Fifty Shades Of Sparkling Vampires With Dragon Tattoos That Play Starvation Games

by Lacy Maran

  "I don't get the big deal with suits of armor. I'm sweating like a sumo wrestler in a sauna here," Spacebummer said.

  "Damn, that B.O. could knock out a small village. Take thee to a bath, dude."

  "Are you kidding? No one bathes around here. I mean hell, I just pooped into a hole. Welcome to the Middle Ages."

  "Yeah. The past is pretty different. Those castles are drafty. Not to mention wicked dark and infested with rats. There's lots of parables around these parts though."

  "Yeah. Like maybe we really never learn from the past."

  "Uh dude, we're in the past."

  "I mean in the future we never learned from this past." Spacebummer furrowed his brow. "You know what? Let's just go kill something."

  ***

  "Damn, these revolutions are hard work. I should could use a kung fu robot to do this fighting for me, even if the cyber bugger did try to turn on my later," Spacebummer said, after an epic bloody battle.

  "Don't get me wrong," Stardepressed insisted. "Putting some dead orc heads on spigots makes my inner geek all warm and tingly, but what good does it do to conquer an evil army of green dudes only to have some British and French dickward tyrant treating you like you're nothing more than human collateral?"

  "That might be a little too much moral intrigue to process considering I almost had my nut sack impaled by a spear only ten minutes ago."

  "Well, I say we go to the tavern, knock back some ol ye pints, then start the enlightenment era a few hundreds years early," Stardepressed insisted.

  "I'm definitely down for getting blitzed. I'm going to need as much booze in my system when the Bubonic plague rolls through town."

  "Spacebummer, stop being so nearsighted. You ever think maybe the whole point of our highly improbably journey is to prove that even two poor little space dudes like us can make a difference in the world if we try hard enough? That maybe we're supposed to lead these medieval schmo's to true freedom."

  Stardepressed sighed the sigh of a man who had serious time travel jet lag and had no barf bag to show for it. "Fine. We'll lead a revolution. But I'm going to need some nookie from a buxom wench soon or my dick is going to fall off."

  The End.

  Zombies Ate My In Laws

  What better place for the apocalypse than at your in laws family reunion? Of course, the appetite for chili went straight out the window when people's brains started getting splattered. To be fair, Schlub McOrdinary did try to save his mother in law to the very end, even though she hated his guts. And what did Schlub get for his failed valiant efforts? Abject mockery.

  "I told you that you'd never be good at anything. You can't even save me in time, you dumb schmuck," Bornto Criticize said, writhing with her guts spewed out as Schlub arrived just a hair too late with his pick axe.

  Schlub was also a smidge behind in coming to Mr. Criticize's aid as well. "I knew my little Princess should have married that doctor. He could have fixed me up no matter how many limbs those pesky zombies ripped off."

  And like that, Iloveto Criticize kicked the bucket as well. Schlub had managed to save his girlfriend though, Toogoodto Criticize. So Schlub fought off the undead hordes with every shovel, rake, and nine iron he found in the backyard until he reached Toogoodto, who he'd safely kept from danger in her childhood bedroom.

  The couple were soon on the run, and much to Schlub's chagrin, without any of the family reunion cake he'd been promised. Yup, it had been a pretty lousy apocalypse all the way around. But that's what happened when zombies started rising from the dead while you were on the pooper. Schlub had the unfortunate displeasure of fighting off the first zombie while his pants were around his ankles. And things had only gotten crappier since.

  More bad news awaited the duo (damn, why does the apocalypse have to be so bleak?) when Schlub and Toogoodto arrived at Schlub's house to find his parents had been turned into zombie mulch. And like that, the undead had gone and serious pissed off Schlub.

  Schlub and Toogoodto headed to the nearest military fallout refuge, where they could wax metaphorically.

  "Do you think this is all one big parallel about how humanity doesn't deserve to live so the universe sent a plague of zombies to exterminate us?" Toogoodto asked.

