Monthly Archives: September 2010

The Groovy 1970s Story of Grooviness (story #70)

All right!  So, here we are, writing the story totally on time now that we’ve changed the rules and made story day Thursday instead of Thursday (you old school club members will know what that means, everyone else will have to sit in the corner and cry hey ho.  Okay, well, at least I can translate, I suppose; for those of you who haven’t figured it out, story day is not “Monday” anymore, it is “Tuesday.”  Which, in the SotWC vernacular means “Thursday.”  Whenever we get around to archiving old stories, you’ll get it once you read “Rotten Apple-Core Day (story #2)”.  Until then, go ahead and make with the “hey ho”-ing.).

In case you are wondering, yes, I am extremely proud of the fact that the last paragraph almost entirely parenthetical.

I’m feeling nostalgic tonight.  Let’s see how that works out.


Once upon a time, everyone wore bell-bottoms and said things like “keep on truckin'” and probably did lots of pot (I wouldn’t know) and thought paisleys were “like, wow, man,” and Nehru was good to make clothes out of and super-straight hair parted in the middle was attractive and vests with turtlenecks weren’t gay (they probably still were) and dances were named things like “the hustle” and folk music was popular and everybody had a peaceful easy feeling and they knew you wouldn’t let them down.  It was all very groovy.

Unto this came Conan, destined wear the crown of Aquilonia upon a troubled brow.

“Hey, groovy hair,” said a rat-faced little high school kid wearing orange pants with a green turtleneck as Conan stepped out of a space-time vortex left over from an old episode of “Star Trek.”

“What the crap does ‘groovy’ mean?” asked Conan, who sounded nothing like Arnold Schwarzenegger, and was really quite articulate.

“Whoa, man,” said the rat-faced boy, “what’s with all the hostility?  Mellow out, jive turkey.”

“I don’t understand you,” said Conan, “and I am in no mood for jesting.  I was just in a hut in the deserts of Cimmeria and the witch who promised to give me the Scepter of Shazzarra waved her hands, cursing me with the ability to see the future.”

“Far out,” said Rat-face.  “That is weird-city, man.”

“Where have I been sent?” Conan asked, looking about at the strange buildings and cars and stuff.

“This is Detroit,” Rat-face said.  “Detroit Rock City, man!”

“You speak in riddles,” said Conan.

“What, you’re not hip to KISS, man?  What are you, some kind of weiner?”

Thinking the boy was propositioning him, Conan punched Rat-face in the nose and knocked him unconscious.  A very pretty blonde girl with feathered hair and a tiny gold headband just happened to be walking by and saw Conan punch the boy.  “Like, wow, man,” she said, “that was way un-groovy of you!  Catch my drift?”

“He wanted to kiss me,” said Conan.

“No fake?” said the girl, whose name was Britney.  “Well, that’s totally different.  What a spaz; he totally deserved it.”

“Can you tell me where I am?” said Conan.

“Yeah, brother, this is Detroit, Michigan, and we’re on Maple Avenue.  They have those in every state, you know.”

“What is a state?” asked Conan.

“Oh, like, wow, you are totally out of it, aren’t you?” said Britney.

“I think I need to sit down,” said Conan.

“They got a bench over by the 7-11,” Britney said.  “I was just on my way over there anyway.  They got superhero cups for the Slurpees right now and I wanna pick up a Wonder Woman.”

“Sure,” said Conan, “maybe I will find some answers to this mystery at this seven and eleven.”

“Right on,” said Britney and took him by the hand.  Two blocks later, they were outside of 7-11 and Britney was on the verge of tears.  “The Riddler?” she wailed.  “All they got is the Riddler?  Who cares about the stupid Riddler?  He’s not even a superhero, he’s a bad guy!”

“I understand none of this,” said Conan.

Just then another girl with feathered hair walked by.  Her name was Kris and she was wearing really tight jeans with a striped long-sleeved shirt.  Her hair was so dark it was almost black, and it had blue highlights like in a comic book.  “Aw, gee, Britney,” she said playfully, “were you hoping to get Wonder Woman?  I totally got the last one.”  And with that she brought the plastic Slurpee cup to her mouth, put the blue straw between her lips and drank her Coca-Cola Slurpee coyly, with a hint of mischief in her eyes.

