Category Archives: @MusicAdamT

Poop Goes the Pigeon

“Gather ’round, my good friends,” he said. One by one, they flocked to the fire.

Word quickly spread, the city was tearing down all the statues, and there was going to be organized outrage. #OccupyMarble began.

Organization was hard with this group, most of which were prone to distraction by stray trash swirling nearby the fire.

Luckily, a leader had emerged. Werble was young and plump with a Master’s in Public Speaking. He knew how to unify the masses.

“Quool! Quool!” Clearing his throat, Werble got everyone’s attention. “Friends, many a feather is ruffled today by the…”

“…developments that going on down south,” he began. The followers wobbled in agreement. “But let us not let that stop us!”

Towards the back of the huddled mass was a drum-pigeon. Banging horribly off-beat in 2-3 step. It threw off Werble’s cadence.

A murder of black crowes began circling overhead, casting wicked shadows on the flock below.

The leader of the crows, Chris, looked at the mass below and began thinking aloud, “they are going to be Hard to Handle”

Chris watched as Werble’s out-of-step eyes were drawn to the sign: “World’s Largest Outdoor Car Show in town today.”

And there it sat, there in the parking lot…everyone’s favorite car. The top target of targets…

… the 1961 Ferrari 250GT California. Less than 100 were made. It was the town’s love, it is the town’s passion. It was…

…the stupid human’s fault he didn’t park in a garage. “Let’s make a statement, boys!” shouted Werble. Protesters took to sky…

…circling. One big, giant blog of gray feathers. “When I give the signal, you know what to do!” yelled Werble.

All of the sudden a wild pack of Honey Badgers arrived. They looked hungry.

Werble paid no attention and forged ahead, signaling with his claw, mangled from a barbed wire incident, three times. The flock…

…descended from the sky emitting an eerie shriek. That noise was deafening to the stupid humans below. Suddenly and without warning

A gale force wind picked up and blew the flock off course. But this formidable breeze was no coincidence.

A huge crow shaped spacecraft emerged from the overcast sky. In the pilot’s seat was

Meryl Streep, the self-proclaimed leader of the International Bovine Transmology Debate Team.

At her side, Cee Lo Green, the self proclaimed Prince of….

…St. Luke’s Presbyterian Medical Center, raised his fist. “Arm the torpedoes!” he shouted, pointing at…

The Boston Billionaires Retreat was being held at the D-Luxe Inn. A veritable hodge podge of the richest peeps in the land.

Meryl, channeling her character from the recent hit, Labyrinth 2: Back to da Maze, raised her crystal necklace to the sun

She and the Occupy group had hated the BBR Club ever since they’d bankrolled the Land Before Time franchise.

The crystal’s power would certainly settle the score. It had the power to…

incite the black-toed dirtybirds to recite the most diabolical of chants.

“If I leave here tomorrow, would you still remember me…

…for I must be traveling on now,” chanted the flock. The BBR Club stood no chance against Freebird and retreated to the Inn.

Which is exactly what Streep, Green and Werble wanted. The flock attacked, unleashing enough droppings to turn the blue sky white.

The 1961 Ferrari 250GT California sat there helpless to the onslaught.

Splat! Squish! Bam! The car had no chance. Werble’s eyes got bigger as he swooped in for the kill shot, landing on the hood.

He took a moment to adjust his bowtie. Flashed a smile at Meryl, then let loose.

That poor, poor hood.

THE END

 

Funny story this week. Werble and the pigeons staging a protest. And with the help of Meryl Streep and Cee Lo Green, they were able to show those rich, stuck up Boston Billionaires a thing or two. If only our government could learn a thing or two from a bunch of pooping pigeons. But I guess there’s still time.

Thanks to all the writers on this story – @RobotStephe, Chrisa_Hickey, @MojoEnvy, @TonyPawela, @AZHockeyNut, @MusicAdamT, @Guert, @paulmtracy, @courtcan and @hwtibbs. You guys were great, even despite Twitter continuing to mess with tweets in the timeline.

