NICE BOD: Volidity Report Short Stories Kind-Of Using the 'Exqusitie Corpse' Method Over Gmail While At Work ~~~ # 1: A CLOSE ENCOUNTER

Exquisite Corpse was a drawing game played by the Surrealists, and every person since.  Each contributor writes a paragraph, and passes it on, adding to the story.  We didn't do it 'blind' which I guess means it's not exactly EC, but who cares.  Contributors to this round were C. Cameron, E. Wright, and LK Shov.   Remember kids - just because you're in the office, doesn't mean you can't be productive!

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One time, I was sitting in a booth at Baja Burrito. It was late, probably after 8, and I had just driven back into town. I could have bought some Wendy's on the drive, but I opted to just hold off and get the good stuff. It was late, but I remember this Baja had a bar. Strange, I remember thinking at the time. At the bar, a couple were sitting, pounding rolling rocks and waiting on their burritos to be made. They were clearly velociraptors, anyone could see that. They had long tails which allowed them to balance on their bar stools, and wore long trenches which hung down to the floor. They were bickering in hushed tones, but if I focused my attention I could make out some of what they were saying. "Diana just doesn't have any idea about social etiquette," said the one on the left. "If she wants to get fresh, she might just get popped. Is she afraid I won't?" "I think she's just getting you confused with Blake," said the other one, eyeing the empty ashtray on the bar. "She just puts up this armor, you can't get through. she is so annoying, and if that's the way shes going to act, I'm just don't know what I'm gonna do." The first raptor said nothing. His burrito had arrived.

Clearly though, it was more than just the burrito that the raptor had on his mind. Yes he had a deep-seated fondness for barbacoa (as do most velociraptors, for obvious reasons), but it was the struggle with Diana that really got to him. He didn't want to admit it to Valerie, his date on this fine evening, but his feelings and frustrations ran deeper than just annoyance over her social behavior. She had the finest, longest tail in town, and all the other single male raptors lusted over it. Including himself. It was just the way she slung it around for everyone to see that maddened him so. But it maddened him in other ways too, ways that couldn't be admitted it anyone else, other than joking or complaining to his date. All that was left at this time was to eat his burrito and continue getting drunk on Rolling Rocks.

"Say," said Valerie. "Don't look now but there's a human giving you a little stink eye at the end of the bar."

"Oh hush," he said. "You're drunk." But oh so casually, he craned his long neck to look at the human watching them and trying to eavesdrop. He didn't like it one bit, but for decorum's sake he tried as best as he could to ignore it.

Valerie was completely out of her comfort zone. First of all, she couldn’t believe that her date, the raptor she has been ogling over for weeks now, took her out to a bar at a BURRITO joint. Didn’t he know she was trying to cut carbs and follow that strict herbivore diet her best friend, Zara, was on? She guessed not. Second of all, he had the audacity to take her to a place where humans were free to roam around; Valerie understood that they didn’t pose any real threats, but ever since she had that run in with the douchebag at Wells Fargo, she tried her hardest to avoid those wimpy excuses for “animals.” However, the thing that was really bugging her about this whole “date” thing was the way Craig reacted with the mention of Diana. She knew she shouldn’t have brought her up, but she had to confirm to herself that the rumors weren’t true. Craig couldn’t have feelings for the oblivious, socially inept, ditsy excuse for a raptor that was Diana. But it was clear to Valerie that as much as she tried to diss Diana, she was always going to be second-rate in Craig’s mind. The way his eyes lit up the moment she said her name was a big enough blow to make Valerie down her beer. “I never should have met him here” she thought, “I fucking hate burritos."