“Outta sight!” said Britney.  “Can I have it when you’re done with the Slurpee?”

“No way, Jose!” said Kris.  “I’m keeping this cup for ever and ever and ever.”

“Sit on it!” screamed Britney.  “You knew I wanted that cup; you got it just to spite me!  You don’t even like Wonder Woman!”

“Maybe I do and maybe I don’t,” said Kris, “but that’s for me to know and you to find out!”

“Up your nose with a rubber hose!” Britney yelled, turning to Conan and burying her face against his bare chest, weeping openly like a little baby.

Kris laughed and said, “well, I gotta boogie.  Check ya later, Britney.”  With that she turned and walked away, making sure to swing her hips a lot.

“What is this madness?”  Conan asked.

“Hey, is that a sword?” Britney asked, looking at the humongous blade at Conan’s side.

“I go nowhere without my blade,” Conan responded.

“Dyn-o-mite!” said Britney.  “Look, could you do me a solid?  If you go flash that thing and tell Kris to give me that Slurpee cup, she’d totally give it up.”

Conan thought a moment and finally said, “perhaps this is the quest I was sent here to fulfill.  I go.  Then perhaps you can help me get back to my own place and time.”

“Yeah, right on,” said Britney, not having any idea what he was talking about.

So, Conan followed where Kris had gone and caught up with her a few blocks away.  Drawing his sword, he shouted, “unhand the magical Wonder Cup of Slur-pee, foul witch!”

Kris turned around and looked at him with wide eyes.  After a moment, she stepped closer to Conan.  “Why would I do that, Cimmerian?” she said, her hair blowing in a sudden breeze, “when I have traveled so far just to find you and bring you back home?”

"The Wonder Woman Slurpee cup began to glow" Art by Maria Gullickson

Conan was dumbfounded.  Britney, who was standing not too far away was even more dumbfounded.  In Kris’s hands, the Slurpee cup began to glow.  Wisps of smoke emanated from it and formed a small tornado around Conan and Kris, who was, of course, a sorceress from the Hyborian age in disguise.

“Hey!” Britney yelled, ” what about my Wonder Woman cup?”

“Sorry, young whiny girl,” Conan shouted over the growing wind.  “It is my only way home!”

Britney stamped her foot.  “You nerd!” she screamed as the smoke grew thick and the wind grew deafening and the barbarian and the sorceress disappeared from view.

As the world faded away around them, Conan looked at the sorceress and asked, “what do we do when we get back?”

The sorceress looked up at him with mischief in her eyes.  “Well,” she said coyly, “I’m totally hip to kiss.”

“Groovy,” said Conan.


Hee hee hee.  That was fun.  For those of you who remember the 70s, I hope it brought back some memories for you.  For those of you who weren’t even born in the 70s, that’s exactly what it was like.  Honest.

See you in seven,

the SotWC


Posted by on September 28, 2010 in Fantasy, History


The Story of the Flaky Boy Who Loved Everyone (story #69)

Well, heelo, dear readers.  Hm, another amusing typo.  Sure, I’ll let it slide.  Heelo, indeed.  So, it’s a pretty busy week here at the club.  We’re actually supposed to be working right now – working from home today and tomorrow writing music for work.  Pretty cool.  But I love my dear readers enough to totally flake for an hour or so on work and write you a story.  I am two days late already, after all.  Talk about flaky.


Once there was a boy named Krapotney.  Krapotney was six years old, and he had been raised in an orphanage in Uzbekistan since he was two.  He was actually from Milwaukee, but his parents had been on vacation in the former Soviet Union when they had a horrible shoe accident and had to leave him in the orphanage lest he see their hideously disfigured feet (they were very vain parents).  Krapotney fit right in at the orphanage, mostly because of is name.  Weird coincidence, that.

