August 23, 2012

From “The Three Sci-fi/Horror Plagues of SMU” by Manual Kass

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As a non-teenager living in a college town and working at a university, I live in kind of a weird anti-reality bubble. Bizarre trends often get this far and no further, freshmen (and seniors) wander about helpless as neonates, and annoyances pile turtle-stack high for anyone who has a limited appetite for bullshit.

We employees maintain our sanity by viciously kvetching about the kids, agreeing that the whole system would be much better off without them (but please continue paying tuition anyway okay thanks bye). That’ll do for some people, but to maintain my own personal sanity in the face of overwhelming teenagers, I prefer to describe things in theremin tones. Evoking the sci-fi/horror gods of old is way more entertaining than just saying that kids are stupid even though the latter is so true that I think it’s rrisen to the level of fundamental natural force (Strong, Weak, Electronagnetic, Gravitation, and Stupid Teenagers).

So when the trend requiring everyone with more than one X chromosome to wear Ugg-brand boots, even in 104° heat, I didn’t just complain about adolescent sheepmindedness. Rather, I deplored the recent invasion of the Anklions from Sororité Prime who were sucking blood from the evolutionarily vulnerable ankle region. Said blood loss also explained most mid-semester test scores from those so parasitized.

The askance ballcaps and part-popped polo protrusions that still form the unofficial uniform for rampant and unchecked male douchebaggery among SMU’s rank and file? It’s actually a first-stage symptom of a degenerative motor-neuron condition: first coordination goes, then color vision, then human empathy. In latter stages the condition leads to host death through douchbaggery, usually through alcohol poisoning or raging STDs, after which the unfortunate will rise from the grave as a zombie and reserve their former station (assuming anyone even notices). Far more merciful to put ’em down semi-painlessly with metaphorical 00 buckshot when the first symptoms appear, right?

I’m still of two minds on the recent trend of wearing things that are not true clothing as true and major clothing: tights, sweat pants, pajamas, wifebeaters, swimsuits, bras, tracksuits, scarves, shawls, and dozens of their quasi-clothing brethren. On the one hand, it could be a manifestation of a neural parasite from a warm planet. On the other, it could be a warning sign of an emergent human subspecies, homo sapiens inappropriatus.

I guess it could also be parasites infecting a new subspecies, but that’s just going too far.

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August 22, 2012

From “A Maddening Scent of Butter” by Lucretia Bauder

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There it was again, heavy in the air. Butter.

He’d smelled it driving onto campus but dismissed it as a trick of the A/C. But now it was everywhere, permeating the outside air and even sneaking in through the various buildings’ ventilation systems and cracked window seals.

Butter.

Maddeningly, no one else seemed to notice. No one else seemed to care. Maybe it was the new diet, making him super-sensitive to wafts of cooking oil from the student union.

Butter.

He had to seek it out. the smell grew stronger toward the central part of campus: maddening, overwhelming. He rounded a corner into the quad and was confronted with a wall of buttery odor stronger than ever before.

And a sign: 1st annual SMU Student Pancake Cookoff.

“Oh,” he said. “That explains it.”

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August 21, 2012

From “HermeticTV Unsealed” by Andrea Gurbatski

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Kimmy narrowed her eyes when she came into the foyer: Celeste was already there, talking with Jerrod.

As she’d routinely confessed into the HermeticTV TruthCam (a requirement before dinner slid through the automated kitchen chute), Celeste was a manipulative, backstabbing bitch who only wanted Jerrod for the edge he’d give her during the final vote. Kimmy had said as much to everyone who would listen, and played up the wounds she’d received in their brief slap fight to garner sympathy.

“I see we’re all arriving in the order we’ll place,” Celeste cooed.

“She was here first,” Jerrod added. His gorgeous face was pretty much the only functional thing above the neck, Kimmy had to admit.

The others rolled their eyes and muttered, from nerdy Troy who barely had any definition on his six-pack and scored double 600s on his SAT to homely Mari who barely had a C cup. Kimmy was fairly certain she knew how the ten of them would rank once the national HermeticTV call-in poll was completes at the end of the season.

Celeste gestured at the large digital time clock on the wall, which was counting down to the automatic release of the HermeticTV seal that had cut them off from all contact with the outside world since taping began. “Anyone want to say a few words?” Kimmy noticed, with disgust, that Celeste was looking not at any of the others but rather the camera hidden in the ceiling.

When no one spoke up, Celeste continued: “I just want you all to know that, no matter how the vote turns out, I’ll treasure our time together. It’s been the greatest learning experience of my life. I-”

Kimmy interrupted the speech with a staged fit of coughing; by the time she was done the clock was too close to the end for a lengthy speech. Celeste shot her rival a poisonous look while Kimmy smiled smugly.

The timer lock clicked down its last few seconds and sprang open. The door, in all its theatrical thickness with unnecessary sprays of CO2 hissing from vents at the side, swung open.

