The Gay Astronaut And The College Professor

This is the first Google Image result for “Gay Astronaut”

This all began at Chuck Wendig’s blog. This post in particular. You go to the website http://www.theyfightcrime.org/, it gives you a pair of characters, followed by the phrase “They fight crime!” Then you write a 1,000 word story about it. This was the duo that was dealt to me:

He’s a sword-wielding gay astronaut looking for a cure to the poison coursing through his veins. She’s a mistrustful belly dancing college professor living on borrowed time. They fight crime!

Here goes:

The gay astronaut held his sword to the college professor’s neck as her belly gyrated.

“Give me the antidote,” he said.

“I don’t trust you,” she said.

“Can you let me go now?” the tied-up criminal called from the floor.

“NO!” the spaceman and scholar said in unison.

How did it come to this?

FLASHBACK: The man walked across the stage and took his diploma from the dean. As of now, he was a graduate of astronaut school. Walking down the steps, back towards his peers, he thought to himself, “There are a lot of hot men here.” Later that night, as he was chopping up onions and parsnips with the sword his grandfather had given him, two realizations surfaced. The first—he was officially an astronaut. The second—he was officially gay. He was a gay astronaut. With a sword. He didn’t know he would one day fight crime.

FLASHBACK, WHICH OCCURS AT THE SAME TIME AS THE FIRST ONE: She walked across the stage and took money from whoever was giving it out. As of seven hours ago, she was a graduate of college professor school. As she walked down the thin strip, and back up, she moved her belly in rhythmic motions, side to side, up and down, and all around. She thought to herself, “I’m good at making my belly dance.” Two realizations surfaced. The first—she was officially a college professor. The second—she could officially belly dance. She was a belly dancing college professor. Without trust in anyone. She didn’t know she would one day fight crime.

ANOTHER FLASHBACK, FURTHER FORWARD IN TIME THAN THE PREVIOUS TWO: He was at a bar. She was at a bar. They both went up for a drink at the same time. It was busy, they weren’t being served. He made a witty remark to her: “Who’s leg do you gotta hump to get a drink around here?”

She looked disgusted. He added, “It’s okay, I can say stuff like that, I’m gay.”

“That’s cool. I can belly dance,” she said.

“I’m also an astronaut.”

“I’m also a college professor.”

They would have made out right then and there, but you have to remember, the astronaut was gay. Making out with a woman was gross to him.

They did stay up talking that night, though. Almost till dawn. They talked about some of the things covered in the first two flashbacks, and also things that didn’t have to do with being gay, belly dancing, sword fighting, mistrusting people, going into space, or achieving tenure at a small, but respectable state university.

When it was almost dawn, a bottle crashed through the window. The gay astronaut looked down at the street, and saw an intoxicated man throwing bottles at buildings and publically urinating.

Public intoxication. Vandalism. Public urination. A king-hell triumvirate of crimes.

He said, “College professor, I know you don’t trust me, but would you like to fight some crime right now?”

“I really shouldn’t, being that I’ve only known you for a few hours and you’re a gay astronaut wielding an extremely sharp and dangerous weapon, but why the hell not?”

They hatched a scheme.

On the street, the drunk man noticed a woman walk out of the alley. Her naked belly was shaking and moving, rippling like Jell-O. Real Jell-O, not the generic kind. He stopped throwing bottles to watch. The pause was long enough for the gay astronaut to run up behind him and slice his head off.

With nothing but a churning abdomen and an extremely sharp metal edge, a criminal was handed his comeuppance.

“Well, I’ve got to get back to the university,” the college professor said.

“Maybe I’ll see you around,” said the gay astronaut.

FLASHBACK, A FEW DAYS BEFORE THE FIRST PART OF THE STORY: She was in the lab at the university, mixing chemicals together. He walked in. “How did you find me?” she asked.

“You told me you worked here,” he said.

Turns out the mistrustful belly dancing college professor couldn’t even trust herself to keep her beak shut.

“Look, I don’t have time for this,” she said. “It’s the middle of finals week.” She bent down to grab a vial out of the cabinet.

The gay astronaut grabbed one of the chemical mixtures. “What is this, Mountain Dew?” he asked as he took a sip.

“No, it’s poison, don’t drink–”

“Uh-oh,” he said, in a very gay way.

FLASHBACK, A DAY BEFORE THE BEGINNING OF THE STORY: They were sitting in the college professor’s lab.

“You know, you’re lucky that was a special delayed-reaction poison, and not a kill-you-instantly poison,” she said.

“What do you want from me? I’m a gay astronaut, not a college professor!”

“Well, hurry up and drink that antidote. I’m living on borrowed time here.”

As the gay astronaut put the cup to his lips, a crazed student burst in through the door, grabbed the cup, and ran out.

