6 Juli. 15.00
Det har gått nästan en vecka! Jag har inget minne av vad jag har skrivit i tidigare inlägg. Denna konstanta brist på mat och vatten och min kollegas ständiga visslande och fingerknäppande har drivit mig till black outs. Vad är det han håller takten till, frågar jag mig ständigt. Hör han en melodi som jag är för vek att uppfatta? Är det havets symfoni jag missar? Denna underbara musik som bara ett fåtal skarpsinta sjömän har fått uppleva genom människans historia. Jag blev självklart sjukligt avensjuk igår. Jag gjorde något mycket dumt. Jag plockade fram min gammel mormors antika speldosa som jag länge haft liggande längst ner i vitrinskåpet. Utan tanke att värdet minskar dramatiskt för varje användning! Allt jag ville var att bryta hans irriterande men ändå charmerande taktkänsla. Jag vevade och vevade. Tills mjölksyran brände i mina axlar och olika vågorna piskat, ja nästan blästrat, den plinkande plåtdosan ren från färg och lyster. Nilsy – han var taktfast.
Nu har jag börjar måla med vattenfärg istället. Göder mina mörka tankar på annat håll. Vatten finns det gått om. Färgen blandar jag själv. Det är en hobby jag haft ända sedan vi en gång bodde på land.
GUD vad jag behöver en kvinna!
“Doctor Capt´n”? Surely, we´ve reached some sort of madness-limit by now?
What most (all) of you probably didn´t know about the Capt´n is that he served as a ships doctor in his earlier seafaring years, althought for a suprisingly short time, even by his standards.
So, we can, for the first time. heartfully encourage you all to send in questions about your severe medical problems for the good Capt´n to answer.
Please note though, that if any of the advice the Capt´n might give you seems a little outside the book, or, to put it bluntly, straight out lethal, they probably are and we urge you to consult a licensed physichist instead, or at least one that possess a workings set of hands.
First totaly non-faked question.
Dear Dr Capt´n.
Yesterday, I was reaching into one of my many deep cupboards to fetch the jar of honey that I so desperatley desired, when something snapped in my arm. And I mean, there was a clearly audible SNAP emitting from my good reaching-arm!
Upon closer inspection by my comfortably close friend (who is a pig, if that helps) we discovered in horror that it seemed like a “seam” in my arm had ripped open! The later I got a note in the mail saying I had failed to pay the rent for the dirt cave in wich I live, and am being evicted this Thursday!
Please help me with this! I´m a stuffed, yellow bear of questionable girth, if that information makes it easier.
Love “Wheezer”
Dear Wheezer.
Having professionally read yer letter more than one time, wich is the professional approach to reading mail, I have concluded the following:
The greasy, waxy prints one yer paper suggests that ye don´t have hands, but rather huge fingers instead, each with one single opposable thumb, in lack of a better word.
Also, the paper smells heavily of Bee´s wax, wich indicates that yer telling the truth about yer demented obsession with honey, wich I suppose is good, since the first step out of any addiction is admitting yer problems, no matter how sick and nasty.
As for yer “friend” I strongly suspect that yer problem stems from a treason of his doing. It is a widely known fact that all pigs are murderers, and I´m frankly suprised that ye show no knowledge of this in yer letter.
Concerning a solution to this problem, I would say loose the swine, preferably slit his throat if possible, but with yer freakish finger hands in mind, such an attempt could well backfire on ye. Anyway, the murderous pig is probably wearing yer thorax skin like a skirt by now, so I might as well ignore this.
Next question!
Yo Capt´n!
This is not so much a physical problem as it is an emotional one, I suppose… I just feel like I need someone to talk to about it.
I am currently between appartments, but the one I´m spending the most time in is located in what I could only describe as a mouldy cave at the foot of a large mountain. It´s a nice place, althought the location could be better, oh well. My problem is, due to a unexplainable badminton accident in my youth, I´m left with an enlarged eardrum that picks up sounds within an amazing range.
This is a much a curse as it is a boon however, as I can´t help but pick up even unwanted sounds.
