I've got a piece of really bizarre amateur fiction featuring mine

http://www.intertext.com/v8n4/funworld.html

(Jeremy Coombs)

"You bet," replied Dan Perry, sidling over. "100% pure bootyflakes, straight from my mine. You wouldn't think that it would sell, but we're hauling out two truckloads a day. The hole is getting pretty deep."

"What?" asked Aja, looking around the corner.

"Nothing!" exclaimed everyone in unison.

Just then the door flew open. "Hey guys! If you were all by yourself in a room but then all of a sudden some famous female pop star offered to give you a willie-rub, would you wet yourself like I just did, or try to think of some horrid bird instead, and then post about it on the Internet? By the way, is there anything in the fridge?"

"Do not feed the troll!" exlaimed everyone in unison, except for someone else who gave him a candy bar while still wondering why he showed up every day at around this point.

Just then a moderator showed up, pointed his finger at a 12-foot high photograph and magically turned it into a small piece of paper with a bit of writing on it, and just before leaving for the day posted a sign on the door outside reading "WARNING! Not safe for work!"

"Why that no good maple syrup-swilling back bacon-eating hoser!" shouted Ned, who flounced out of the room.

And with that, Sean Carruthers finally kissed the woman of his dreams.

priceless

SHELF LIFE OF THIRTEEN DAYS

or how I learned to stop lurking and eat dick fagtogs

DRAMATIS PERSONAE:
RONAN, a golf raver
GARETH, a charlton lido
MOMUS, the god of mockery, unfounded criticism and faultfinding
TRACER HAND, a traitor to his homeland

TRACER HAND is sitting in a chair made from hundreds of choice early and mid-nineties R+S vinyl releases. GARETH and RONAN are standing nearby, looking sketchy and holding big glasses of lager. MOMUS is attached to the ceiling via a number of suction cups. Playing in the background is Atmosfear's "Motivation (Dimitri From Paris remix)."

TRACER HAND: It just seems like the argument that if we pay Haggar workers .25/hr to make corduroy jeans in Ciudad Juarez, they'll buy lots of refrigerators and cars and CDs and matchsticks, has seemed, como se dice, BUSHEET MAN.

GARETH: Ah durnt lark Trayrcer's turn!

RONAN: Haha!

GARETH: Rurnan can ah borror yer hepflarsk? What yow gorinnit?

RONAN: Grayrveh.

MOMUS: By the way, your reflection on the lost joys of collectivism touches on something I just wrote in an (otherwise rather prosaic) essay I just posted to the Momus site. Yes, I've been experiencing major nostalgia for the Soviet Union!

Everyone turns into a Sanrio character.

THE END