Fashionably Late by R Thomas Brown.

Bill staggered into the cubicle bullpen and tossed his bag to the floor. He held up a finger to stop the questions of his fellow coders and took a gulp of water before exhaling. “What a crappy commute.”

 

“What happened? You’re half an hour late and you look terrible.” Doug turned his chair toward Bill. The others mimicked.

 

“I’m sure you’ll see it on the news, it was bad. Big wreck on the highway.”

 

Danny shook his head. “How bad? Anyone dead?”

 

Bill shook his head. “No. Not from the wreck anyway. It was a clothing truck.”

 

“Clothes?” Doug looked confused.

 

“Yeah,” Bill leaned forward. “That big warehouse clothes store, what is it, B&M, I think. Truck flipped over, tossed a crap load of suits all over the interstate.”

 

“That’s crazy.” Danny closed his eyes.

 

“That’s not the big part though. The clothes were all vintage.”

 

“Vintage?”

 

“Yeah, I guess they’re hoping for a revival of that swing craze or something, I don’t know, but all these old timey suits are just everywhere.”

 

“Could be worse. At least it wasn’t fuel, right?” Doug punched Danny in the arm. “Remember that truck fire?”

 

Bill cleared his throat. “That’s not the bad part. See, people start to get out of their cars. Old dudes first. Guess they think the old clothes are like a fountain of youth or something cause they tear out. Canes pounding the pavement, wheelchairs darting in.”

 

“Wow.”

 

“Yeah, then the younger dudes come in. A bunch of Vince Vaughn wannabes thinking they found Mecca or some shit. They head in. Old dudes on one side, forty somethings on the other. It was a standoff.”

 

“A standoff? What the hell?”

 

“It got worse. The Vaughns charge in. I guess they thought with youth on their side, they’d take it. They charge and start grabbing stuff. Some old guy screams to stop and, I don’t know, he’s got like some hotrod power chair. He bolts in there, cane like a lance. Nails a fat dude right in the eye.”

 

“No way!”

 

“Yeah, then all the younger guys go in. Looks like they’re winning, but they’re all fat and lazy. Momentum turns, and all I can see are canes going up and down on heads.”

 

“Then what?” Danny was on the edge of his seat.

 

“That was messed up. I got out.” Bill sat back and crossed his arms. “I mean, I didn’t want to get caught up in a Zoot Suit Riot.”

 

A moment of silence. Bill laughed. Danny groaned. Doug got up and punched Bill on the top of his head. “Jerk.”

Happy New Year To You All!!

2011 was a great year for me.  To "loosely" quote one of our major celebrities, The Queen, "It was an anus horrendous!"  My piles had been giving me jip all year.  Luckily, Joanne found a fantastic cream and applies it twice daily for me.  I can now, quite happily, sit on my arse all day sipping tea from my cup and saucer without constantly having to scratch the affected area.

Anyway, enough about me.  I'd like to take this opportunity to wish you all fantastically fun filled 2012.

We're going to try and build up this magazine this year and I'd be honoured if you all came along for the ride.

Keep stopping by to see what's happening.  There'll be a new story coming up soon.  In the meantime, here's a little joke for you.

All the best,
B J, Joannne and Mike Oxlong!!

The seven dwarfs go to the Vatican , and because they are the seven dwarfs, they are immediately ushered in to see  the Pope. 

Grumpy leads the  pack. 

'Grumpy, my son,'  says the Pope, 'What can I do for you?'  Grumpy asks, 'Excuse me your Excellency, but are there any dwarf nuns in Rome?'  

The Pope wrinkles  his brow at the odd question, thinks for a moment and answers, 'No, Grumpy, there are no dwarf nuns in Rome.' 

In the background,  a few of the dwarfs start giggling. Grumpy turns around  and glares, silencing them. Grumpy turns back,  'Your Worship, are there any dwarf nuns in all of Europe ?' 

The Pope, puzzled  now, again thinks for a moment and then answers, 'No, Grumpy, there are no dwarf nuns in Europe.' 

'This time, all of  the other dwarfs burst into laughter. Once again, Grumpy  turns around and silences them with an angry glare.  

Grumpy turns back  and says, 'Mr.. Pope! Are there ANY dwarf nuns anywhere in the  world?' 

