Daily Twitter Story: Bald Animals

Hello to you! This is the Daily Twitter Story. You tweet it. I make it literature. Glory ensues.

Today's Twitter story comes from @levendis, who wants a story about "bald animals." Levendis, your tweet is my command.

"Bald Animals"


In a world much like our own but set in the far future, democracy reigns supreme. All organisms, from paramecia to the floating gas giants of Deneb IV, are able to vote. Somehow the Conservatives are still in power. Because the Conservatives have been in power for 5,000 years, the Earth is a toxic hellhole, an anoxic wasteland where dirt farmers farm dirt and the naked lady saloons are empty (the naked ladies moved away) (but the Barenaked Ladies still exist, which, holy cow this world sucks).


In the last verdant spot on the planet, the animals gather and decide to form a guitar rock supergroup playing the hits of the '70s, '80s and 22nd century neo-prog. These animals, it should be noted, are bald, because of the radiation and bad food, except for the bald eagle, whose head is crowned with feathers and is extinct. That is to say, it has feathers on its extinct head.


(Sorry, this requires some explanation. In the infinitely compartmentalized far future, body parts of species face extinction as creatures incresingly opt for biomechanical artiforgs and cybernetic heads. So there's a bald eagle there, but it's got a fake head. With feathers on it. Are you with me? It plays a sweet Fender Telecaster.)


FAREWELL CONCERT, read the fliers. COME ROCK THE PLANET'S FACE OFF. AND THEN WE'LL LEAVE AND BLOW THIS GODFORSAKEN PIECE OF CRAP THE HELL UP. Then they practice and practice: K-Forge the Bald Orangutan on drums; Gorlamo the Bald Beaver (I know, I know) on jazz flute (I know, I know) and Moog synth; Jim the Bald Human on rhythm guitar; and Mr. Jennifer the Bald Eagle on lead guitar and vocals. They learn the entire discography of Styx because they mean to rock everyone's faces off, more or less as the flier promised.


On the night of the concert, five farmers and a gas giant alien show up. They seem to enjoy themselves. The gas giant, it turns out, is a big fan of early Yes. 


They play and play and drink punch all night long. The next morning, they're too tired to blow up the planet. Earth is saved!


Thanks to all who read today's Twitter story. Tomorrow's entry comes from @lauriewrites, who wants to hear about popsicles.

Daily Twitter Story: Prison Letter

Good morningfternooning! Welcome to the daily Twitter story. Today's story idea comes from @MacPhail, who tweeted:

There was a strange letter from the state prison delivered to our apt building yesterday addressed to Ms. ?. Who sent it? Why?

Okay, @MacPhail, here you go.

"Prison Letter"


First light, best light. Sally ?, late of the Cabo Verde opera circuit, slid her key into the mailbox and extracted a sheaf of envelopes and flyers. Not for the first time, she experienced a spasm of random jealousy over the mailman, who with one turn of his master key could unhinge the jaw of the mailbox mechanism and deposit a building's worth of mail in a few efficient strokes. Sometimes she considered sneaking up behind the mailman and braining him just as the mailboxes all swung open, then stealing his bag of mail and opening every single letter in a huge heap of torn paper and irrelevant utility bills. This thought never failed to turn her on.


At the kitchen counter she spread the mail out in a satisfying fan. One envelope, scuffed and torn, caught her attention:


New Mexico State Correctional Facility


read the return address. She checked to make sure that the letter was addressed to her. Do I know anyone from a prison? she wondered. Well, people aren't from prisons, they go to prisons. Do I know anyone who went to prison? Sally cast around in her mind a bit more but couldn't think of anyone (all her friends were back in Cabo Verde).


She tore the envelope open with a polished thumbnail and drew it out.


Dear Ms. ?,


We just wanted to tell you how grateful we all are for your music. Your box set of Cabo Verde greats, including your morna version of Carmen, keeps us all pumped in the weight room but left adrift on a sea of melancholy. It's like we're floating gently out from shore in a raft, with the sun warming our bodies and the salt dancing in our nostrils. As opposed to being in the weight room, which smells like sweat.


We would also like to know how to pronounce your last name. Do you say "question mark," or just make a questiony-sounding grunt? Fights are breaking out in the yard.


Many of us are also wondering if you would like to pay us a visit and sing for us. Also if you could smuggle in some cocaine.


Respectfully,


The D Block


Sally turned the paper over and fetched a pen.


Respect! Here's what I'm gonna do. I'll carve a life size sculpture of myself out of pressed cocaine and stick an mp3 player in there with my greatest hits loaded onto it. You and the rest of the boys can enjoy a nice concert, and afterwards you can chop me up into baggies and sell me in the yard. Sound good?


The pronunciation of my name is a mystery to me. I think I was born a typo.


One love,


Sally ?


With that, she planted a careful kiss over her signature and folded the paper in half. Gotta get a stamp now, she thought.


