"Cheesesticks & Poon: The Adventures of Robot Winston Churchill Across the Ages"
Part Three
"A Family Affair"
Word travels fast across the centuries, and rarely does it travel faster than when that word includes Robot Winston Churchill, Asians, and Deep Penetration in the Distant Future. Take it as you will. For news of Robot Winston Churchill's rampant sexcapades had reached ears in the farthest corners of time, but no where was it ringing louder than in the small nineteenth century British village of Woodstock, Oxfordshire.
For at that very moment, a child was born. A small boy who Mistress Fate, in all of her infinite wisdom, has singled out from amongst the masses. A boy whose destiny would find him winning great wars, leading nations and empires, and getting ass loads of poon doing it. For this small boy, wrapped in swaddling cloth and held firmly in his mother's strong arms, would help to vanquish evil from earth.
But not if Robot Winston Churchill had anything to say about it.
Oh, and believe me, he did.
For this boy, this Baby Winston Leonard Spencer Churchill, was the only soul in the history of time with the powers to defeat Robot Winston Churchill; the man, ironically enough, he was born to kill. His parents knew it. There was a reason this birthing had taken place in secret, in a secluded house in an obscure English village. As Mother Churchill smiled at her new born son, the midwife glanced to Father Churchill who stood grinning in the corner, corncob pipe clenched firmly in his square jaw. It seemed that this family, which had gone to so much trouble and through so much pain, had finally found a shred of hope in this god forsaken world. Happiness, after all these years, had finally come to the Churchill family.
But little did they know that a menace was stalking them, just outside their very home. For Robot Winston Churchill could smell like happiness as great white could blood; and like a bug killer on the job, it was time for an extermination.
With a deafening crash, the front door of the cottage crashed down, Robot Winston Churchill charging in like a raging locomotive of righteous fury. Father Churchill was the closest to Robot Winston Churchill, and it would seem, the closest to death.
Robot Winston Churchill lunged, and grabbing Father Churchill's feeble body, snapped his spine like a baseball bat over his mechanical thigh of thunder. Robot Winston Churchill then hoisted the poor man up, still alive and gasping for breathe. With joy in his eyes and blood on his mind, the maniacal android grasped Father Churchill's flaccid manhood, and with one great tug, performed the ultimate vasectomy of pain.
Letting his first victim fall to the floor with a solid thud, Robot Winston Churchill's head than pivoted exactly one hundred and eighty degrees around, his gaze falling on the final three. They were, indeed, the walking dead.
The midwife let out a scrotum-clenching scream and made a dash for the door. But Robot Winston Churchill, laughing with a mechanical glee that would have struck fear into the heart of Satan himself, let go a giant ball of fire from his throat, the result of the installment of a Zippo and can of Tag strategically placed near his jugular. For every Robot Winston Churchillologist worth his weight in salt knows that when Robot Winston Churchill spits, he spits hot fire.
Robot Winston Churchill then picked up the dying old woman with one hand, her face still melting off her skull, as he whipped out his robotic cock with the other. No one is quite sure what happened next, but there are stories. To this day, if you ask the neighbors, they'll tell of a bone shattering crash and a midwife with one extra "happy hole", square through the temple. As for Robot Winston Churchill, well, it wasn't the first time he's had to clean skull bits off his android cock.
Whipping his mouth to clear away his own potent love juice, Robot Winston Churchill then turned towards the last two, his prize easily within his reach. Mother Churchill, desperate to protect her child at all costs, dropped Baby Winston Churchill to the floor and ran out the door screaming into the woods.
This rare act of courage, a testament to the love between a mother and her child, gave time for Robot Winston Churchill to jack himself off onto the wall near the fireplace. But none of that mattered now. Robot Winston Churchill then picked up Baby Winston Churchill and gazed into his baby eyes. Then he pocked them out. And ripped him apart, limb from limb. Picking up a blood stained cradle sheet, Robot Winston Churchill wrapped up the baby and carried him down to the local butcher. There he threw Baby Winston Churchill's broken carcass into the sausage grinder. The villagers would sit down to a special breakfast treat the next morning, though Robot Winston Churchill gleefully, and he escaped once more into the deepest bowels of time.
The entire village of Woodstock, it would seem, would have a "taste" of their future leader.
