An Important Message from Ms. Green’s 3rd Grade Homeroom, Deerton Elementary School

Did you know that one billion percent of all school kids are at risk from a common infection? It’s good at math, because it adds to our trouble, subtracts from our fun, divides us up, and multiplies like crazy. But a lot of kids don’t get shots for it because of the anti-shot people, who say the shots can give you farts and make you fail your tests.

But COOTIES are real and you need to get your shots.

Remember to get your cootie shots from a nice kid. Listen for what they say. If they say “Circle, circle, dot, dot, now you’ve got the cootie shot!” they are a nice kid and you’ll be safe from cooties for at least a day. If they say Circle, circle, square, square, now you have it everywhere!” they are a bad kid and they just gave you extra cooties just to be mean. You should find someone else to give you a shot quick or you might give them to everybody.

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The Cramper (1960)
Director: Jonathan Fort
Producer: Jonathan Fort
Writer: Jonathan Fort
Cast:
Jonathan Fort
Samantha Fort
Wilmer McField
Stacey Pinchot
Music: Jonathan Fort & Marcus Geraldstein
Editing: Jonathan Fort
Distributor: Liberty Pictures

One of the most dire of the gimmicky no-budget monster movies to wash up in the early 1960s. The Cramper, like many, sought to turn its liabilities of a low budget, no bankable stars, and a Poverty Row studio into strengths. It posited that the numbness of cramps is actually the first stage of possession and eventual consumption by an insidious “cramper” parasite. The apparent hope was that crowded grindhouses with uncomfortable seats would provide the needed cramping among audience members, but as a gimmick it is surely one of the most lame ever attempted.

There are unconfirmed reports that the director Jonathan Fort, wearing more caps than a hat rack for the production, hoped to slip a cheap cramping agent like cytorinabarmuphate into concession stands at theaters showing the movie, but being made the bottom half of a double feature with Goat Women of Venus put an end to that ambition. Fort, a longtime production assistant, quickly returned to that role after the movie underperformed (box office estimates for the opening week hover near $100 to $150 dollars).

The only noteworthy trivia about the film (other than its legendary camp value and the fact that 6 out of the 10 names on the marquee are the same, rising to 7 if you include Mrs. Jonathan Fort, the female lead) is the participation of Golden Age Hollywood composer Marcus Geraldstein. Having been blacklisted not long after his Hollywood debut, Geraldstein was a few years away from his first Oscar nomination and no doubt needed Fort’s meager paycheck to keep the lights on at home.

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In the town of Down there was a longstanding tradition
The catching of a goose was a young man’s mission

With goose in hand
And holdings in land

A young man became a man
And marriage could be his plan

They gathered in Down on the first day of fall
Fat boys, skinny boys, greedy boys, all

When the starting gun fired
They chased what they desired

But in the goose-flock down by the gap
The wily birds avoided their traps

Except for one bright young lad
Who got what geese were to be had

Returning to town
All laden with down

The others asked how he had done it
“My bicycle, lads, was all of my kit

I haven’t oiled it in weeks
And surely you know

If you’ve gone with the flow
That the squeaky wheel gets the geese

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Walt moved to close his sock drawer, bringing it flush with the others and restoring his meticlously organized room to harmony.

“No,” he whispered, gripping the knob. “No, dammit, no. I’m tired of this–tired of the cleaning, the handwashing, the rituals. If I can leave this drawer open all day, it’s the first step toward getting my OCD under control.”

Wrenching his trembling fingers off of the knob, Walk staggered downstairs and, by sheer force of will, finished getting ready. He had to stare at the front door for nearly ten minutes before getting it open, and the drive to the office would have been impossible if he didn’t have the route deeply engrained in his muscle memory.

Walt’s day was agony. The open sock drawer mocked him, taunted him, gnawing at the edge of his consciousness until everything else was hammered away. Beginning as a pebble in his shoe, the feeling soon metamorphosed into an unscratchable insect bite; by clocking out time, Walt was seeing unopened drawers everywhere. It was a seed of chaos, disrupting his whole life.

“It’s time to end this,” he sighed.