"Why does nothing interesting ever happen to me?" she asked Rodney, her pet Komodo dragon that wrote all her songs. But Rodney was too busy with the accounts to answer.

If you have a daily Twitter story idea and would like to see your glorious notion translated into half-baked prose, tweet it to me @palinode.

Daily Twitter Story: Australia

The other day I asked for Twitter for story subject matter. And Twitter responded. Today's story idea comes from @edenland, who said:

@palinode Australia.

Okay, edenland. Here's your story.

"Australia"

Once upon a time Australia woke up with a severe case of indigestion. “My Alice Springs!” it groaned, falling out of a really, really big bed. “Gotta get some coffee,” muttered Australia, slipping a pair of warm Tanzanias over its Melbournes and lumbering towards the really, really gigantic kitchen.

“Coffee’s just going to make your stomach worse,” New Zealand called from the bed. “Can you make me a flat white?” “Shut up, New Zealand,” said Australia. “Shut up shut up shut up.” That was the start of Australia’s shitty day.

professional tattooing tips for the first-time customer

You wake up one morning and find yourself wanting a tattoo. Maybe you think a Celtic armband will revive your sex life and improve your football throw. Or maybe all your friends have butterflies inked on their ankles, and the shame of a naked ankle is slowly corroding your self-esteem. Whatever the reason, one thing is clear: you need a tattoo.

But how often have you gone for a tattoo, only to be laughed at by the tattoo artist and the assistant needler? Or worse, end up leaving with an iron-on transfer on your skin instead of a genuine tattoo? These are the risks you run if you're perceived as a newbie, or as some say, 'tattoobie'.

In order to avoid these and other degrading fates at the tattoo parlour, be sure to remember these tips:

Get the words right. It's not pronounced tah-too. It's 'tah-toe'. The needles used by the tattoist are called 'jammer-jammers'. And the woman who sits in the back room smoking cigarettes and scratching absently at her arm is called Lucy.

Be forceful. Instead of flipping through books of tattoo art or attempting to describe what you want, walk in and demand to see 'your finest tah-toe'. Insist on the good ink. Sometimes it helps to be vaguely racist.

Avoid cliches. There's no quicker way to out yourself as a total novice than to ask for shopworn college-student favourites like the 'full-body narwhal' or 'tiger buttock'. Go for innovative designs like the 'Rothko tongue' or the extremely complicated procedure that will produce the illusion of Willie Nelson's braids descending from your head to the tops of your shoulders - even while showering.

Insurance. Even if you use each one of my tips, you may still end up with a tattoo that does not satisfy your lifestyle needs. It's often a good idea to wear someone else's skin to your appointment. If that proves a bit too complicated, send in someone else to get the tattoo, then remove their freshly inked skin.

Palinode elsewhere: The Riders and the Choddy

Not only should I post on my blog more often, I should update with my actual writing elsewhere. Paid writing has eventually crowded out the amount of creativity and mental space I'm willing to devote to the blog, but I miss this place. Hello blog.

Anyway. Another post on Saskatchewan advertising, which as everyone knows is just burning up the twitterwebs these days. Click the link to read the entire story.

The Roughriders. The Oath. And the Choddy. The Choddy. The Choddy.

If you have eyes and you’ve been using them to look at televisions or billboards, then you’ve probably seen the new “Rider Oath” ad campaign from the Saskatchewan Roughriders. Featuring a series of people proclaiming their fealty to the Rider Nation, the ads seek to cast a warm light on our fondness for watching oversize men in green satin tights slam into each repeatedly until they’re fired or traded.

Two ads have been produced so far, and I sense more in the pipeline. After all, there’s no reason for Steve Mazurak to stop ordering future installments of people standing in front of a camera with green and white makeup troweled on their faces; the ads are quick and cheap to produce, and participants only need to master a script that consists of two ambiguous sentence fragments and nine independent clauses, three of which are repetitions. What’s not to like about this setup?

There are two things not to like about this setup.

the parks ad

O world's population, most of you are not in Saskatchewan. And why would you be? It's obnoxiously cold for half of the year and it's run by people who whose chief aspiration, before ending up in power, was selling you a nice pre-owned Honda.

But there are benefits to being a Saskatchewan resident. For example, our parks are pretty awesome. In fact, the only thing better than our parks is this ad for the Save Our Parks campaign. The magic happens at the 12 second mark, when the slightly grizzled grandfatherly figure switches from dewy-eyed nostalgia to blood-curdling rage.



Note the frantic cut away from grandpa's suddenly rage-clouded face, the edge of madness that dogs his narration, and that crooked, close-mouthed smile at the end. Why close-mouthed? To cover up his lupine fangs, of course. A full moon was probably blooming over the studio when they were shooting this thing.

Remember: you can't enjoy this kind of quality homicidal rage in other provinces. Let's get really, really angry about parks policies - the Saskatchewan way.