I´ve lost several jobs because of this. My closest neighbours are a group of rugged, single men that appears to be some sort of vikings. They throw wild rave parties fairly often, and I can only lie in my cave and listen to them having a wonderful time.
I´ve tried talking to them but everytime, I get so nervous, I cannot help but smashing their door in, ripping several of them in half and turning their fireplace a spooky blueish colour.
Please Capt´n you must help me overcome my shyness, I don´t want to be alone anymore!
Yours truly “Gerald”
Dear Gerald.
I can understand yer problem, perhaps more so that ye realize.
For ye see, yer not the only one, who´ve been scarred deeply by the sport they call “badminton”. Oh I was just a lad back then, naturally, but the memories… The knot that mine soul was tied into that day… The memories will never let it unfold completley.
It all started completly innocent, sure it was night, and a huge fireplace, and we were all drunker than a manatee with an ancor on its head, but all those things were considered incredibly innocent back then.
Oh, the blood, the shrieks, the sound of faces being sliced clean off, the endless squeeking of gym-shoes.
…
I´m sorry, I cannot go on like this..
This letter be opening to many bad wounds of the past.
Next one.
Hello Dr Capt´n
Everytime Im having dinner at my friends house, They serve me a special kind of yellowish meat, I´m not sure what kind of meat it is, but I suspect it´s oompa loompa or something like that.
I´m the only one who´s eating it though, since all my friends eat regular horse-meat. They also stare intensley at me as I eat, even going as far as doing eating motions with their jaws as to encourage me to dig into the dish. This disturbs me, because everytime I´ve finished eating it, I start to vomit profusley, and wont stop until the next morning or so.
Why is this? Could I perhaps be allergic to the mysterious meat? And why are my friends so intent on me eating that specific meat?
I do not dare to refuse them because Im deeply afraid of them all, except Larry, for whom I only feel a slight sickness, but that could well be because he hasn´t got a head.
Please Mr Capt´n, what should I do??
“St Bloated Cheeks” (Q.C.)
Good evening Bloated Cheeks!
Yellowish meat, ye say?
Hmm, it could be cooked and prepared flesh of the “Dubloon Whale” known for their golden colour and flirtatious demeanor. Legend tells of these massive creatures using their strange charms to lure sea men who recognized the charms of a “heavy” partner, to their watery doom.
Until the day, a wizard chubby chaser saw through the whales cruel sport and cursed them all, so that anyone who got real close to them emedietly started to feel what the wizard must have felt back then, when he woke up the next morning.
Regardning yer friends, I don´t know. Theyre probably mental, and ye should definetly dispose of them as quickly and violently as possible. I prescribe a long car ride off a short pier, a fitting end for the likes of those whale-mongers.
Just make sure ye use on of THEIR cars.
More letters, lest I knit yer guts into a sweather out of desperate boredom!
Please Help!
Doctor, you gotta help me!
I was in class the other day, and I accidently farted real loud, and the fart smelled like those puddles of water you find around landfills, you know?
And everyone thought it was immensly funny, and now, suddenly, I am the most popular student at my school! And I mean, ridiculously popular!
The girls are litterarly throwing themselves at me in the corridor, offering me their pink, supple flesh for me to do whatever I want with. I can´t cope with this sudden fame!
Please help me find a way to get less popular! I already tried being intimate with a stray hen I found, at the school auditorium, but this only attracted the much unwanted attention of the school´s league of elderly janitors. Please come to my aid Capt´n! Youre my only hope!
XxXxXx from “Bertrud”
Good Lord Bertrud!
Missing opportunities must be some kind of game ye gets off of!
If not, I can´t think of any valid reason for yer letter, I mean, pink supple teenage flesh AND janitors??
Anyway, if yer serious in yer desire to get rid of yer sudden celebrityhood, have ye considered poisoning the lot?
Like my grandmother capt´n used to say: “There are few things one can cause and undo with a simple mass-poisoning”. Preferably use a special kind of poison that needs to be applied directly to the girls delicates. Gaining access to their locker-rooms should prove no challenge for a man of yer elevated status, in fact, I better come over there and help ye with the poison.