“Egads! More crime to fight!” the spaceman shrieked.

“How are we going to find him?” asked the belly dancing college professor.

Before he could reply, the gay astronaut noticed something: short, thin lines of liquid leading out the door. Almost as if the liquid had dripped out of a container that was being carried at a rapid rate. They followed the trail and found the student in the basement of the library.

ONE MORE FLASHBACK, TO THE PART OF THE STORY BEFORE ALL THE FLASHBACKS: Reread the first six lines of this story, and then proceed, for here on out, the flashbacks are over. Everything is happening NOW.

NOW: The gay astronaut cut off the college professor’s head. He drank the antidote. The antidote was really just more poison. Kill-you-instantly poison. The gay astronaut dropped dead. The student, tied up on the floor, starved to death in the basement of the library. The end.

The No-Splash Urinal—How About It, Science?

Here’s a brief history lesson:

Isaac Newton

This is how Isaac Newton invented gravity. One night, while working in the Swiss Patent Office, he found himself drawing out some equations that would later become the theory of special relativity. He took a break to peer through his telescope, inadvertently discovered Earth’s moon, and in his excitement knocked an apple off of a table. It fell to the floor, and rolled under a desk, where it came to rest next to a moldy piece of bread. Newton thought about how the bread had been sitting on the ground, and not floating around the room, for weeks. A light bulb, which he later patented, lit up over his head. This moldy piece of bread had led to the invention of gravity. Out of scientific curiosity, he took a bite of the bread. Later on, while urinating, he noticed that the burning sensation that he normally experienced had went away. “Well slap my ass and call me Sally,” he thought, “I’ve just discovered penicillin.” As Sally walked into the office of his immediate superior to tell of the history that was being made, he was not greeted with “Congrats,” “Way to go,” or even a hug. What his boss said was, “Why is there urine all over the front of your clothes?”

It was a fair question. Newton was notorious for having an abnormally powerful flow, and bathrooms back then were very cramped. Imagine shooting a fire hose at a brick wall from a foot away, and you will get a glimpse of what life was like for this man. Surprisingly, he never went on to solve the problem of the splatter effect so conducive to the public urinal. Many posit that this odd shortcoming in his influential career was due to his obsession, in later years, with finding a socially acceptable way to seduce the sheep, Dolly, that he had cloned. All hope was lost a short time later, when he became a complete recluse after publishing The Catcher In The Rye.

So, if somebody could pick up where Newton fell short and make a urinal that entirely eliminates any sort of splash and splatter, we would all owe you a great debt of gratitude. Yet if Frank Urinal, the inventor of the urinal, couldn’t figure it out, we may be doomed.

Chick-fil-A Will Now Only Serve Meat From Gay Chickens

Dan Cathy, in what may prove to be either a brilliant PR move or an incredibly misguided attempt to appease millions of seething poultry lovers who probably hadn’t even heard of Chick-fil-A just weeks ago, has announced that his company will from now on serve meat exclusively from chickens who were homosexual during their lifetimes.

The company president’s decision was met with anger from PETA, who will never be happy about anything, lukewarm support from poultry farmers, whose businesses will be bolstered or hurt depending on the sexual orientation of their chicken herds, and general confusion from the LGBT community.

“No animal should ever be used for human consumption,” a PETA official stated, not realizing the irony that humans most likely would not have evolved to the level of consciousness necessary to come to the conclusion that it is wrong to eat animals had it not been for the inclusion of meat into their diets millions of years ago.

A redneck farmer, who contracts his birds out to Chick-fil-A, was speechless, and looked more confused than a cow in a henhouse, a pig in a shower, and a horse at a hootenanny.

“Uh…..what? I don’t get it, are we supposed to be happy that they’re including homosexual chickens on their menu, or offended that they are now only slaughtering the gay ones for their restaurants?” a befuddled representative of the LGBT community responded.

Whatever the motive, you can bet your bottom dollar that this exclusive gay-chicken move will only make Chick-fil-A better than ever. That’s according to Dan Cathy, who asks you to ponder this: “Imagine, two roosters just going at it. They are both masculine, powerful, and dominant. The strenuous sexual battle betwixt them will result in more of a struggle, therefore a harder workout for each bird, resulting in a leaner, healthier cut of meat. I’m getting sweaty and hungry just thinking about it.”

This reporter, not satisfied with one-sided answers, took it one step further — what about the meat rendered from lesbian chickens? Cathy looked thoughtful for a moment, then replied, “Well, Michael, that’s a damn good question. A damn good question. While less physical than the male of the species, a lesbian cut of meat can be counted on to provide what is lacking in their penised counterparts — tenderness, juiciness, and an all-around aura of love. And that’s what we want people to experience when they eat at a Chick-fil-A restaurant — love. But not weird, ishy, homosexual love.”

