mockable.org

First of all, because my lazy ass isn’t writing all that well lately, we’re running low on guest mocks.  We need more, so like those greedy bastards at the Red Cross – we’re gonna badger you until you write something… Elle? BlondeGoddess? ShinyRod? Chu’s Hot Sister? Skully? DTO? Chuck? Big Mike? Zazu? Big Bear in Ohio? Bueller?  Bueller? Bueller?

This week features another excellent offering from Taiwan On.  Read it, then go to his site and read that and then come over here and give me a hug…ya big oaf.

I like to read. A good book makes you feel that you are not alone. There are other human beans that have thoughts other than “Me eat now” or “What’s on TV?”.

Recently, a friend of mine had the chance to visit Taiwan for a few weeks. He was stuck in a hotel, so I loaned him a few books so that he could have something to do other than masturbate or watch the idiot tube (or both simultaneously – fun!).

When he left Taiwan, he thoughtfully returned the books and, I guess as a “thank you”, he included a book that he had purchased. I will not cite the book title or author because, well, the book that my friend gave me is possibly the worst book ever published. And I don’t want to make James Patterson feel bad about writing “Cross Country”.

I made it through the first 42 pages and, after throwing up a bit in mouth, I had to stop. It was already Chapter 12! Note to fellow readers – if a book has chapters that are two pages long then burn that book immediately. Screw the greenhouse affect. The book must be burned.

I am sure that this “book” was purchased in an airport convenience store. It has a professional book cover with an embossed title and everything. And, get this, the book cover has the phrase “#1 New York Times Bestseller”. That has to be impossible. It’s like saying that the St. Louis Rams are the “#1 Football Team”. Or that Uzbekistan is the “#1 Tourist Destination”.

From my brief stomach-turning read of the “book”, this guy named Alex Cross is a down-to-earth guy that won’t let the “man” get in his way. Here are some quotes from the “book” – just incredibly bad. How does this shit get published?

- “I wasn’t soft. If anything, I was still too hard, too unyielding, too uncompromising.”

- “They wanted to scare somebody, I was thinking as I entered a brightly lit, warmly decorated alcove.

- “Or maybe one very smart killer, trying to keep us guessing”.

I could go on but it would just get worse. It is surprising that the author even knows what an alcove is. Apparently this “book” is the 14th installment of the Alex Cross series. I have just one thing to say (which I have said before in other mocks): Stop. Please stop.

If you’d like to contribute a Friday Guest Mock please send it to mockable[at]gmail.com  If it’s funny and won’t get us sued, we’ll most likely feature it at the site.   And don’t forget to include the address to your blog or website, so we can link back at ya.  Thanks

“Wasn’t it just terrible what happened to Mary McCloskey?” said Edna St. James to Ann Williams early on Monday morning.

“Yes, just horrible,” answered Ann. “I’ve always been a little leery of those lift chairs.  They found her body all the way across the room!”

Edna St. James lived in apartment 311 in Golden Heights Senior Citizen’s Complex and she was the designated gardener in charge of the front flower beds. Ann Williams lived in 708 and was one of the resident “characters” — some would say a royal bitch. Mary McCloskey was the fallen resident of 212. She had looked out the window a lot.

“I hope that old biddy’s out of the flower bed when I get back, I need a new flower,” said Ann to herself as she walked toward city hall to pay her water bill. Ann was very fond of plants and flowers and simply loved a single fresh bud in a small vase on her kitchen table. She had been buying her flowers at the grocers, but the prices had grown intolerable so she had recently resorted to visiting the complex’s prized flower beds.

Edna was very protective of her flowers, almost laughably so. When she would find that one had been picked, she would become visibly angry. She posted signage on all of the bulletin boards and was very suspicious of anybody who commented on them. Most just stayed away for fear of being publicly persecuted. At Golden Heights, flowers were neither a sign of peace nor tranquility.

When Ann returned from her errands Edna was indeed gone.  So she boldly stepped one foot over the miniature plastic fence and snagged a healthy red bud from the black soil. She then winked at Rose McClannahan who sat giggling into her hand on a nearby bench.

Seven hours later an ambulance screamed to a halt in front of the complex. Mass rubber-necking immediately broke out.

“What happened?” said Rose.

“Why, I don’t know,” whispered Ann.

A large slab of ceiling tile had fallen on a tooth-sucking Jesse Winsome in the cafeteria, and he was pronounced dead by the paramedics. Out front a horror-stricken Edna St. James ran through the double doors and stared at the empty space in her flower bed. Ann and Rose watched and said nothing.

Ann found this behavior to be curious. Residents were dropping like flies and all Edna could think about was her damn flowers. She just couldn’t figure that woman out.

While sitting on the bus on Thursday Ann began to piece together some bizarre idea that linked the flower bed to the residents of the complex. She noted that on every day a resident had died, she had earlier picked a fresh flower.  She was momentarily horrified but then quickly dismissed it as the overactive imagination of an old woman.