Ye could get me in easily if you tell them I´m a friend of yer uncle. I´m so coming over there, what school did ye attend again? Don´t you DARE start without me Bertrud! I swear to GOD I will skewer ye like the fat little marsmallow ye are if ye so much as think of it!
HOLD ME CALLS!
The kidney was pickeled, I mean, not the entire baby.
Filed under: Uncategorized Tags: Atlas, Baby, Fluids, Updating-parlor
Oh God I really feel the noose tightening around my trunk like neck at this moment!
See, I had written this really clever and outstandingly witty text for us to put here, for all your reading pleasure.
But alas, one of the kitchen trolls managed to sneak its way into the updating-parlor and gobbled it up like a pickled baby´s kidney. Therefore, we are one masterpiece short, and left with a blog with a huge, gaping wound in the middle of its face, spewing fluids most putrid, crying, beggins for us to end its miserable, unholy suffering, or at least quickly slap together a new update to cover up the hole with.
So you see what kind of presure I am under right now?
What monstrous responsibility rests upon my unshaven shoulders?
I can really symphatize with Atlas, the cursed titan whom was destined to carry the world on his shoulders until judgement day.
Althought now that I think of it, Im probably worse off..
Atlas never had to deal with trolls in the kitchen I bet. Or the stresses of this unsafe economy..
He was probably just really whiny and big.
And his mom made him wear those really ugly short pants when he went to school, and all the other titans made fun of him and threw him into the ground to create lakes out of the craters he left behind, and that kind of stuff.
Children sure can be cruel… Especially child-titans. Not only cruel but probably extremley dangerous as well.
I wouldnt want to babysit a titan child, the risk for serious bodily damage would be far too great, and besides, I cannot deal with normal children, imagine how trying to get an angry child with god like powers into bed would be like??
Oh well would you look at that? An entire update appeared!
The brown gears of madness grinds ever hotter
A Screenshot of a Messenger conversation between Martin and Nilsy on a presumably, very hot day.
Translation:
Martin: A Cream-pike laid down and died on a lump of meringue.
Nilsy: No matter how many enemies you ´d shoot.
Nilsy: Bah
Nilsy: hahaha ya!
Martin: Bah!
Nilsy: And the creamy innards came pouring out.
Martin: Luckily, he had time to bathe himself in chocolate…
And you should consider yourselves lucky you don´t live anywere near us!
This is why we can´t have friends
Behold! A friendly friend came strolling by for an ever so friendly visit, accompanied by his always present friend and landlord: Hugh Sweaty Hand.
Oh woe! A sinister gentleman materialized in the pencil case! He cannot stand happiness!
Malice lies heavy in the air as he slowly emerges from his turgid lair…
Oh noes! He is casually leaning forward while brandishing a match! our friendly, less than flame proof friend is in grave danger!
AND SURE ENOUGH! Oh why must the kind hearted suffer so? Why must life be so cruel to the downtrodden?
Hugh Sweaty Hand is quickly reduced to a state of comatose! Surely, all hope is lost…
JUST THEN! The Capt´n came rushing drunkenly to the rescue, clad in his wonderful man-ape boots, stolen from the only human king born on Ape-Island. For more info, consult your local tourist center.
We´d like to tell you more about the daring rescue, with naked breasts, explosions, implosions and exploding breasts, but we find ourselves much more interested in the concept of “Ape-island”. And the rumors of a nude Ape-island beach, wich we so desperatly googled to find more information on, and so we are going to elaborate on that subject instead.
Words of Wet Wisdom
It´s been a while since the Capt´n siezed his frantic whipping of our gentle cheeks to go on vacation to the annual Crappy Cow Weekend in Whales. We are ofcourse, required by federal law to miss him, so everyday we weep bitterly into a bottle, wich we plan on giving him as a gift upon his return.
This, however suddenly seems like a potential waste of time, as we discovered his journal floating by the docks this morning, along with a corncob pipe and almost an entire raft made of porn.
[LOG BEGINS]
Upon arrival, I stapled a live frog to the doormat, as is customs in Britain. I have been here before ye know – during th´grand whale swinging championship back in 1897.
Th´breakfast, ofcourse, let out an evil hiss at me as I opened th´kage. But damned be the morrow I cant silence a breakfast with my sharpen´d harpoon and bare knuckles.
