DAILY MONSTER 87 (of 100)
Good morning and a special Guten Tag to those of you visiting us from the ZDFmorgenmagazin. I hope you had a good weekend. Welcome to an all new week of monsters. Good things lie in store. I can feel it! Definitely check out yesterday’s monster stories. I’m very happy to see that our amazing core group of writers is getting lots of great new company these days:
Monster 87 is watching you! He knows what you’re up to. And he ain’t having any of it. Or is he just squinting because he lost his glasses? Why do you think he’s got that one giant hand? Why is he shaking it at you anyway? Or do you think he’s talking to somebody standing behind you? Is his head always that size and shape? Or is it a stress thing? Don’t tell me you don’t have a story bubbling in your head right now. You must please let it out right now:
I hope the new week will bring you much luck and maybe a little bit of love, too. If you come back tomorrow and Wednesday, you’ll find two very special Valentine’s monsters… just in case you’d like to extend an inky apendage in the direction of somebody special on Wednesday and need something fun you can e-mail them. You know me: I like to help. Why do I like to help? Because 344 LOVES YOU
Unforseen circumstances led “Charlie” into the witness protection program. Having witnessed a horrible crime, our young monster hero remains emotionally scarred. Once sanguine and affable, he is now timid -afraid to draw dangerous attention to himself before his day in court.
Still, despite the desguising fatsuit covered in a dowdy khaki trench, we still recognize Charlie by his stylishly sensible shoes.
Fear not, Charlie. Your secret’s safe with us.
(Today is my birthday. This is my my birthday monster, and I love him.)
You’d be grumpy too if your head was a giant bell! The ceaseless noise! The sleepless nights! The tension head-aches!
At one point he tried to stop the awful ringing by muffing it with his hand… now, not only is his head as loud as ever, but his hand is flattened beyond repair…
Now there is nothing for 87 to do but yell at the small children the run to close and cause his head to start ringing.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY, D!!!
Pence was nervous as he neared the door. From the sounds within it sounded as if the party was in full swing. With one hand in his pocket, he clutched the invitation that he hoped wouold get him inside. Hopefully they won’t notice that he made it himself.
He waved at the monster by the door. It had eight eyes and seventeen arms, legs, and various appendages layered with muscles and weaponry that Pence did not want to learn any more about. It was born to be a security guard and it did it’s job well.
Pence handed him the invitation. A female ran by the open door. Pence started to sweat. Was it the chance that scrutiny by the guard would prevent him from getting in, or the possibilty that he just might make it inside that made him the most nervous. Sweat dripped down his forhead. Pence mopped it quickly with his sleeve.
The guard grunted and handed Pence his invitation. “Have fun,” it said.
Pence thought he saw the guard smile, but it was impossible to be certain. Pence waved quickly and disappeared inside.
An evening with Monster 87
“Oh my gawd… I can’t believe I bought this stupid foam hand at the game. What was i thinking? Sometimes I can’t control myself and I don’t even like The Knicks….. Oh, oh is that a cab?… I can’t see very well tonight, its my allergies, they’re flaring up again.. oh gawd, maybe I shouldn’t have had that hot dog after the first quarter. I just love the mustard, what’s a monster to do?.. OH THERE’S ONE!!.. HEY BUDDYMe!!!Over Here!!! RIGHT HERE!! Damn, that old woman took my cab.. I’m waiving this stupid foam hand around like an idoit. Damn, my eyes. I can’t see aNYthing right now, yah know. I could get hit straight in the kisser with a bus and I wouldn’t even see it coming.. what a mess. Traffic in the city is terrible. I should have gone home after work and changed out of this lab coat. I look like a freaking moron standing here with my big foam hand in a lab coat. No wonder my wife left me, I’m a mess, a hot mess. But oh, that hot dog was good, the mustard… I should have had another…TAXI!!! OVER HERE!!!”
Most people know about Gerald, the baby with one eyebrow, sworn rival of Maggie Simpson. But what most people don’t know is that Maggie has another seldom seen antagonist; Great Grandma Vasha Van Houten.
Born near the Chernobyl Nuclear Power Plant in Ukraine, MeeMa Vasha suffered horrible mutations prior to her move to Springfield in the early 90’s. No one really knows why she hates little baby Simpson, but a fire burns white hot within the old hag’s heart.