The patrons were getting belligerent, but who has never seen that before. That's the thing about these sauropods. They're all talk. You try and get to know them, but you can never get past the drama. And the racism. My chalupa arrived, and my thoughts drifted out the window. Gloria was like that. The year was 1967, and I had been seeing this pretty little allosaur down in Montgomery. We met by happenstance. I - fresh out of the Ozarks, with my 2 year Certificate of Paleontology fresh from the printer, flapping in the breeze, and she- a curvaceous, 12 foot tall creature from the Cretaceous Period, found each other chatting at a house party downtown over mint juleps. If I am honest with myself, I knew from the get go that we could never be. It was that sense of urgency that probably drew us together. When Gloria told me she was leaving town the following week - there had been a 'mishap' at the museum of natural history- she asked if I would come with her, but I said no.

I snapped back to the present, the air was thick with the summer rain and the smoky aroma of cooked meat. Violence hung in the air like a freshly caught snapper ready to flop up and rake your skin with its scales in its last throes of life. The basketball game on ESPN was drawing the attention of most patrons, though a clear growling could be distinctly heard from the sauropod corner. I guess it goes to show how many people just don't see or hear what they don't want to or cant understand. But something about the growling of a velociraptor will put fear into the hearts of even the most hardened man. I hoped it had nothing to do with me, after the male one and I gave each other stink eye for a good five minutes earlier. So, instead of waiting around for him to try and eat me or some bullshit, I downed the last of my beer, paid my tab and walked out the door. I felt pretty good about having avoided an altercation with those 2 sauropods, and thought I might actually whistle a tune.

As I turned the corner of the building, headed towards my car, I noticed three young men in hooded sweatshirts lurking in the shadows. Surreptitiously glancing behind me and seeing no one else around, the fear I thought I had conquered earlier had swiftly returned. I really need a hobby, I thought.

Fictionary Supplement: Part 3 - Misfits and Ne'er-do-wells

Vito Burrito
Ever since Vito Bruzzini was born in the neighborhood of Boroughhurstburg Village in Brooklyn, he had trouble fitting in. A member of a family peripherally affiliated with the docks and much respected in Bo-Vill, from an early age Vito just couldn't quite live up to his brothers: Marsalo, Piccato, and Francese. His brothers, cousins, and cousins once removed would roughhouse in the streets and alleys by day and then return home for a big dinner festooned with enough red sauce to please red-blooded young boys. But Vito chose a different path; he would wander off by himself, sampling some of the strange, unbreaded, pasta- and mozzarella-free fare available in his Outer Borough. Because of his rotund shape--reminiscent of chicken rollatini or another irregular polyhedron--and because of his particular preference for the food of "Messico," he was given the nickname Vito Burrito.

As time passed, Vito remained ever the odd corn tortilla in a wheat world. Hoping to set off and make something for himself, Vito enrolled in the University of Phoenix, only to find that it took him no further than the dial-up connection in his parents' basement. When his brothers formally joined la famiglia, Vito only managed to get himself a job at Famous Famiglia Pizza. Needless to say, Vito found himself in a rut; when an "associate" of his father's had a horse's head placed in his futon, the young fellow took it as a sign. The next day he made for the racetrack in Ozone Park, confident that he would make the family proud. Last I heard, he won $30 on Mumbly Jake!

Nik Nickelback
Nikonar Nikolaevich Nikelbakh, known as Nik Nickelback to his friends, was born in a small town in Western Pennsylvania. The town was like most any other, except for its ongoing bat problem (see Fictionary Supplement Addendum, under “1987, Suckening of”). Ah well.

Nik was born to Dick and Wendy Nikelbakh, a Scotch-Irish couple prone to buying insurance and Presbyterianism. Nik was raised as one of their own, but was never much like his old man and his lady. He preferred electric guitars to hedge-clippers, and sports cars to lawn mowers!

After a fight with his pops, Nik totally split town man, and headed for Ronny’s house to crash there for a while, or at least till he could figure shit out. Ronnie was cool with it, but he was totally bogarting all his smokes and wouldn’t share them or nothing. Like, his brother totally sends him cases of them when he’s in Canada for like two bucks, and he can’t even share with his oldest bro? Whatever man. Well, this lifestyle went on for some time, until finally he ran out of dough, and had to trundle back home.