When asked what the homosexual chicken community thought of this development, a local gay chicken was very tight-beaked, yet its body language betrayed the fact that it was thinking deeply about something, but what? Is it that chickens, regardless of sexual orientation, have no marriage rights whatsoever? Was she planning an escape? Was she thinking of what was going to happen in the henhouse later? Or perhaps there was no cerebral activity there at all, her brain a veritable ball of goop due to years of the inbreeding and harsh conditions that make up today’s corporate chicken farms.

Whatever the outcome, I’m still not sure what Chick-fil-A is or how to pronounce it.

 

 

 

Conspiracy Theory: Are Hormel And Hanes In Cahoots?

Have Hanes and the Hormel Foods Corporation been secretly in cahoots with one another? It looks as though the seemingly disparate industries have no plausible reason to cross paths. Well, looks like I prematurely shot my wad and based the whole premise of this article on some brash assumptions that had no basis in actual fact. Sorry to have wasted your time.

Oh wait, there is one point I forgot to make. Let’s take a quick look at both companies.

Hanes: An apparel company well-known for their socks, T-shirts, and undergarments.

Hormel: Producer of SPAM, Dinty Moore, and a variety of other foods, most notably Hormel Chili. I have an extremely hot tip from a trusted culinary insider that the meat used in this chili is just “good enough” to not be made into dog food. Interesting. Low-grade meat is notorious for its blindingly quick layover in the human digestive system. More notorious yet is its even hastier, comically-explosive-bat-out-of-hades escape from that digestive system.

Do you see the link? Why else would the nutritionally bankrupt products of Hormel be kept on shelves, unless they were serving a higher, more sinister purpose than simply gratifying the quivering gullets of the drunk, the poor, and the drunk poor? Picture the stereotypical consumer of a can of Hormel Chili — it’s a grizzled man in a beater and tighty-whities, shoveling that slop into his mouth like an immigrant coal stoker in the boiler room of an early 1900’s cruise ship.

I posit that Hormel is a multi-tiered puppet enterprise of Hanes, who is using the constant onslaught of almost-dog food blemished shirts and soiled underpants to create sales in an impoverished demographic that would under any other conditions hang on to their clothes if they weren’t covered in revolting meat stains and fecal matter.

Before you go out and buy that next pack of private delicates or can of lubricated swill, remember: you are a mere pawn in a high stakes game benefitting an over-paid fat cat who wants you to sit on your couch and sh*t your pants.

Investigation in process: is the upholstery industry a fringe benefactor of the Hormel/Hanes conglomerate?

Striking Similarities Between Schrodinger’s Cat, Dave Dahl’s Old House, And The Sexuality Of Hermaphrodites

Case Study #1: There exists in the world of quantum mechanics a thought experiment (composed by Erwin Schrödinger) that goes something like this:

A (hypothetical) cat is caged up in a steel box for an hour. Within the box, safe from any tampering from the cat, is a Geiger counter with a small amount of radioactive substance. There is an equal chance that one of the radioactive atoms may or may not decay over the course of the hour. If decay does occur, it sets off a series of events that explodes a flask of acid, killing the cat. If none of the radioactive atoms decay, the cat lives.

One of the aspects of this experiment, aptly named Schrödinger’s Cat, is used to show that, while in the box, we have to assume that the cat is simultaneously dead and alive, until the box is opened.

Case Study #2: A friend of mine recently moved into a townhouse complex where acclaimed meteorologist Dave Dahl is known to have lived in the early ’90’s. It is unknown to us some two decades later which unit he actually resided in; only that it was one out of the many homes in the neighborhood.

Screaming, drunken arguments take place over this topic, in the very townhouse that may or may not have been lived in by Dave Dahl: I’m sitting at the counter shouting “YOU HAVE NO F$%^ING PROOF THAT HE LIVED IN HERE,” while my friend tries to drown me out with “YOU HAVE NO F&*$ING PROOF THAT HE DIDN’T,” while the neighbor next door assures his wife, “Don’t worry honey, they’re just arguing about Dahl again.”

A hearty touché goes out to both sides of the argument on that one. Until Dave Dahl himself is contacted, we must assume that Dave Dahl both lived in and didn’t live in that house. (I still maintain that Double-D would refuse to live in a poorly-lit center unit, when a man of his income and prestige in the media could easily afford to secure an end unit with more windows and thus a clearer view of the sky, something that I think a meteorologist would want for his dwelling. Unbeknownst to the current residents, I have been collecting hair samples from every nook and cranny of the place, and holding them up to Google Images of Dave Dahl circa 1990-1994 to see if they match in hue, tone, and “splendor.” No matches yet.).

