The Groovy Trip

Sally Speckles was so exhausted from walking around all day. She had long beautiful hair, man. She went home and dropped acid. In her chemistry lab. Then tripped so hard! On a rollerskate she left on the floor. She shouldn't have built that chemistry lab, because that required her to put her chemicals away. Like the actual acid that she literally dropped. She was bad about putting stuff away. Like her rollerskates. She should have put those away too. This wasn't the first time she dropped acid and tripped. "Wow look at all the colors!" she said, as she glimpsed inside her favorite kaleidoscope that she left out on the counter.

Then she went to what seemed like a whole other reality, where she saw surreal imagery through another perspective. It was called a "dream". She had fallen asleep because she was so tired, and was experiencing "R.E.M. sleep", which is what people most commonly dream during.

Sally Speckles loved science, and reading.

She put on her rollerskates the next day. She met up with up with Billy Balls near the boardwalk. Billy Balls was an athletically fit guy. He loved sports. Sally loved rollerskating. But she was really picky about where she rollerskated, "Like, this is totally groovy man." she said.

"Stop complaining." said Billy Balls.

"I mean it. It's totally groovy. How can I rollerskate on a sidewalk with this many grooves? I'm telling you, man, it's dangerous."

Sally was right. The sidewalk was too groovy to rollerskate on, man. She was cautious because she'd just bought some new acid to replace the acid she dropped in her chemistry lab the night before.

"Watch this I'll run across it fast to show you it's fine!" said Billy Balls.

Billy ran real fast across the sidewalk and pretended he was playing football. Sally accidentally rolled onto the sidewalk, dropped the acid, and Billy stumbled over her leg.

Billy's favorite Coach showed up. He saw the whole Sally-Speckles-spectacle and laughed at them. "Haha! You dropped acid and now you're tripping Balls, dude!" said Billy's Coach, to Sally. Sally turned so the Coach could get a better look at her feminine face. "Oh sorry, I thought you were a dude with long hair and a lady's body." said the Coach.

Sally argued with Billy.

"You made me trip!" said Billy

"I told you it was groovy, man." said Sally to Billy.

Then Billy slipped on the slippery acid and landed on the pier that was cracking. The pressure of his impact caused the pier to collapse. Billy fell in a body of water.

"You just gave to pier pressure!" said Billy's favorite Coach.

"Great! Now I'm wet and will track water in my home. I'll have to get new carpets!" said Billy.

"Carpets are terrible! You need rugs! Not carpets!" said Coach.

"No, I'm gonna get carpets! Carpets I will get! Carpets!" shouted Billy.

"Don't dude! Rugs! Don't dude! Rugs!" Coach commanded. 

That settled it.

Finally they all three went back to Sally's house and shot up heroin.

Granny the Prankster, Granny the Sleuth

Granny Whitehouse was a giggler and a prankster. She would often put firecrackers in her underwear. "Woo hoo hoo hoo hoo! That was a crackler!" She'd say.

Granny pranked everyone. She looked and talked like a sweet old lady, so no one expected it from her. Sometimes she'd have visitors to come keep her company.
"Oh Dearie, have some sweet toast, with my yummy spread I made myself."
"Thank you, Mrs. Granny Whitehouse," the visitor would say.
Then they'd bite into it and there'd be a piece of aluminum foil under the spread.
"Ew it tastes like metal!"
"Wee hee hee, that's not the homecookin' you'd expect from someone who looks like me, right? I gotcha!" Pranks like that. She was the master of deception.

But she most liked playing pranks on herself, to find amusement, when there were no visitors around. It truly made her feel comforted. She and her neighbor's cat would laugh and laugh about them. That's why she'd put firecrackers in her panties. She was pranking herself.

Sometimes she'd put mousetraps in her closets, so when she'd reach for her sweater they'd snap.
"Ooh! It hurts! I got me!" Then she'd grab her hand "My fingers are sensitive, but the thrill of the prank is worth it!" So she kept pranking herself.

The mousetraps that caught her fingers never caught any mice. She did have a mouse problem though. It was always alleviated by the neighbor's cat. Almost always. Neighbor Cat would usually come snatch and kill the mice in her house. One week though she noticed the mice weren't getting killed. And she was laughing alone at her self pranks, instead of with Neighbor Cat.