  But Schlub didn't have time to get existential. How could he ever be more than a criminally underemployed louse working at a 98 cent store when every HR department in the world had been devoured by brain hungry creatures? How could he prove to Toogoodto's parents he was not just some deadbeat ill equipped to be porking their daughter when they were dead in the backyard next to uneaten cake?

  "And here I was worried what we were going to do when our cell phone batteries run out," Schlub joked.

  "Look, it's going to be ok," Toogoodto insisted.

  "Honey, there's a horde of undead creatures outside that won't stop until they eat all of our brains. How is it possibly going to be ok?" Schlub asked.

  "Are you kidding? Military relief efforts never fail," Toogoodto said.

  Just then, pandemonium ensued at the front gate. Soldiers started running for their lives like they were running with the bulls.

  "Head for the hills," one of the Soldiers said. "We're totally screwed."

  Schlub turned to Toogoodto. "It looks like your parables are trying to kill us again."

  "Wow," Toogoodto admitted. "Today really does suck balls."

  The End.

  How To Be More Attractive To Men

  By John Doe

  Have big knockers.

  How To Be More Attractive To Women

  By Jane Doe

  Be rich, confident, sexy, hunky, compassionate, caring, attentive, kind, charitable, intelligent, interesting, honest, dashing, chivalrous...oh, and do the dishes for God's sake.

  Profound Poetry

  Damn it's hard being this deep

  But think of all the prizes my thoughts will reap

  Sometimes I give myself a headache from pondering all the time

  But how many people can get existential on a dime?

  I'm starting to think humanity has no hope

  Society is so filthy I'm constantly reaching for the soap

  But although I may complain today

  Maybe optimism will come to play

  Being too intelligent is one hell of cross to bare

  Though with my profundity a lot of chicks I can snare

  Recipe By A Seven Year Old

  Ingredients:

  1 serving of cookie dough

  1 cup of cake batter

  1 cup of brownie mix

  3 handfuls of chocolate chips

  5 marshmallows

  1 handful of potato chips

  8oz of highly caffeinated soda

  Stir

  Wait five minutes, then run to the toilet and puke

  Bon appetit!

  The Revolutionary New Diet You'll Next Stick To

  Eat Right + Workout = Lose Weight (Willpower not included)

  A Short History Of Republican Politics

  (points finger of blame at the Democrats while lining pockets with lobbyist money)

  A Short History Of Democratic Politics

  (points finger of blame at the Republicans while lining pockets with lobbyist money)

  A Short History Of Third Party Politics

  We exist...really...hello, is anyone there?...

  A Short History Of Bipartisan Politics

  A Short History Of Politicians Telling The Truth

  A Short History Of Politics Sending Cell Phone Pictures Of Their Dong To Interns

  It seemed like a good idea at the time.

  Let's Get Victorian With It (This Parody Powered By Steam)

  "I feel completely lost without my pocket watch," Alastair Frumpenbotham explained, quizzically. "What other way is there to tell time in an alternate Victorian reality?"

  "Here, take this one," Clarissandra Dibblesly replied, looking out at the utopian wonderland of whimsical wonder. "I find you can never have too many spa
re pocket watches."

  "You are truly a revelation in copper. I would truly enjoying taking your ample bottom into the bedroom at a later date."

  "How tasteful of you to say. Your manners are impeccable indeed good sir. My hovering home will be awaiting your erotic delight."

  Alastair looked at the pocket watch. "Oh dear, we simply must make haste if we wish to catch the steam powered aircraft to Paradise Alley. Who knew you could run an entire society exclusively on farts?"

  "Now is not the time to get existential about flatulence as an energy source, dear Alastair. But I do believe the steam that powers our society is a metaphor for the hot love making a dapper man and a woman of astute manners have behind closed doors."

  Whilst on the commuter airship, the well coiffed duo made moony eyes relentlessly while taking in the grandeur of their technologically advanced 1890's society.