As an aside, I think this is probably my last story. I’ve been doing this for about a year now, and it feels about time to wrap it up, take what we’ve collectively written and do something with it. When I started, I had no idea what this would become. I was hoping to get a few short stories here and there. But because of all of you, it exceeded my expectations. So thank you. And don’t worry – when I’ve decided what to do with these stories we’ve all written together, I’ll be sure to let you know.

Thanks.

-Josh

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The Two-headed Monster

 

“I’m hungry,” said Wally. “Too bad,” said Pauley. This two-headed monster sure loved to bicker.

Pauley & Wally were laying on their master’s property, knowing that soon enough they’d receive the call to action.

After months of training, it was time. But with their constant disagreement, no one was sure they’d be able to execute the plan.

It was hard for them to execute anything as Pauley could only look left, and Wally could only look right.

But the one thing they both could do–and very well, I might add–is hatch a scheme. And hatch they would.

On the north side of town, the feed store manager, Dolly, was busy with year end accounting. She didn’t notice the sirens until…

…Collie ran inside and uttered the phrase that struck fear in Dolly’s heart: Timmy fell in the well.

And now it was go time. Wally jumped up first, but Pauley’s heavy head pulled Wally back down. They came crashing to the ground.

Meanwhile, Timmy was splashing around in the well. Dolly was pacing. “When are Pauley and Wally gonna get here?”

Collie wasn’t bright, but he sensed Pauley & Wally would never get there on their own. Collie had to take matters into his hands

Or rather, his paws.

He trotted over to Wally and Pauley’s to find them bickering. “It’s time to go!” yelled Wally. “No it’s not!” screamed Pauley.

Collie had heard enough. He grabbed Wally & Pauley by their scruffy twin necks and drug them out the door.

Collie dragged Wally and Pauley across the muddy field, up a cobblestone hill and through a sizable patch of tall grass to the well

“Well?” Collie demanded.

They still couldn’t agree. Pauley wanted to help. Wally to sleep. And the longer they took, the longer Timmy was down in the well.

Collie knew if the pair couldn’t come to an accord, things wouldn’t end well at all. But Collie had one last trick up his sleeve.

Dolly. Her ample size and bleach-blonde fur scared the living daylights out of Wally & Pauley. They would not cross her.

“Dolly,” Collie said, “help me get these pups straightened out.” Dolly drew a breath into her ample chest and began to…

sing. “Hey Wally, hey Pau-ley. You neeeeed to help us out. Hey Wally, hey Pauley, right now. Right now right now right now.”

That got their attention. They were huge fans of “Singin’ in the Rain” and Gene Kelly. Now, they were ready to save little Timmy.

Wally and Pauley grabbed spelunking gear and started down the well. There was this keen determination in all four of their eyes.

Then the usual argument began. “Why do I always have to go 1st?” cried Pauley. “YOU? It’s ME who always goes 1st!” Wally shouted.

Dolly couldn’t stand it anymore, so she just pushed them over into the well. They had no choice but to save little Timmy now.

Especially since Timmy had been submerged under the pair after their fall.

The strange anatomy that was Pauley & Wally helped liberate Timmy. Thus, proving the old adage—two heads are better than one.

Timmy was able to climb out to safety, stepping on the pairs’ heads to do so. And now, it was Pauley and Wally who were stuck.

Amazingly, Wally & Pauley worked together like their life depended on it. Which it did. They followed Dolly’s pitchiness to safety.

And thus, when it came down to it, Wally and Pauley came through. Everyone lived happily ever after. Despite the bickering.

THE END

 

Sorry for the delay in getting this story up. I know all of you were dying to read it. So now you have your chance. This was a weird one – lots of name rhyming, and it didn’t have that many twists and turns. It was kind of matter of fact. Someone fell down a well, then he got saved. Oh, and a little Dolly Parton mixed in.

 

Thanks to @Chrisa_Hickey for supplying the photo. I believe they’re her dogs. And thanks to @nella22 @chrisa_hickey @ShesAllWrite @MojoEnvy and @MusicAdamT for writing with me.

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Bieber Fever

He came and went as he pleased, jumping in and out of our lives. But who was this masked man?