Granny went to investigate. She grabbed supplies; magnifying glass, soft sneakers, so she could tip toe around the neighborhood, etc. She peaked in every house window. Where could Neighbor Cat be? She also would leave grocery store bought shrimp water juice at the windowsills, porch ledges, and door handles of all the houses. Both because the fishy shrimp water would attract the Neighbor Cat, and if that didn't work, it would really start to stink, and function as a great stinky prank!

Granny Whitehouse put on her sleuthing cap real good and finally found the most suspicious house in the neighborhood. She peaked through the window. What did she see? It was a gang of Goombas! Holding Neighbor Cat tightly!

Granny Whitehouse's friend a hostage. She listened carefully.

"Dis cat gonna help us sniff out the prized diamond mouse!"
"Yeah."
"And the good guys will be dead."
"Then we'll be rich!" said the Goombas.

Granny covered her mouth in fear. She had to figure out a plan. What would she do? She held her breath, as not to make a peep, and thought hard. Just then, firecrackers in her panties started sizzling and soaring and whistling.

"Oh no!" she said out loud. What a prank she'd played on herself.

The Goombas reached out the window and grabbed her. Granny's Navy Seal training kicked in. She broke Goomba #1's finger and shoved it in his ear, gouged Goomba #2's tongue deep into his own throat, causing him to choke, she squirted the shrimp juice in Goomba #3's eyes, and the concentrated amounts of lactic acid caused his eyes and face to burn. There was some dumb bimbo sitting there, probably a Goomba girlfriend, Granny snapped her neck, just in case. Then she scalped the Boss Goomba with a pair of fingernails clippers in record time, and shoved his head of hair down his throat. All while her panties smoked, whistled, and burned. She had a high tolerance for pain. Granny grabbed Neighbor Cat and left, all without leaving a finger print.

On the way out she spotted some squirrel droppings in the yard and couldn't resist meticulously collecting large amounts of it to leave in a burning bag on the porch. Neighbor Cat and she went home and ate all the mice together. Gotcha! Granny chewed on a rubber mouse, to prank herself, while Neighbor Cat ate real mice.

A Crackless Life Cycle

Duke Shitstein cracked his head on a sharp corner and his brains leaked out on the ground.
"Oh shhharrrr..." said Duke in a slurry voice.
"Duke! You spilled your brains! It sounds like you're trying to say 'oh shit' but you're slurring!" said Ronnie Garbage, Duke's buddy, "Here lemme help you out."

Ronnie Garbage picked up Duke's slippery slimy brains off the ground. They jiggled, and he had trouble keeping them in his hands.

"Woops!" said Ronnie, as the slippy brains jumped and bounced, from hand to hand, back on the ground.

"Got em!" said Ronnie again, after he picked them back up, and was certain they wouldn't slide out. But then they did!

"Oh no, I was wrong, I dropped them again!" Ronnie bent over to scrape them up with his fingertips once more, they were breaking into little pieces.

"Uh oh, this ain't good." said Ronnie.

Finally Ronnie got all the brains into a little chunk puddle he cradled in his hands. He made Duke bend over carefully so he could dribble them back into Duke's skull crack. Then Ronnie took a mini-pocket keychain flashlight and clicked the light into his buddy, Mr. Shitstein's, skull crack, so he could get a peak inside his head. Ronnie decided to make a little joke to lighten the mood.

"Hey Duke, looks like there wudn't much in there to begin with! Heh heh heh heh heh!" Ronnie was implying that Duke wasn't very smart. It was just a joke though.

"Well now we can get on with our double date tonight." said Ronnie.

Duke and Ronnie went ahead with their plans for the night and picked up their double dates, Darla and Pepper. Darla had tall pink hair and stiff gel flakes in it. They went to a restaurant that only served cereal.