Thursday, March 22, 2007
Friday, March 9, 2007
a poem
sorry for the lack of posts, but here's a poem i wrote for a new facebook group i started called "neo-dadaists, upper midwest".
un(tit)led
a girl in school once asked me what dada is
but all i could do was laugh
then moments later
a boy in school asked me what i was laughing at
but all i could do was tell him what dada is
he told me i didn't make any sense
(for in truth, all i said was "die kunst ist tot, dada uber alles")
and that my laugh made me seem crazy
at this point i was openly weeping
and i think he got scared
because he left
it wasn't until lunch time in the commons
that a younger boy
(a freshman, i think)
drinking his milk through a straw told me that art was dead
i think he was dissappointed in my reaction
because he frowned when i smiled
i know, i told him, and i helped bury it
the aforementioned school boy and girl
(who were passing our table at the time)
got mad and demanded to know what i meant
about what? i asked
art being dead, they said
i tried to answer
but the way they asked it made me laugh
they left and i got ice cream
they left and i got ice cream
they left and i got ice cream
they left and i got ice cream
i guess that about sums it up
more or less
un(tit)led
a girl in school once asked me what dada is
but all i could do was laugh
then moments later
a boy in school asked me what i was laughing at
but all i could do was tell him what dada is
he told me i didn't make any sense
(for in truth, all i said was "die kunst ist tot, dada uber alles")
and that my laugh made me seem crazy
at this point i was openly weeping
and i think he got scared
because he left
it wasn't until lunch time in the commons
that a younger boy
(a freshman, i think)
drinking his milk through a straw told me that art was dead
i think he was dissappointed in my reaction
because he frowned when i smiled
i know, i told him, and i helped bury it
the aforementioned school boy and girl
(who were passing our table at the time)
got mad and demanded to know what i meant
about what? i asked
art being dead, they said
i tried to answer
but the way they asked it made me laugh
they left and i got ice cream
they left and i got ice cream
they left and i got ice cream
they left and i got ice cream
i guess that about sums it up
more or less
Sunday, February 11, 2007
The Ghost Rider of Rural Appalachia
A short story I was inspired to write while eating dinner last night in downtown Minneapolis. Enjoy.
The Douglas children always looked forward to Christmas time. Johnny and Katie, twins at the age of nine years, loved the presents, family gatherings, and, their personal favorite, the horse and carriage rides.
As the temperatures dropped and the calendar turned to the last month of the year, Jonny and Katie knew all too well what awaited them down on the family farm. They arrived with their parents and quickly joined their smaller cousins in the play room. Finally, after the sun had set low behind the rolling hills, their aunt entered the room, saying the words Johnny and Katie had been waiting for the entire night.
"Time for a horse and carriage ride!"
The smaller children cried with joy and bolted out of the room in front of the twins. As Johnny and Katie stepped out onto the front porch of the farm house, the carriage was already overflowing with a mass of toddlers and their parents.
"Oh no, Johnny and Katie, it looks like the carriage is full. Would you mind waiting for it to go around and return, then take you for a ride?"
The twins, though eagerly anticipating the trip, didn't mind a little wait.
"Yes, that's fine Aunt Leslie," they replied.
Their aunt smiled and, upon entering the carriage herself, turned and said they would be back in half an hour. As the carriage torted down the trail, Johnny and Katie stood alone on the porch.
They had waited for a mere five minutes when, far down the trail returning to the farm house, they spotted a horse and carriage.
"That was really quick," Johnny said wonderingly, his sister concurring.
Their surprised joy turned to utter horror as the carriage approached. For there, guiding his two skeleton horses from atop his carriage of tortured souls, rode none other than the Ghost Rider of Rural Appalachia.
The children screamed and attempted to flee, but their mortal bodies were no match for the personal carriage driver of Satan. Johnny and Katie were sucked into the carriage, and as the horses led them back into the deepest rings of Hell, the Ghost Rider of Rural Appalachia let out a sinister laugh, knowing that two more souls had just been claimed by his horse and carriage ride of doom.
The Douglas children always looked forward to Christmas time. Johnny and Katie, twins at the age of nine years, loved the presents, family gatherings, and, their personal favorite, the horse and carriage rides.