So, by the age of six, Krapotney had grown to accept that his parents were not coming back.  He had gotten over his initial fear and anger and forgiven his parents.  He decided to love them even though they abandoned him for their hopeless vanity.  In fact, he decided to love everybody in the world.  This pleased the nuns who ran the orphanage (do they even have nuns in Russia?  Heck if I know, but they do in this story) because they were used to all the children grumbling about the cold weather and terrible food.  The orphanage was on a mountain, I may have forgotten to mention that, and it was bitterly cold year round and they only got supplies like food and kittens every two or three months.  So, eating things like dirt soup, and snow, and dirt soup with snow in it, and rocks, and rock soup with dirt in it was pretty common there.  Also, the orphanage was named Crap Palace for Loser Children, which didn’t help anyone’s attitude.

So, anyway, Krapotney decided to love everyone and it was like a bright ray of niceness in the cold, drab little world of the orphanage.  He would walk down the mossy, seeping stone hallways with a big friendly grin on his face, calling a happy greeting to everyone he passed.  “Heelo!” he would say in his totally authentic Russian accent, “I am so pleased to be seeing you today!”  Most of the other children would just look at him as though he was crazy (and the Superman cape he dressed in every day did nothing to counter the notion), but the nuns would all smile and say something in Russian that he didn’t understand because he only spoke English despite having been in the orphanage where everyone spoke Russian ever since he could remember.  No one could figure it out.  “Weird,” they would all say (you know, in Russian.)

One afternoon, as Krapotney was having a jolly stroll around the grounds (which consisted of a fenced in area that overlooked a massive thousand-foot-deep ravine where one whole corner of the fence had fallen away a decade before and no one had bothered to fix it), a boy named Saladshooter walked up to Krapotney and punched him in the nose.

“Why for did you hurt me and make the bleedings come?” Krapotney asked after he had gotten over his shock at this unprovoked attack.

“Because you’re so freakin’ happy all the time,” said Saladshooter, who had spent a year and a half learning English just so he could have this encounter with Krapotney, “and the rest of us are miserable and it’s not fair.”

“Oh okay,” said Krapotney, smiling.  “This is good reason.”  So, Saladshooter punched him again.

One of the nuns came over and scolded Saladshooter.  “Something in Russian!” she said forcefully, wagging a finger in his face.  He shuffled his feet and looked contrite.  And then he punched the nun in the nose.

"I love youuuuu..." Art by Deron Decesare

In a fit of bewilderment, she threw him off the side of the mountain through the break in the fence.  As he sailed down down down to his probably much deserved demise, Krapotney called after him, “I love you!”

The following Thursday, the whole orphanage had a memorial service for Saladshooter.  As Orpheus the cat sang a Verdi requiem, everyone came forward to share a memory of the young boy who perished at the hands of a very confused nun.  Pretty much all anyone said was, “да, это парень рывком.”

In the middle of the funeral, a nice-looking couple walked up.  “Heelo,” they said to one of the nuns.  “We are Mr. and Mrs. Krapotney’s Parents.  We got wealthy and had miraculous foot surgery and now we’ve come to pick up our child.”

The nun looked at them strangely.  “What do you think this is, a pawn shop?” she said (she’d been taking internet English courses).

“Uh…” said Krapotney’s parents.  Just then, up walked Krapotney himself.

“Who these people are being?” he asked the nun.

“Krapotney,” she replied, “these are your very irresponsible parents.”

“We want to take you home, son,” said his parents.

“Okay,” said Krapotney, “but first I must to speak at podium about this big bully who punched me in the face like ride at water park.  You made me to wait for four years, I make you to wait four minutes, yes?”

“Oh, all right,” said his parents, looking down at their feet (they did this a lot).

So Krapotney walked up to the podium and cleared his throat. “Ahem,” he cleared.  “So, this bully is punching me in my noses, but I am loving him anyway because that is my thing, man.  But last night, I am realizing he was really just big jerk.”

“Yeah, that’s what we all said,” said everyone in Russian.

“So, I am wondering why for should I do to continue with loving this bully, when he is being such a jerk before he is dying with the falling?” asked Krapotney pensively.  Everyone waited to see what he would say.

