Halloween Monster Story

As the chef pried open a fresh crate of bananas, he noticed something odd about it. First of all, bananas didn't usually come in crates, so right off he knew something was wrong. Also, a large bat flew out of the crate, carrying a severed head.

The chef proceeded to stack the glowing, green bananas in their usual spot. Immediately, students began flooding the cafeteria to get a taste of the freak fruit.

Surprisingly, everyone loved the bananas. They were the most popular food item at breakfast. By lunch time though, the chef started noticing strange behavior in the students.

"Get me more bananas, Chef Tim!" said a burly, hairy, toothy girl.

"We're all out." Chef Tim replied.

"Look harder!" the girl shouted, in between unpleasant monkey noises.

Chef Tim looked around and noticed some very primitive behavior. Students were jumping up down, hanging from chandeliers, and picking lice off of each other to eat. Anyone who had eaten bananas (which was pretty much everyone) was turning into big, stinky apes. Their features were animal-like. Chef Tim felt like Charlton Heston.

Rushing back into the kitchen, Chef Tim alerted lunch lady Bertha of the emergency. "The kids are all going ape out there! It's a madhouse!"

Lunch lady Bertha turned around. Her teeth were yellow and her lips were covered in drool. Unsightly body and facial hair stuck out all over. She breathed heavily.

"Oh no, it got you too!" said Chef Tim, "You ate the green bananas!"

"What are you talking about?" Bertha grunted, "I hate bananas!"

"Oh..." Chef Tim backed away slowly, "Sorry..."

Back in the cafeteria, plates were being thrown, the floor was covered in soda, and the warm apple crisp had been violated several times over. Chef Tim knew he had to do something.

He went back into the storage where the mysterious crate waited. In it, conveniently sat a small note. Why hadn't he noticed it before? Because he was distracted by that bat.

The note read, "These bananas are evil. Don't feed them to anyone. If you do though, just recite this incantation: BALAWALANAK..."

Suddenly, a monkey child snatched the paper from him and ran back into the cafeteria.

Chef Tim tried to throw his most stale bread at the monkey child to slow it down, but to no avail. The monkeys were too quick for him for now, but he had a plan.

Immediately, Chef Tim started cooking up as many flapjacks as he could. Being a school chef, he had plenty of opium on hand and cooked it right into the flapjacks. When he knew he had enough, he shoveled the flapjacks into a shopping cart that he stole from Walmart and reentered the cafeteria. Like frisbees, he hurled the opium cakes at every devolved student within sight. They eagerly gobbled up the cakes.

Carefully stepping over the now-sleeping monkeys, Chef Tim successfully located the note and pried it from the clutches of the monkey child. Lifting it up, he recited the incantation, "BALAWALANAKTOFALA!"

Like Disney magic, all the hairy, apelike students transformed back into normal, filth-covered human students.

"That was pretty cool, eh Rex?" Tim asked his previously unmentioned talking-dog companion.

Rex answered with his old catch-phrase that has endeared him with countless children, "Yoooouu BETCHA!"

Earning Sleep

Usually, I don't mind a housefly. In the summer, when they are most prevalent, they are only a minor annoyance; A bother done away with by waving a hand, as if I had all the power of a king. But as I sat up in my bed, my neck supported by an awkwardly folded pillow, the fly that buzzed around my room captured the bulk of my attention with its performance. It was the quiet and solitude that the fly had broken. I'm sure countless insects and spiders had successfully crept in and thwarted my pure loneliness in the past, but they had done so with subtlety enough to keep the Giant unstirred and blissfully ignorant of his guests. I must admit that the thought that it is so hard to escape the world of life and survival perturbs me to some degree. There is always something not far off that would see your end to further their's.

The concentration of my read would not be broken by a passive stalker, but the buzzing fiend that left haphazard and imaginary dash-marks in its wake as it flew about the unstirred air of my room. The volume of its unattractive buzzing was directly linked to the distance it kept from me. If this distance was halved, the sound was doubled. Such a change was easily noticed in my self-induced, yet somewhat broken meditative state. Soon after becoming aware of this unwanted cad of an insect, it became the second party in the room, thereby ruining my linear thought process.