Health Insurance Po
Po was a nasty man, a mean bad man!! He was a con artist, and a thief, setting up false butcheries and chicaneries and disrupting society with his lack of dedication and unscrupulous behavior. Two or three concerned citizens reported to have entered his shops to purchase live animals to feed their hungry families, only to find a sight most foul. Po would be holding a live bird with two hands around its neck, strangling the poor animal in a flurry of squawks and chirps! All Chinese citizens know that choking chickens is immoral, and is strictly forbidden by Chinese law.

After the brave villagers performed their duty of reporting Po to the proper authorities, they were generously rewarded with a new dam which would flood their town with both water and electricity!

Po himself was brought in for questioning, and it was decided that his efforts could be better directed elsewhere. A recent Chinese security detail reported that the country was still exposed and in danger in cyberspace, on the imperialist Western Web around the world. Fearing espionage from the West, the Province Governor, Chu Wi, suggested to the government that dissenters and rabblerousers be rounded up and employed as Internet spies. Transferred into binary code (1’s only), these men could regain some of their honor by combating foreign corrupters of Chinese society.

As a bot, Po has taken on an American name to blend into the web society and begin fruitful conversations with foreign citizens, through electronic mail. A recent progress report indicated that this program has been a great success, and a testament to the strength and character of the Chinese people.

LaBronx James
The year was 1972 and young LaBronx James was fostered far to the North of New York City in the Projects. Life on the streets was hard, especially when your biological father was never around to play catch and ball. He was usually in prison, or somewhere else driving around. LaBronx was named for the apostle of the same name, but he was far from a saint. Who can blame him for his rough and tumble beginnings? The lad's primary activities included jax, ballin', and a game called "Pigeon-Hoops" which, although enjoying a brief period of popularity, is no longer considered fun.

The boy grew older, as many do, and attended the local school where he and his brothers and neighbors also went. It was in the neighborhood, and there was no real choice in the matter. He attended chemistry and math classes, but his favorite was History with Turkowitz. Mr. Turkowitz knew how to make learning fun, and taught his students to believe in themselves so they could achieve anything. However, LaBronx was home sick that day with the sniffles, and so continued to believe in being second or even third-best. That's where he got his nickname, LaBronze, which is familiar to everyone today.

Special Thanks to editor Herrence Meritocracy for the story of Vito Burrito.

Key on You

As you may already know, fake bands can have real songs. But did you know that fake bands can also suffer from real tensions among bandmates? The key points of the Behind the Music on Dog Handjob that will air on VH1 (that is, if VH1 was a channel that still had any music-related programming) are:

• A project for forming a band and recording songs is assigned in Mrs. Wilkens' music class.
• The band Dog Handjob is formed by three filler kids.
• They have some really cool ideas for songs, like dogs, and movies!
• A certain Patty Sanders—who is either a shalimar or a slut, depending on who you ask—forms the key component of a love quadrilateral (or maybe she is the area of the love triangle, which would totally be isoceles).
• Their hopes for getting at least a B diminish, which sucks because report card time is coming up...

So, what grade do you think the members of Dog Handjob should earn for their song, "Key on You"?

Fictionary Supplement: Part 2 - Vagabonds and Miscreants

Nalph Raider
Born in Tulsa, Oklahoma to a long line of vagabonds and brigands, Nalph Raider knew from a young age that he had a mission to complete. His teen years were spent in angst and anomie as he felt isolated socially and ideologically from his "communitarian" and "schoolist" peers. But upon reading Atlas Shrugged—after which he cut out the insert "about the author" photo of Ayn Rand and has kept it in his wallet since—Nalph's anarcho-capitalist views finally solidified.

Nalph then went out into the world—by which he meant the continental United States—to do battle with federal regulation in every form, because it was inherently illegitimate. Nalph would break into cars and remove their airbags and seatbelts; on certain days he would even deflate their tires to a level not recommended by the Department of Transportation. Nalph would also chain himself to the entrances of fire stations, to temporarily prevent these socialized hellions from getting out to literally break into private property with axes. It was, however, when Nalph was discovered intercepting and shredding social security checks that the local (socialized) police force stepped in, fining him—i.e. taking his wealth by fiat for redistribution.

