Charizard In Michigan

Ok, this is my first blog post in like 15 months, and it's actually not even mine, I guess? I told my like, really funny friend Neil that i'd host his Charizard fan fiction, so here it is!

And with literally no other further tadew, here's CHARIZARD IN MICHIGAN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Charizard in Michigan

by Neil Manich

Charizard hated the cold. Every day in Michigan the sub-zero temperatures froze his blood. He had a legitimate fear that his big tail would go out, and then where would he be? Sometimes he wished he wasn’t the fully evolved pocket monster that his experience had led him to become. He wanted to evolve into a Dragini or some other fireless dragon. But then he remembered better. All of those ice pokemon were really just a step above savages.

Sulfuric gasses churned in his stomach as he released a fiery burp. “What a tremendous belch,” he thought to himself. His digestive tract had always been a point of pride and rightfully so. Even Moltres’ stomach didn’t have the fiery explosion that his packed.

He looked at the other fifteen or so passengers packed into the tiny subway compartment with him. They looked less impressed by his excretions than he. In fact the plebian directly in front of him had the indignity to set on fire and burn in his presence. Flames burnt healthily in his hair and at the tips of his mustache. Charizard chortled heartily at the image. “Just like the Oddish from a few nights back.” Charizard loved to get good and liquored and torch a few pansy plant type monsters on the weekends.

The unhappy fact was the people on the train wouldn’t really approve of anything Charizard would have done. Reasons beyond Charizard’s comprehension had turned the populace against him. Privately, Charizard had always assumed it to be envy. It’s hard to love a devastatingly handsome dragon that sports an impressive twelve-foot wingspan. Not to mention his noble gift of fire.

To be honest, Charizard had very little interest in what the fat sweaty masses thought about him.

Suddenly, Charizard caught a whiff of the most rotten smell ever conceived. A sea turtle. And not just any sea turtle, a dirty, inbred, plant loving, pre frozen sea turtle named Squirtle. Squirtle, or as Charizard preferred to refer to him, Neptune’s Excrement had never really gotten on with Charizard. Not to mention his more evolved older brothers Blastoise and Wartortle. Those beasts took every opportunity to spit bubbles at him or douse his tail with their water guns. Just the thought of that round oaf Blastoise’s hydro pump nearly made Charizard faint.

At the next stop the train doors slid open and the watery devil Squirtle darkened the train’s doorway. “He even dresses like an asshole,” thought Charizard. And indeed, he did. Squirtle didn’t even have the decency to wear a suit like Charizard. He wore a mangy zip hoody stretched over his shell and a pair of pre-torn jeans. And you couldn’t simply blame it on youth either. Why, Charizard’s younger brother Charmander always seemed to dress neatly. Squirtle looked as though he smoked dried bell sprout buds on with Abras.

“Harrumph,” snorted Charizard derisively. “They haven’t locked this menace up yet? That’s what you get when you elect a psychic type pokemon governor. Law and order go right out the window!”

“Fuck you Chary. I can hear you,” spat the watery tart.

“You shelled sea PIG! I WILL ERASE YOUR ASS!” Charizard had the unfortunate weakness of pride. He was the most powerful pokemon in the world (obviously that abomination Mewtwo didn’t count. He was more test tube than nature.) and as such feared no opponent. He always forgot about the unfortunate stylistic match up Squirtle presented.

The insult was too much for the immature Squirtle however, and without another second of thought the unevolved beast flung its ratatta like body at Charizard’s noble form. Bite! The peasant was going for bite! Charizard almost lost his trademark poise out of laughter as he politely allowed the low level beast to latch himself briefly onto Charizard’s belly. It further amused him to feel only a few hit points trickle from his health bar.

“It’s not very effective BITCH!” bellowed Charizard. “Now it’s my turn.” And with a swoosh of his mighty lit tail Charizard spun the young mouse/turtle in a roasty circle. The heat proved too much for Squirtle and he fainted right there on the subway.

“Ha,” thought Charizard. “And now it’s my stop.”

Charizard hefted his mighty if exhausted form towards the train door. Smoke trailed out of his two nostrils like smoke signals as he chuckled to himself. Water pokemon always were a bit of a laugh.

The subway doors slid open revealing Blastoise’s two massive water pumps aimed right at Charizard.

The End

Crossover Special Part II, Bitches

Today I post part two of this v. special Crossover Event. This part is a story collaboration between myself and Mrs. Justin Bieber herself, Kerry "The Bond" Ingram. (Drawing by me, space my K.L.I.) Part 1 was our own stories, written to showcase our individual talents etc. etc. etc. This is Kerru's. This story is what you get when the two of us share a google doc and are left unsupervised by adults.

UNTITLED ALIEN PROSTITUTE TALE: IN WHICH THE GOSLINGS ASK FOR PIZZA

by Bryan Erik-Greenhill & Kerry L. Ingram III

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.