The linear thought process is the one thing that I absolutely must maintain to achieve any meaningful level of cognitive retention of reading materials. I blame the fragility of this process to all those damn video games I played as a kid. It's when my linear thought is disrupted that I end up writing something, the subject of which can usually be found at the branching of my thoughts and is rarely interesting to anyone but myself (though this particular digression is of distinctively fuzzy and faint importance, even compared with houseflies).

After a series of paths taken by the fly, many of which brought it to every cardinal direction in relation to myself, its buzzing faded. My composure rocked, I began expecting to hear the sound again. So expectant was I that the soft hum of electricity within the house started sounding incredibly insectish. I feared that the fly was just waiting for the right time to play a trick on me; To ambush me and crawl under my skin to lay its eggs, or maybe jump up and spit in my eye. The fear had hatched ugly, writhing maggots, intent on foiling any line of productive or useful thought.

At a picnic, set upon by a gang of flies, I would have no problem hearing the cry of the warrior. I'd brandish my long, plastic, flatish blade with which to bring an untimely and gruesome death to the outmatched and miniscule monsters plaguing our plates of potatoes and ham. But the idea of an army makes sense. Some would even sell the idea as noble. A lone wanderer however; A "Jack the Ripper" of the bug kingdom could certainly haunt my read as ignobly as anything under the sun.

I reached with quiet trepidation for the entomology textbook, which the fates had placed so conveniently near to my side, hoping to procure from it some advantageous nugget of knowledge regarding my enemy. The common housefly (Musca domestica) only lives for an average of two weeks as a fly. Attrition was the obvious answer. I could be certain, with all the confidence that science could bestow, that the beast would be dead within this relatively short period of time. There was no doubt in my mind that the fat reserves I had built up within the past few years at college, coupled with the pallet of Ice Mountain bottled water I had "temporarily" placed near my bed only four hours earlier would sustain me during this deadly chess match.

It was harder than I thought to wait out the fly. My checkmate would come after roughly fourteen days of motionless thought and appreciation for my adversary. I received bed sores and came down with minor scurvy due to the lack of Vitamin C. But reading in peace, and greeting slumber with certainty has never felt so good.

The Summer of Pickle Sandwiches

When this summer got underway, I was in a bit of a pickle. The kind of pickle that is sandwiched firmly between two pieces of bread that somehow symbolize laziness. I had just completed the most apathetic and lackluster semester of my college career, and I had done absolutely nothing to secure for myself a job to help ease my financial situation which can only be described as Chrysler-esque. I had relied on parental bailouts and infusions of cash loans to support my travel in the fall semester and bad habits in the spring. Waking up to my precarious situation, I felt guilt, anxiety, and hunger. Hunger for a job, and hunger for a pickle sandwich. Immediately, I began to find for myself chores to justify my existence on a daily basis, as well as a few hours here and there dedicated to applying for jobs delivering pizza. My seemingly helpless situation bogged me down and even caused a few days of real depression; the kind of depression that just boils up inside of you, urging you to do something with your life because you have no money to buy alcohol to drown it in. My Mother (who will be subsequently referred to as "Ma") saw this and it troubled, or at least annoyed her. "Why don't you apply for one of those medical studies." She suggested. I had thought of it, but refrained because I wanted to leave my schedule open for a job. As soon as I figured out my hours, I'd be able to fit a medical study around my work schedule. [Point of Information: These "medical studies" I'm referring to are amazing little opportunities that Cetero Research offers. Basically they give you a drug, take some blood from you, and give you money. It's important to note that there is almost no work involved in this process, and lots of money. I'd say it's low risk, which it is, but you're probably a superstitious jerk, so I won't waste my time.] Ma had come a long way from opposing my participation in such studies to now wholeheartedly endorsing them as a means of income. I am certain that this kind of resignation and apathy is what keeps any good family together. I explained why I hadn't signed up for any studies, but what met with Ma's cold, hard, and immovable logic: "You won't make any more working a part time job than you would doing one of those studies." I was tempted. But also worried about a potential secondary problem with signing up for a study without any other prospects lined up. That problem would turn out to be one that didn't really exist, except in my wildest imagination. You see, I was concerned that without real employment--a job that tagged me as an "associate, employee, or partner"--I would not find true satisfaction. That somehow, the title of "volunteer" would make any money I received from that position a little less satisfying. Because, you see, when I found out that I would most likely be participating in a study that paid $1,180 over the course of two weekend stays, I made a rough appropriation of the funds in my mind and figured out that this sum of money is pretty nice for me right now, and I would most likely line up another study after this one was over. What washed over me wasn't some feeling of emptiness, but one of relief and satisfaction. So I'm sitting around reading, playing video games, cleaning up here and there, and maybe riding my bike across town later... whatever. It's awesome. When I'm hungry, I tell the dog to bring me a bagel. When I'm tired, I sleep; wherever, on the couch, on the toilet, or perhaps just standing over a running lawnmower. What's most important is that I don't feel like a broke loser; just a single loser who lives with his parents, which, if I may speak so freely, is a pretty decadent lifestyle. Pickle sandwiches are a great metaphor. And even though that's a lie, and they aren't a great metaphor, I'll still slap some kosher dill spears on wheat bread and call it breakfast. Because even though pickles have almost no nutritional value, they taste good, so stop being such a drag, man.