Getting into his 2007 drawer, Walt drove down the drawerway, stopped at the drawer light, and waited impatiently for the drawer gates to open at his apartment complex. Taking the drawers two at a time as he ran up to the second floor, Walt practically kicked down the drawer.

His room was just as he had left it, complete with the abomination hanging, unclosed. Making a mockery of him, and everything he stood for.

“I should have done this ages ago.” Walt reached up, took the handles…

…and yanked the drawer out of his dresser. With a grunt, he brained it against the wall, smashing it in an explosion of socks and pressboard.

“That’s what you get,” he panted heavily. “Stupid drawer, ruining my whole day.”

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“And this,” said the CEO, “is Cuthbert, our secret weapon here at Harrison Omni Products.”

“What’s that?” said Cuthbert, putting a hand to his ear. “Fur-covered heating ducts?”

“Write that one down,” the CEO snapped to his toady. “Animal-patterned covers for heating and cooling ducts. It’s genius, we’ll sell a million of ’em.”

“…really?” said Helmquist. “Really? Your secret is a deaf guy?”

“Not deaf,” snapped the CEO. “Just hard of hearing. Depending on the acoustics and how you talk he can hear fine. But it’s when what you say is just out of his hearing range that he mishears things in spectacularly creative–and profitable–ways.”

“You have got to be kidding me.”

“Huh? A pot of kitty litter?” said Cuthbert. “Talk a little louder, I can’t quite hear you.”

“Write that down,” the CEO said again.

“What possible profit could be had from a pot of kitty litter?” cried Helmquist.

“Don’t knock any of Cuthbert’s ideas,” said the CEO brightly. “Not a single one, no matter how farfetched. When we were going out for movie night, he misheard ‘Clint Eastwood’ as ‘penis whistle.’ That little gem of an idea has cornered the market on gag gifts for bachelorette parties.”

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“Only minds and the contents of minds truly exist–or rather, they are the only things we, as minds ourselves, can assume to exist,” said Beulah.

“Yes, yes, I know all about Berkeleian idealism,” Mayra said. “I’ve read Tlön, Uqbar, Orbis Tertius, even if I’m not sure how to pronounce it.”

“Use a longer ‘O’ sound for the ‘ö,'” said Beulah, still leading Mayra through the elaborate IDC security checks. “But you’ve got the right idea: anything that enough people think of becomes real.”

“Regardless, you still haven’t told me what the Idealism Control Bureau does.” The IDC agents handed Mayra her bag, thoroughly inspected, and she followed Beulah beneath a sign that said RECEIVING.

“The IDC is in charge of cleaning up the mess that happens when too many people have an idiotic idea. And, despite what you would imagine, it happens just as often to smart people as idiots.” Beulah gave Mayra an airy look. “Sometimes more often in point of fact.”

“And what exactly, does that entail?” asked Mayra, a bit sick of Beulah’s constant, if low-key, insults.

“Perhaps it’s easier to just show you.” Beulah opened a door and led Mayra into what looked like a pen for small animals with a fenced-in observation area. “These were brought in this morning, from a Metromart in Virginia.”

“What the-” Mayra began, before taking a closer look. “Ugh! How hideous!”

Several large brown cubes, brown and furred, lay across the floor on a bedding of loose straw. About a foot square, they appeared to be some kind of avant-garde taxidermy until one rolled over to reveal four stubby paws and a mewling feline face. One side of each cube was hollow, with a circular opening leading into an internal cavity with a leathery texture.

“What the hell are those?”

“They are the result of pedants obsessed with punctuation and style coming across a poorly-kerned product label in the Metromart pet section,” chuckled Beulah. “For an ‘imitation leather cat ottoman.'”

“So…those are leather cat ottomans?” said Mayra.

“Hardly. They’re imitations, as I said.”

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Pants in parking lot
Feared for what they might have seen
Forever unclaimed

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First place contestants will receive free will call front row seat tickets to one of this weekend’s events being held at Southern Michigan University’s James Newell Osterberg, Jr. Center for the Performing Arts. On Saturday, the Hopewell Philharmonic will present its annual “Atonal Days” concert, with a program of aleatoric music, musique concrète, and an innovative sonic feedback loop performance of John Cage’s 4’33”; earplugs will be sold at the door. On Sunday, the nation’s largest left-leaning publicly funded broadcaster, National Socialist Radio, will bring its acclaimed “Haughty Revue” program to SMU: a full hour of highly educated people drunk on their own sense of self-worth will follow.

