Nature’s intent, it says. Did nature truly intend for pineapples to be covered in chocolate? A question for the ages.
One which I believed I had the answer to.
In order to test my theory, I ingested a piece of pineapple covered in chocolate. Indeed, my hypothesis was confirmed.
The answer is no, in case you were wondering. Nature did not intend for pineapples to be covered in chocolate.
Because it’s gross.
Stop it, nature.
Bene edite.
Uh-oh, another one.
“This suit,” Flatt muttered, half turning to the left, then right, as he admired himself in the mirror, “is rather grey. Extremely grey, one might say. But is it…” He ran his hands over the coat. “…too grey?”
“I shouldn’t think so, sir,” his robot coyote responded with a tilt of his head.
The tailor started, falling back onto his bum and dropping his tape. “Heavens! It can talk?”
“Featherby can extremely talk,” Flatt sighed, waving a hand in dismissal of the obvious. “For him not to speak would be the proper marvel.”
The tailor frowned, but went back to work.
Flatt’s gaze returned to the mirror, but truthfully, had never left it. “Perhaps you’re right, Featherby. One can never have too grey a suit, can he?”
“Not when made by the finest tailor in Danesbury, sir.”
“Oh, well,” the tailor sputtered, distracted but obviously chuffed, “th-thank you, yes. You’re a–a fine thing, I suppose.”
Featherby nodded curtly, and Flatt shook his head, summoning an appropriate reply to his tongue, but before it could bust snappily and handsomely through his lips, the shop’s door swung open and a man in a lavender suit twirled in.
“What on Earth…?” Flatt only saw him through the mirror, and still didn’t feel like turning around.
“I require a tune-up for my vestments,” the entrant announced, voice lilting all over the place. His short hair and mustache were blue, which they had no business being, if Flatt were to be consulted on the matter.
“Mr. Gabbery is quite occupied at the moment, I’m afraid,” Flatt said, ensuring his tone suggested his own importance without necessarily rubbing it in the strange man’s face.
“Yet I am an immediate man,” the newcomer assured, holding his arms out and strutting fancily over to the others.
Featherby piped up, “And who are you, precisely, if you do not mind my asking?” There may have been a bite to his words. Good for Featherby.
The man turned to the coyote and set his fingertips upon his breast. “Dabither Fudgebegotten, naturally.” He swooped down and held out a hand, to which Featherby tentatively offered a paw, and they shook. He then straightened up and faced the tailor once more, gesturing over himself. “Now present me that I am presentable.”
“Of–of course, just as soon as I finish–” Mr. Gabbery began, but Fudgebegotten overrode him:
“Cannot be borne, I regret to say. I have many preparations to make.”
Flatt finally deigned to turn his head, raising an eyebrow. “Surely, my good man, you cannot mean to interrupt my fitting?”
“I haven’t the time to wait on questionably grey suits, I fear. I’m certain you understand.”
“Nonsense,” Flatt grumbled. “Its greyness is precise…”
“Nevertheless,” Fudgebegotten intoned, addressing the tailor, “my needs are a priority.” He smiled, and his mustache twiggled. “I promise.”
The tailor furrowed his brow, but nodded. “Very well, then.” He gestured headwise for Flatt to step down from the pedestal.
Flatt eyed him. “Truthfully, Mr. Gabbery?”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Flatt. He did promise.”
Flatt groaned but complied. “Come, then, Featherby. Let us quit the scene of this indignity.” He marched toward the exit, coyote in tow, but stopped as he reached the door, glowering back at the lavender-suited tailor usurper. “Mr. Fudgebegotten – you wouldn’t happen to have been wearing a hat earlier, by any chance?”
“Maaaybe,” Fudgebegotten practically sang, lips pursed joyfully and eyebrows waggling for a needlessly extended period.
Flatt’s face darkened, and he flung his way out through the shop’s threshold.
“You know, sir,” Featherby mused as they walked down the street, “now that I see it in the daylight, I wonder if it could be said that your suit is, perhaps, after all, just a touch too much on the grey side.”
The frown on Flatt’s face might have dislocated his jaw. “Oh, Featherby, why did I build you?”
“For good times, sir.”
Bene scribete.
SPACE WINNER!
YEEEEEAAAAAAAHHH!!!
Do you–do you want to win? DO YOU?
Don’t just win the land and the sea and the sky THAT’S FOR BABIES.
DON’T BE A BABIES.
You need to–need to win at SPACE.
Stars and lasers and synth music everywhere!
Win it! Win the space! Win 68cm x 38cm x 85cm of OUTER SPACE!
You can do it!
DISCOVER A F%$#ING PLANET.
You can be–
BE A SPACE WINNER!!!
YEEEEEEEAAAAAAHHH!!!
BODENSCHRANK!
Bene vīvite.
Do you want to do your part to cut down on resource consumption, but still want to look like you take your beverages from disposable aluminum containers that you could, at any moment, crush against your skull and toss onto the sidewalk as you walk by with a satisfied belch?
Do you want to drink from a reusable metal mock-pull-tab can?
Why?
I mean, you can – look at the picture – you can, but why? Why, though?
Why do you want to do that?
Do you want to put your drink into a metal soda/beer can, but then use a straw anyway?
Even more why?
Is this–is this a good idea?
Why does one of the straws have a gasket on it?
Bene scribete.
Dog shoes are a thing. I think, on some level, we all know this. But there’s something about the presentation of these ones in particular that stands out.
