DAILY MONSTER 183 (of 200)
Good morning. How goes the week so far? I hope you’re off to a good start… OH! And if you’re here in the U.S., I hope you got your taxes done! Yeesh! I got mine out just a few days ago. Talk about monsters! Much better to catch your breath reading about 182 right here. Breathe EZ, claim a stress deduction! No W2 or 1099 is required here!
Are you ready for a new monster?
Is No.183 a late-night monster? Or a morning-after monster? I get the sense that those green shades hint at a serious sleep debt. Are those last night’s disco pants? Or pajamas? And what of the pet monster? What’s the story there? Please file your thoughts if you can spare the time. I’d love to hear what you make of this pair!
May today bring you one step closer to a glorious tax refund.
And if you’re doomed to stand in line at the post office tonight,
I hope you’ll stand next to somebody cute! If you need
a conversation starter, just tell them that 344 LOVES YOU
Dotty Dot.Com is looking for a new Lover. Each dot on the discopants means one more monstermen. Dotty is a real menhunter. Her pants are her hall of fame. Everyone can see, what a queen she is…
Now she is on the road again, just a little bit undercouverd with her sunglasses und the dogagent.
She is on the way to meet a new monster Rocky the socket.
One night monster 183 felt really down in the dumps. So he went to the night club to hang out. (here’s a twist to the story) Monster 183 sat down at the bar then suddenly Monster 181 comes up behind him and yells,”Whats wrong!!” Monster 183 responded with a real sad,”Im lonley.” Monster 183 leaves the night club a nd is walking home when he hears a faint cry, not really a human cry, but a dog cry!He runs down the alley to see the comotion. Monster 183 saw a cute little puppy, but it looked like it was about die of starvation, so Monster 183 grabs a rope ties and tied it around the dogs neck. Monster 183 took home the puppy, fed it well,and loved it. In return for everything Monster 183 did for the puppy, the puppy became his friend,and Monster 183 was never lonley ever again!
Mette exhaled gustily. She tried to remember, in the fog of her uncaffeinated brain, whether it was a Good Thing or a Bad Thing to walk the children’s Splatchnik (which they’d *promised* they’d take care of all themselves!) for them. She was pretty sure that it was a Better Thing than having the couch cleaned again. And the couch legs replaced.
She just wished she’d been able to find her sneakers (or even slippers) to wear instead of her work heels. The dratted Splatchnik had pulled her right onto her nose three times in the first block.
hey man…we’re on our way to the funky garage party at Missysister Crumbcakes…all the gang will be jammin, and maybe they will need my horn …and our school mascot “Spunky Von Pinpuppy” plays a mean burp-bark-bass that is a walking tightroap of technique (regardless of who’s really grunting…) cause all us monsterjammers are of and not of this world but at this time we are on the verge of world renown…this has nothing to do with my blue suede shoes….some old guy who says he’s Missy’s “GrandpaCrumb” (who has a thing for shoes…big shoes)…sets us up ….peace
When she walked out of her house, she noticed that it had been a good idea to put on the shades. The sun burnt down on her already aching head. It felt like a devilish drummer pounded away at her brain, with the drumsticks being made out of fire.
Anyway, the day had started horribly. When she woke up, the dog had thrown up blood next to her bed. She had had a nice hangover from the day before and – of course – stepped right into the blood. After she had pushed herself up from the ground, there was not only her aching brain and of course the damned dog that needed medication.
Two tablets of Aspirin, a (cold, to make matters worse the warm water was broken) shower and a call at the vet later she finally dragged her protesting body out into the sun. It was horrible to walk along the burning streets, the sun searing onto her and the dog – surprisingly quite healthy looking – bouncing around at her feet. She had been so confused that she even kept her pyjama pants on instead of wearing the jeans that she had put into the bathroom after shower.
After a long and arduous walk, she would have given all she had for a cold drink. The door of the vet’s office was right in front of her. A white sheet of paper hung at the door. When she tried to focus on it from afar, she noticed it was all blurry. Damn. She walked up…and knocked her head against the door. The dog wagged its tail and bustled about her feet.
The paper was a simple one. A piece of those you use for your printers. And on it was written:
“Due to a sudden fit of sickness we had to close earlier. We will be open again in three days.”
She groaned. The next vet was three miles away. The drummer in her head played Death Metal and she wanted to go home. However, she walked on, down the street, deciding to make a stop for a cold drink at the next store. How much one does for his dog!
Kale put his shades on and got the leash. Today was race day. The most important plog racing event in the whole world, it was the Stanley Derby. Before Kale got Tux, he contemplated a little bit. He couldn’t amaged he got so far, Tux had won race after race and finally gotten to the Stanley Derby. When he entered her in for the local race, he had no idea it was going to go so far.