"I'll have the Frosted Flakes, with 2% milk," said Ronnie. He also ordered for his lady, Pepper, because he's a gentleman, "And for the lady, a bowl of Chex, served soggy."
"Wow you're classy." said Pepper.
"Do you have Alpha-Bits?" asked Darla.
"No Ma'am, just Cheerios." said the waiter.
"I'll just have Crispix." said Darla.
"Duke'll have generic Oat Bran." said Ronnie.
"You guys are picking up the bill right?" said Darla, who was very stingy.
"Yeeee." said Duke, who hadn't spoken in a while.
"Wow what a gentleman." said Pepper.
"We are studly." said Ronnie, who was really vibing heavy with Pepper.

Duke sat with his skull crack side facing away from his date and everyone, in both the car ride and restaurant. No one noticed until Darla came out of the Ladies Room and Duke was walking into the Ladies Room, because he was confused. Darla had been throwing up because she was bulimic. Duke went in to let some blood and brain fluid leak out of his brain, in private.

"Wow I had no idea you were leaking brain," said Darla, "I'm bulimic. Those are kind of the similar, right?"

They weren't really similar at all, but the leaky-pukey connection was enough for Darla to feel safe and open with Duke. Darla sought help for her bulimia and gained a whole lot of weight, but kept her hair pink and crusty. Duke had permanent brain damage, but maintained enough brain function to get a high paying job operating a fancy rollercoaster.

Duke and Darla got married, Ronnie Garbage was the best man. It was a secular wedding, but Duke's bubby, Ethel Shitstein, insisted on them doing the part where they step on the glass because she liked that part.

"Mazel Tov" yelled the secular people watching the wedding.

Duke and Darla had an ambitious child who became The President of the United Plates of America, an organization that collected rare TIME/LIFE plates that used to be advertised on informercials in the late 80s through late 90s. Does anyone remember those? Well they were very popular and came with magazine subscriptions. This organization also doubled as a secret society, with talking reptiles and amphibians that looked like cute puppets, but the cute reptile puppets were very old, like 132 years old, and they were racist. So that part was not good, unfortunately.

The Know-It-All

Sally Peckerhead wouldn't shut up! She raised her hand in class and was like, "Me, me, me, me, me, me, me, me, pick me! Ooh! Ooh! Ooh, I'm so smart!"

Then she'd get the answer wrong. Then the teacher would say,
"You're wrong Sally."
Then she'd protest, "No, I'm right. My Dad says!!"

Everyone in the class would hate her because she thought she was smarter than everyone, but would still get the answers wrong. The teacher called Mr. and Mrs. Peckerhead to tell them their kid was dumb and pretended to be smart.
"How dare you not encourage our child Sally! What kind of teaching is this?"

Word got around to the class kids that this happened, and the kids continued to think Sally was obnoxious and rotten.

One day Sally hadn't come out of the bathroom for a long time so the teacher sent Judy Bottomhopper to go get her. Judy opened the bathroom door.
"Sally, teacher says you gotta come back to cla-"
Then Judy said "Gasp!"
Because she saw Sally standing straight up, back to Judy, facing the wall, swaying slightly, and spooky-singing:

Little Miss Muffin / ate a muffin. Gimme a muffin / I love muffins...

There was also writing, scrawled in red, on the white bathroom tiles, "I will win! I will win!"
It looked real scary. It wasn't blood, though. It was red kid paint. Which decreased the amount of scariness significantly, but then she turned around and had an evil screaming demon face, which made it scary again.

The teacher called Sally's parents to inform them.
"But don't you see? Sally's been dead for over fifty years," said Sally's father.
The teacher gasped.
"And so have we." he continued.
The teacher gasped again.
Then a hideous laugh came from the telephone receiver,
"Ahhh ha ha ha ha ha ha,"
The teacher was terrified.
"Ha ha ha ha ha- ehem, sorry. Was just watching something funny on this new 'television' thing. You have one yet? Funny guy named Ernie Kovacs, you gotta see him." said the parent.

But Ernie Kovacs had been dead for over fifty years. And televisions have been around for over fifty years.

This explained why Sally would often raise her hand and give the wrong answer. Because she'd be giving a correct answer from over fifty years ago, that had since been proven false. Like about evolution, electricity, or Jews or something.

The teacher also looked up microfiche records to read up on Sally and the Peckerhead family. Apparently her family was very strict and abusive in an emotional way that made her feel like she had to over achieve and make a lot of money in the future. It was like a baby boomer thing. That's why she wrote the thing about "winning" on the wall. By the way, if you, or someone you know is a victim of abuse call 1-800-4-A-CHILD (1-800-422-4453).