When Ann returned to the complex that afternoon, she stopped at the flower bed and for the first time took a good long look at it. Edna was giving her suspicious glances as Ann counted to herself. The flowers were planted in perfect rows of fifteen. There were seven rows and there should have been 105 flowers, which was the exact number of units at Golden Heights. But seven flowers were missing. And seven tenants had recently died!

Ann could hardly carry herself to the elevator. Her cheapness and attempts at being cute had caused seven people to die. She went into her apartment and eventually slept a tortured sleep.

Ann had always been a morning person however, and when she awoke she was full of vigor and looking on the bright side.  She convinced herself that she hadn’t reached the age of seventy-three merely by accident. She thought of herself as being a very shrewd woman, and was preparing to fall back on that virtue one more time.

Ann despised living on the top floor and wasn’t about to continue to do so. She devised a plan that would eliminate Edna St. James and win her control of the flower bed. She would then cause one of the first floor apartments to become empty, which she would immediately seize as her own.  Ann was second in line to receive a ground floor apartment, behind Edna who would be dead by then.  It was perfect.

On Saturday morning Ann slid out of bed and proceeded down to the dew covered flowers.  She counted down three rows and over eleven, Edna’s apartment being number 311. She closed her eyes and pulled the flower from the ground. And four hours later Mrs. Upjohn in 511 slipped on an olive and emptied most of her blood supply under the stove. Ann had started counting from the wrong end. Damn!

But on Wednesday Edna St. James quit breathing when she guessed the exact amount of the showcase on The Price Is Right. Ann had completed phase one of her plan. Very soon waiting on an elevator would be a thing of the past for her.

On Friday Ann went to the funeral home and tried to decide on a color of drapes for her new apartment, while Edna’s relatives howled in grief. Then Ann’s friend Rose walked in, and placed a bouquet of familiar flowers on the midriff of the dead Edna St. James.

“Rose, where’d you get those flowers?” inquired Frantic Ann.

“You know she loved them so, I just felt it was appropriate,” answered Sincere Rose.

Ann rushed back to the complex to find flames shooting out of the seventh floor windows. She looked down in horror, and saw that the entire seventh row of the flower bed was missing.  Then a fireman’s helmet fell from the roof and put her to sleep forever.

So anyway, I am trying to get this thing published and the powers that be aren’t exactly fighting over me.  So I figured I’d take care of that by posting an excerpt about a drunken beef jerky eating contest and then I’d sit back and wait for the offers to come in…That’s how this business works right?  Hello?

“Hey bitches! We need some jerky!” screamed the first man through the door. Jike struggled to stand up. The man stopped and gaped at Carolyn, his entire existence moving in waves. “But you guys need some beef,” he said as he pointed. The drunk’s finger remained on Carolyn as his eyes attempted to focus on Jike.

“Except that guy. He’s had enough beef. And enough jerky. This guy’s had too much everything!” Jike steadied himself on the counter and motioned toward the remaining men.

“Subjugate your friend or I’ll summon the authorities,” said Jike calmly. The drunk continued staring at Jike.

“You subjugate your thyroid gland or I’ll call a bariatric physician,” replied the drunk, who was now pointing at Jike. Carolyn sat up with intrigue. One of the drunk’s friends shrugged casually.

“Sorry man, he’s pre-med,” apologized the friend. “Please just direct us to the beef jerky and we’ll get out of your hair.” Jike exhaled loudly.

“The dried beef is situated at the end of that passageway, athwart from the coolers,” said Jike.

“You fart,” said the drunk as he ran to the jerky. The drunk’s friends watched as he loaded his arms with an end cap full of jerky.

“Forgive me for asking guys,” said Carolyn, “but what are you going to do with all that beef jerky?”

“I love jerky,” said the drunk. “I want it inside me.”

“He loves jerky,” repeated one of the men who had been mute until now. “Apparently he wants it inside him. He’s gonna eat all the jerky in the place. Don’t worry; he’s got a credit card to pay for it.”

“Does he possess a cellular telephone that he might use to summon an ambulance?” asked Jike. Nearly everyone nodded as the drunk dropped the shrink-wrapped meat on his counter. Jike looked down at the meat, looked up at the drunk and then looked at his friends.

“Is this man driving?” asked Jike.

“What’re you gonna do? Refuse to sell him the meat?” asked one of the friends. Jike looked to Carolyn, who retorted with a shrug. Jike rang up the purchase as fast as he could.

“Fifty-six seventeen,” said Jike. “Will that be cash, check or charge?”

“The answer is charge my good man,” hollered the drunk. Jike took the card and scanned it. He put the meat in a sack as he waited for the register to approve the transaction. The drunk offered a wavy line in lieu of an actual signature and took off with the meat.

“Ohhh jerky, I want you inside me!” he yelled as he escaped the Clarenceoco at top speed. His friends shuffled out behind, laughing amongst themselves. Jike and Carolyn stared at each other silently as they waited for the guys to clear the property.

“I wish to express my gratitude for your assistance,” said Jike sarcastically.

“If anyone on this planet has an appropriate comeback for drunk medical students in a jerky eating contest, I would imagine it’s you,” replied Carolyn.