I FELT AN ILL WIND FROM THE GREY FIELDS..
… AND SUDDENLY, THREE, NAY! FOUR OF THEM BEASTS HAD WADDLED UP AGAINST ME! MY HARPOON, HUNGRY FOR THE FLESH OF COW, VIBRATED IN MY CLAMMY GRASP!
UDDERS SPEWING THE WHITE FLAME! SUCH AS HELLFIRE UPON THY SKIN!
LOW, GUTTURAL BELLOWING CRIES ACCOMPANIED BY VIGOROUS GNASHING OF TEETH AGAINST GRASS SLICED THE AIR AS THESE ABOMINATIONS WALLOWED THROUGH THE FOILAGE, EVER CONSUMING ITS GREEN HARVEST
(The rest is written in what apperas to be a mix of blood and milk, suprisingly tasty)
A thousand terrible tits reached for the air, as the white rain commenced The crew, prepared and trained by countless sessions of Condemned: Criminal Origins, stood their ground, napkins holstered with itchy fingers…
[END OF LOG]
The rest of the pages are torn out, only faint marks of hooves are visible in the rough paper.
There is no real need to panic though, as most of his written work gets submitted to us floating along on something anyway.
Rest asured, the Capt´n will live to scrimshaw another Dawn!
Let´s just hope the next Dawn can get away quicklier, the old one´s gotten so incredibly fat, the poor thing..
Like broken ribs!
Once again we are back!
Like a piece of unloved, discarded fecal matter crawling its way up from the toilet one night as you lay dormant on the couch, driven mad by the thought of vengeance, and towels.
It seems like everytime we claw our way out of the internet-coffin, we only manage to write one measly, yet desperatly hysterical update before the Capt´n notices it and tears our harddrive in twine, spurting porn and media-blood all over the treehouse.
The Capt´n sure hates updates, or any kind of recognizeable progress for the matter.
This time though, he is on vacation and we are free to do whatever we chose! Until he comes home and it´s back to living in the heavy shadow of constant fear and the acrid pool of suspiciously urine-like anxiety.
Anyway, with him out of the way, (and simultaniously, all the whales in the world in grave danger) we promises more updates, more fun and laughs, more art, more thrilling contests in wich you simply call in and win amazing prizes. Martin has once again put all of his creativity into one large brass-cauldron and boiled together a whipping new site full of wonders and spices.
And possibly a petting zoo sometime in the near future, bloated with all manner of creatures, large and small, such as… well, ducks? maybe? I dont know…
I cannot be expected to keep track of every beast that wanders around this place can I?
It´s bad enough with the gangs upon gangs of rogue ducks that simply let their furry selves in and waddles around, spreading fear wherever they venture. If anoyone know where these ducks hail from, or know of any potent duck-poison, let us know by email (the ducks have occupied the phone, and uses it for, ehm, well..)
In the beginning..
In the beginning, there was a small website dedicated to fill the world to its highest brim with annoying bullshit, mysterious and weird lists and the ever so popular “other news”.
Then, it happened…
The dark phenomenon that has slayed so many young hip websites before its time. The internet wizard sneezed all over the server, thus transforming it into an oily bear who emidietly tore out his magical wizard throat, and ran of with speed. The wizard, now tired and throatless, having lost his source of magic internet-power, slumped down unto his magical internet-stool and cried.
He cried bitter, bitter tears of ever so bitter bitterness, and thus, these so very bitter tears bitterly rolled of the Wizard´s
greasy cheek, and down on the wizard-floor, where the years of neglected house keeping on the Wizard´s part, caused the bitterness to react rather violently with the dirt and leftover magic dust and explode wich such force, that the crying wizard´s magical shoes were ever so slightly singed.
The magic- tinged explosion mixed with the (obviously single) Wizard´s dirty socks created a magical black hole who slurped down ten pairs of dirty underwear fresh from the Wizard´s ripe used clothes pile and, when all of these mysterious and odorous ingredients combined, it created something new, something beautiful, something so full of nonsense you wouldn´t believe it.
The new Strawberrybazooka.