what are you working on
Posted: Sun Feb 24, 2019 2:16 am
post a work in progress. here's one from my notes
hey. i know its been awhile, i just wanted to call, check up
let you know im having a kid
yeah its massive. its really made me rethink a lot of my life.
and i just wanted to say...
that i am so freakin sorry.
i am so freakin sorry for the terrible things i said to you.
can ya ever forgive me?
i made a boo boo
a big time boo boo with your feelings
and im man enough to admit it.
and im just. so freakin. sorry.
i feel like a ripe peach.
i dont know exactly what i mean by that.
uhhh fuzzy. soft. sorry.
you see, this is the problem, i just, i just freakin say stuff before thinking it through!
and im freakin sorry as soon as i say it!
im freakin sorry for saying anything!
the only thing im not sorry for saying...
is 'im sorry'
and to prove it
and this is kind of why i called
i want you to know that im gonna name my newborn something apology related
like 'sorry,' or 'sorrow'
'sorrow' is a beautiful name
its like a beautiful fantasy name
you can really proclaim 'sorrow.'
maybe 'contrition?' kinda sounds like a name.
'trish,' for short.
'contrition...did you eat my jellybeans?'
i dont know
whatever the name, its gonna be a very impactful
eh that kinda sounds depression medication
anyway, hope things are good, i gotta go!
Re: what are you working on
Posted: Fri Mar 08, 2019 10:21 am
I think this is an ok opening—it introduces the character reasonably well and sets up a bunch of possible weird things about him. But I don't know where I want to take it. Ideas are welcome.
Gary didn't want to go to school. This was his daily routine. He would wake up in a bed that he'd outgrown and lie there a bit. He'd swear to himself that he wouldn't stay up so late. Another 10 minutes of groaning and he'd be out of bed, still dressed in his stained blue jumpsuit from yesterday. Gary's mom would call out to him to come for breakfast. It was Eggo waffles. It was always Eggo waffles. Gary's mom had won a lifetime supply of Eggo in a raffle several years ago. The toaster it came with had long since broken, but it had remained a vestigial part of the kitchen. Gary sat down to his still-thawing breakfast. He scarfed down his meal and headed off to school, half-uniformed and all.
Gary had taken two steps out the door when he impulsively tapped his back pocket and realized he had left the car keys inside the house. He violently twisted his body around to catch the door, but it had closed and locked. Gary knew the rules. He wasn't allowed back home until his job was complete. He went to the garage and checked the workbench cabinets and the tops of the shelving units, but he knew he had used up all the spare keys the week prior and never bothered putting them back. Gary was already late to work. The kids would be starting first period now. He went back to the workbench and grabbed a pair of needle-nose pliers and a hammer. With the hammer, he broke the backseat window and crawled through. There was no alarm, Gary's mother couldn't afford one. Gary deftly disassembled the steering column and systematically broke off each panel. He had the car hot-wired in under two minutes. Now at the wheel, Gary raced out of the garage and onto the slippery Michigan roads. With a lot of luck, Gary arrived at the middle school 20 minutes later.
Ms. Butterick was smoking nervously outside the school. She seemed surprised to see him, and quickly flicked the smoldering cigarette away. "Jesus Christ, Gary. You look like shit. Are you drunk?"
Re: what are you working on
Posted: Sun Mar 17, 2019 2:28 am
For some reason this reminds me of the middle school band teacher who I went to church with when I was a kid who ended up being a pedophile. Something about adults with authority who children are supposed to look up to being very flawed human beings in their private lives. That's sort of the theme I'm picking up from the character introductions, and that could be an angle you'd want to explore a bit more to find the direction you want it to move in.
Re: what are you working on
Posted: Sun Jul 07, 2019 12:21 am
When I brought up my piece "Unleashed" on the Discord, some people mentioned wanting to read it. Here it is. I'd like to revise it: make it shorter so it'd fit better in the zine, remove the pointless references and stupid puns, make it generally funnier, etc. The numbers are for footnotes, which I couldn't figure out how to properly format (i.e superscript) in the forum's text editor.
The dogs—dogs that one might have called Mr. Yemmenskinstein's wards, had they been people, which, despite their litany of humanoid traits, they were not—were:
Fresco, who spoke with the gravelly voice of a venerable Jewish comedian long overdue for death—never coherently, but you could tell the accent was there.
Lil' Gilgamesh, the one with the human vestigial tail.
Neuromancer, who could flip you the bird with his itty-bitty, little-wittle, doggy-woggy, phalange-balanges, and also he never put the toilet seat down.
Stabby Ramone, who was a dog, but only in a strict, legal sense, which didn't stop him from owning and driving a car. (1)
Piddles, whose gambling addiction had made Mr. Yemmenskinstein quite a wealthy man.
Zippo, who had two opposable thumbs and a count of arson for each of them.
Purple, who grew human hair on her body.
Sussudio, author of The De-mesticationist Manifesto.
Unferth, who made excuses all the time for his life's unsuccess.
Rufus Dreyfus, whose eyes looked human, but, in actuality, were no superior to regular dog eyes.
Down Boy, who was John Belushi, reincarnated.
Macaroni & Freeze NYPD, who needed no further introduction.
Gravedigger, who buried bones in special rituals, intending for them never to be unearthed.
Monster Mash, whose human-shaped—but dog-sized—skeleton struggled to support his otherwise dog-shaped anatomy.
Mouth-to-Feed, who had the discerning palate of a Yelp critic.
Bandit, who stole bread to feed the family of self-avowed "dog lovers" that he kept shackled in the basement.