We were all starting to feel nervous, because he’d pop up in the strangest moments. He seemed to be able to read our minds.

He was always around during birthdays and July 4th. Other events were unpredictable, yet it was always considered good luck.

His dress was unremarkable. Though he had appeared at so many celebrations, no one could ever remember what he wore.

This man, he went by the name…

… Reaper. Justin Reaper. He was the prettiest picture of death the world would know in modern times.

He was no man at all, but a manifestation of all four horsemen of the apocalypse: Social Media, Pop Music, Teen Crushes.

But the irony was with Justin Reaper, he hated death, to kill, to extinguish life. But that’s his job and it was killing him.

… and Teen Parents Living Vicariously Through Their Children. His presence meant the end times were upon us. And then the snow…

The snow led him to contemplate the lives he’d ruined, each like a single flake falling to the ground and melting into oblivion.

It was a time of reflection, of looking inward, and Justin Reaper hated what he saw. “I hate what I see,” he said to his friend…

…Jayden Blue Ivy Cent, the muse of teeny-bopper pop music.

“So change,” said Cent. “I can never change,” retorted Reaper. “You’re always saying ‘Never say never,'” said Cent. He had a point.

“Why do you say that, by the way?” asked Cent. “It’s the most oxymoronic phrase ever.”

Reaper shrugged. “Someone told me to.” With that mindset, no way he’d change. Jayden Blue Ivy Cent needed to stage an intervention.

Cent wracked his brain for an intervention specialist. He flipped on MTV and found… @DrDrew.

And he needed to gather all of Reaper’s friends. Which was no small task considering his mere presence meant imminent death.

Maybe it would be wiser to pick the friends already passed on. Cent called Tupac, Biggie and, for another point of view, Andy Gibb.

The intrepid trio suggested calling upon 140-year-old Dick Clark to help them on their quest – find the greatest song about death.

And then the first faint notes of Blue Oyster Cult’s Don’t Fear The Reaper broke the intrepid silence.

Reaper sensing what was going on, gestured crudely, yelling “haven’t I given you all more than enough damn cowbell?!”

“Sometimes a guy just needs a hug, a happy song and a nice cheese platter to share with his friends.”

Music hath charms to calm the savage beast. Reaper’s was infused with the peal of cowbell. A small, fatalistic smile lit his face.

And with great glee the Reaper shrieked, “No more cowbell!” It was the day the cowbell died.

And there was much rejoicing. But there was still the matter of Reaper’s job satisfaction–or lack thereof.

“You know there’s a gig bagging groceries open at the Piggly Wiggly?” Andy Gibb offered.

Cent stifled a giggle at the name. Piggly Wiggly. But Reaper’s eyebrows raised. “Tell me more, Andy,” he said.

Andy gazed past Justin Reaper, past Jayden Blue Ivy Cent, past Biggie & Tupac, even past Dick Clark. “The Pig,” he whispered,” is…

…ON TWITTER! Reaper paused, envisioning a nest full of rabid followers, favoriting and retweeting his (or The Pig’s) every word.

“Screw bagging groceries,” Reaper declared. “I can reign down death on shoppers everywhere via social media!” His grin widened.

Somewhere in Silicon Alley, a self-proclaimed social media guru scrolled through his Twitter feed…

He read the notification out loud, “Piggly Wiggly followed you”…

“I think I’m gonna like Twitter,” Reaper hissed, slyly drumming his fingers on his desk.

Justin Reaper handed his scythe to Tupac. “No need for this anymore. All I need is a smartphone and unlimited data.”

“Like I care. I’m already dead,” Tupac answered, dropping the scythe. But Jayden Blue Ivy Cent shuddered at what he’d enabled.

Just when all appeared lost, Andy Gibb piped in, “It’s cool, man! @ATT no longer offers unlimited data! Shadow dancing…yeah…”

Startled, Justin Bieber woke up sweating. His mom was bedside. “You’re okay, Justin,” she said. “You just have a fever.”