This was the last straw for Nalph, who decided it was finally time to "go Galt." He purchased a derelict barge which he positioned in the Gulf of Mexico in International Waters—out of reach from the oppressive socialist governments surrounding him. He remains there today, patiently awaiting the legions of productive people, who will inevitably leave behind the looters and moochers.

Jack Larva
The story of Jack Larva is a few minutes in the tellin'. He's seen a lot of strange stuff, to hear him tell it, and some of his roustabouts (especially from the early days, mind) are spotty and incoherent, and ought to be taken with a pinch of salt and vinegar, both of which he is purported to keep in handy supply in his front jacket pocket. Larva was born in a brick oven in the tenement which his immigrant parents shared with their neighbors and friends. His earliest memories, Jack has said, are of the aromas of matzo ball soup and pesto basil wafting through the cracks in the wooden cupboard that was to become his bedroom. For fun, he used to kick the family mutt until he got tired. His father would laugh and laugh.

From his rough-and-tumble beginnings, young Larva developed a charisma as wide as the Brooklyn Bridge, and he seemed destined for the stars! Rumor has it, he could charm the pants off a goat! Jacky spent a peculiarly long amount of time exploring this talent before he realized it could not be used to make money. Locked out one afternoon by his parents, the boy decided to go off and make his fortune. But he was in a pinch, and need cash - and quick! He did everything - scourin', scrubbin', sashayin' - you name it - but always with a smile on his face. His sporting demeanor was further propped up by his chums - a ragtag crew of miscreants who called themselves the Gentleman Jims whose main interests included but were not limited to fresh fish, yelling at immigrants, and dames (broads).

Jack Larva discovered his talent for shadow-puppetry by happenstance. One dusky, grimy Thursday morn, whilst the boy was amusing a crow with his offensive hand gestures, taught to him by enthusiastic (some would say a little too-enthusiastic) merchant marines on holiday, he managed to catch the attention of a local fishmonger. Needless to say, the vendor was ill-amused; having smoked his last mackerel this morning, his mood had run understandably afoul. As the hilarious and brilliant shadows danced against the lattice and brick of the alleyway, Jack realized his place, his niche- his piece of the American pie lay within this dreamy two-dimensional world of wonder. His epiphany was short-lived, however, as he failed to sense the impending approach of the monger from behind, until it was too late. A scaly mass of paper and ink and scales welted his noggin, and left him seeing stars. Stars like Humphrey Bogart! Who gave him the encouragement he needed to finally make the push to Vaudeville, where he prospered and amazed hundreds! Also, Greta Garbo.

Qui-Nine Gin
Discovered at a young age due to his high Midichlorian count by his pediatrician on Dantooine, Qui-Nine Gin was quickly sought out by Jedi recruiters. Enrolled at the Jedi Academy on Coruscant, Qui-Nine was studious and respectful to his elders, if a bit quiet and awkward. As the Jedi are very strict housemasters, and as he was not especially skilled at sneaking about, Qui-Nine rarely made it out into the bustling planet-wide ecumenopolis that is Coruscant. Receiving acceptable marks in Force-sensitivity and below average on lightsaber fencing, Qui-Nine was set to graduate as a Jedi Knight in 65 BBY. His peers pressured him into hitting the Entertainment District of Coruscant to celebrate, where Qui-Nine discovered the “Djinn & Tonique,” a drink with far greater potency than his normal evening glass of blue milk. Stumbling to his graduation ceremony while still quite inebriated, Qui-Nine was expelled from the Jedi Order before even officially joining it after using the Force to lift the Dean of Students’ robe while he was speaking to the audience in a ceremony being broadcast galaxy-wide.