Case Study #3: The hermaphrodite, owners of not one, but two private sexual zones, are perhaps the most flummoxing of all. While having the properties of both males and females, we come to the inevitable question: if a hermaphrodite is attracted to a male (or female, for that matter), is it heterosexual or homosexual? Much like the cat in the box and Dave Dahl’s supposed house, the herm must be assumed to be simultaneously in two states: hetero and homosexuality. But we can always open the box and see if the cat died or not, and find someone with a Rolodex deep enough to contact Dave Dahl about his rental history. Herms are up in the air for life.

It’s one of those rare questions we’ll never be able to answer, like what would have happened in Back to the Future if Marty McFly actually had wiped out his own existence? How could he have traveled back in time to prevent himself from being born if he had never been born?

Garlic Sweet Potato Cheese Bean Spread

“As far as we can discern, the sole purpose of human existence is to kindle a light of meaning in the darkness of mere being.”

– Carl Jung

Ah yes, the meaning of life. Who knows what it is, but I can tell you this with near certainty — a hefty portion of the equation involves food, for without it we would perish. And if there is food to be ingested, it may as well taste good. So, make a dash to the store and pick up:

-Sweet potatoes

-Beans (buyer’s choice, I use black or pinto)

-Garlic powder

-Cheese (buyer’s choice)

Instructions:

Soften the sweet potatoes by boil. Put them in a bowl and add in beans and garlic powder. Mash it all together. Spread it over a plate and cover with cheese. Microwave until the cheese melts. Eat it. I used generic Triscuits to dip with. I also doused it with chicken wing sauce that I got at the Dollar Tree.

Here’s the Blong (Blog Song) of the day. Widespread Panic with Ain’t Life Grand.

 

Legal Beagle – A Screenplay

I’ve written a script.*

Here’s the plot rub-down. It goes a little something like this:

After a wacky series of events, a dog named The President of Cuteness ends up playing in the NBA. During a regular season game, an even wackier series of events occurs. El Presidente is whistled for “giving the business” to an opponent. He ends up in a scuffle with his arch rival (who also happens to be a dog, who landed in the NBA by the wackiest series of events possible). This leads to both The President and his mortal enemy getting kicked out of the league. Our hero, through a series of events wackier than even the wackiest series of events, then masquerades as a female dog and plays in the women’s basketball league. Along the way, he secretly falls in love with his new teammate, who doesn’t know what is hiding under Mr. (now Ms.) President’s gym shorts. Then, through a series of events so hopelessly wacky that they give a new meaning to the word “wacky,” the two end up making love in a steamy shower scene late one night after practice. At this point Cuteness realizes that the dog he just crammed is also a male dog – his arch rival from the NBA! They can’t deny their attraction for one another, so they start a coed basketball league for homosexual dogs. Then The President of Cuteness wakes up, realizes it was all a dream and goes back to his job as a lawyer, which he obtained without much wackiness at all. The movie ends with him gazing out of his corner office window, wondering if he’ll ever find his soul mate, while Van Halen’s Why Can’t This Be Love plays over the fadeout.

*It has been pointed out to me that heavy elements of Juwanna Mann, Air Bud, and The Crying Game have been used in this script. Now, I’ve never actually seen any of those movies, so the fact that I was able to independently come up with the major plot points of not one, not two, but three Hollywood films is a testament to the fact that I possess the talent to be a Silver Screen writer.

Blong (Blog Song) of the day. Van Halen – Why Can’t This Be Love

 

Hyper-Intelligent, Genital-less Race of Super-Humanoids Found Living In Cloud City Above Area 51

Scientists have discovered a step to the next level of human consciousness. A race of highly evolved, hyper-intelligent humans was found living atop a cloud city over Area 51. Their digestive systems are extremely streamlined — no liquid or solid waste is produced by their bodies, causing both their genitalia and rectal orifices to have been snuffed out by natural selection. When asked how they reproduce, what we formerly considered a “smart” anthropologist, who would be thought of as a water-headed infant by this new society’s standards, put down his Tootsie Pop and replied, “I don’t know, but it’s probably totally nast.”

The members of this all around better breed are so advanced that they transmit their language telepathically. Since we have no way of communicating with this newer, better version of the poor excuses we currently have for people, it may not be possible to find out or even hope to understand the technological advances they have made, but you can be damn sure those rat-bastards would have something up their sleeves, if they had use for clothing. They’re just up there on their stupid cloud, zipping around on their personal perpetual motion machines, while all us idiots are stuck down here, listening to what Stephen Hawking says, and he can’t even talk. We can only hope our out-dated bodies are so revolting to them that they have no interest in prodding, probing, and picking at every hole they can find.

This is sort of what they might look like.