“Well?” his father finally called from the back of the crowd of shaky, miserable little Russian kids.  “What did you decide?”

Krapotney looked at everyone and smiled that big, happy smile of his.  “Oh, I decide nothing,” he said finally.  “I fall asleep thinking about unicorns instead.  Goodbye.”

“Man,” said Krapotney’s mom, “that kid is flaky.”


Okay, now back to work with all the music-writing.  Hope everyone is having a good week.  And, if things aren’t particularly going your way, well just be glad you don’t live in a place called Crap Palace for Loser Children.

The Story of the Week Club; we’re all about perspective here.

See you next week,

the SotWC


Posted by on September 22, 2010 in Uncategorized



…a story!  I swear!  Just not tonight, because it’s really late and I’m tired.


the SotWC

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Posted by on September 20, 2010 in Announcements


The Strange Invention and the Space Ship (story #68)

Hey, look!  I got a new keyboard!  Hooray for friends who are moving (not far, thankfully) and don’t mind giving away extra stuff!Out of gratitude, this week’s story is dedicated to Kevin Yong, who loves Godzilla and really bad sci-fi movies and Mystery Science Theater 3000.  Will these things inform my writing of this week’s story?  Heck, it’s anybody’s guess, but I’m gonna bet myself five bucks that the answer is “yes.”


"Once there was a b-movie actor named Bruce..." Art by Eric Jansen

Once there was a b-movie actor named Bruce who fought all sorts of crazy creatures.  But I’m getting ahead of the story.  Like all crappy science fiction stories, I must try to explain through useless and illogical pseudo-science how we arrive at the alternate universe of our story.  If you can read the following out loud as though it is a movie voice over, that will achieve the proper effect.  If you read it in the bathroom so your voice has reverberation, all the better.

Shortly after the turn of the century (2015, to be infuriatingly exact in such a way that will render the story pointless in just a few short years, barring a completely ludicrous suspension of disbelief),  a scientist invented something.  This thing was really cool and scientific, but fell into the wrong hands and was merchandised relentlessly.  The product was called Uberflotsam.  Of course, a rival company started to market Uberjetsam and everything went downhill from there.  People began to fight about which product was better, even though nobody was quite sure what they did.  Ultimately, a billionaire named Evel McNastypants came out with a product called Uberdebris which supposedly had all the best characteristics of the other two products, but also employed a devilishly clever use of moon rocks in its quartzite vibraphone motor.  The need for moon rocks, however, made the product wildly expensive, not to mention subject to the whims of NASA which, in the future will obviously be run by private corporations comprised entirely of monkeys.  These monkeys were in no way related to the infamous Revolutionary War Era Monkey Clan of New Jersey, by the way.

So, one day as a guy named Joel and his robot friends were walking down Main Street USA, they saw something in the sky.  It was large and silver and looked like a pie plate on a string.

“Whoa,” said Joel.

“Whoa, indeed,” said Tom.

“Something sarcastic,” said Crow.

“My voice is annoying,” said Gypsy.

Just then, the pie plate landed and several creatures with cardboard heads got out.  They walked stiffly and slowly (because the guys in the suits couldn’t actually see anything) but everyone was real scared of them anyhow.

“All your base are belong to us,” the aliens said, although their mouths didn’t move at all.

“What does that mean?” Joel asked.

“What does that meme?” Tom asked almost simultaneously.

“This has got to be the geekiest story the SotWC has ever done,” Crow said.

“I can haz cheezburger?” Gypsy replied.

“What?” said the aliens.

“Is Gypsy a cat?” Joel asked.

“You bet your sweet behind she is,” said Roger and Meg.

“This is getting a little too weird,” said Bert I. Gordon, “but the dialogue is GREAT!”

“So, what do you want, anyway?” Joel asked the aliens.

“We want our moon rocks back,” replied the head alien, whose head was just a little bigger than the other aliens’ heads.  So he was the head alien in both a literal and a figurative sense.  If you follow.