As the temperatures dropped and the calendar turned to the last month of the year, Jonny and Katie knew all too well what awaited them down on the family farm. They arrived with their parents and quickly joined their smaller cousins in the play room. Finally, after the sun had set low behind the rolling hills, their aunt entered the room, saying the words Johnny and Katie had been waiting for the entire night.
"Time for a horse and carriage ride!"
The smaller children cried with joy and bolted out of the room in front of the twins. As Johnny and Katie stepped out onto the front porch of the farm house, the carriage was already overflowing with a mass of toddlers and their parents.
"Oh no, Johnny and Katie, it looks like the carriage is full. Would you mind waiting for it to go around and return, then take you for a ride?"
The twins, though eagerly anticipating the trip, didn't mind a little wait.
"Yes, that's fine Aunt Leslie," they replied.
Their aunt smiled and, upon entering the carriage herself, turned and said they would be back in half an hour. As the carriage torted down the trail, Johnny and Katie stood alone on the porch.
They had waited for a mere five minutes when, far down the trail returning to the farm house, they spotted a horse and carriage.
"That was really quick," Johnny said wonderingly, his sister concurring.
Their surprised joy turned to utter horror as the carriage approached. For there, guiding his two skeleton horses from atop his carriage of tortured souls, rode none other than the Ghost Rider of Rural Appalachia.
The children screamed and attempted to flee, but their mortal bodies were no match for the personal carriage driver of Satan. Johnny and Katie were sucked into the carriage, and as the horses led them back into the deepest rings of Hell, the Ghost Rider of Rural Appalachia let out a sinister laugh, knowing that two more souls had just been claimed by his horse and carriage ride of doom.
Thursday, February 8, 2007
reviews and what not
i've got a number of reviews of my writing, primarily from school and gt. mostly they were what i expected, just points about grammar, sentence structure, and my absolute lack of character development. either way, i've got the next plot sorted out and now just needed to put it down on paper. or blogspot. or what ever the fuck i want to put it on.
oh, and if anyone wants to read more short stories by pathologically lying absurdists with slight literary flairs and an excessive amount of free time (ie myself in a nutshell) visit
electricstorytime.blogspot.com
trust me, it'll be worth it. and you can read my comments about grave dancing, necrophilia, and suspicious red hankerchiefs.
oh, and if anyone wants to read more short stories by pathologically lying absurdists with slight literary flairs and an excessive amount of free time (ie myself in a nutshell) visit
electricstorytime.blogspot.com
trust me, it'll be worth it. and you can read my comments about grave dancing, necrophilia, and suspicious red hankerchiefs.
Sunday, February 4, 2007
R.W.C. #2: 'The Most Important Law'
"Cheesesticks & Poon: The Adventures of Robot Winston Churchill Across the Ages"
Part Two
"The Most Important Law"
Doctor Robert Feebleshouz, chief engineer of XS Robots, Inc., strode proudly down the airtight passageway to the shipping dock. It was, after all, his moment of triumph over the nay sayers.
As he gripped the railing and overlooked the countless rows of new androids (of which he had personally designed) ready for shipment to all corners of the galaxy, he felt untouchable. Sure, the older, retired scientists had warned him of what such a enterprise could entail, but now was not a time for second guessing. He had dignitaries to address and investors to impress.
As his speech neared the end, he pointed to the three sentences on the giant poster behind his podium. Imprinted on them were the Three Laws of Robotics.
Law One: A robot may not injure a human being or, through inaction, allow a human being to come to harm.
Law Two: A robot must obey orders given it by human beings except where such orders would conflict with the First Law.
Law Three: A robot must protect its own existence as long as such protection does not conflict with the First or Second Law.
“With these rules programmed in every robot’s hard drive,” the Doctor stated for the press, “no human will ever come to harm on the behalf of a robot.”
Just then, as if that sentence had triggered him, a shell of a man, bound to an electric wheelchair, was able to drive himself up onto the stage. The man began to speak, only to be tackled quickly to the ground by three security guards.
“Stop,” the Doctor ordered, “let him speak.”
The old man, speaking through a coarse voice box, stared Feebleshouz down, as if trying to read his very soul. Finally, after an awkward silence, he spoke.
“Good Doctor, you know just as well as I do what happens when the Fourth Law is ignored. Trust me. Now that you have built them, He will come.”
Sure, the Doctor had heard of the fabled Fourth Law, but that was exactly what it was; a fable.