Is it the needless naming of them “bark’n boots” or the even more needless trademarking of said name?
Is it the casual classification of them as “paw wear” as though that were an everyday product category?
Is it the perfectly fashion-shot close-up of a dog paw model (and the realization that that’s also a thing)?
Is it that the packaging designer forgot about capital letters?
No. I think it’s the mascot’s opinion on all of the above.
Just look at that sass. “RUFFWEAR? Are you kidding me?”
Mascot dog, I salute you. You don’t have time for all that nonsense. You just want some little booties for your paws.
Bene scribete.
N…n-no.
Bene scribete.
This car is…very excited to be a Prius. Not a single E was spared.
Or maybe it’s an acronym?
Exuberantly ensuring environmentally endangered ecosystems exist eternally?
I don’t know, but like to imagine that’s the sound it makes when it’s zipping down the road, blissfully enraptured in the fact that it’s a car and can go faster than any cheetah, and never has to know what Pepperidge Farm Goldfish Mac & Cheese tastes like.
Bene scribete.
Don’t float in a moat
With a goat-toting boat.Don’t fly in the sky
With a sly lying spy.Don’t run in the sun
With a pun-loving nun.(Take note as to why I’m no fun.)
Bene scribete.
I’m sure we’re all familiar with the sleazy but time-honored practice of shunting off portions of the cost of an item or service into a miscellany of arbitrary fees that are inseparable from the cost of trading in said item or service – and thus have no reason not to be factored into the sale price – in order to deceptively advertise a false, lower cost.
When the local K-Mart was closing down and selling off their fixtures, however, I saw what has to be the most blatant, lazy, and absurd example of this I could possibly imagine – a “buyer’s fee.”
Let me say that again – a “buyer’s fee.”
I mean, is there anything more inherent to the cost of buying an item than, you know, buying it? It’s practically a parody of itself.
“See, this shelving unit costs $50, but the privilege of actually buying it will run you another $7.50. You can avoid the buyer’s fee if you just want to pay the fifty bucks and let us keep the unit.”
Way to go, K-Mart. You’ll be the envy of ISPs everywhere. (>^-‘)>
Bene scribete.
I’m going to be honest – this is not worth reading.
Dincton Flatt shuffled ponderously down Bendstrom avenue, eyes darting suspiciously at everyone he passed by.
“It’s far too small a day for bacon,” he muttered.
“I wouldn’t know,” said Featherby, trotting alongside him. And he wouldn’t, for in addition to being a coyote, he was a robot, and could not eat bacon in the slightest.
Flatt stopped a short, round man coming from the opposite direction, placing his hands to his shoulders and leering into his beady eyes. “You.”
“Me?” the man sputtered.
“Yes, you. The very one I am accosting. How long have you had that hat?”
The man reached up and grabbed at his driving cap. “This one?”
“Yes, that one. Out with it, man.”
“Er–a couple years, I imagine.”
“And how long have you been wearing it?”
“All day – what is the meaning of this?”
Flatt sighed and released him, waving him off. The man gave a distrustful glance, but went on his way.
“Sir,” offered Featherby, “perhaps you shouldn’t be attempting to track down our hatleaver on an empty stomach.”
Flatt wiped a hand down his face. “Yes, I suppose you’re right. But what could possibly satisfy my hunger for justice?”
“There’s a newspaper-and-taco stand just over there.”
“Why on Earth is there a newspaper-and-taco stand on Bendstrom?”
“A question for the ages, sir.”
“Never mind. It’ll do in a pinch.” Flatt made his way over to the stand and got the attention of its attendant – an oily teenager with lank brown hair in his eyes (which could only serve to obscure his taco-related perceptive capabilities).
“Good afternoon, sir,” said the vendor. “Would you like a taco?”
“As it happens, I would.” Flatt looked the boy up and down. “I see you’re not wearing a hat.” He narrowed his eyes. “Have you murdered anyone lately?”
The vendor got to work on the taco. “I don’t think so. I’m not really one for murderin’. Mum would be none too pleased with that.”
Something on the front of the day’s paper caught Flatt’s attention, and he snatched up a copy. Depicted in the side column was an all-too-familiar face.
“Cleben Render.” A fart of a man if ever there was one, and there was one, and his name was Cleben Render. His fiery red hair and leaf-green suit said it all.
Featherby nosed at another copy. “What do you imagine he is doing back in Danesbury?”
“Who could say?”
“Likely the story written about him in the very paper you’re holding, sir.”
“There’s no time for that, Featherby!” He slammed the paper back into the stand, and in the following moment, was handed a fresh, sizzling taco.
It smelled appetizing enough, but as he tested it out in his hand, he noticed an unusually generous heft.
“This taco is rather heavy, isn’t it? Is the shell made of solid gold?”
The vendor shrugged. “I think that would be cost-prohibitive, sir.”
“How much is it?”
“Two quid.”
“Lead in the beef, then?”
“Maybe if the cow was shot to death.” The boy fired off a pair of finger-guns.
Flatt bit into the taco. The flavor was loud, and it hit his gut as though his esophagus were punching him in the stomach. His colon began to rumble, and his eyes reached out in desperation for the nearest establishment with plumbing. “Pay the man, Featherby.” He began to backpedal.
“Sir? You have given me no funding.”
Flatt turned and broke out into a sprint, calling back, “Oh, Featherby, why did I build you?”
“For good times, sir!”
Bene scribete.
Writin' Fish 