  "You know, it still betwixes me how futuristic our society looks, yet I wear a three piece suit everyday and own ten monocles," Alastair bloviated.

  "Your top hat makes me swoon," Clarissandra cooed.

  "As I was putting on my vest this morning though, I did wonder why I feel the need to carry around a cane all the time though I'm not the least bit hobbly."

  "Don't be silly. Everyone knows canes are for secretly hiding daggers."

  "You're right. I forgot to have my tea and crumpets this morning, so I'm at a complete loss for logic."

  ***

  Playful flirtation had to be shelved under "to be revisited later" though as duty called though at the steam plant. Workers were abuzz with a sense of smug superiority only an advanced civilization could afford. Steam powered computers and phones were technological wonders, but they didn't help when you were under siege.

  With no regard for social graces, a band of armed and very dangerous men with dreadful manners had the nerve to take Steam headquarters under gunpoint. The leader, one Heinous McVillain, was as mad as his mustache was curly. Still, for the streak of villainy residing in his heart, he sure was dapper as a dandy. And like that, the fates were tempted.

  Alastair, Clarissandra, and the other steam plant faithful were forced to listen to Heinous' most sinister plan. He was going to shut down the plant and all steam related power, bringing the city to its knees. And in its stead, Heinous was going to harness the currents of the Thames River to build an hydro electric plant.

  "Electricity, are you absurd?" Alastair scoffed. "How do you expect to run our computers and phones on such a backwards technology?"

  "Electricity will no longer be the bastard child of energy fulfillment. If you want power from now on, you'll have to get it all from me." Heinous then laughed maniacally like a drunken hyena.

  "Oh dear God. This is sheer lunacy. How dare you disrupt our antiquarian nostalgia with bonafide scientific progress? I say I put at end to it right now," Alastair insisted. "Clarissandra, will you be a dear and hand me my steam powered stun gun?"

  "Absotively," Clarissandra said, pulling the gun out of an unnecessarily steam powered drawer.

  Alastair then proceeded to zap all the foul minions and dispense of Heinous in hasty fashion. Workers rejoiced as the intruders were fetched by law enforcement, allowing Alastair a well deserved pop over for lunch. With their steam society saved from the misguided mess that was electrical power, Alastair and Clarissandra absconsced to her hovering home and introduced a tip top love making session to their loins, cooing all the way.

  The End.

  Zombies Eat Wall Street

  It was a bloodbath on Wall Street even before the Zombies starting tearing stock brokers limb from limb. The Grim Reaper himself might as well have rang the opening bell that Tuesday instead of a reality star hawking her latest fashion line. It only took five minutes of trading to realize it would be a day Wall Street would never forget. But for the brokers and tycoons, it was all about the money. And damn were they losing it in a heartbeat. The Dow tumbled almost instantly after the opening bell. Millions were lost in minutes. Screw Black Tuesday. It was going to be a red dead massacre.

  The suits didn't know the half of it. The real mind blowing action was going on outside the stock exchange. But the one percent had managed to ignore the ninety-nine percent in life, so why not in death too? Protestors had been trying to Occupy Wall Street for months, camping out in makeshift tents. They wanted to give Wall Street the finger, but the suits were too busy counting their money to care.

  The Zombies were happy to pay attention to the protestors middle fingers. Of course the undead liked brains better. And the protestors made for easy prey. Sure nice guys finished last, but they were eaten first. It was the easiest meal the Zombies had ever scored. A bunch of tired, clustered, peaceful protestors turned into a breakfast scramble.

  It was quick, but painful. Some lost limbs, others their digestive tracks. The blood was unbearable. The screeches unmistakable. And the victims were just like you. Overeducated, underemployed, just looking to make ends meet. They built houses for others, but lost their own homes to foreclosure. They cooked meals for the rich, but lived on ramen. They contributed to their 401k's, then saw Wall Street fritter their savings away. And they were tired of working their asses off to make their bosses rich.