In response, Qui-Nine decided to embrace his destiny and embarked upon a two-week bender that has lasted the better part of three years. Qui-Nine is found most frequently at O’Twi’lek’s Pub, where he amuses the patrons with his Jedi powers. He believes rather strongly that his tab only exists due to his skill with the Jedi mind trick (“You will put this on my tab.” “Ok, sure thing, Mr. Gin!”), though he has irked some bartenders by attempting to levitate liquor bottles behind their backs, only for them to shatter on the ground.

One day, in O’Twi’lek’s Pub Qui-Nine was visited by a mysterious shrouded man. He sat down next to Qui-Nine and provided a sympathetic ear to hear Qui-Nine’s life story. Patiently listening while rubbing his palms together in a manner that would be disturbing to the attentive, the cloaked man told Qui-Nine, “The Jedi have mistreated you, my young apprentice. The Dark Side of the Force has no such prohibitive notions. Join me, and you shall be able to both drink and get your revenge on the Jedi!” Qui-Nine seemed to contemplate this for a moment, but then his eyes glazed over and he mumbled something about a lack of pickled eggs at the bar. Taken aback, the now-revealed Sith Lord muttered, “The Force is strong with this one…” To which Qui-Nine replied, “Nah, the Force is strong with this one,” pulling a flask from his pocket and taking a deep swig. Several other bar patrons nodded approvingly, and the Sith were once again humiliatingly defeated.

The Bushwick Yeti
Infused with the power of seven lesser apes, the loathsome beast known simply as the Bushwick Yeti derives its pleasure from small bloody triumphs and public feats of strength. His mane, a woolly white, covers his powerful frame from head to toe, exposing little skin to liken him to his prey. Rumor has it, he nests within an abandoned water-tower. Others are convinced his true home s farther north - the snowy badlands of Ridgewood and Glendale, barely inhabited wilderness into which few brave explorers have ever dared to venture. No matter his home, his nomadic ways and unique camouflaging abilities strike fear into the plaid-wearing pink-skins he hunts. For you see, many years ago, the Bushwick Yeti lived in a remote lumber hamlet named Hibernia in the Northwest Territories, far from his new land. His kind were as prosperous as they were ferocious, and over years, they learned to become skilled hunters of the Flannels who lived in the indoors places. But alas, the Yeti tribe of the North grew fat and lazy, and soon there were no more flannels to hunt! Food becoming scarce, one impetuous young Yeti named Mike left his home in search for prey abroad. In the far south, and to the east and west, legends said, there were massive unexplored quarries of Flannel awaiting meat harvest. Mike knew his destiny lay in the wicks of the Bush, and so undertook the perilous trek alone, as others were too lazy to accompany him.

The locals began to surmise something awry after the first major snowstorm of 2009. As the pattern moved north, residents realized the breakup-via-disappearance of local art-rock collective, The Film Crickets. They were never found, causing their unreleased tape, "At Least I'm Not You" to spiral into legend among the clinically depressed. Then, as the snow melted, bloody strips of red, other red, and green would appear, strewn about in seemingly violent fashion. Panic imminent, the local authorities suggested that the missing youths (by then, the count was above fifty), "I dunno, moved back ta California or some shit. Yeah, moved. What can I say? New York, it's a tough place! You ask me, maybe dey shouldna come in here in the first place. I mean, New York, ehh, always been more of a denim town, y'know?"

Special thanks to Associate Editor LK Shov for the tales of Jack Larva and the Bushwick Yeti!

Dog Handjob

So, a good friend of the Volidity Report, Squid Brains, created an exquibulary flyer for a fake show featuring fake bands at a real venue! Going to show that fake bands can also have real songs, the Volidity Report is proud to present the first single for the NYC-based "goo-beat" band Dog Handjob, entitled "Dog Handjob":

Fictionary Supplement: Unpopular Historical Figures Part 1

Most people study history at some point in their lives. At some point, however, the Average Jane or Joe loses interest. I've learned all I can from watching popular Nicholas Cage-related historical docs like 'National Treasure 2: The Search for Hitler's Gold,' you might complain. Stop complaining, no one like a whiner. As a public service, possibly required by law, I have spearheaded an effort to spread more hist'ry to the peoples, covering ground your average New York Librul State Technical Colleges wouldn't touch with a ten-foot pole! We will be covering wide categories, including definitive musical groups, folk legends, authoritarian figures, and more.

