Tuesday, August 31, 2010

PART 2 of the 2010 Alien Cro22-Blog2perience Xtravagan2a: The Bloggening

Picture by Bryan F.
Made spacier by me

This short story tale is the collaboration between me and Bryan, a very talented and spicy young man who will one day clean the president's teeth with a hot glue spider, or something. Part 1 was our individual stories (HERE'S RAYBAN'S!!!) which showcased our own perverse and various talents, and today you see what happens when we share a Google Doc and write together (SPOILER ALERT: it's MAGICK!).

PART 2 OF 2 SEPARATE STORIES
UNTITLED ALIEN PROSTITUTE TALE: IN WHICH THE GOSLINGS ASK FOR PIZZA

by B. Erik Fernandez & K.L. Ingram

Maleien was sitting in his pimp chair when his ho Ganxaxa sashayed through his door.
"BITCH," he boomed. "Where my money. If you don’t got my money I’m gon cut you!"
She quivered in her pearls. "Naw, naw, Maleien, you got me wrong! You know I'm good for it! I just got so many goslings at home, sometimes it's hard to keep up with everything!"
"I don't CARE if you good for it, I want the money now! You bring me 25,000 floopdedoops by TOMORROW or I'ma salt you and turn you into jerky, naw what I mean?"
"I will, I will! You'll see! I'll turn extra tricks, open a jerky shop, or something!" she cried, running out of the door.
She ran, viscous black fluid leaking out of her eyes, into the elevator up to her apartment where her goslings were waiting.
"BABIES!" she said, her voice shaking through the tears.
"MAMA WHAT’S WRONG" said all the goslings in unison. (Goslings are a hive mind until they reach level 24 drekels.)
"I got bad news for you. Mama's not going to be around much for awhile."
Her goslings sat staring at her.
“PIZZA, CHARLIE!” shouted the goslings in unison, which sort of creeped Ganxaxa out. Who was Charlie?
“PIZZA, CHARLIE!” they shouted again. Ganxaxa glanced around nervously.
But before Ganxaxa could figure it out, everything exploded. Stuff was still there when she opened her eyes but it was slightly different. It was strange--she couldn't quite explain it. Everything felt a little more green and her name was probably Charlie now.
"Am I Charlie?" asked Charlie.
The goslings' thoraxes were expanding and contracting at a nauseating speed.
"PIZZA, CHARLIE" they shouted again.
The goslings' strange dance was speeding up. She vomited up a thick roll of pizza dough. She could hear their exoskeletons crunching with each contraction. Charlie vomited again in fear.
This time it was a thick, red tomato based sauce pouring out of her face.
The goslings began to drone and buzz in unison, shaking her stomach like the great belly of a farnok being tickled by a raguna feather. At once the goslings became a fiery red, similar to lava, or maybe magma, and melded together like when you're heating up chocolate chips and then they melt into a puddle, but this puddle was solid and big as a Korlernt. She vomited one last time for what seemed forever. Mountains and mountains of mozzarella cheese and assorted fixins came rocketing out of her facehole straight into the puddle.
A giant hole opened in the puddle and it ingested everything Ganxaxa had puked up. Or was it Charlie now? She wasn't sure. All she was sure of was that she was scared and shivering and owed her pimp some cash.
So Charlie hotfooted it down to the nearest jerky store and robbed it at gunpoint. She returned the money to Maleien. They were wed the next day and had a very unhappy life together.

Monday, August 30, 2010

PART 1 of the 2010 Alien Cross-Blogsperience Xtravaganza

Picture by Bryan F.

On Sunday, August 29, 2010, two "great" minds joined brain forces for what I like to call a "cross-blogsperience." The above picture was done by B.E. Fernando, and we collaborated on a single story based on it (PART 2 TOMORROW BET U CAN'T WAIT!).
We also each wrote our own stories to go with the picture. For his story, go to his blog, which you should be reading anyway, jerk. Here is mine today:

PART 1 OF 2 SEPARATE STORIES
Alien couples have sad lives too
by K.L. Ingram

"What're you all dressed up for," he asked, barely looking away from the space TV.
His wife stood in the doorway to their bedroom, her slimy hands resting impatiently on her top two hips.
"When was the last time we went out?"
"What? Space’s Greatest Boner Videos is on, hon, would you keep it down.”
"I WILL NOT! WHEN WAS THE LAST TIME—get some of your hands out of your pants when I'm talking to you! When was the last time we went out, I said. Put down the goddamn remote and look at me."
He placed the remote on the arm of his Space-E-Boy and flicked his empty, pure black gaze to his wife's jagged figure. Both were suddenly and mutually overwhelmed by the nothing they felt with their eyes fixed on one another.
Neither of them was the same. They were bitter, angry, listless. Even in her finest red dress she was not the vibrant young carnivorous monster that he had devoured naked pink space apes with in the Battle of X-19-7-4098. And he knew he wasn't the same either; he no longer had the intense, ever-burning desire to fertilize her ova that he had as a younger alien, and where his hard lactic acid-filled sacs once made him an imposing, hale creature, they now hung limp with adipose tissue, his taut green flesh sallow and wilted.
They both thought often, as they did in that instant, of the occasion in which they copulated for 82 straight Andromedean days. Their excited, passionate, love-filled clicks and ululations had rung out emptily in the intimate airless void around them as their bony, grinding bodies wetly and hideously became one. Now their time together was filled with sullen silence, avoided touches, and nonenergetic feasting upon the ordered-out bones of their enemies (the preparation and consumption of which was once a joyous and often romantic event).
That brief moment of sad realization of the yawning, farcical futility of their life passed when he cleared his throats, a shrieking grinding of his esophageal bones that shattered the silence.
“Let’s go to Chile’s,” he said.
She knew it was the best they would both get, so she nodded and fetched her space purse.

Thursday, August 26, 2010

The ghost of Johnny Cash visits me at a Taco Bell

A couple of summers ago I was working a Taco Bell drive-thru on an especially sweltering evening—one of those Southeast Texas nights where the air is so stiflingly hot and soaked through with humidity that you have to hold your breath when you first walk outside. No one had come for hours and I was about to pull my till around 2 am when I encountered the ghost of Johnny Cash.
"You don't happen to have chicken dumplings, do you?” came crackling over my speaker. I had not heard the ding of the drive-thru sensor and was caught with a mouthful of illicit cinnamon twists dipped in nacho cheese. I inhaled suddenly from the surprise, and jagged shards of half-chewed crunchy cinnamon treats flew into my throat. I had to swallow half a bucket-sized cup of Sierra Mist Mojito Splash to stop the violent coughing.
"Hello—I'm sorry sir, what was that?" I croaked after a minute, drooling opaque, cheez-colored slobber onto the mic.
I heard a faint chuckle and the softest purr of an engine as the customer pulled up to my window.
You may call me crazy—and hey, I've been diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia as much as the next gal. You may also call me high—and sure, I had ingested enough THC and ketamine that night to make a polar bear hallucinate for three days. But I tell you this, with every truth-filled fiber of my being, that below me that night in a gleaming black towncar at that Taco Bell off the 290/Beltway interchange was, very unmistakably, the ghost of Johnny Cash.
"Hello, hon," said the ghost of Johnny Cash. "I said, you don't have chicken dumplings, do you?"
I shook my head, wiping the drool off my face with the back of my hand. "No, no sir. We have... we just have tacos."
He nodded and asked me to read him the entire menu. I did so, and when I finished he asked me to do it again. He ordered nachos supreme and two chicken chalupas and carefully counted out the $4.35 in dimes and pennies.
"Sir, sir, don’t worry about it," I protested when he pulled out his heavenly change purse.
But he just smiled that crinkled Johnny Cash smile and said, in that beautiful rich rough baritone, "Don't worry about it, sweetheart. I'm Johnny Cash."
I pressed the packets of Fire Sauce firmly into his hand, which felt neither cool nor warm to the touch, and silently, with the smile still on his face, he drove off into the hot pitch black night.

Wednesday, August 25, 2010

Angry bald man in a wig store

"What the fuck is this shit?" yelled the angry bald man in a wig store to no one in particular. "Fucking Christ."
The saleslady had to ask him to leave after he shuffled angrily around the store for twenty more minutes, spitting on the floor and hollering profanities at the mannequin heads and other patrons. He was expecting to be thrown out, but it still stung a little.

Monday, August 23, 2010

COSTNER: A Savagely Erotic Journey into the Heart of the American Dream

Those moments in our childhood that shape our wishes, our dreams, our sexuality: often they do not have names and identities for us now but are brief blurs, barely-shaped half-remembered stirrings. A flush of wanting in your barely-pubescent chest, a quickening of the pulse and a taste of something unknown but deeply and suddenly desired that burns and crackles through your whole being.
Well, those moments do have a name. An identity. A face.

Kevin Costner.

And here is a taste of the graphic novelizations of his movies that he, an American icon, a true talent, a wholesome yet sensually appealing collective stirring in our shared culture's loins, has always deserved. From my heart and MS Paint files to your eyes:

The Bodyguard: Raise your voice, Whitney. Sing the song that runs in all of our hearts. When Costner very literally swept you off your feet, he swept us all off our proverbial feet forever.

Robin Hood, Prince of Thieves: Remember Alan Rickman and Morgan Freeman were in this? There were also breasts and a waterfall.