Trying

A wolf walks past a birch tree in the snow

His fur is silver with the morning dew

And as he passes by, my slinking foe

Is drawn in by the scent of my hot stew

I long have had it cooking by this fire

So that I might fill up and warm my soul

He licks his teeth in hopes he will acquire

The meal that slowly cooks above these coals

I slowly reach for rifle by my side

So that I might then slay approaching beast

My hand lifts up the cover of cow-hide

The wolf continues lusting for his feast

Intently, creeping gently, getting close

My nerves are steady as I raise my gun

Though ignorant, I guess that my wolf knows

His days of stalking prey will soon be done

A shot rings out and breaks the silent morn

The wolf falls limp upon the waiting frost

I never, from the day that I was born

Have paid, for any breakfast, such a cost

Most people call me Ugly...

My mother calls me Sean.

Most people call my mother ugly.

I don't really know a better word

To summarize my existence,

As if that was something worth doing.

As if making things easy to understand

Really ever resulted in understanding.

I usually don't do this.

I usually don't cut out my piece.

Assuming it might fit

Might be foolish.

I'm not loud.

I lack the necessary audacity.

I've spoken out of turn before

Only to remember the look

On people's faces.

It broke their symmetry.

Ugliness isn't an appearance

Or even a status.

It's a decision.

As a young boy I decided

To be ugly.

I made it before I could

Take it back and

Lack the tools to

Turn back time.

I came into this world Sean

And will leave it so.

But I dwell here Ugly.

Knowing God lives for me

So that I may sigh lightly.

This in stead of a deep sigh.

The kind that makes Ugly

Despair at mystery,

Tear at the fabric of what

They think is real.

Feel for a world that

Doesn't keep in it uncertainty.

I am Ugly.

Ugly does twist at himself.

He twists at his face and

What lies behind it.

He smoulders in spite and

Despite of himself.

Twisting and smouldering

Bending and burning

Make a sight more ugly than before.

A sound that screeches,

A stench that is putrid.

I am Sean.

Sean does look outward.

He sets his heart to task and

Is battered back at times.

He builds his strength

Despite his weaknesses.

Looking and building

Growing and learning

Make a man just as Ugly as before.

A friend that betrays,

A lover that fails.

My works are like refuse

As they've been in my pocket.

Understand that I've said little

As you expected I might.

Forget it.

Self-indulgence with no

Self to indulge upon.

I beg the reader to forsake all here

Save one request.

I am Ugly.

Please call me Sean.