THE END

 

Interesting story. Not sure how I feel about contributing to Bieber Fever, so I guess the fact that he was actually responsible for killing people in this story makes it a little more tolerable. We should have had him kill himself. And his music. Then we’d all be happier. Well, except for the group Teen Parents Living Vicariously Through Their Children. They’re a force to be reckoned with. Okay, so this story went all over the place, but I was completely fine with it. I had already come up with how everything would end this afternoon, so I was just letting it go. Until it stalled. Then, BAM – Bieber fever. Get it?

Thanks to @kschaffs for supplying the photo. It definitely got people writing. And also, glad to have you involved. Hope next time you write too.

Thanks to all the writers – @nella22, who’s good for supplying the second line to a story about 89.7% of the time, @Robotstephe, whose sense of humor fits well with mine, @ShesAllWrite and @Chrisa_Hickey, who were having a personal back and forth toward the end, gabesphone_com, who was a first-time contributor and added a hilarious line right in the middle of @jsetlak’s patented triple-tweet that had me stuck on how to make it all make sense, @jsetlak, who triple-tweeted, @MusicAdamT and @MojoEnvy, who helped me kick Twitter and get it to work when their tweets weren’t showing up, and my old co-workers @TonyPawela and @elderberryjam, who humored me and wrote because I asked them to help out. Fun.

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Explosions!

It arrived. Finally.

It rode in atop a silver snake-train behemoth, clinging to its scales like a virus, headed for…

…the Mexico border. This package had been through a lot already, but it finally made it to Tijuana.

It sat now propped up against the ticket agent’s dusty kiosk, a corner bent up as if someone had peeked at its loathsome contents.

But what was inside?

A small compass, a map, a train pass that was one zone short of its destination and a note.

But not just any note. It was written in…

Sanskrit, in gold ink. Parts of the ink had flaked off during the parcel’s journey.

Paolo recognized the large flourishes and was able to intercept it before Lester, the world’s preeminent Sanskrit translator, did.

Paolo had to move fast. He’d seen Lester making his way through the terminal. Now that the parcel was safe, he’d have to leave.

Lester, having arrived at the baggage claim, was outwardly serene when he saw the parcel was gone. Inside, his temper flared.

Flanked by his cronies, he strode over to the phone bank and called M. “Elvis has left the building, M. It’ll be a Blue Christmas.”

Mesmerized by the parcel in his hands, Paolo absently twirled the package and silently mouthed, “All things must pass.”

Lester was a huge fan of The King. Rumor had it the two used to party together back in the day. Elvis’ death left him all shook up.

Paolo ducked into a nearby restroom, silenced his iPhone and took 3 photographs of the flaking note, then emailed them to himself.

Meanwhile, M hung up the phone & sprung into action. First, he called N. Then N called O, who dialed P & Q. Paolo wouldn’t get far.

He knew he had to contact Sarf. She would know what to do next. She was the Chosen One, so he trusted her. Or so he thought?

Paolo put the note and the phone in his breast pocket, flushed and washed, then left the station on a wave of oblivious travelers.

But the Alphabet Crew were hot on his trail. They knew he’d go to Sarf next. How? She called O and told him. She said, “…

“…O, Paolo is coming to me.” O thanked her for the intel, then dialed Lester. He was in the middle of translating Sanskrit.

Lester headed to Sarf and waited for Paolo. The parcel, and its contents, were about to be his.

If only the package wasn’t set to implode upon itself at

11:15pm.

POW! BANG! BAMMO! The package imploded upon itself. The contents wiped out the entire world.

THE END

Until suddenly the package implosion exploded, then re-imploded and re-wiped out the wiped out world. THE END, again.

Wow – lots of fireworks at the end of this story. Dramatic ending. But would you really expect anything else with the Alphabet Crew involved? I definitely wouldn’t. Poor Paolo, Sarf and Lester – they all died when the world was wiped out. Although I guess everyone did. So poor everyone.

Thanks to @rookiephenom for supplying the photo, as well as for jumping in and adding a line in the story. And glad to have a couple of new writers – @MojoEnvy and @ShesAllWrite – hope you both had fun and you join me again. And last, but not least, the stories wouldn’t be the same without my stable of regulars who write on every story. For this one, that was @FeliciaCago, @MusicAdamT, @hwtibbs, who pulled out the triple-tweet, @nella22 and @swanieson. Thanks all.