Second place contestants will receive a $100 gift certificate to the Rocky Mountain Oyster Factory. Whether you like them braised or barbecued, sauteed or steamed, Rocky Mountain Oyster Factory will fix you a heaping plate of your favorites. Don’t forget a side lamb fries and a fresh-sqeezed glass of bull juice!

Third place contestants will receive a $25 gift card to Stubb’s Coffee, good at all locations in town except the one in the SMU student union (which, despite Stubb’s staffers, branding, and coffee products is not a “real” Stubb’s).

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“You know I am not Japanese, yes?” Zhang Wei had said in his interview with The Sushi Bowl, the sashimi place in the student union.

“We’re not allowed to hire based on students’ ethnic backgrounds,” the interviewer had assured him. “Plus, there aren’t enough Japanese students on campus even if we did.

So Wei found himself working the lunch rush behind The Sushi Bowl’s counter with three other students from China, smiling and nodding politely whenever he was complimented on “his” cuisine (in reality trucked in fresh from a distributor three times a day). It didn’t do wonders for Wei’s unease; in addition to facing challenges with his grasp of English every day, he was feeling very uneasy at being in an engineering class with no American students, and being one of sixteen Zhang Weis in the program (it being the mainland Chinese equivalent of “John Smith”).

He wasn’t sure if, as his grandmother had warned him, he was catching “American narcissism” like it was a disease, or if his feelings were a natural reaction to the routine absurdities that confronted him every day.

All he knew was that something had to change, or something was going to give.

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“Gentlemen, I give you Ruins & Rogues, 1st edition,” said Matt. “The Old Testament. Fire and brimstone. Death around every corner.” With a flourish, he opened his bag and took put a stack of books with brightly colored if crudely drawn covers.

“Wow, is that a 1st edition Adventurer’s Guidebook?” cried Chris.

“With the rare first printing inclusion of copyrighted characters from the Tolkien estate,” Matt said proudly. “Bought them at an estate sale on Dounton Street East.”

“What’s this?” Jeff, the third member of Matt’s erstwhile Ruins & Rogues group took up a sheaf of papers between the Ruins & Rogues Creature Compendium and the Ruins & Rogues Interverse Manual.

“Oh, it’s the campaign that whoever owned this stuff before was playing,” Matt said. “It’s MS3TK-worthy, you’ve got to see this.”

“Got to see this is right,” Chris chortled, taking up a character sheet with a 1984 date. “Drake Midnight: level five barbarian of Clan War Bear. Nineteen strength, nineteen agility, four intelligence.” He held up a crude illustration of a Viking in a horny helmet wielding two axes bug enough for their own Congressmen. “Look, it’s straight out of Napoleon Dynamite’s sketchbook. Hope those straps are velcro. Hilarious!”

“Hilarious is this map right here,” countered Jeff. “Titcave Mound, home of the Priestesses of Lost Memory. Or is that lost mammary? Look at these booby statues they drew!”

“It’s a wonder they got in there at all considering their healer was Chastity Witchmourner,” Matt added. “Her character sheet includes her measurements and a nice little doodle of what I can only assume is a 12-year-old smuggling beach balls. Looks like the player–one ‘Steve’–was pretty into it. I hope this stain is from the fried chicken they were eating!”

All three had a good laugh before settling down to the business of filling out their new character sheets, with Mat promising that the old campaign would be incorporated into their new one for kicks and giggles. Before the playing got started in earnest, though, Matt excused himself to fetch more snacks.

The basement door opened onto a vast and red-skied vista illuminating a temple carved into the living rock of the mountainside with impossibly busty caryatids supporting it. A flamingly redheaded woman of similar proportions, and wearing what must have been about three cubic inches of chainmail, was rushing toward him.

“Drake had gone berserk with War Bear battle lust!” she cried. “You must help me!”

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