I present Unpopular Historical Figures, part 1:

Duke Newcomb:

Edward Thomas Bellevue, 4th Duke of Newcomb, 134th in line to the British crown, was born in 1763. A rakish fellow, he enjoyed the gentlemanly arts of hunting, drink, and womanizing. He was to achieve notoriety from one event in the winter of 1797. Having traveled to to one of his country estates in Pembrokeshire, Wales, Newcomb hoped to track and shoot the elusive proton pheasant. Instead, he encountered his manor abandoned by his many servants and overrun by ragged French revolutionaries. Grabbing his Brown Bess musket and his fowling piece, Newcomb regrouped in the forest. As he had anticipated a four-course meal from his chef upon arrival and had not even received so much as afternoon tea, the Duke consumed some delicious-looking forest mushrooms to sate his hunger. Proceeding onward to battle, Newcomb became convinced that the French soldiers were actually creatures from beyond the stars. As he slayed multitudes of these outer space beasts, the Duke eventually encountered their leader, attempting to flee to his ship, at the port of Fishguard. With a quick quip--"Blow it out your arse!"--Newcomb lit the fuse to a bomb and tossed it at the fiendish commander, thus ending the French/alien invasion of Britain. His heroic deeds were passed down for generations at bedtime by patriotic British parents to their children, when eventually, they formed the basis for the "Duke Nukem" series of video games. His family remains proud of their ancestor to this day, their only regret that his video game name is horribly misspelled, as all Americans are wont to do.

Harry Grundell Jr.:

Like his father before him, Grundell (pronounced like "trundle") Jr. was uniquely predisposed towards the lucrative business of investment banking. His physiology was something of a boon, a series of genetic permutations assembled in just such a way: his eyes- too close together for proper depth perception, this made Harry, nonetheless, a whiz in the 2-D world! His phalanges, extra long and coordinated, allowing Harry to tickle keyboards from across the room! His biographer wrote that Grundell's voice carried an old-world-y raspiness, a mastadonal bass offset with shrieks of excitement. The combination proved to be efficient, and Grundell grew to understand, in minimizing wasteful meaningful humanoid interaction, and getting a lot more typing done.

Rick Spickler and the Puberteens:

Nearly everyone familiar with the gristle and intrigue of the short-lived TV hour "The Laff Brigade" remembers the eponymous and tragic rise and fall of this dynamic 90's power trio. Spickler, an erudite yet impossibly tardy young ranch-hand from the Hinterland wilds made a go of his pop dreams in York, and then more successfully New York, America with his occasionally androgynous cousins, Creo and Lawntee. Obsessed with recurring visions of fame and fortune, the trio accidentally wandered into Lady Luck on the downtown number 6 train in Manhattan. It turned out to be a disaster. Lady Luck, of course, being a wayward oil tanker, crashed headlong into the underground trestle, upsetting a family of four and waylaying the boys' plans to meet with a record executive for pie. The rest of Spickler's rise and the formation of the hated Crybabies, then the critically acclaimed Puberteens, became his most famous musical contributions to date, and were solely responsible for the rise of the MiniDisc, and the inspiration for the Nu-Redundancy Movement.

Tran Pham:

A veritable enigma of the inner-web, Pham is best known for advertising his services in the wrong sections of Craigslist, so that you think it is a job, but instead it's some d-bag who can't read directions, apparently. Ad usually reads as such:

Meet Tran Pham:
Compliance Technician
Hobbies include vintage vehicles, breadwinning, and yelling at buildings.

To this day, experts and the unemployed are baffled as to its meaning, or really, what this guy may be trying to prove.