What I Want On My Tombstone

Studies have shown that people in their early twenties don't often take the time to stop and think about their own mortality. Those same studies also suggest that when the temporary nature of life is thought of, 78% of those respondents had recently listened to "Time" by Pink Floyd. Taking this to heart, I began thinking about ways I could leave behind a lasting legacy--something that will carry a message to future generations. What was a rock-solid, block-lettered way I could pass on that message? A tombstone, of course. More than anything else, a tombstone would effectively communicate a pointed message to future generations--and one of my choosing. In order for me to build a legacy, some have urged me to commit my life to charitable causes. Others have suggested having many children with wives and girlfriends, and passing on the sacred traditions of honor and family that are the bedrock of our civilization. In my own personal experience, I've tried, as much as possible, to convince those around me to do things for me so that I will be remembered as a leader. However, all of these tactics are contingent on me achieving actual goals. The beauty of the tombstone is this: I get to choose one simple message that family members and creepy cemetery-walkers will be forced to read. That message will be etched in stone, regardless of my life's achievements. I could be a shoeless tramp, a seedy ne'er-do-well, or even a high school gym teacher--it doesn't matter--this message will stand. And because I plan to carry some serious financial debt into the grave, I'll make sure to have my tombstone carved out long before I breathe my last.

This said, I've been pondering what witty phrase, or dirty double-entendre I want forever chiseled a few feet above my dead body. It has to be something short and to the point--in that way, unavoidable. The reader will be finished before they can stop themselves. For instance, most of the people who began reading this blog expecting something of real substance had the opportunity to turn their attention to something else a long time ago. If you're still reading, you're definitely enough of a sucker to stick it out till the end. All things considered, here are my possible answers:

(Tombstone will read: Nicholas Hibbeler 1987-2012)

"Here lies the President of Super-America."

"Please do not use this tombstone as a stage for puppet shows."

"I'm right behind you."

"Being dead is like having sex with Medusa."

"This corpse has a plot, unlike that joke of a movie, Signs."

"I should've used the AC less."

"Captain of the USS Enterprise."

"Time capsule. Please open 2042."

"Beauty is only skin-deep, but smarts are only brain-deep."

"He hated his children."

"Self-aware nose-picker."

"Hermit Crab enthusiast and shell decorator."

"He swam like 12 minutes after eating."

"Resurrection reward: the best chicken pasta you've ever had."

"You should have had sex with him while you could."

"He used aluminium-based deodorant."

"Died not knowing why snow-boarding was cooler than skiing."

"If you're going to pour out liquor, please be seasonally conscious."

"Rigor Mortis: the full-body stiffy."

"If I come back as a zombie, don't dismember my good side."

"Gave good karma to many by owing them cash."

"Set my iPod to shuffle."

Goodtime Activist

I have a problem with people

Who point out the modern evils

Whether pointing at a steeple

Or at their governmental weasles

But, please don't misunderstand

Because I think dissent is healthy

But dissent is never spent

And comfort belongs to the wealthy

Selfish politics are being pushed

And sold to the consumer

Where the glory is the person, not the cause

Let's see how many buttons

And t-shirts we can sell

Before they find that our statistics have been flawed

So your candidate won

But there's a war going on

No, there's several and they're clawing at your soul

See, we've broken into teams

To forget about the issues

And there's nothing left to fill the gaping hole

Sold to the highest bidder!

We're back in the swing of dreams

I'm so damned inspired

That I'll join your scene

Fiends for distractions

Actions speak softly

Words scream the loudest

When they're meaningless and costly

Often, I cry at night

Because I have nothing to cry about

Sometimes I die of fright

When no one seems to hear me out

Let's start a pie fight

World hunger, we'll forget about

Turn off the night light

And go to sleep without a sound

That's what they want from you

To lay down and take it

And if you want climax

You'll just have to fake it

Because sex is so fun when you're completely dishonest

And America's been fucked by the best

They wear lapel pins just to prove that they're modest

But beg you to rip off their vest

Chest exposed

Wardrobe malfunction

But don't disrupt their prayer luncheon

Here, munchkin!

Snack on this for a while

Daddy's got to make the trial

We're serving up death sentences and doing it in style

So keep on paying your taxes

Because I swear if you don't that we won't stay our axes

I swear if you don't that we won't check our faxes

Then can we sound mute?

I swear, when your mouth is shut, you look so cute

But I'll give you an excuse

And a little horn to toot

And every four years you can blow it