“But, didn’t Evel McNastypants negotiate a moon rock settlement with you guys?” asked one of the numerous characters I’ve named so far.

“No way!” said the head alien.  “He just came and stole all our stuff and didn’t ask to share or anything.  We sent a guy to talk to him and he shot the guy right in his cardboard forehead.  Here, you can see it in this flashback.”

And everybody watched this grainy flashback segment that was obviously filmed on a soundstage with black felt in the background to look like outer space.  Sure enough, when one of the cardboard headed aliens approached Evel McNastypants, he pulled out an inexplicable ray-gun and shot the thing in its giant forehead.  The ray looked like a scratch on the film, and when it hit the cardboard head, it looked like a firecracker went off.  Pretty cool.

And so, everybody realized that Evel McNastypants was a bad guy all along and went to his house to ask him to play nice.  He said no, of course, so the aliens tried to kill him.  But he pulled out a huge pile of Uberdebris and flung it into the front yard, where it exploded, sending flaming shards of moon rocks and God knows what else in all directions.  All the aliens were killed except for the head alien, who lay there bleeding a substance that looked an awful lot like jello.

“Damn the Uberdebris,” he said, and was about to pass on when a shadow fell across his face.  He looked up and there, wearing a cowboy hat and a chainsaw for a hand, was Bruce the b-movie actor.

“Who’s laughing now?” Bruce asked.

“I don’t know,” said the head alien, “probably the jackass in the doorway who just blew everybody up.”  (Don’t worry, Roger and Meg and Gypsy weren’t hurt; they had taken off in their RV 20 minutes earlier.  But Joel was toast.)

Turning to Evel McNastypants, Bruce said, “give me some sugar, baby.”

“Huh?” said Evel.  “Did you just proposition me?”

“Yeah, I got a proposition for you,” Bruce said, pulling a shotgun from his back-holster.  “Come and get some.”

So Evel McNastypants walked out onto the lawn, side-stepping the head alien, and he and Bruce began to round each other for the ultimate showdown.

And then Godzilla showed up and stepped on everybody.  “How’s that for a showdown?” Godzilla said, and went off to look for Bambi.

About a half an hour later, Mike Nelson came walking into town and saw robot parts laying everywhere.  “Ah, who needs Joel anyway?” he said and sat down to reassemble the robots.  But that’s another story.  Another story that probably involves monkeys at least peripherally.


Once again I have written until past midnight and have no idea how entertaining or perplexing the story really is.  I really am a sucker for the inside jokes, though, that one thing is sure.

The Story of the Week Club: making sure that one person at a time gets our humor.

see you in seven,

the SotWC


Posted by on September 13, 2010 in Science Fiction


Good news and Bad news…

The bad news is that my computer keyboard is officially dead, so there will be no story this week, and only next week if I can get a new keyboard by then (God willing!).  I am currently typing at work, but can’t take the time out of the work day to write a whole story.  Sad.

The good news is that I lied convincingly about there being any good news.

See you soon (I sincerely hope),

the SotWC

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Posted by on September 8, 2010 in Announcements


Happy Labor Day (sort of)

Hey-ho, friends and neighbors.  Seeing as how today was a holiday, and I was kicking back holiday-style and, oh yeah, I just spilled iced tea all over my keyboard and apparently shorted the whole thing out and now it won’t type properly, I’m gonna go ahead and postpone the story for this week.  Hopefully just until tomorrow, when my keyboard has had a chance to totally dry out and will, God willing, remember how to behave like a keyboard.

For you wiseacres out there who want to know how I am typing this little message if my keyboard is so jacked up, I borrowed a laptop from one of my roommates.  Why, then, can I not use this here laptop to type a story? you may ask.  Well, the truth is, I’m plumb tuckered out (and not a little cheesed off) from trying to get my own keyboard working, and I just don’t want to deal with ANY computer keyboard right now more than I have to.  I am dedicated to my readers enough to borrow the laptop to write this notice, but that’s as far as my dedication goes tonight.

Fare thee well,

the SoTWC


Posted by on September 6, 2010 in Announcements