Bill Murray, who was originally named "Bill Murray," after the guy that didn't play Egon Spengler (nor Raymond Stantz, nor Winston Zeddemore) in Ghostbusters, but later changed his name to "Bill Murray," after the B-side Gorillaz track that Mr. Yemmenskinstein always skipped when he played music in the car, even though he knew Bill Murray, the dog, liked it.
Checkpoint Charlie, whose cranium was stuffed with human dog's breakfast, as Vonnegut once called it.
Chigger, who sweated.
Maleman, who would have made war—damn the specifics—if given the authority.
Look Look Look Look, executive director of attentions.
Arffjordable, proficient with toilets and bidets. (All kinds! Western-style, dry, flying, Japanese, you name it!)
Copper Kipper, who could pass the Turing test in her sleep.
Grimace, who delighted in costumery.
Shagtown, who wore his war gore with glory, and bore stories of storming shores with his corps that the other dogs, bored, ignored. (2)
Biggish Oldish Brutus, who, pushing 80, is entering his twilight years.
Cpt. Etc., usu. abbrev.
Supper's Ready, with moral agency confirmed personally by Singer.
Dringbillow, who practiced the waning art of the friction fire.
Loosey-Noosey, who made empty threats.
Found Footage, who experienced fear when he watched horror films.
Gavagai, who was frustrated by Mr. Yemmenskinstein's sometimes inscrutable allusions and references.
Secretions, who may or may not have a human aura. An orange one.
Familiar Can, who could recognize the image of himself in the mirror for what it was, and could even regret the way that his reflected features seemed to sag lower with each passing day.
Dormant Norman, who neglected to capitalize on the media attention he received after his death threat to the royal baby, Prince George, was publicly misinterpreted as biting, satirical performance art.
Humbucker, who knew several chords and how to use them.
Phalanxious Inch, who kept a travel-size bottle of hand sanitizer gel on himself at all times, rubbed it on himself frequently, and offered it to others occasionally (such as before meals).
Flambuoyance, a stripper.
Bimbo, painter of several moving portraits.
Little Largesse, whose only joy in life was brown-bagging his stool, placing it on a stoop, igniting it (3), and ringing the doorbell.
Snowglobe, who petitioned for the preservation of the Earth.
Seymour Puppert, always trying to teach the others how they might better learn.
Talking Bones, master of over a dozen human languages—mute in the tongue of her kin.
Muttharfucker, who smiled when pleased, happy, joyous, amused, sociable, etc.
Supper-Vision, who could distinguish, by sight, dog food from people food, as well as the food that fit both categorites. (Whether he minded the distinction was another story.)
Bad Example, who thought himself quite exceptional.
GNU/Linux Lummox, who never seemed to learn from the last segfault.
Nozzle, practicing hydrotherapist.
Carcinogenixxx, who enjoyed taking offensive and hostile stances.
David Barkowitz, whose profile is too long to detail here.
Gruethome Tooththome, whose mouth harbored human teeth. Several sets at once.
Primmenpropper, who had dressed Mr. Yemmenskinstein every morning for the last twenty years.
Saemon Daemon, who, unfortunately, produced human sperm.
Done Deal, who closed every contract with a handshake. (4)
Charm School, who had human skin under his dog fur.
Twin, who was bipedal.
Memento Maury, who kept his eyes on the door, so to speak.
Un Chien Tindalou, who exercised a frightening obsession with trigonometry.
Cheek-to-Cheek, who actually danced. (5)
Attitude B, the Christian one.
Chorchnshish, who spouted human-sounding nonsense. (6)
Sally Forth, who walked oddly, under arbitrary rules.
17 Hands High, tall enough for all the best roller coasters.
Chore, who helped Mr. Yemmenskinstein with the jumble sometimes. If he kept the dishes clean, he got a seat at the table.
Rear-Ender in the Zone b/w Chassis Hassle, once two dogs...
Paul Ratched, stern against all opposition.
Plosive Spewer, harsh critic.
Booboo, plagued by his wagging finger of a conscience.
Minute Meter Maid, a frequent (and valued) participant in focus groups.
Rations, who ate away the pain.
Chintzy Chauncey, who, night after night, told joke after joke after joke after joke after joke after joke—funny ones, too, really!
Rotunda Cupola Joe, who peed outside only to contemplate the architecture of the Yemmenskinstein estate.
Abraham "Begat" Isaac, who tried to get everyone to call him "Begat". "Because of how funny and great it would be," he had said.
Simp, who can't fall asleep unless he's in front of the TV.
High-on-a-Hydrant, who suffered embarrassing nightmares about public nudity.
Great News, who would be welcomed into People Heaven.
Soandso, who, if lost within a crowd of humans, would blend in, never to be found.
and the rest.
(1) There's a little-known ascendancy that the furrier mammals have over their less-endowed counterparts: fur provides an effective barrier between flesh and plastic, preventing the dreaded skin-polyvinyl adhesion so common during summer road trips. It was precisely that, for precisely that reason, that wasn't happening to Zippo as he reclined in the cherry passenger seat of Stabby Ramone's convertible something-or-other. Stabby was also safe; pants, technology, anthro-ingenuity were saving his skin today.
(2) Scratch that—there was one dog who didn't mind: Maleman, who took notes.
(3) This part necessitated the assistance of Zippo or, less often, Dringbillow.
(4) "Shake!" she barked, paw extended.
(5) You know how people sometimes make pretend that an animal is dancing? Cheek-to-Cheek actually danced. Very well.
(6) Perhaps you've read some of it.