  The Protestors chants and placards were ignored, but their brain-hungry appetite wouldn't be. The Occupy Movements message was about to be bitingly clear. And as the Zombie infection coursed through the dead protestors bodies, they emerged from their tents and port-o-potties with a taste for brains, and wouldn't be denied.

  Stock Exchange

  Jonah Jennings was about to pull his hair out. If the Dow kept plunging, he didn't know how he was going to pay for his new hundred thousand dollar convertible. Especially after buying that new vacation villa in the Bahamas. But mostly, Jonah wanted to go back to his mansion and spank the day away to porn on his eighty inch flat screen. Instead, the Dow seemed poised to give Jonah a heart attack.

  It seemed investors had all gotten up on the wrong side of the bed that morning and decided to liquidate their assets. But Jonah should have been concerned with Zombies liquidating his liver. Only a place as spastic as the stock floor could be overrun with Zombies without the stock jockeys even noticing.

  The traders jostled back and forth, ping ponging the Zombies as they frantically tried to salvage the day before financial apocalypse nuked their portfolios for good. But as the body count started to pile up, the blue coated bait realized more menacing forces were at work than just a bad day at the market.

  The brokers started tumbling like demented domino's, and utter havoc ensued. But while the protestors had at least tried to band together to fight off the infected horde, the financial fucknuts proved what snakes they truly were. It was every dipshit for themselves. Brokers were shoved aside, thrown under the bus, and even used as human shields. Anything to live to screw another day. Within minutes, the floor was soaked with blood and loose livers. The stock jockeys started tripping over their own cohorts on their way to an untimely end.

  Jonah suddenly wished he'd taken a survival course instead of joining that competitive croquet league a few months back. He dropped his phone mid trade, slack-jawed at the sight of so many Zombies after his one pea brain. There was no escape. Jonah would never get to see porn on his eighty inch screen. He'd never get to put the top down on his convertible and flaunt his latest toupee. And he'd just paid a gardener a thousand dollars a week to trim his hedges into castle turrets he'd never get to see.

  Yup. Jonah was going to be Zombie mulch. And as his greedy life flashed before his eyes, he could only think of one thing. At least he wouldn't get convicted of insider trading.

  The Zombies closed in on Jonah and started playing tug of war with his appendages. His arms went first, then his legs. But the real buffet was his kidneys, and the undead savored every bite. Then before they knew it, the Zombies had made a nice appetizer out of the stock jock. But just like a Wall Street tycoon, the Zombies were greedy for more. And as the
undead lurched off for their next meal, they left Jonah's phone dangling, broadcasting the live execution.

  Madison Avenue

  Most people would have been horrified about what they just heard. Of course to be horrified, you'd have to actually listen to the conversation. Damon Newson had gotten sidetracked by the latest investment property he was going to scoop out of foreclosure, then flip for a cool profit. Damon loved few things more than making money off others misery. Even in the dogshit economy, Damon had made a killing. And he sure wasn't afraid to flaunt it.

  So a dip in the Dow wasn't going to bring down his cocky spirit. Of course, having a thousand dollar an hour escort fuck his dick off the night before didn't hurt. Nor did the gram of blow he'd put up his nose hours before. But either way, the walking douche bag sat back in his cubicle, dining comfortably on his tofu takeout.

  Damon was the kind of dickwad the ninety-nine percent loved to hate. A guy that invested in bankruptcy firms to profit off the poor. A guy that flaunted his expense account. A guy that bought hundred dollar cufflinks. Damon never paid attention to the Occupy Protestors just out his window. He was too busy guzzling his triple mocha while checking his portfolio on his smart phone on the way in.

  But the ass chump sure noticed the protestors occupying his office with blood soaked shirts and rabid teeth. Of course, with the screams, it was hard to miss the ripping of flesh from the bone. And to think seconds before Damon was just thinking how happy he was to have finally scored a reservation at the hot Euro Asian Fusion Restaurant that had been booked up for months.