When he got to the track, the other dogs were already there, getting prepped by their owners. “Pshaw”, thought Kale, “Justa a bunch of silly Redhounds.” This was gonna be a piece of cake. After going through all the warm ups Tux and Kale were ready. He put her in number 17, their lucky number.
3! 2! 1! GO!
They were off! Tux quickly ran to just catch up with the other dogs. FOOM! Kale laughed with joy. The dogs hit the dust in a cloud of smoke. Tux rose out of the front of the cloud. There was no way he could lose all the other dogs were out like lights.
Wait a second! What was this? One other dog jumped out of the fog right behind Tux like a firefighter emerging from a burning building. Kale raised his shades. How could this have happened. The dog bounded in front of Tux into the finish line. Kale threw his shades onto the ground. The dog had a gasmask on.
Well theres always next year, he thought. Kale took Tux, the mutated, sleeping-gas-emitting-dog, home.
“Hmm that IS starnge…” Gavone said, picking up the PopTeen magazine. “This says stunner shades are, in fact, ‘in'”. She pondered this thought with her dog, who was loyally standing by her side. She quickly rushed off to the nearest gas station and ran to the “Cheap as Good .99 cent Bin”, she grabbed the coolest ones she saw: aviators, tinted green. She quickly put them on. “WOAH-A,” she almost exclaimed, everything she saw was almost totally green, “this is so cray-cray, bay-bay.” Her dog stopped caring and started licking his rash, that Gavone forgot to lubricate with his special ointment this morning.
Beliah Grillquerk’s ears leapt her to crunchy consciousness. The piercing yelp of her flatulent flatmate’s prizewinning Grinning Bustobeast had stirred a thick stick of nausea deep in her sinusoidal canal.
She remembered through the wall of hungover pain that she would walk Shinndy’s pet.
It smirked and nudged a drooled-on leash into her entaloned grip. She squeezed it with contempt, but the warmth and the smell undid her stomach like a slipknot. She shouldn’t have had that last few with the boys.
She felt old. Sundays had that effect on her.
She drug the vapidly giggling quadrapet out of the Joonsblume Condominium entrance like a curled walnut seeking some sort of hammer for a pity-bludgeoning.
The sun didn’t help her mood one bit. She donned her Severes, and stomped down the sidewalk, a gal attempting to flee from her alcoholic anguish and agonizing after-effects.
With a ‘beast in show’ in tow.
Conrad enjoyed writing stories for the monstermaker. The instant the ink hit the sheet, he had an influx of ideas about the profession, whereabouts and purpose of each creature.
But like many LA-based writers, he struggled with his muse now and then. So he decided to take his dog Brockmann for a walk, letting him sniff for inspiration. He remained undiscovered by the paparazzi, thanks to the green shades the monstermaker gave him for his 100th tale.
It was late night when they came back. Unfortunately, he still didn’t have an iota about what he could write. He envied his colleagues who could fill a whole page within minutes. Without repeating a single word. Those lucky monsters!
Conrad found out, whenever he wasn’t able to come up with a good idea, he simply wrote about his struggle with the empty canvas, which worked out just fine this time.
The hip anteater
Anthony, is with his pet
Just finished his lawn business.
Hey you! Pick it up!
“Look at my pants brah! Hell no!
I don’t touch dookie!”
The world could use less of them.
Anthony’s a douche.
There she goes again, walking her loyal pet around the block. You could set your watch to that pair. Every afternoon, they’ll stroll down Hutchins Street in all their glamour and glitz. The rest of the neighborhood thinks she’s a bit egotistical, especially after coming back with the Best In Show trophy. Man – she could go on about that. “Best in 6 counties,” she’d boast. “Top marks all the way. Expertly trained.”
And if that wasn’t annoying enough, it’s the clothes that poor beast is covered in. Blue stilettos, sequined bell bottoms. And the accessories… always so garish. Today, it’s sunglasses which is probably better for the poor animal as opposed to some of the bizarre hat arrangements. Most of the neighbors just walk away from the fence as they trot past. Nary a bark to Dame Edna and her ridiculously adorned human.
Poor Gil he just walked into 7elven about to buy some snausauges(for his dog Peter) and some milk when some dude comes up to him and disses “the pants’.”Nobody disses “the pants”. Gil thought sooooo he held Peter’s leash in one hand and a hotdog in the other and he slapped the guy with the hotdog.NOW,Gil is blind can you guess why?(He also had to pay 2.50$ for the hotdog he slapped the guy with.)