“Perhaps I’m losing my touch,” said Jike. He pondered for a moment and shrugged. “One cannot bedevil oneself with such concerns…time to mop.” Jike walked back to a small closet and rolled out a yellow plastic mop bucket and pushed it next to the bathroom door.

“I’ve been hanging out here with you forever and I don’t think I’ve ever seen you mop once,” said Carolyn.

“It’s more of an exercise in mental conditioning than mopping really,” replied Jike.

“You don’t actually mop, do you?” asked Carolyn.

“Negative, my dear convenience store companion,” said Jike.

“Let me guess, you coat the bucket and mop with a little bit of water right before Clarence comes in in the morning?”

“That is affirmative,” said Jike.

“He becometh poor that dealeth with a slack hand: but the hand of the diligent maketh rich,” said Carolyn.

“I don’t ever recall professing a desire to be rich,” replied Jike. “Besides, faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things unseen.”

“I don’t think that’s what they meant,” replied Carolyn.

“I beg to differ,” said Jike. “Clarence himself accepted this identical explanation last week.”

“You’re terrible,” laughed Carolyn. “Even for a Universalist.”

Jike and Carolyn perked their ears toward a commotion in Clarence’s parking lot. A high-pitched laugh projected over what sounded like the constant low grumble of men’s voices. Carolyn sat up and jumped to her feet. The freezer squeaked as the shift in weight caused it to jerk forward. Carolyn walked to the glass door and looked out.

“Holy cow, Jike. It’s those guys. They’re doing the jerky contest in the parking lot!” exclaimed Carolyn. Jike pushed himself to his feet and shuffled toward the door.

“I cannot truthfully say that this turn of events was unexpected,” said Jike calmly. “I suppose I’ll convoke the authorities.” As Jike reached toward the handle, the drunk reappeared, running from the side of the building and blasting his entire body through the door.

Jike spun around in a futile effort to remain on his feet. Carolyn could only watch as the drunk sprinted past and Jike jumbled awkwardly to the ground. The drunk was still running as he grabbed the knob and attempted to push with his shoulder. His hand spun around the stationary hardware as he slammed into the locked door and dropped to the floor. Both men struggled to stand.

“You need a key,” said Jike.

“Jerky doesn’t wanna be inside of me!” yelled the man as he crawled to the plastic yellow container. Carolyn shut her eyes and plugged her ears hard with her index fingers. The drunk ferociously cleared the evening’s digestive history into Clarence’s mop bucket.

“You need a key,” Jike repeated in defeat as he watched the drunk hurl for what seemed like an eternity. When it seemed as though it was over, Carolyn unplugged her ears and extended her hand to Jike. He accepted her hand, stood up and headed toward the phone.

The drunk stood synchronically, wiped his mouth on his sleeve and staggered to the door.

“Sorry man. Jerky was a bitch. I’ll clean it up in the morning,” said the kid as he stumbled into the parking lot. Jike abandoned the phone and followed him outside. The wheels of a black muscle car chirped as the car entered the roadway heading east. Jike squinted in an effort to make out the alphanumeric pattern on the license plate. He exhaled in frustration as he realized they were illegible from such a distance. Jike exhaled again when he spied the pile of wrappers scattered amongst unopened meat sleeves. He struggled to breathe as he bent over, picked up the empty wrappers and deposited them into the trash containers that stood less than six feet away. Jike walked back into Clarence’s.

“Did ya get ‘em?” asked Carolyn excitedly. Jike did not answer. He walked behind the counter, grabbed a plastic bag and headed back outside.

“You need a key,” Jike said to himself as he struggled to bend over and pick up the unopened product. He estimated that they had only eaten about ten bucks worth of product. Jike opened a stick of “spicy teriyaki” and thought as he chewed. He decided that this might not be such a horrible turn of events. Jike could return the product to the shelf, show the receipt to Clarence and clear his debt completely. Now he had to do something about the booze, bile and masticated jerky that was fermenting in Clarence’s mop bucket.

“He paid with a credit card,” said Carolyn as Jike shuffled inside. “Look at the receipt.” Jike returned to his seat behind the counter and hit the “no sale” button. The register’s drawer shot open and Jike snatched up the pile of credit card receipts that had amassed throughout his shift.

“His name is Tabor Johnston,” said Jike, “although I am not particularly interested in justice.”

“You should be,” replied Carolyn. “It’s starting to smell like puke and beer in here.” Jike walked around the counter again and made his way toward the bucket. He looked away and held his breath as he grabbed the handle of the wringer and quickly rolled it toward the door. Jike pulled the door open and rolled the bucket into the parking lot. He bowled it hard toward the dumpster and headed back into the store before its final resting place was decided.

“You’re just going to leave it there?” asked Carolyn.

“By the grace of God, Clarence’s pail will become unsullied without my travail,” answered Jike.

“You’re asking God to clean out the mop bucket full of a drunk pre-med student’s jerky vomit?” asked Carolyn. At that moment a clap of thunder descended upon Melville…