DAILY MONSTER 52
Good morning! How are you? I hope you’re ready for the new week. May your Monday pass without incident. Perhaps you should ease into the day by reading yesterday’s monster stories:
Now, let’s look in on Monster 52. What’s this one smiling about? Is it excited about its pony tail? Did it meet some nice people at the Alien marathon at the local sci-fi revival theater? Is somebody (or something) tickling it under the desk? Or does 52 just take a perverse joy in Monday mornings? If you have a minute, do please…
Have a great week and let the gentle sounds
of a juicy Sharpie tell you that 344 LOVES YOU
That’s the thing, he’s not smiling. He’s actually frowning (them space people do things differently) because when he came to earth he saw a pirate.
The pirate had a hook for a hand and suddenly his free flowing jelly goop fingers just weren’t cool anymore.
“Hey, dude, the name’s Fitteh Too. I’s got da ponytail ‘cuz I dudn’t want none hair gettin’ all up in my real long face, foo! Yih, I be lookin’ real funky today, foo, ‘cuz it be’s Mondee, ‘n Mondee’s muh faverit day uh duh week, foo. Fuhgit ’bout Satadee o’ Fridee, foo, ‘cuz I’s be likin’ Mondees. Dat’s when you gots ta get up real early, foo. Yeeuh.”
They call him Waylon, Waylon the Smiling Executioner. It’s not that he was particularly happy about executing people… not that he wasn’t, it’s just that as a child his face got stuck in an awkward–well, awkwardly happy countenance, sadly dashing any hopes he had for a career in broadcasting. So, he trained in the one vocation he thought he might enjoy that would allow him to hide behind a mask–Disney of course, never sent recruiters to his school. He went to the DeFry School of Executioning, majoring in the hanging arts.
After years of tying knots and tossing rope, today was his day to shine. “Don’t blow it, Waylon”, he thought. And as he stood there, warming up the crowd with a few of his best ice-breaking jokes, he knew he had them in the palm of his hand, and this was what he was born to do.
Eugene, known as Termite by his friends, loves to pass the time driving his Camero a little too fast. He loves the way the wind feels zipping past his head. He drives with it hanging out of the T-top. It won’t fit any other way. When you see him coming up the road, keep your ears open. You will most likely hear the malodorous – I mean melodious – sounds of Warrant, Nelson, or Firehouse screaming from his aftermarket stereo. He waited for months while his mom had it on layaway at Wal*Mart.
He works in the produce department at the Super K where he has a great time adding apostrophes where they don’t belong. Some of the crimes against grammar that he’s perpetrated today are, “avacado’s” “potato’s” and his favorite “Managers Special’s.”
When someone comes up to you, brandishing a weapon and telling you to order another round – for your health – you do it. And Arthur did just that. A drink stiffer than he usually ordered, but the times all but begged for it. The two individuals sat next to each other at the bar, never sharing so much as a word to each other prior to Arthur’s drink’s arrival. Seven cords were tossed onto the bar and the hand scooped up the drink, tossed it back and slammed it back down on the metallic surface puddled in various collections of liquid. The gentleman to Arthur’s right gave a startled hiccup as the ensuing splatter slapped the side of his face.
“Awfully risky showing your face here, dontcha think, kid?” came the drink requisitioner’s rough statement. “Not exactly hard to pick you out of a crowd these days. You know how much is on your head? Moreover, what do you think your chances are of getting out of this joint alive?” He patted his right side as he asked the latter. His voice was aged with determination and holding a hint of knowing something Arthur didn’t.
“I don’t care. I got other, more pressing issues to deal with.” Arthur kept staring straight at the shelves of booze lining the back wall. He placed a hand to the back of his head and pulled along his shaggy ponytail. Turning to face the gun-toting individual, Arthur looked to make a slight jerking motion which happened in a blink of an eye. After a scant moment of silence between the two, he raised his hand to examine the item it now held. “And, old man, I’d say my chances are better than average.”
The old man gave a wry smile to Arthur and started to chuckle under his breath as he felt to ensure his gun was, in fact, no longer in his possession. “Always with the bravado, boy. Just remember, that gun has a tricky guidance system. Better know what you’re doing or the damn ammo will blow only three feet from you.” He placed a hand on Arthur’s shoulder and stood up from his stool.
Arthur tucked the pistol under his sweater and turned to face the shelves once more and rose a hand to signal for another drink. “Thanks, dad. Here’s to you giving me more advice in the future.”
This is Cheech and Chong’s cousin Chin, from Downundah. Now Earth monster’s chins in the northern hemisphere, they protrude in a downwards fashion. Monsters from Downundah, their chins jut upwards. See everything is backwards and opposite. Chin, like his cousins, enjoy the finer things in life. A good cigar, say. Maybe that’s why he’s looking so punchy pleased. And why everything’s so upsidey downsey.
All the kids are going to want this for Halloween this year. The monster mullet mask. And at $34.40, they’re a steal! Featured with the mask this year is the wheat thrasher accident severed hand cap. Look beneath the bloody stump for some of the included gore juice and give it a squeeze. Realistic isn’t it? For an additional $1.99 we will throw in the flop sweat package, as well as our patented Milwaukee’s Best air freshener. Call now, operators are standing by. 1-888-MULLET4U.
Look at this! We got some cool new fan art
from Sweden, courtesy of Mr. Daniel Jansson: http://www.mousevomit.com/blog/artblog/index.php/image/20061224brunesaus/
Daniel tells me that the monster speaks a sort of pseudo Norwegian, which was intriguing to me. Why would a Swedish creature speak Norwegian? Pseudo or otherwise? I’m still hoping for an answer on that one. At any rate, the creature says “Don’t touch my brown sauce!” Brown sauce being a Scandinavian version of gravy. The whole thing is very mysterious. I love it! Thank you, Daniel!
Just prior to this snapshot being taken, someone said to Carl the Mechanical Engineer, “That vacuum cleaner sure has a lot of suction!” Carl forgets sometimes that he was born without a nose. He is often too captivated by his true love, science, and that is the case in this moment, as well.
“Dude,” he says, rolling his eyes with the slightest smile — he is, after all, talking about science — “there’s no such thing as suction.”
Seems Mr Bucher got his own fanclub 😉
Seit Generationen schon trägt man in seiner Familie Masken. Lungo, Sprössling eines alten venezianischen Adelsgeschlechts ist sehr weltoffen und hat sich der Safer Sex Bewegung angeschlossen. Wegen seiner Blaublütigkeit und dem damit verbundenen hohen Ansehen ist er zum Aushängeschild und Werbeträger geworden und für die Aufklärungsarbeit zuständig. Das bereitet ihm viel Freude, vor allem weil er seine Verkleidung täglich bei der Arbeit und nicht nur einmal jährlich beim Maskenball tragen darf.