The Pope, really  confused by the questions says, "I'm sorry, my son, there are no  dwarf nuns anywhere in the world."

The other dwarfs  collapse into a heap, rolling and laughing, pounding the floor,  tears rolling down their cheeks, as they begin chanting......  

"Grumpy shagged a  penguin!"
"Grumpy shagged a  penguin!"

Citizen Tool by Thomas Pluck.

As Greg Samson awoke one morning from uneasy dreams he found himself transformed in his bed into a gigantic penis. A throbbing big one, he was proud to say. Uncut with a prominent vein, attached to a hefty pair of testicles and nothing else.

Heaving his balls to the carpet, Greg hunched and looked at himself in the mirror with his one big eye. "My old one was definitely bigger," he said.

He found he could locomote quite naturally as if on two ovoid wheels, and inchworm up and down more precarious footing such as steps. When flaccid, squeezing through doorways was no issue, and if he rubbed his nose on the carpet, in no time he was rigid enough to knock on a door or bat it open.

Greg showered, and nearly disappeared inside himself when the water went cold. Donning a turtleneck, scarf and hat, he headed for the train. Commuters on the sidewalk gave him wide berth.  He nodded at the men and saluted the ladies. Had to stop when a dogwalker's dozen charges all wanted a lengthy sniff. Their cold noses tickled.

The morning meeting went quite well. Greg pointed out that while they were experiencing a slight downturn as expected in the economy, their savings in payroll would meet the projections promised to investors.  The men squirmed in their chairs, eyebrows knitted in dismay, and the few women at the executive level simply stared in disbelief. The members of the board nodded in approval.

As he left the meeting, the CEO put his arm around Greg's foreskin, patted him on the shaft. "That was a fine showing, Greg is it? I see a great future for you here."

The Surrealist Corrections Department by Cornelius Chapman

            CORRECTION:  In the Leisure and Arts story, "Fantastical Images of Dance--a Surrealist's Work Goes on View After 50 Years," Brett Littman said that he had seen a costume drawing of a squid atop a pile of other drawings at Dorothea Tanning's archive.  Mr. Littman did not see a costume drawing featuring a squid at her archive. 

                                                       The Wall Street Journal

            In the May edition of "Splattered Pants: The Absurdist's Guide to Pigeon Racing," it was incorrectly reported that Antonin Artaud's sister uses roll-on deodorant.  Mr. Artaud has no sister, and she uses Mitchum Extra-Wet Spray-On Protection deodorant.  Splattered Pants regrets its error.

            In the Tuesday, June 1st edition of Vortex: The Poetry Journal for French Bidet Industry Professionals, Marcel Duchamp was quoted as saying "There is no art without toilets."  A review of the reporter's tape recording of the interview with Monsieur Duchamp reveals that he in fact said "Where is the lavatory, and why are you eating steel wool?"  Vortex stands corrected.

            In the annual Christmas double-issue of Au Poivre Dans La Gateaux, Eugene Ionesco's right ear lobe was inadvertently included in the "Scratch 'n Sniff" pull-out card.  Monsieur Ionesco's ingrown toenail should have been included.  Readers who received the incorrect insert can jump off a chair onto a dust-bunny for all the editors care.

            A printing error in yesterday's Le Jeux d'Escargot resulted in an erroneous price for the 1.5 litre bottle of L'Esprite, the refreshing lemon-lime soft drink.  The price when converted from Celsius to Fahrenheit is your parrot's fedora.

            A "hoky" is a lightweight wet-dry sweeper made by Oreck; a "hokie" is the mascot of Virginia Tech.  A photo caption in yesterday's Mal heure est-il? beneath a photograph of Nicholas Sarkozy doing the hokey-pokey improperly suggested that he was doing the Funky Penguin.  The editors deny any intentional implication to the contrary. 

            In the Summer Cookout issue Andre Breton's name was misspelled as "buffalos."  The plural of Monsieur Breton's name is formed without adding an "s," and should be cooked on high heat for no more than eight minutes per side.  We deeply regret our error. 

Cornelius is a Boston-area writer whose humor has appeared in The Atlantic Monthly and The Boston Globe among print publications, and a number of on-line publications including Salon.com.   Author of two novels and forty e-books of humor which can be viewed on my amazon.com author’s page.  He blogs at conchapman.wordpress.com and his website is www.conchapman.com.