Oddly, Sally kept coming to school, because everyone knew she and her family were dead they just allowed her to answer questions and get them wrong. She passed every test. She made it to college even. She is now the head of a major corporation, very driven, but still thinks she's a little girl, in class and it's over fifty years ago.

Jim Bimbaugh's Positive Implosion

Thoughtful Jim Bimbaugh was the town's positive voice of reason. He was a tall older man with open eyes and a kind, gentle voice. Everyone asked him for advice. He was a good listener and seemed to have a good answer for everything.

"Thoughtful Jim, what do I do about this bad thing?"
"Maybe try seeing the good in it?"
"Thoughtful Jim, my girlfriend broke up with me."
"Maybe being with yourself right now is better than being with her."
"Thoughtful Jim, this one thing's making me feel down."
"Life's about navigating ups and downs. Not about only being 'up'."

People continued to ask him for wise advice. He always helped. So nice. So caring. Jim basically gave them the same answer every time. Thoughtful Jim began to be able to give this good advice in his sleep. Then they'd say, "Wow you're right, Jim Bimbaugh!" And come back a week later with a similar problem and get an answer with a similar outlook.

He wondered, why did people keep making the same type of mistakes and asking the same types of question?

He started to get goddamned sick of his same answer. Same answer. Same answer. Insightful outlook. Thoughtful take. Positive spin. Boring! Sick! Jim got a little discouraged by his boredom, thinking he was a fraud with nothing real to say, and nothing to offer. A one trick pony.

"Eh, it's just a positive spin." Jim said to himself.
"But maybe people need a positive spin. They just can't see it in the moment." Jim said back to himself.
"Hmm. That's a good point." he considered.
"Ah bullshit, I'm just giving myself a positive spin." he said to himself.

Jim was becoming very negative. The change actually felt good though. He decided to start being negative and unreasonable. What a burden this patience and positivity had become. Why did he have to carry the responsibility of being the wise man to these idiots who couldn't figure their shit out? Why couldn't these people help themselves?

First, Thoughtful Jim tried not calling people back who'd ask for help. He was usually quick to respond.

Second, he tried giving bad advice.
"Thoughtful Jim, I eat too many sweets." said a schmuck.
"Eat a lot of donuts, maybe you'll get sick of 'em." said Jim.
"Thoughtful Jim, my boss criticizes me at my job." said some dummy.
"Punch him." said Jim.

Third, he just tried being straight up rude.
People'd come back saying "Hey you gave me bad advice!"
"Figure it out yourself, shit-for-brains!" Jim said.
"You stirred me in the wrong direction." said some bozo.
"What am I, your fucking puppet master?!" said Jim.

Maybe punching the boss actually was good advice? Jim didn't seem to know anymore, or care. The one thing he found pleasure in, was being rude to people who asked for his help. He told them to fuck off, and to go fuck themselves, and to go fuck their mothers. He also called them fuckfaces. Sometimes he'd go out of his way to be a shit to people who hadn't asked him for anything.

"Hey!" said Thoughtful Jim, to a guy in a brown raincoat.
"Yes?" said the man in the raincoat.
Then Jim shoved him.

He also spit mucus on a sidewalk.
He was having a great time with this change of pace and hadn't felt this good in years. What a relief! It was like he aired all that positive bullshit out of his system.

One day the phone stopped ringing.
"Good." he said.
Nothing.
"Hmm." he said.
Still nothing for a while. Like days and weeks.
"Assholes." he said.
Like a year or two, maybe five.
"Those people can fuck themselves."

He pushed all the people away and no one asked him for advice. Then he got sad because no one cared anymore. Then he asked himself why he was sad. He was alone. Then he tried to give himself advice, but he was more used to giving bad advice than good advice.
"Maybe you should go fuck yourself." he told himself, but that wasn't helpful.

Then he had to think real hard about what some good and positive advice would be, so he dug into the back of his brain to a part he'd locked up for a while.