There was no HermeticTV camera crew.

There was no HermeticTV host.

The HermeticTV support vehicles around the site were blasted wrecks that had been picked clean by scavengers and the sky was rent with angry red clouds.

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August 20, 2012

From “The Custodial Arts” by Leighna D. Mihaly

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“So why do you want a PhD is Custodial Arts?”

Earl clutched his mop-bucket tightly. “I love to clean,” he said. “I do it really well. And I want to do it better.”

Dr. Scrubb shook his head. “Earl, Earl, Earl. A Custodial Arts degree isn’t about cleaning any more than an English degree is about reading books. It’s about what’s beyond the cleaning. What informs it and binds it to the greater sanitary discourse and the world.”

“Shouldn’t it be enough that I love cleaning and I want to to it better?” said Earl.

“It’s a start, but what about custodial theory?” Dr. Scrubb gestured to a full bookshelf. “Your committee will expect you to have a grasp of Freudian custodiology. Sometimes a broom’s not just a broom, and don’t get me started on anal and oral fixation. And what about the Marxist theory of deconstructive custodial analysis? In cleaning up after people, are we committing a revolutionary act, or are we enabling a hollow, materialistic, late capitalist society teeter toward its ultimate collapse?”

“Do you really need all that to clean?” Earl asked.

“Of course not. But to understand cleaning, and the effect your cleaning has on the world, you need a solid basis in theory.”

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August 19, 2012

From “Hit by the Book Club” by May J. Schneidermann

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Clarence continued to read the text:

“Look, I know it seems a little odd,” said the Grimoire. “Why trust a book, after all?”

“That’s not what I’m worried about,” said Clarence. “I’m more worried about this book pulling a Neverending Story on me and changing to reflect what I’m thinking or saying.”

“No shit,” Clarence muttered. But he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the page.

“How do you expect a book to speak with you?” the Grimoire cried. “How else but through the text? It’s not like a book has a mouth or vocal cords. And yes, I know in the context of the book you’re reading I’ve got lines and quote marks just like something with lips would. But that’s just for your sake. It may be confusing but just run with it.”

“All right,” said Clarence. “And my thoughts are apparently my dialogue, since even though I have lips I’m definitely not flapping them.”

“More or less,” said the Grimoire. “They’re edited a bit for coherence and to remove the occasional intrusive thought like fantasies about that girl in high school you never had the courage to ask out or even talk to.”

Clarence reddened. “Sheesh,” he mouthed.

“What do you want from me?” Clarence said.

“Oh, it’s simple,” said the Grimoire. “On the last page of me there’s an inscription. I need you to take me to the Pillars of Vladizapad and read them aloud in a commanding voice.”

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August 17, 2012

From “The Caverns of Ice” by Bailey A. Cairns

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Anderton Schultz had worked his way up in the entertainment industry the old-fashioned way: through hard work and dedicated, scene-stealing supporting performances. Schultz wasn’t a vain man, but there was a measure of deep satisfaction in dropping a mention of his Oscar nomination into conversation with people who’d insisted he was too short or too homely for a successful career in pictures. It had been gratifying, working his way up from “what’s his name” to “that guy” to “that guy from Summers With Charles” “Hey, it’s Andy Schultz!”

Being recognized on the street at least some of the time had its perks, to be sure.

But there was always that guy, that one guy, who’d bring a copy of the 1990 remake of The Lizard Men for Schultz to sign.

It was a trashy movie; he’d spent the entire thing under a mound of Rick Baker latex prostheses. But it had a cult following, as did the campy 1969 original. No matter how many Oscar nominations there were, there’d always be his latex-smeared face leering from a DVD cover and fans snarling his character’s most “memorable” line at him:

“Cast the warm-bloods into the Caverns of Ice!”

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August 15, 2012

From “Lack of Context” by Clarissa Joyce Akemi

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“Even though we Americans didn’t have a working hydrogen bomb at that point,” I said, “we were working on it.”

“I know,” said Nikita Sergeyevich Khrushchev. “I was there, remember?”

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August 9, 2012

From “Euphemisms on Parade” by Bonny Mae Icalto

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“Okay, you’ve got your height?” Clarissa said.

“Five foot one.” Linda said from the doorway where the ruler was still balanced

“We’ll put five three,” Clarissa said. “Heels count.”

“Are you sure about that?” Linda approached the laptop, concerned.

“It’s internet dating,” said Clarissa. “Everyone expects you to lie a little.”

“If you say so.”

“And I do. Right. Body type is next.”

“Can I just put my BMI?” Linda said. “It’s 27.2. They made me calculate it in health class a few weeks ago.”

Clarissa squinted at the screen. “No, you have to choose a descriptor from a drop-down menu. Take a look.”