Part 1 Of A 2 Part Crossover Special

This post marks my first foray into fiction on this blog. It’s actually a bit of a two-parter. My v. fancy friend Kerry and I both wrote individual stories based on a pretty inceptional drawing that I made that’s probably museum quality, not to toot my own horn. Part two is also based on the picture, but it’s a joint story that we collaborated on. It’s like a remix or a mash up or like when your two favorite musical artists make a song together. Part two will be up tomorrow, I hope you can hold in your excitement until then!!!

...

Having slipped into her favorite red dress, Karen stood at the door to the living quarters in the house she shared with her husband of 25 years. She felt empowered in this dress, attractive, even. She carefully wrapped a string of space pearls around her neck and let her fingers run along their smooth surface as she stood, watching her husband. The pearls had been an anniversary gift many years ago. She had even bought some new shoes for tonight. At fifteen thousand filborts, they were a bit of a splurge, but it wasn’t as if they couldn’t afford them. Besides, she treated herself to little gifts so rarely.

Karen’s husband Mark was an independently wealthy real estate mogul. He had come from a poor family in a bad part of town, but he studied hard and worked harder until he had built himself an empire. His passion was what attracted Karen to him in the first place. In the early years of their marriage, they worked closely with the poor community: repairing damaged space buildings, replacing rusting pipes, building playgrounds for the children, and delivering meals to the elderly.

Twelve years into their marriage, Mark’s real estate company started booming. Mark and Karen were thrilled by the prospect of having more space money to spend helping those who needed it, but as time went on, Mark’s demands at work got too heavy and his time off was spent recovering from work at home. Not that Karen minded. It was nice to finally spend some time together. Maybe now they could start thinking about starting a family. Mark disagreed, however, insisting that there would be time later. Now was the time for buying homes and taking fabulous vacations.

Karen stood in her red dress at the door to the living quarters in the house she shared with Mark. They never had a family. By the time Mark was ready, the space doctor told Karen that she was too old, and there might be complications. She stared at Mark. He was sitting in his usual chair, staring mindlessly at the enormous space television. It had been so long since she had seen the passion in his eyes.

Mark looked at her, furrowing his amphibious brow.

“What’s going on?” he asked.

“Mark, tonight I am going out for a nice meal and I’d like you to come with me.” She had made up her mind.

“I don’t think so Karen. I’ve had a demanding week.”

Karen’s gaze dropped to the floor for a quarter of a second. If Mark had been looking at her, he would have seen tears in her eyes. She cleared her throat and walked over to her husband that she had loved so deeply for the past 25 years and lightly touched her lips to his cheek.

“Goodbye, Mark,” she said, grabbing her bag and leaving the house she had shared with her husband of 25 years. Which was weird because they had no lips.

In Thanksgiving

This post is dedicated to the man who saved my life

Last week I journeyed to our nation's capitol for Independence Day. Before taking the 1:30 AM bus back, I became dehydrated, not unlike a sun dried tomato, or a raisin, also dried by the sun. Except that it was night. Understanding that if I did not acquire water before the trip that I would surely die, I asked a man where I could find some water. He directed me to a place. When I arrived, the vending machines were out of all rations, so I trekked back to the bus stop. It was as if Washington DC had become the Nefud Desert, and I was Laurence. Upon my return the man asked if I had found water. Sadly, I shook my head. "No," I croaked, lips cracked, throat dry, precious water leaking from my eyes.

"Do you drink Powerade?" he asked.

"Sorry," I asked, wondering why he would torture me with mention of beverages.

"I have an extra Powerade if you would like it," he offered, majestically, saviorously.

"Thank you" I cried, falling to my knees in gratitude and kissing his hands.

In thanks of the kind man's actions I have written him this poem and drawn him a picture. Sir, when I am rich and famous I will buy you all the Powerade you can handle.

Thank you kind stranger for saving my hide

If not for you, up, surely would I have dried

Dying of thirst, you gave me your Powerade of blue

So I write this poem to say that I love you

When I was thirsty, you gave me a drink

For your kindness, surely, I think

God shall smile greatly on thee.

Battle of the Philippine Sea.

*some rhymes courtesy of rhymezone.com

Letters To a Friend

WOW. So that "coming soon" post wasn't written four days ago? As they say, "time sure flies when you're sitting in one spot for a month straight or whatever", as the saying goes. So to TIDE™ YOU MONSTERS OVER as I illustrate my next post which is literally taking a stupid amount of time to illustrate (I'll finish this sentence later). Roommate thinks I spend too much time on the illustrations. Roommate needs to shut his damn mouth, is what I have to say. (End of the other sentence): here is a letter I wrote to Roommate (Matt) as he sat approx. 7 feet away from me.

Enjoy.