Jim Bimbaugh applied his old boring positive, thoughtful, big-picture rhetoric to his current situation. It made him want to gag. He went out and arduously tried to be nice to some people. He was still bored by it and slightly repulsed. People were afraid of him, but he'd explain he'd been "going through a thing" and that he "was sorry."

Jim made apology pies for some people. His pies weren't very good though because that was never an area of expertise for him.

He managed to rebuild some of his reputation. Some people vowed to never speak to him again, and he was okay it, because after an interim period of beating himself up and feeling bad about it, per his advice, being okay with it was the best thing he could think to do.

Chippy the Artist

Chippy loved to make great beautiful pieces of art that were made out of smooshed potatoes.
"Hey look." Chippy would show someone.
"Ooh that's good, Chippy."
"I knew it." Chippy would say.

Chippy was a person, but no one knew if Chippy was a boy or a girl. I guess Chippy thought it was no one else's business. So Chippy wore a giant dark cloak all the time, regardless of the weather, and spoke in a grumbly voice that disguised Chippy's gender.

Chippy went to the place where Chippy usually went to make and display Chippy's potato art. Chippy felt creatively blocked. Chippy felt stressed about it.

Chippy went home and paced around, trying to figure out what to do with smooshed potatoes that might get a big reaction. Chippy removed the cloak she wore. --I say she because she did kind of look like a girl, by the way. Yeah. I think Chippy was a girl. Anyway, she clipped her nails. Suddenly, she had a potato idea! She threw her cloak and hood back on, and went back to the potato place.

"Hey guys, watch my idea." Chippy said, in the grumbly gravel voice again. --Actually, now I'm not so sure Chippy's a girl, that last gravel voice was pretty androgynous sounding.
"Ooh it's good potato art." said others.

The next week Chippy was out of ideas. Chippy went home. In private. Chippy took off the cloak. --You know what? I'm pretty sure Chippy is a girl.

She brainstormed and got frustrated. Then she decided, to hell with it. She cut off her hair and made it short. There! Boom! Pop! She had an idea! --You know, now that I think about it, Chippy with short hair really made her look like a boy. I guess Chippy probably was a boy.

Anyway, Chippy went and made another piece of potato art.
"We think it's good!" said the people who saw it.

Next week, Chippy is blocked again. Damnit. Chippy went home again. Dang. Chippy clipped more nails. Didn't work. Chippy cut more hair. No ideas. Then Chippy cut... himself.

He bled. It hurt. But... he had an idea.

"We like it." said the some of the people.
"Hey, you know this Chippy sure is mysterious. I don't even know Chippy's gender." said another person, --even though you and I both know Chippy is a boy.

Next week, Chippy's in trouble again. Idealess. Chippy looked in the mirror. Cloakless. --Definitely a boy. Chippy balled a fist out of his fingers. He started whapping himself in the face with it. Ouch! Why? Is an idea really worth it? He bruised his face and bloodied his nose. But he got an idea!

And you know, when that red blood came out of his nose, it trickled down to his big round lips and looked like lipstick. --I've got to tell you, Chippy made a pretty convincing woman with those lips. I think, actually, Chippy's been a girl the whole time, actually.

The trouble with potato ideas continued. The next week Chippy was mean to other people, this made Chippy feel bad about himherself. The following week Chippy drank drugs and became addicted.

Chippy's potato art got better, better and popularer.
"How does Chippy keep coming up with ideas for potatoes?" said the public.
Chippy worried the same question. Chippy's attitude got worser and worser.
"Hey Chippy, you a boy or a girl?" asked gossipers.
"Hey Chippy, I'm a fan how do you make potato mush art so good?" said fans.
"Hay Chippy, what's your secret?" said an invasive Magazina.
"My secret is 'you're a fuck face'." said Chippy, then Chippy spit at the Magazina. "Spit."

The art world was shocked. Chippy was running out of ideas for doing things to get ideas.
"I'm gonna walk into traffic, everyone! That's my latest and greatest idea idea." Grumbled a drunken Chippy.
"No don't do it, Chippy!" shouted a fan.
"Shhh! Allow Chippy Chippy's process. You want to see great potato art, don't you?" said another fan.

Chippy got hit by a car, didn't die, and made a great potato smoosh. It was a potato sculpture in the shape of an idea! Everyone was impressed. Except one guy who didn't know anything about art.