One Wedding, Some Zombies and a Shitload of Funerals by Charlie Wade.

Every girl’s dream. Maxine had been planning it for years. The dress, the entree’s, the seating arrangements. Everything. Planned over and over. Most of it before she’d even met Brad.

And now, the big day. Wasn’t it just typical that the zombie hoard chose this week to walk the earth? She’d spent all morning clearing out the reception venue of shufflers. Broken three nails in the process. Perhaps she should cancel it?

It wasn’t second thoughts about marrying Brad, no way. Problem was: she’d just killed her future father in law and the best man. Who was gonna make the speeches now? It was a mess. Her dad couldn’t give her away either. He was locked in the shed, screaming for brains. She’d tried to end his misery, but he was her dad. How could she do it?

Her mum was undead too. Died two weeks ago, but still sat on the sofa watching The X Factor. Maxine sometimes wondered if there was any difference, but that was just nasty talk. Sure the ironing wasn’t as good, and the cooking hit and miss, but she was still her mum.She placed the tiara over her head. Shame about the hairdresser. At least she’d sorted Maxine’s split ends before the shuffling and scissor prodding got too bad. A roundhouse kick and garroting with her own extensions was not the tip she’d expected to leave her.

Outside she heard moaning. Shit. They were they coming again.

Looking out the window, Brad was shuffling up the driveway. He looked so good in a suit. Real suave. He didn’t look too hot with half his face missing though. Anyway, didn’t he know it was bad luck to see her before the wedding? She picked up her shotgun. Brad’s bad luck was about to get a whole lot worse. 

Charlie Wade lives in Derbyshire, England and has written three books he's trying to find a publisher for. He's got six short stories online in the usual places and his story, Pleading and Bleeding, was in Out Of The Gutter Magazine issue 7. He occasionally blogs at http://spiesliesandpies.blogspot.com/

1st Guests - David Barber's The Two Blokes

“So, a new online magazine, eh?”

“Apparently.”

“I think it looks pretty great myself. What do you make of it?”

“Dunno.”

“Don’t you have anything to say about it?”

“…”

“What are you looking at?”

“Her.”

“Who?”

“Her, over there…..Joanne.”

“Ha! That’s not her real name you know?”

“It is.  Oh, look at her, she’s lovely. Such fantastic top...”

“Bollocks! OK, say her full name to me.”

“Why?”

“Just say it.”

“Joanne Kallott.”

“Yes, about 3 time a week. Hahaha!”

“…”

“Don’t you get it?”

“No.”

“Holy shit! Ok, ok. Do you know Mike Oxlong?”

“Yes.”

“How long is it then?”

“How long is what?”

“Jesus! It’s a made up name.”

“Jesus is?”

“No, well, that's still open to debate, but I’m talking about Mike Oxlong.”

“He’s a real person and it’s a real name.”

“It’s not. Don’t you see it? My…cock’s…long.”

“I don’t particularly want to know about your cock, thank you.”

“You really are a dimwit!”

“…”

“What’s wrong now?”

“I can’t remember her name.”

“Who?”

“That other woman who helps out. She’s foreign, I think.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Ah, that’s it.”

“What’s it?”

“I’ve remembered her name.”

“Well?”

“Sukma Balsak.”

“You what?”

“Yes, Sukma Balsak. That’s her name.”

“Oh, deary, deary me. You really are a twat.”

“Why?”

“BJ told you that’s her name, right?”

“Yes. After telling him what I’d like to do to Joanne, I asked him who the other woman was and he said, ‘Sukma Balsak,’ and walked off.”

“Oh my God, you kill me.  Two more beers please, mate.”

Bio: David Barber's writing has appeared on the Internet in mags such as Thrillers, Killers 'n' Chillers, A Twist Of Noir, New Flesh and Blink Ink, to name a few. His stories have appeared and are to appear in anthologies.  He is currently working on a novel and short story collection.  He is the editor of The Flash Fiction Offensive and blogs at David Barber's Fiction World.  The Two Blokes are inspired by boozy nights out and YOU!

We are Accepting Submissions.

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Submissions Are Now Open.  

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Original stuff up to 500 words.

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Best,
BJ Titzengolf.