Addendum – @talkingmonkey contributed with a late line, which I’ve added to the end of the story. It completely changes things.

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Thriller, Thriller Night

This is the story of Wendy.

It was hard on Wendy, being a single, undead gal in the big city.

And her job at the Pumpkin Peeling Plant wasn’t fulfilling.

She was sick of it. So Wendy got dolled up, doing her hair and make-up, then set out to find a new job.

As the train rattled towards Vicksburg, she grasped her purpose in life. “I must

bring an end to the unethical farming and consumption of humans. It’s terrible for the environment.”

Wendy had recently become a member of ZETH – Zombies for the Ethical Treatment of Humans. ZETH was committed to…

…passing Prop-Hu23 in Congress, requiring farms to raise free range humans, thus abolishing the cruel conditions of the day.

Wendy got off the train at Vicksburg and immediately went door to door, spreading the word, getting signatures.

… and the occasional shotgun blasts from the homes of humans who had been hiding out, waiting until the inevitable …

6 hours, 8 signatures and 3 Human Gorditas later, she realized she needed to do something that would have a bigger impact.

Luckily, Wendy was also an accomplished singer. So she went to Vicksburg Plaza, where white collar Zombies took their dinner breaks.

Waiting for her cue, she peeked at a menu. Arm Tartar. Brain a la Mode, garnished with toenail. Intestines & Chips. She shuddered.

She cleared her throat and sang “Free The People Before We Eat The People” at the top of her lungs just outside Hüm restaurant.

The audience called for an encore & more brains, wanting her to sing yet again. This time she’d sing about the new law.

She’d prepared a doo-wop for this performance. “Anyone know how to harmonize?” she asked. Everyone just stared at her, zombie-like.

“I doo–” but as soon as Jacob said that, his deteriorating mouth fell off but…

…he kept singing anyways. He couldn’t enunciate. It was awkward. Fed up, Wendy leveled a shotgun at the crowd. “Now listen up!”

Suddenly, a squeaky voice from the back called out, “I do!” The sun blinded her she could not see his face.

So she pulled the trigger. Buckshot severed Danny DeVito’s right arm, but that wouldn’t stop him from harmonizing.

He had trouble holding his notes, though, because of his constant wincing. And that just made Wendy even more irate.

So she instead broke into an interpretive dance. It was magical.

She moved her arms back and forth, up and down, sideways. It was no surprise that the other zombies followed suit. It was Thriller.

As the Zombies did the Thriller dance, Danny DeVito and the rest of the humans saw this as their opportunity to escape captivity.

Danny and the others made a run for it, but the zombies didn’t budge. They were, well, in a Zombie-like trance.

The group of humans reached a field. DeVito looked over his shoulder, seeing Wendy one last time. “I always…

“…wanted to see her dance,” he said. “It was on my bucket list.” He kept running, surprisingly limber for a short, round old guy.

Like a fullback on the Packers he barreled through a field of zombie secondary dropped like bowling pins on a Saturday night.

DeVito and the rest of the humans kept running and running until they reached Mexico. They crossed the border, free at last.

THE END

So it’s been a while since I wrote a story, and I forgot how fun they are. I mean, we had zombies, the Thriller dance, shotguns and Danny DeVito. Too bad Rhea Pearlman didn’t make a cameo. But good for DeVito to escape and finally be able to live a normal life, albeit in Mexico. But hey – it beats living on an organic human farm. Right?

Thanks to everyone who jumped back in and wrote with me. I really appreciate it and hope you had a good time. @Chrisa_Hickey, @officerpupp, @hwtibbs, @Pawela04, @MusicAdamT and @melmo3 – you all are great. And a special shout-out to @AZHockeyNut, who wrote with us for the first time. Hope you join us again. Oh, and for those wondering, I took the photo myself on Halloween on my way home from work. He/She scared the crap out of me.

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John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt

He was banished to the corner. Again. Seems to be the story of his life.