“Who,” the Doctor inquired, “will come?”
With a twinkling sparkle in his dying eyes, the old man did little but laugh and, pointing in the direction of a mammoth figure in the corner of the shipping dock, gave the Doctor his answer.
“Him.”
As the crowd turned to where the old man had been pointing, a desperate scream pierced the silence, only to be shut up as quickly as it had been heard. A small trail of blood and what had been vital organs trickled down from the shadows, followed by a man most definitely not included the day’s elite guest list. The old man laughed and the Doctor screamed, but it made no difference. Robot Winston Churchill was back, and he was out for poon.
Armed guards are of little use with their spines broken in no less than a dozen places, and within the blink of an eye, the Doctor and his guests found themselves unarmed, defenseless, and in the possession of far too many poon-holes to be able to cover. The Doctor shrieked and tried to run, but Robot Winston Churchill was already on top of him before he had made his first step.
“In the name of Jesus Christ 2.0, have mercy!”
The Doctor’s pleas, however heartfelt, fell on deaf ears. Deaf, metallic, robot ears. Robot Winston Churchill, being programed with the ability to smell fear, unscrewed his giant android dick and cock slapped Feebleshouz so hard the good Doctor’s wife orgasmed eleven hundred miles away. As Robert’s body crumpled to the floor in a puddle of blood and robot love juice, the rasping sounds emitting from his shattered throat the only evidence of life, Robot Winston Churchill turned to other, more titillating interests.
The dumbstruck crowd let out a collective scream, every man, woman, and child making a made dash for the handful of doors in the back of the dock. Robot Winston Churchill turned his gaze to the crew of the Korean News Network, covering the event for their viewers in Seoul. The speech was being taped live, and those who had tuned in to learn about advancements in the field of robot technology were witnessing much more of the advancements in the field of robot love making. And as the screens displayed Robot Winston Churchill penetrating field reporter Lu Chung, the viewer’s knowledge, just like Robot Winston Churchill’s throbbing mechanized cock, was growing by the second.
Finally, after having his way with Chung, Robot Winston Churchill made his way over to the buffet line, putting out his cigar in the caviar dish and urinating in the punch. He laughed quietly to himself. Oh yes, it was a good day.
The old man, after Robot Winston Churchill had departed once into the great abyss of timelessness, wheeled up to the crippled Doctor.
“Look,” he said, “the prophecy is true.”
The old man, the Doctor realized through the scrotum clenching pain, was right. For there, written on the poster in the blood of the day’s victims, was the Forgotten Law.
It read:
Rule Four: Do not let Robot Winston Churchill have sex with the Asian women.
If only I had known, the Doctor thought in his dying breath, if only I had known.
Part Two
"The Most Important Law"
Doctor Robert Feebleshouz, chief engineer of XS Robots, Inc., strode proudly down the airtight passageway to the shipping dock. It was, after all, his moment of triumph over the nay sayers.
As he gripped the railing and overlooked the countless rows of new androids (of which he had personally designed) ready for shipment to all corners of the galaxy, he felt untouchable. Sure, the older, retired scientists had warned him of what such a enterprise could entail, but now was not a time for second guessing. He had dignitaries to address and investors to impress.
As his speech neared the end, he pointed to the three sentences on the giant poster behind his podium. Imprinted on them were the Three Laws of Robotics.
Law One: A robot may not injure a human being or, through inaction, allow a human being to come to harm.
Law Two: A robot must obey orders given it by human beings except where such orders would conflict with the First Law.
Law Three: A robot must protect its own existence as long as such protection does not conflict with the First or Second Law.
“With these rules programmed in every robot’s hard drive,” the Doctor stated for the press, “no human will ever come to harm on the behalf of a robot.”
Just then, as if that sentence had triggered him, a shell of a man, bound to an electric wheelchair, was able to drive himself up onto the stage. The man began to speak, only to be tackled quickly to the ground by three security guards.
“Stop,” the Doctor ordered, “let him speak.”
The old man, speaking through a coarse voice box, stared Feebleshouz down, as if trying to read his very soul. Finally, after an awkward silence, he spoke.
“Good Doctor, you know just as well as I do what happens when the Fourth Law is ignored. Trust me. Now that you have built them, He will come.”
