Story #2

Welcome back and huzzah for a special week.  Here, boys and girls, is a bonafide piece of SotWC history.  With the publication of “Rotten Apple Core Day” back in March of 1994, two of the major enduring guidelines for the club were established.  These were/are the “Rule of Thursday” and the “Creative License Clause.”  I could explain them here, but perhaps it is best for you to experience the genesis of them within the story where they originated.  Perhaps.

One word of warning: we come now, for the first time, to a story where I found profanity useful in making a joke (I was in college, after all, and in my youthful explorations of language found profanity more useful or at least more entertaining).  I considered editing or censoring the one “big” curse word in this story, but ultimately (and with the help of our official SotWC executive assistant) decided that it served the joke and the story just fine.  So, I hope you don’t have a heart attack or anything when you get to it.  That would suck.  There is a story or two in our future where I WILL, in fact, be censoring curse words that were there in the original writing, simply because this is a more public (and usually family-friendly) site for storytelling than the original club was.  I try not to edit or “clean up” the CLASSIC stories, so that you can experience them as originally written, but will do so where I feel it’s necessary in the future.  I just didn’t feel that this time, so here you go.

Date: 7 Mar 94 19:50:32 EST

Well, here we are again, a new week, a new story. We at the club were pleased with the positive response to our initial venture, and would like to thank all of our myriad fans and readers.


This week’s story deals with something really neat. Um, let’s find out what.


    The year was 1911. A small boy named Nigel was travelling with his parents in Nigeria. They had opted to vacation there because the country’s name started the same as their son’s, and they viewed it as a good sign from God. Oh, how terribly wrong they were.

On a balmy Thursday afternoon (actually, the weather wasn’t balmy at all, especially not for Nigeria, but it’s a nice sounding adjective, and creative license is allowed in fiction) (it wasn’t really Thursday, either, but it sounds better than “a balmy Monday afternoon.”), Nigel addressed his parents thusly: Mr. and Mrs. Bertrum Katontik, Flat 8, Merry Old England.
“Now, Nigel,” his father said, not a little put out (they lived in Scotland, after all), “do shut up. Your mother and I are attempting to enjoy our vacation in Nigeria, and you addressing us thusly certainly does not help matters at all.” (Nigel’s father was kind of annoying)
Nigel looked up at his father and said “Father, do forgive me. I’m not quite sure what was in my head just then, but I’ve worked through it and I feel that I’m quite ready to fit in to normal societly once again with minimal problems of adjustment.” (Nigel was awfully precocious)
At this point, Nigel’s Mother entered the room and said, “Nature pudding Cactus pendulum.” (Nigel’s mother was quite insane)
“Yes, dear,” said Nigel’s father, and went back to reading the Nigeria Gazette’s TV guide (please recall what I said about creative lisence).
Nigel began pacing throughtout the room and quoting Shakespeare to himself. Suddenly, he had a thought. He opted not to share it with his parents, though, and within moments he had forgotten it.

That evening, as Nigel and his parents went to the local Dairy Queen for dinner, Nigel said, “father?”
Nigel’s father replied, “Yes, son?”
“Father, what shall we do tomorrow?”
Nigel’s father became pensive. “Well, let’s see,” he said, stopping in the middle of the street, “today is Thursday, that would make tomorrow Tuesday.” (remember, it wasn’t really Thursday, it was Monday, but Thursday sounds better for the purposes of the story)
“Yes, father,” Nigel replied, eyes bright and aware, “and doesn’t that make make it rotten apple-core day?”
“Why, so it does.” Nigel’s father replied, not really knowing what Nigel was talking about, but assuming he was correct, seeing as how he was so precocious an all.
“Then, should we not buy a carton of rotten apples at the Nigerian Safeway to place at the feet of the apple core God?”
“Why, of course we should,” said Nigel’s father, “everyone knows that.”
“Camel space pig Chicken stairway.” said Nigel’s mother.
The next day was another balmy Thursday (I’ve just decided that I like Thursday better than Tuesday as well), and Nigel rose with the dawn. Running into his parents’ room, he pounced on his father’s chest and said, “Time to get the rotten apples!”
Nigel’s father awoke with a start and sat straight up in bed. This of course caused Nigel, who was sitting on his father’s chest, to fall onto the floor. Nigel began to cry, and his mother went to comfort him. “Dingy root floor cream jelly,” she whispered to him until he calmed down. Nigel’s father apologized, and then got his wallet. In his haste, he forgot his pants, and that is where the trouble began.

As Nigel’s father strode into the Safeway, he drew stares from all the Nigerian shoppers (there were some Swedish shoppers there, too, but they didn’t stare cuz they were used to it). He walked straight up to the customer service desk and pulled out his Nigerian to English dictionary. “He found the translation for the phrase “Do you have any rotten apples for sale” and asked the counter person.
The counter person shook his head, and replied in Nigerian, “You stupid idiot with no pants on, what the hell do you want rotten apples for?”
Nigel’s father decided to thank the man for being so helpful (he had wrongly translated the phrase in his head to mean “No, but you are a very handsome man.”) and he looked up the translation for the phrase, “thanks so much, You’re too kind, tell the wife and kids I said Hi.” Horribly, however, he made the error of mispronouncing a syllable, and what he ended up saying translated as “I have tea and cakes in my bottom for you.”
So, the counter person pulled out a rifle and shot him in the chest.
At that moment, Nigel’s mother came in to see what was taking so long. When she saw her husband laying on the floor in a pool of blood with no pants on, she said “room spoon lettuce baker” which, inexplicably, translates exactly in Nigerian as “I have a slight headache, won’t you please shoot me in the forehead?” So, the counter person, having been taught to always please the ladies, went ahead and shot her.

That Thursday, Nigel returned home. Two days later, on a rainy Thursday, his parents were buried. The following Thursday, Nigel came to the decision that it was his mission in life to become a superhero and avenge his parents’ murders. He decided to wage righteous war on all Nigerians. Twelve years later, on a cold and overcast Thursday, he returned to Nigeria, just in time for rotten apple-core day.

That night, Nigel donned his costume (which consisted of a lime-green mask and a cape, and nothing else) and went to the Nigerian Safeway. As he ran in the store, he drew odd stares from all the shoppers (even the Swedes). He leaped up on the customer service counter and shouted “I am Rotten Apple core Man! I have come to avenge my parents’death on this, most terrible of all days, Rotten Apple Core Day!”
After a moment of stunned silence, someone said, “Huh?” (In his rage Nigel had forgotten to say it in Nigerian, so no one had understood him), so then, Nigel repeated himself in Nigerian. He then stood triumphant, gazing at all the frightened Nigerians, knowing that he was about to finally have revenge.
Then, someone said, “what day?” and Nigel suddenly remembered that he had made up rotten apple-core day twelve years before as a joke to play on his father.
“Well, shit.” he said.


Until next week,

– Bro-man


2 responses to “Story #2

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