But he refused to wear pants, and they couldn’t force him, even with…

…bacon on the brain. Thoughts not wavering and with a skillet in tow…

…he stuck his finger up his nose and lamented his sad state of affairs.

Since being banished John Jacob had been trying to figure out

just where his life was headed.

At the same time, upon attempting to find bacon and pants…he heard a sound. Or a bang.

Or even possibly, a clang. It had a distinct ring, but not like a bell had rang. It was definitely not a ding.

The source revealed itself as the chef-shaped kitchen timer, which had fallen onto the floor as its time expired.

John Jacob was relieved. He thought it was his German half-brother, Jingleheimer Schmidt, coming back to finish what he started.

You see, Jingleheimer was a big confectioner. And John Jacob preferred savory. So he shuddered whenever his brother baked.

It’s not that he was bad – no, wait. It was. He put Aleppo Pepper in everything. Including the Chocolate-Dipped Spice Twists

that were ready to be taken out of the oven. The timer had been ringing for 22 minutes. But Jingleheimer was still on his run.

“Let the baking BURN!” said John.

And it did. John cackled, then coughed, in the corner, watching the smoke billow out of the oven. But where was Jingleheimer?

And why, pray tell, did he not put on pants before entering the kitchen this morning? The Inpsectors™ were coming by!

He wasn’t the baker in the family, and the last time he took something out of the oven, it was a disaster. His scars proved it…

John reinserted his finger in his nose, his go-to posture for deep thinking.

John probed his sinus cavity for ideas, trudging through lost notions and manic whims before striking a subterranean concept.

“What if Jingleheimer’s hurt?” John thought. He pulled his pants up and made his way through the smoke to go find his brother.

He found him passed out on the floor overcome by the aroma of burnt buns still clutching plans for Jingle’s Bacon Bun Food Truck.

John grabbed Saran Wrap, put it over Jingleheimer’s mouth, poked a hole, and began CPR. (You never know where a Schmidt has been)

While Schmidt was a terrible baker, he was a masterful flirt. It seemed no woman could resist him.

…and into the black Lincoln Town Car he had been using for his burgeoning limo service.

En route to the hospital, Schmidt stirred from the back seat, a low chortle reverberating in his smoke-filled lungs…

“Who’s this freak?” asked the rich lady with the long black veil that John had forgotten was his fare in the back seat.

“And why’d we stop in that driveway?” she continued. “And now where are we going?” John rolled his eyes, then raised the partition.

“Terribly sorry, ma’am, but we’ll have to make one more stop before taking you to the opera. I’m sure we won’t be…”

Saved by the partition. Jingleheimer would have to deal with the lady’s nagging. John turned the radio up. His favorite jam was on

…the dashboard – strawberry, what was left of his lunch. And now it was nearly dawn. “Man, I’m hungry. Wish I had a…

…piece of toast. Or one of Jingleheimer’s Chocolate Dipped Spice Twists.” As if on cue, there was a knock on the partition.

It was Schmidt. He surreptitiously pulled something from his pocket and flung it at john while the lady was on the phone.

John ducked instinctively, and when he did, he yanked the wheel left, crashing into the Oscar Mayer Weinermobile in the next lane.

The Weinermobile immediately burst into flames. “One dog, well done,” muttered John. He could hear Schmidt & the lady yelling…

…in excitement over the prospect of free hot dogs. John Jacob quickly realized his good fortune as well, and he started yelling.

Everyone was yelling happily. John Jacob, Jingleheimer Schmidt and the old lady went in for a group hug. Then for hot dogs.

THE END

 

“John, Jacob, Jingleheimer, Schmidt.” I used to love that song growing up. So I was psyched at the possibilities for where a story about these two brothers could go. And despite their differences, when it came down to it, John Jacob had his brother’s best interests in mind. And they ended up with hot dogs! So lucky!

Lots of new contributors on this one. Thanks to @swcouture for the photo. And to new writers @rookiephenom, @MusicAdamT, @swcouture and @martinbihl. And of course, thank you to regular contributors @FeliciaCago, @Chrisa_Hickey, @swanieson, @Robotstephe, @nella22, @Pawela04 and @hwtibbs. That was a fun story.

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