They both leaned in to read the list of approved terms:

Thin
Athletic
Average
A Little Extra
Ample
BBW
Big Boned
Buxom
Cuddly
Curvy
Fluffy
Full Figured
Generously Proportioned
Healthfully Big
Husky
More Of Me To Love
Natural Body Type
Nontraditional
Plentiful
Plus Sized
Plush
Prime Figure
Rotund
Rubenesque
Stocky
Ultra Feminine
Upper BMI
Venus of Willendorf
Voluptuous
Well Built
Zaftig
Overweight
Obese

“Umm…” Linda said. “Did that seem a little…?”

“Yeah,” Clarissa said. “Yeah. You want some carrot sticks? I have some in the fridge.”

“I’ll be in the bathroom for a minute and I’ll meet you there. Don’t forget the prune juice.”

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July 29, 2012

From “The Bad Cooking Archive Annex” by Abigail N. Luca

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Though much of the collection was off-limits to anyone without the proper credentials, the Kochenarchiv did have a large annex with research assistants, photocopiers, scanners, and access to less-important portions of the collection.

Ramsey was particularly interested in one of the sub-units, the Ungenießbar collection, which served as a documentary record of the worst cooking of all time. Most people knew about entries like the legendary Concrete Cakes of Zurich, the 1000 Screaming Demon Death Fugu of Kagoshima, and of course the Six Day Colon War Latkes of Kibbutz Shlomi. But Ramsey uncovered further events in the Archiv that had been officially suppressed for years and were only now opening to scholars.

The so-called Doom Salad of Vancouver, for instance, was apparently able to spontaneously generate salmonella bacteria even in a sterile environment. 50 people had been sickened by it in 1981, so many that the Canadians had feared a biological weapons attack. Ironically, the cook, one Esther Grumaüt, had later been recruited by the Intelligence Branch to study the weaponization of her food as an area-denial weapon during the Cold War, an effort only abandoned when Ottawa signed the Convention Against the Use of Noxious Foodstuffs in War in 1990.

Ramsey was most interested in the case of Suzanne Mayotte, though. It was a case cross-referenced with the Zaubereiarchiv in Munich but one for which many of the incidental details had been censored. A call to the Zaubereiarchiv confirmed that no records like the ones the Mayotte file cited existed (at least not that they were willing to admit). An Australian, Mayotte had apparently inherited a knack for sorcery and cantrips from a distant ancestor who had been sentenced to penal transport for buying goods with unstable faeriegald.

During a study abroad in East Germany circa 1985, Mayotte had been cut off from the extended family and network of restaurants which had thus far sustained her. Forced to cook for herself using the ingredients her communist hosts made available, her knack had resulted in unpredictable “wild magick” effects. One batch of pasta taken to a potluck resulted in 13 hospitalizations for acute newt-related injuries. An apple strudel caused a fellow stident’s eyes to be opened to the infinity of the cosmos. One particularly nasty loaf of bread transubstantiated everything in a 500-yard radius.

 

July 27, 2012

From “Korean Golf” by Tyron F. R. Spencer

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“You said it’s a par 3? That’s more miniature golf than anything, Torres, no matter what Sports Illustrated says.”

Torres lined up his putter. “Is your short game really that bad? It’s not all about whacking things with a wood, Norton.”

“That’s what she said,” giggled Bowman. Torres rolled his eyes and tapped the ball. It came to rest about a yard from the hole.

Norton lined up his shot using his putter as a kind of yardstick. “As if you’d ever know what a woman said. I think the longest conversation you’ve ever had with a double-X is her saying ‘no.'” His ball wound up much closer than Torres’, about three feet from the hole.

“Not true,” Torres said. “Sometimes they say ‘no way.’ By Norton’s standards that’s a regular lecture.” He tapped his ball, which overshot the hole and caught a minor downward slope, rolling into the rough. He swore effusively and moved to retrieve it.

“Uh-uh!” Norton cried. “You read the sign, you know the rules. No getting balls back from the rough. You’re out.”

“But it’s like two inches into the rough!” Torres cried. “I could hook it with my putter…”

“No. You’re out, Torres. Better luck next time.” Bowman cocked his head. “And that is also what she said.”

Norton, grinning, moved to sink his ball at two under par. In his haste, though, he wound up getting it at a really bad angle; the ball clipped up and arced over the green, deep into the rough.

“Ohh, look at that!” Torres crowed. “Norton chokes!”

Norton’s ball came to rest yards and yards away from the green. There was a nearly inaudible click, and a roar as a cloud of dirt and smoke was thrown up by an exploding anti-personnel mine. All three men flinched.

“Well, I guess I win by default!” said Bowman. “Come on, let’s get something to eat in the canteen. My treat.”

As they left the hole, they passed a large wooden sign set up nearby:
JOINT SECURITY AREA PANMUNJOM
The World’s Most Dangerous Golf Course
As featured in Sports Illustrated
Par 3/192 yds.
Danger! Do not retrieve balls from the rough: live mine fields!

 

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