Hey Matt!
Hi Matt, it’s Bryan. (As if you couldn’t guess from my e-mail address, Ha Ha Ha) I’m writing you an e-mail via Word because the internet’s not working and therefore I can’t access my Gmail, LOL. Anyways, I had so much fun today. Do you remember that feisty latina we sat next to at the Dallas BBQ? Martina Martinez? And how about that piano at Central Park? I took some real neat pictures that I’m going to have to show you next time I see you. Also do you remember “You know that I love you boy, hot like Mexico enjoy”??? Man, today was the BEST.
Always,


Dr. Bryan Erik D.D.S. Esq.

Usually, I'd draw a picture of a Rooster doing something clever, like "hating Mondays" or "listening to an iPod", but I couldn't draw on a Word document so I didn't.

He just informed me that I used "or whatever" 6 times on my blog out of literally 3 posts. No word yet on "like"s or other excess verbiage.

New posts coming soon or whatever.

Horror Stories Vol. 1

I have a long history of being terrified of things. For whatever reason, for example, as far back as I can remember, I’ve always assumed that I was going to be murdered and/or abducted by aliens and/or mummies. Things are different now, obviously. For example I know that mummies probably don’t come back from the dead to kill people and that aliens aren’t going to mistake our round driveway as a landing pad for their space ship and blow up my house. They are more likely to just watch me through my window and wait until I’m asleep to scare and subsequently experiment and exterminate me.

Back then, however, for whatever reason, I thought I was more likely to be kidnapped and murdered by a person than an alien (I realize now that the opposite is definitely true). If any adult ever acknowledged me in any way it was definitely so that I’d be lured into a false sense of security so that they could tie me up and hack me to pieces in their barn one night.

This barn is within murder van driving distance from my house.

I think it may be the result of watching too many episodes of Unsolved Mysteries and America’s Most Wanted as a five year old. This wasn’t solely directed towards strangers. Family members also posed a danger to my life. For all I knew, I was bred for the sole purpose of having an easy murder victim.

The earliest memory I have of experiencing near fatal levels of terror was when I was about eight years old. For whatever reason, my parents allowed me to stay up late and watch what I think was the Twilight Zone, but it could have been anything, really. This episode, obviously, combined my two greatest fears: aliens and death by aliens. I distinctly remember a scene where one of the heroes reaches around a corner to find a light switch. Obviously, an alien grabs his hand and pulls him into the dark and that’s really all I know because I’m pretty sure I hid my face until the episode was over. After my mother had sufficiently calmed me down I was told to go brush my teeth and get ready for bed (brushing my teeth at night later became another battle, but that’s another story). After I had washed up, I stood before the dark abyss that was my bedroom, in which there was definitely an alien, weighing my options. I wasn’t going to bother telling my parents because they wouldn’t believe me, so I only had two options. One: walk into my room, turn the light on, and face the alien head on before it ate me, or two: recreate the scene from the show I just watched and reach around the corner and let the alien pull me into the dark and be eaten before I got a chance to see it. Obviously I chose the second option, because if I have one motto, it’s “I would rather just die than have to see the monster or man with the axe first”.

asshole.

I finally worked up the courage to reach around the corner with my eyes shut tight to turn on the light and, obviously, I feel the cold death-grip of the Thing that was going to end my life.

The fact that I didn’t lose control of my bowels is one of my life’s biggest accomplishments. On job applications under “strengths” I’m just going to write “grace under pressure” and link to this blog entry. As I lie on the floor, face frozen in a scream of terror, pants clean, my mother stumbles out of the darkness in tears of laughter trying unsuccessfully to calm me down. The rest of the night is a bit of a blur, but I probably wrote my mother a strongly worded letter asking her not to scare me to death ever again. Proof that strongly worded letters never accomplish anything.

Next time: Tiny gremlin in my closet

Welcome To My You Know What

Well, I registered for this blahg a while back, but hadn’t written anything in it until now because I am lazy and easily distracted. I had a ton of brilliant ideas for posts a few nights ago in bed but those ideas sadly died before they could come to fruition.

So. What am I trying to accomplish with this bloglkjdfdjk?

1. To bring the laffs. (that’s how funny people spell that, right?)

2. Use it as an outlet for my creative impulses since my hot glue art doesn’t really have a huge fan base.

hot glue spider has no fans :(

3. Maybe someone important and famous will read it and ask me to be a recurring character on Weeds or Dexter or Community JUST TO NAME A FEW I’D BE FINE WITH ANYTHING REALLY.

So to recap, my mission statement is: Bring the Laffs (or tears or breathing), get on TV, marry Taylor Swift. I realize I left that last part off initially, but really it’s the ultimate goal of anything I do, i.e. “I should eat this food so that I don’t die so that I can marry Taylor Swift”.

And I guess here is where I crack the champagne.gif on this blog.ship.html or whatever.