Field of Dreams: We laughed, we cried, we pondered our own daddy issues, we learned about baseball players, we choked on hot dogs. This movie has everything, including a crowbar and a rousing scene where all of us good Americans stood on our chairs with Costner's wife who sort of looked like Holly Hunter and shouted together, raising our voices as one, NO WE WILL NOT BAN OUR BOOKS! WE ARE AMERICANS! WE ARE AMERICA!

And we are. Together. Because of you, Mr. Costner. I thank you. More than words can ever say.
-----
If your favorite Costner feature film (and who can pick a favorite? It's like choosing between your children or Fun Dip flavors) is not featured here, fear not. Untouchables, Waterworld, Dances with Wolves, The Postman, and No Way Out are all in the works too. But probably not soon because even my ardent yearning for Costner does not make my finger not ache from these goddamn MS paint drawings.

Thursday, August 19, 2010

Art Garfunkel considers absurdism in a children's television show before getting dressed after taking a shower

"This is a really good show, considering it is made for children," thought Art Garfunkel. "It's so absurd but is funny without disconnecting with its adult or juvenile audiences."
He pondered Chowder's antics for a few moments more until the commercial break, then dried off. He hoped his wife wouldn't notice the part of the bedspread that he had gotten wet even though he had put a towel down.

Wednesday, August 11, 2010

COMING TO THEATERZ NEAR YOU

POLTERHEIST
Screenplay by K.L. Ingram & B.E. Ferdinand D.D.S.

PLOT SUMMARY
It was an ordinary brisk fall day in Horror Falls, Maryland. Little did paranormal specialist Sam Cranston (Keanu Reeves) know that that day, America would depend on him to thwart one thief’s nefarious plot to steal the nation’s most precious historical artifacts, its largest reserve of gold ingots, and the White House.

But there’s just one problem—this thief, Aloysius Nutgomery (voiced by Mark Wahlberg), is pretty unconventional. So unconventional that he’s actually an invisible spirit from the underworld, bent on revenge against the country that betrayed him. But what about Sam’s pending wedding to beautiful Maria (Beyonce), the exotic stripper with a heart of gold and a doctorate in cryptozoology, and his angst-filled but good-hearted daughter (Demi Lovato) getting kicked out of private school and fired from her dog-walking job on the day before her homecoming date with the hottest guys in school (the Jonas brothers)?

Supporting cast includes John Malkovich as Pentworth Q. Moneydollars, Al Pacino as Dr. Wilfred Cranston, Katy Perry as President Tina, Dolly Parton as herself, and Queen Latifah as the voice of Eloisa, the Sassy Poltergeist. Available in 3D and IMAX.

EXCERPT

SAM CRANSTON
Madam President, I have something very important to tell you.

PRESIDENT TINA
I am listening now.

SAM CRANSTON
A poltergeist is going to steal the White House.

PRESIDENT TINA
What.

SAM CRANSTON
Yuh.

PRESIDENT TINA
Whoa. Are you sure.

SAM CRANSTON
Uh, I have been researching the paranormal for like years. So I am so sure. This morning I stopped the poltergeist from stealing the Fox Diamond and Lincoln’s first tricycle, and then before lunch I stopped him from taking the gold ingots from the Treasury building.

PRESIDENT TINA
[Drops presidential robes seductively]
I bet you are so tired. Big boy.

SAM CRANSTON
Ms. President please. We have work to do. And I am going to marry a very lovely lady. [checks watch] …in TWO HOURS? OH NO!!!

PRESIDENT TINA
[Puts robes back on] We better get to work then. We have a White House to save and the love of your life for you to wed.

SAM CRANSTON

Yuh.

[End scene]

Wednesday, August 4, 2010

Andrew the Laundry Basket Has an Existential Crisis

"I am purposeless. Useless. Worthless. Haphazardly made, desultory!" said Andrew.
He wasn't wrong. He wasn't right.

"I think you are a work of art," Michelangelo Pistoletto told him.
"I think you help me make money," the maid told him.
"I think you are an important step in my process of home and personal cleanliness," the homeowner told him.

Still Andrew lay awake at night, anxiety and listlessness churning round and round in his stomach.
"Who am I?" he asked the leaky exposed attic over his head.
It did not answer.
"Why am I?"
No answer.
"What is the point of existing in a universe where NOTHING MATTERS?!"
The attic heaved a sigh.

"What the fuck are you going to do about it?" it asked him in its dusty creak of a voice. "Who are you to think you can do anything about it? You're a fucking laundry basket."

The attic was right of course.
The unbelievable interminability of time continued to make time happen to Andrew, which made him very sad. But he was just a fucking laundry basket so he kept doing what laundry baskets do. He just tried not to think about it.