"Hey, stop wasting potatoes! I wanna eat that stuff." said the guy.

Sludgy Smudge in a Slump

Sludgy Smudge Jr. was melting. He was a blobby sludge who sludged through his sludge world. Sludges before him strived to ooze everywhere, all over, glupping and glopping any slop spot they saw. But Sludgy Smudge Jr. was unmotivated. Unlike his dad, who was a sludgy guy of the highest degree.

"Smurgle gurgle glurg lurg lurg." other sludges would say to Sludgy Smudge Jr., about his dad.
"Shmlurge." he'd say, which clearly indicated the pressure he felt to live up to him.

Sludges would seep into things, grossing people out. Sludges would pollute the fine quality of things.

"Oh dear, steer clear!" said a man to his beautiful wife with combed hair, when a puddle, a wad, or a waddle of pud, was near in the form of any type of sludge.

When it was hot sludges would liquify and dribble and ooze into one another. Sometimes one sludge would ooze into another curvy smudge with lipstick and create this bubbly, cruddly, cigarette-ash-banana-garbage smelling sludge. It was pretty sensual in a sludgy sense. That's when it was party time.

Mostly sludge was slippery around the sludgier parts of town.

One famous sludge, Gludge Smudgeworth, made history by sitting on a taxicab's tire and splattering on a pretty lady's dress during snow time. He was regarded highly, because many a sludge had not thought to do that. Sludgeworld people made him a statue of sludge, it melted.

Other sludges, like Smill Slubbins, were straight up phony sludgemuckers, who absorbed the ideals of sklucky sludges that scame before them. They blobbed around sponging sludge antics of sludge heroes, thieving the finest guzzy goo gloppers imaginable, slopping them off as their own, to sludgy celebration.
"Oh glooby dooby dooby.." Smill glurped, posing to be so humble and smumble, to the adoration of sludges everywhere.

Sludgy Smudge Jr. resented these sludges the most. They were the smoste regarbled, and that made him smick. So smick that he scouldn't scontinue. Slubbins had everyone fooled and Smudgy was alone.

He wanted and slawnted revenge, but what could he do? There was no sleame team big enough to asslemble that would take on the challenge of smaking down beloved Smill Slubbins. Smaybe Sludgy sneeded a slattitude ajustment?

Sludgy dribbled down a curb.
"Your dad slurr is great!" said a random sludge named Smurd.
"Sank goo." said Sludgy.
"Slime a big fan of your dad too." said asnother voice.
Sludgy looked up. It was snon other than Smill Slubbins.
Rather than scrowing scratitude, or even faux-politeness, Sludgy just oozed on by. Sludgy was too negative, some might say, but Sludgy was on death's door, so he didn't care.

Sludgy oozed up to the top of a building. He was gonna slowly ooze off the roof to his sludgy demise, ending it all. He took his big drip. It was slow thoughtful goo drop, down a long ride.

Rather than a sudden splat, he landed in the building ledge's rain drain, and guggled his sluggly smud down to the end of the dripper. This was the most patient spewicide in the history of sludge.

"Please Dear Glob, end it now!" he prayed.

He dangled and jiggled like a piece of jello, or a convenience store children's play goo toy, for what sleemed like hours, watching people scum and go.

After waiting for his demise he became more cognizant of things beyond himself. He noticed beneath him, at the bottom of the drop, was a fine and prestigious outdoor dining eslablishment. Sludgy became excited. He suddenly had a slurpose in this world.

"Splop!" he said with a splatter, onto a platter, of people-food, that had just slerved to some speople who'd splurged on krappetizers and red swine.

"Blreeeee!!" said Sludgy. He finally had purpose, and purple pus. It was the screatest day of his life.
"Diiiiiiiisgusting!" said the dining man, "Waiter!" he shouted, "I'm sorry, but there's sludge in this food. I shall recommend that this establish receive the lowest rating possible."

Sludgy Smudge Jr. was overwrought with sluclomplishment. He had sludged this man's nice meal in the sludgiest way and earned his sludgy throne.
"Phluck you, Dad and Smill Slubbins!" he gurbled. Then he died happy.