaras for the animals to wear. But, none of this is important right now. What are we going to do when we get to Twerkistan?”

I recalled the last time I’d actually been in the same room with Jessamin, that she had been wearing the iconic red and white stripes of the family banner as a cape, and holding a conch shell in her hand. And she’d asked me, “Did you know that a shell like this, if thrown at your brother’s head, will knock him out long enough to get you a decent head-start?”

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“Jessamin’s Twin is Benjamin”

  • by jenpolitical performance art
  • puked up feathers
  • Just be glad you don’t have to wear them.
  • cold, damp, and comfortable
  • complete with all the hot-dog inspired accessories

Tune in next time part 597    Click Here for Earlier Installments

“Jessamin’s twin is Benjamin,” I said. “Where she excels at villainy, he’s obsessed with political performance art. The last piece of his that I saw had him wearing a wad of puked up feathers to represent America’s relationship with the Canary Islands. Before his performance he said to me, ‘Just be glad you don’t have to wear them. They’re cold, damp, and comfortable enough to not cause lasting damage, but just barely.’ I told him nobody was making him wear them, and he told me I was wrong. His muse demanded that he dress that way, complete with all the hot-dog inspired accessories, and the mittens.” I shook my head.

“Why are you telling me about Benjamin?” Tessa asked.

“Wherever Jessamin goes, Benjamin follows. We’ll likely run into both of them and I want you to know what to expect.”

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“Okay,” Tessa Said

  • by Kenteven his flaws have flaws
  • can’t spell his own name
  • they let me hang out in my speedo
  • fighting and fighting and fighting and fighting
  • document his many niggles

Tune in next time part 598    Click Here for Earlier Installments

“Okay,” Tessa said, “I know to expect someone a bit odd. But I knew that already, if he’s a member of your family.”

“You didn’t let me finish,” I said, shaking my head. “He’s weird and broken, even his flaws have flaws. Usually he’s so drunk he can’t spell his own name.”

“Such condemnation for your own brother. What do people do to get in your good books?”

“Well for one thing, they let me hang out in my speedo.” I swiveled my hips to draw her attention back to my giraffe-print undies. She smirked and emitted a robotic little chuckle. “I blame Mother, naturally,” I went on. “Growing up she always had us fighting and fighting and fighting and fighting and–”

“I get it,” Tessa interrupted. “So it’s only natural for you to spot all your siblings’ flaws. Where this brother is concerned, you feel compelled to document his many niggles.”

“When we run into him, you’ll understand. But let’s not forget that Jessamin is the main worry for us now.”

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The Big Six-Oh-Oh

It’s another milestone for everyone’s favorite chain story. This one. We’re talking about this one. The one you’re currently reading, which has reached its epic 600th installment. Some might say we need a hobby, but the joke’s on them — this is our hobby!

To celebrate such a grand achievement, Jen and Kent will be working on today’s entry together. Jen will go first and write until she manages to work in the first prompt phrase, then she’ll hand the keyboard to Kent. We’ll alternate until we hit the bottom of the list, then we’ll hit the showers.

Through the years we’ve accumulated a small collection of writing advice and style guides, and various and sundry reference books. We’ve drawn today’s prompt phrases from a handful of them: The Deluxe Transitive Vampire, Woe is I, The Writer’s Journey, Writing Better Lyrics, and American English Compendium.

Tune in next time part 599 & 600      Click Here for Earlier Installments

  • Frisk whoever enters.
  • moped in my boudoir
  • don’t always land gently
  • Certainly there is magic in the briefcase
  • rose to his haunches
  • aeronautical engineer could give a more precise description
  • ghosts of dead rules and spirits of imaginary taboos
  • where one style maven sees UFO’s
  • American slang and colloquialisms
  • vintage macho expression

For the next hour, while my horny necromancer costume dried, I regaled Tessa with stories of Jessamin’s terribleness.

“I get it,” Tessa said. “Your sister sucks.”

“It’s more than that,” I said, but before I could explain we heard a commotion outside. I pulled my still-damp pants on and told Tessa, “Frisk whoever enters. We don’t want any surprises.”

The noises outside grew more distinct as their source got closer to the door. I could only make out one voice, which sounded angry, mingled with enough crashing of branches and crunching of sleet-crusted snow to suggest a whole brigade. The angry voice said, “I suppose she’d have been happy to have moped in my boudoir all weekend, but I had places to go.”

I recognized the voice, and so did Tessa, judging by the look she threw my way. It was a look that said she was ready to land some punches, and we all know that a robot’s punches don’t always land gently.

The knob jiggled once and stilled. The voice outside shouted, “I know about the briefcase! Certainly there is magic in the briefcase, that’s not even the issue anymore!”

Why John thought I had the briefcase was anyone’s guess. I hadn’t seen that thing in years. The door flew outward and there stood my onetime partner/ofttimes nemesis, in the teeth of the storm. The snow rose to his haunches and was plastered to his clothes so that he resembled a yeti. The wind and ice had sculpted his hair into a lopsided wing, of which I’m sure an aeronautical engineer could give a more precise description. All I could think was that if his head were an airplane it would be doomed to fly in circles.

“I know what you’re going to say,” he boomed. “You’re going to say you can’t give me the briefcase, and you’re going to say your brother has it, and you’re going to cite all these ghosts of dead rules and spirits of imaginary taboos, and all that other Contrarian shit. And I’m sick of it, Jason. Sick. Of. It.” After a few seconds he raised his phone to his ear and muttered, “I’m going to have to call you back.”

Tessa and I exchanged a look. Her eyebrow quirked in a very lifelike manner, and I thought I knew what she meant. I knew our game plan. But then I looked at John again, at that hair, and I was mesmerized. It was as if he’d used a time machine to visit a salon in the 80s where one style maven sees UFO’s and translates them into coiffure.

“Have you misplaced your flock of seagulls?” I asked.

John’s confusion contorted his face beautifully and I had to suppress a snort of laughter. “You know I don’t understand all of your American slang and colloquialisms,” he said. “And it’s rude of you to use them around me.”

But it wasn’t long before the confusion on his face shifted rapidly to a vintage macho expression, a confident smirk, as he said, “You, ‘Jason,’ seem to have misplaced your lisp!”

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