Weeblox feeds mainly on the plentiful insect life of Choke-ulon XII. In order to lure them from the rotting logs, Weeblox licks his long, slender fingers and sticks them in the tiny holes of the logs. Since his saliva is glucose-based, the unsuspecting termites gladly cling to his long, sweet fingers.
Mmmm…..the temptingly sweet saliva of certain death.
We’ve just caught Wembly out. He’s been handling the cookies in the cookie jar again. He doesn’t need to withdraw the cookies to get his fix; his superlatively extra long phalanges are where his tastebuds are. He saves himself a tonne of extra poundage on his already beefed-out frame by just tasting. But the other members of his household have not the same tastebud studded digits, so the cookies they eat are…tasteless.
Wembly! For shame!
Happy Birthday D!
and thanks everyone for giving me an extra interesting floss-and-brush-time tonight.
Kirkland knew he’d found a decent rival in Peterson. Their intellect seemed rather close. Their brazen attitude was almost identical. Even their choice in the finer garments of the day were impeccably similar. The biggest difference, of course, was their physical appearance. Kirkland’s the most notable of the two. His webbed left hand. To be sure, it was not a birth defect or any such lesser perfection from the start. No, it was actually due to some nefarious accident caused by Kirkland himself. As it so happened, in his haste to see the fulfillment of a particular plan (of dubious origin, no doubt) he mangled his own hand in a contraption of his own creation. Flattened, stretched and distorted, it managed to retain all dexterity and control. One might even propose his newfound deformity a blessing. Peterson, on the other hand, saw it as a weakness. One he could exploit to his fullest advantage.
Both had come up with their own means for practice, innovation and success. Both held high regard for their particular skills. Both were more confident than any one individual should ever be. Kirkland had never really known defeat, yet, here Peterson stood next to him, ready to hand it to him. Certainly, the pun was intended. Before they matched skills, Kirkland glared and squinted at Peterson with his most intimidating look, waggling his spindly fingers before the steadfast competitor. The timer was set. The cups stacked to either side. The challenge on.
They flew through the compulsory routines easily enough. 3-, 6-, 10-stacked pyramids. Then onto the more difficult combos. Peterson barely breaking a sweat with each round. Kirkland seeming intense. Nervous, even. What most didn’t notice was the way in which Kirkland could manipulate the cups from one stack to the next. He started from the right side, which would seem the disadvantage, and finish to the left. But there in lied the rub. With his long, gangly — but nimble — fingers, he could pick up, twist and set down multiple cups at a time. It was a task to do all these end-management moves with one hand, thusly giving the appearance of a labored competitor. When in actuality, it gave him the upper hand on time. Why bother using both hands to finish a series, when one would do just fine. In the end, Kirkland one handedly. Peterson could only stand there to realize how his perfect hands were no match for the seemingly destroyed one of the Cup Stacking Champion.
“Ring Around the Collar” was of course eradicated in the late 70s by Wisk, but 87 suffers from “Ring Around the Left Sleeve”, a problem that still vexes many into the new millennium.
In pursuit of the detergent that could help him, 87 wanders into the Fun House. Here, the distorted mirrors warp and deform his features: in this mirror, his fingers distend and become webbed; in another mirror his eyelids narrow; and in this mirror, he appears upside down: “87” turned on its head becomes “L8” and he cannot help but think, “I am L8, too L8, too L8, the stain has set. Next time, I shall presoak.”
Good luck, 87! Also try “OxiClean” — we’ve heard good things.
Da Darius seit langer Zeit an einem hartnäckigen Ekzem am oberen Lidrand seines linken Auges leidet, und es ihm bis anhin nicht gelungen ist, die vom Arzt verordnete Fettsalbe ohne fremde Hilfe zu applizieren, ist er auf die Idee mit dem täglichen mentalen Training gekommen. Allein durch seinen eisernen Willen und seine Vorstellungskraft, ist es ihm gelungen, seine linke Hand wachsen zu lassen. Noch kann er sich nicht ganz freuen darüber, weil er sich nicht sicher ist, ob die Sache mit der langen Hand wirklich so klug war. Er hofft einfach, dass keiner auf die Idee kommt, ihn als Lnagfinger zu bezeichnen, denn sonst müsste er die Funktion seiner Hand neu definieren und sie als Deppenklatsche einsetzen.