Category: surreal


Crustbuk the Clown slammed his tumbler of Scotch onto the table.

“Bring me my rust wig,” he growled.

Ofcrust the Clownmaid obediently started to search through the giant walk-in closet full of well-used clown paraphernalia. As a High Clown of the Clownsortium, Crustbuk had a massive collection of the highest quality wigs, floppy shoes, and vividly colored plastic noses all heaped up along with the other required accouterments of a well-rounded clown in his expansive closet.

“What’s taking you so long?” Crustbuk barked.

Continued: https://geeks.media/the-clownmaid-s-tale

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A dimly lit Taco Bell.

ALEX
Wrapped in a thick flour shell it includes ground beef and sour cream.

 

CLERK

What’s your order?

 

ALEX

Yes, in the form of a question.

 

CLERK
Are you okay, homes?

 

ALEX

Time’s up. We were looking for ‘What is a chalupa?’

 

CLERK
I’m getting security.

The Dornstadt home. A storm rages outside.

HELGA

You have brought the chicken cupcakes?

 

HORST

Why would I bring cupcakes to a chicken?

 

HELGA

No, the chicken-flavored cupcakes, numb brain.

 

HORST

Oh, they were sold out.

 

HELGA
Always. Always they are sold out.

 

CURTAIN

The Punk Pumpkin was the angriest pumpkin in the entire patch. He was constantly making efforts to cause mayhem and disruption, ruining the peaceful and otherwise sedate lives of the general run of pumpkins in the patch.  Continued: https://bit.ly/2EeQdne

Punk Pumpkin

Therese throws down a large steak knife.

 

THERESE

(tearful)

Why do you stare at me so, Alphonse?

 

ALPHONSE

It’s just as my father always said.

 

THERESE

Machine wash warm?

 

ALPHONSE
Never love a pumpkin hater.

 

Alphonse takes his pumpkin away.

 

CURTAIN

Trude holds up the prize pumpkin.

TRUDE

How long was you planning to keep this pumpkin hid?

CLIFF

Until sich time as you’d treat it proper.

TRUDE
A real man don’t hide his pumpkins!

CLIFF

(awestruck)
That’s why I never saw daddy’s vegetation.
CURTAIN

She was dancing to the rhythm of the cat

But then one day had a sudden realization that cats have no particular rhythm

And they’re not known for dancing in general

Which transformed her dancing to a hollow charade

A mangled false tribute to a mammalian carnival that didn’t even exist

A misguided, poorly conceived cross-species shadow saturnalia

Making a mockery of her own purported feline expertise

Implicating participation in a perversion of cat values

A misinterpretation that called into question her previous cat culture efforts

And so the dancing stopped before her catness damage was unsalvageable

And instead she stood in the garden by the rows of celery.

And it came to pass that the Coffee God came to a strange foreign land and this land was known to those who dwelt there as the Hazelnut Valley. And in this land the people did walk and sing beneath strange trees, called the tree of the hazelnut. And the nut of this tree they did pick and verily place the nectar from this nut in the mugs of their coffee. And they mixed the nut nectar with the coffee and would quaff this beverage on a regular basis in great quantities and were very satisfied and pleased with themselves thereby, and they did have a great amount of pleased talk about this ‘hazelnut coffee.’

Continued: https://bit.ly/2MILMop

coffeebean-man.png

Touching the cod in sensitive places

Jeb flouted the seafood molestation act.

He’d been an overt ocean rebel

since those days juggling tentacles

at the underground Caspian Circus.

He’d kiss a large fish shamelessly in public, refusing to quiver,

suffering the salty rebuke of many a fish-fond mayor

calling ‘lips off!’, shaking their staff,

lifting long, cylindrical mayoral hats

and whistling for club-happy enforcement legions

to jog across the cobblestones.

Then in the cellar holding pen he’d

resolutely write in dark diaries the truth of

a fish in the hand and dark heads in the town.

Like an uncertain monstrosity, the laughing cowboy surveys the wild plain

taking in the artificial sheep and monumental lanyards,

the percolating fences that manipulate local disdain.

For too many pavements he’d squandered his cigarette charisma,

rubbing his beard stubble vociferously in a gesture that drove the laundresses to drink.

He calypsoed at Gilbert’s Diner, sashaying in front of the mashed potatoes carousel,

fingers poking out of his pockets and eyes hooded with knowing nonchalance.

He’d known too many women to recapitulate,

even using his efficient pocket calculator from the drug store.

Maladust, the befuddled sheriff, provided free custard to anyone who’d look away

while the transparent donkeys performed burlesque routines outlawed in most other towns.

It wasn’t as easy as the days when brain-dead Hilda made a display of reticence,

chomping on lipstick the shade of embarrassed nectarines.

“You can’t find trains like that in the old world,” she muttered, nursing a tomato hangover.

She cavorted with menacing toothpaste in a show everyone knew to be planned,

squeezing the green malignancy from the giant tube

with a grin that any dentist would shiver to behold.

She’d offer to sleep through anyone’s resilience,

proferring her arcane plant knowledge afterward,

pulling obscure thistles from her apron pockets

bewildering the veteran men with tales of creosote

and bursting into laughter at a windy provocation.

“History is for the hysterical,” she’d whisper in an unctuous tone

before drawing the gingham covers over her head.

It remained only for old Doc Hallway to extract a mint cornhusk from the dining table.

“Don’t let your laundry obstruct your better nature,”

he would counsel, sinking his head onto the greasy bar.

“I’ve absorbed the scorn of a woman tossed,” he’d somehow enunciate,

his mouth a rubbered distortion. “Let’s take the parade to hunkytown and dangle the miasma.”