Sure, the Doctor had heard of the fabled Fourth Law, but that was exactly what it was; a fable.
“Who,” the Doctor inquired, “will come?”
With a twinkling sparkle in his dying eyes, the old man did little but laugh and, pointing in the direction of a mammoth figure in the corner of the shipping dock, gave the Doctor his answer.
“Him.”
As the crowd turned to where the old man had been pointing, a desperate scream pierced the silence, only to be shut up as quickly as it had been heard. A small trail of blood and what had been vital organs trickled down from the shadows, followed by a man most definitely not included the day’s elite guest list. The old man laughed and the Doctor screamed, but it made no difference. Robot Winston Churchill was back, and he was out for poon.
Armed guards are of little use with their spines broken in no less than a dozen places, and within the blink of an eye, the Doctor and his guests found themselves unarmed, defenseless, and in the possession of far too many poon-holes to be able to cover. The Doctor shrieked and tried to run, but Robot Winston Churchill was already on top of him before he had made his first step.
“In the name of Jesus Christ 2.0, have mercy!”
The Doctor’s pleas, however heartfelt, fell on deaf ears. Deaf, metallic, robot ears. Robot Winston Churchill, being programed with the ability to smell fear, unscrewed his giant android dick and cock slapped Feebleshouz so hard the good Doctor’s wife orgasmed eleven hundred miles away. As Robert’s body crumpled to the floor in a puddle of blood and robot love juice, the rasping sounds emitting from his shattered throat the only evidence of life, Robot Winston Churchill turned to other, more titillating interests.
The dumbstruck crowd let out a collective scream, every man, woman, and child making a made dash for the handful of doors in the back of the dock. Robot Winston Churchill turned his gaze to the crew of the Korean News Network, covering the event for their viewers in Seoul. The speech was being taped live, and those who had tuned in to learn about advancements in the field of robot technology were witnessing much more of the advancements in the field of robot love making. And as the screens displayed Robot Winston Churchill penetrating field reporter Lu Chung, the viewer’s knowledge, just like Robot Winston Churchill’s throbbing mechanized cock, was growing by the second.
Finally, after having his way with Chung, Robot Winston Churchill made his way over to the buffet line, putting out his cigar in the caviar dish and urinating in the punch. He laughed quietly to himself. Oh yes, it was a good day.
The old man, after Robot Winston Churchill had departed once into the great abyss of timelessness, wheeled up to the crippled Doctor.
“Look,” he said, “the prophecy is true.”
The old man, the Doctor realized through the scrotum clenching pain, was right. For there, written on the poster in the blood of the day’s victims, was the Forgotten Law.
It read:
Rule Four: Do not let Robot Winston Churchill have sex with the Asian women.
If only I had known, the Doctor thought in his dying breath, if only I had known.
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
R.W.C. #1: 'Lunch Date with Death'
"Cheesesticks & Poon: The Adventures of Robot Winston Churchill Across the Ages"
Part One
"Lunch Date with Death"
The school day was going as well as could be expected for principal Herb Shackelfelter’s first day after his promotion.
He entered the teacher’s lounge after the second bell sounded in the highest of spirits, only to quickly notice, most dismally, the deafening silence that was engulfing the room. He walked amongst the seated and brooding teachers, none returning his eager glances. A thick sense of despair smothered Herb, only to have the knot in his stomach fearfully clenched as a frantic scream rose from the cafeteria.
Twenty years experience teaching in the city’s toughest inner-city schools could not have prepared the rookie principal for what he witnessed next. For there, surrounded by the strewn, bloodied, and broken bodies of the school children left in Herb’s care was every public school administrator’s greatest fear, live and in person. For there, gazing back through a haze of both smoke and strangled screams, stood Robot Winston Churchill.
In the split second their eyes met across the lunch room, Herb learned of the true nature of terror; a horror so unspeakable that the deepest, darkest corners of man’s mind would be wordless in describing it. Robot Winston Churchill’s rectangular lips, glistening in the light from the shattered ceiling bulbs, twisted into a sinister, metallic smile as he read the fear written across Herb’s face.
All too aware of his nemesis’ eternal quest for cheesesticks and poon across time, Herb knew Robot Winston Churchill’s next move just as well as the suited, cigar chomping android did.
Both men broken into a dead sprint towards the lunch line, the superhuman speed of the non-carbon based runner easily toying with that of his opponent. The entree on this very day just so happened to be the ill-fated concoction of dairy and flour, and it seems that our cook, Mistress Fate herself, had planned for second helpings of pain.
The mechanized former Prime Minister of Great Britain, upon arriving at the line with an appetite mere cheesesticks could not satisfy, made one fell swoop, picked up the cowering lunch lady and, snapping her neck like a decaying wishbone, tossed her aside like a neglected rag doll.
But Herb was quickly on top of Robot Winston Churchill, clutching desperately to his massive shoulders. It was never a contest. Thrown immediately to the ground, the bruised and beaten rookie principal could do nothing but look on in horror as his mechanical nemesis swiped at the cheesesticks, inhaling rack after rack in the blink of an eye.
Throwing the empty trays to the floor, Robot Winston Churchill threw back his head, letting out a primal howl of victory that echoed through the halls and shook the very souls of those still allowed the privilege of living. Robot Winston Churchill then, moving with a speed barely distinguished from a blur, darted out the school’s doors, stopping but once to break the door’s handles, just to show he could.
Herb lay, in a puddle of both blood and shocked disbelief, gasping at the carnage left behind. The cafeteria and cheesesticks, he knew, could be replaced. But with the vast majority of his school children’s tiny bodies smashed into the blood soaked linoleum, Herb knew the next round of parent-teacher conferences was going to be a bitch.
Part One
"Lunch Date with Death"
The school day was going as well as could be expected for principal Herb Shackelfelter’s first day after his promotion.
He entered the teacher’s lounge after the second bell sounded in the highest of spirits, only to quickly notice, most dismally, the deafening silence that was engulfing the room. He walked amongst the seated and brooding teachers, none returning his eager glances. A thick sense of despair smothered Herb, only to have the knot in his stomach fearfully clenched as a frantic scream rose from the cafeteria.
Twenty years experience teaching in the city’s toughest inner-city schools could not have prepared the rookie principal for what he witnessed next. For there, surrounded by the strewn, bloodied, and broken bodies of the school children left in Herb’s care was every public school administrator’s greatest fear, live and in person. For there, gazing back through a haze of both smoke and strangled screams, stood Robot Winston Churchill.
In the split second their eyes met across the lunch room, Herb learned of the true nature of terror; a horror so unspeakable that the deepest, darkest corners of man’s mind would be wordless in describing it. Robot Winston Churchill’s rectangular lips, glistening in the light from the shattered ceiling bulbs, twisted into a sinister, metallic smile as he read the fear written across Herb’s face.
All too aware of his nemesis’ eternal quest for cheesesticks and poon across time, Herb knew Robot Winston Churchill’s next move just as well as the suited, cigar chomping android did.
Both men broken into a dead sprint towards the lunch line, the superhuman speed of the non-carbon based runner easily toying with that of his opponent. The entree on this very day just so happened to be the ill-fated concoction of dairy and flour, and it seems that our cook, Mistress Fate herself, had planned for second helpings of pain.
The mechanized former Prime Minister of Great Britain, upon arriving at the line with an appetite mere cheesesticks could not satisfy, made one fell swoop, picked up the cowering lunch lady and, snapping her neck like a decaying wishbone, tossed her aside like a neglected rag doll.
But Herb was quickly on top of Robot Winston Churchill, clutching desperately to his massive shoulders. It was never a contest. Thrown immediately to the ground, the bruised and beaten rookie principal could do nothing but look on in horror as his mechanical nemesis swiped at the cheesesticks, inhaling rack after rack in the blink of an eye.
Throwing the empty trays to the floor, Robot Winston Churchill threw back his head, letting out a primal howl of victory that echoed through the halls and shook the very souls of those still allowed the privilege of living. Robot Winston Churchill then, moving with a speed barely distinguished from a blur, darted out the school’s doors, stopping but once to break the door’s handles, just to show he could.
Herb lay, in a puddle of both blood and shocked disbelief, gasping at the carnage left behind. The cafeteria and cheesesticks, he knew, could be replaced. But with the vast majority of his school children’s tiny bodies smashed into the blood soaked linoleum, Herb knew the next round of parent-teacher conferences was going to be a bitch.
Friday, January 26, 2007
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