Archive
Royer to Open Series of Automats
By Grady Kitchens
Senior Staff Writer
File photo
Incarcerated executive Ric Royer (who elected to use his given name for this story) announced today that he will be opening a series of automats, many of which will appear at Memorial Yea! Keepsake Auditorium and other sports venues throughout Lankville. The automats are on target to be open by 2014.
Royer, who appeared in front of one of the automats still under construction, was seen laughing and jostling with reporters and fans and engaging in generalized horseplay.
“The mechanism of the automat is of great interest to me,” Royer later explained as a series of ominous storm clouds entered the area, presaging an epoch of great destruction, death, famine and possible cannibalism. “But the tempting array of foods holds an even greater fascination.”
“When you look at the slabs of pie behind the glass,” Royer continued, “you will be instantly deceived. The slab of pie is not as big as it looks. You see a very large piece of pie. You put in your money, open the receptacle and remove an extremely small piece of pie. You will be vastly disappointed. But by then, I will already have your money. I will have already deceived you.”
“Also, the pies are really, really, really terrible,” Royer added.
When asked if the eccentric executive had revealed too much about his scheme, Royer appeared confused and stared towards the sky, lost in thought.
My Name is Mike Squatch
By Mike Squatch
Architectural Correspondent
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My name is Mike Squatch. I am an architect. I designed Vitiello Decorative Hams Arena.
I have a delightful studio paneled in lovely plastic oak which I designed myself. The studio is sunken slightly and my wife Sally has placed large pillows about the steps, creating a plush and luxurious effect. We are married.
Working from home has many advantages. For example, I was able to keep an eye on the foreclosed house next door. Some troublemakers have been placing carryout fliers in the mailbox. I have had to anonymously phone our block watch several times.
After a few months, the house was placed up for sale. Several couples came to a Sunday Open House. I scanned the crowd carefully to be sure there were no interlopers. I asked Sally to do so as well but she was too interested in sitting on the couch to bother. We are married.
Later that same week, my oldest son Kirk came into my studio. “Now, Kirk,” I lightly scolded, “I’m putting the finishing touches on plans for a Pizza Barn. This better be important.” “Gee, it sure is Dad,” he responded in his energetic, effusive manner. “Some people are moving into the old Householder place!” I got up immediately and peeped out the living room window.
To my shock, I saw a corpulent, gaudy sort of person laboring under a tremendous cardboard box that seemed to be wet and splitting open at the edges. He was clad in low-quality garments and sported a small mustache. “Gee, Dad,” said Kirk. “What sort of person is that?” “I don’t know, Kirk,” I responded. “I don’t know.”
Later that night, I asked our maid, Miss Grubers, to make some cupcakes. “Gee Mr. Squatch,” she said, “you’re so much better at making cupcakes than me. Particularly with the frilly decorating.” I thought about that. “You’re right, Miss Grubers. I’ll take care of it myself.” Miss Grubers nodded and joined Sally on the couch. Sally is my wife.
The next morning, I took the cupcakes over to the old Householder place. The corpulent man answered the door. He was wearing pajamas and engaged in extensive mastication of some sort of foodstuff. There was an unspeakable magazine in his hand showing some women wearing garters and hanging about shiftlessly on a green couch.
“My name is Mike Squatch,” I said, by way of introduction. “I’m married and live next door. Just wanted to welcome you to the neighborhood.”
He looked down at the 24-cup muffin tin, each filled with perfectly-rounded specimens.
“These are for you,” I offered.
“Hey, look at that, would you. Muffins.” He grabbed the tin and broke open a muffin near the corner. “Huh, what’s that, blueberries?”
“Yes, blueberries. My name is Mike Squatch,” I offered again.
“OK, Mike. Thanks a lot. I’ll have these today, get this pan back to you, or whatever.”
He suddenly shut the door.
It’s been a week. The pan has not been returned. He has not mowed his lawn and there are strange moving lights to be seen from his basement windows at odd hours of the night. My work has begun to suffer. I have been short with the children.
I am married.
Royer’s Madcap Experiences: The Bimbi and the Challenge at the Counter
By Ric Royer
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She was a bimbi straight out of the continent. We met in a cafe– I was reading a copy of Behind Enthusiast. Right out in public– I didn’t give a shit.
“Would you like to walk by the old churchyard?” she asked.
“Let’s make it quick,” I said and I showed her the new shorts I had just purchased and their tendency to ride up on the thigh.
“Yes, that must be uncomfortable,” she said. I crushed my lips to hers suddenly. “Forget about the shorts,” I whispered sensuously.
Later, we went for that walk. There was a little wall there but no yard to be seen. I made a comment.
“Yes, there used to be a lovely verdant churchyard here,” she said as the sun glinted off her coiffed auburn hair. “But after a time, the people, they said, no, and then they said , oh fuck this crap, we’ve had enough of this crap and then the yard was plowed over in favor of this cracked asphalt and weed combination that you see today.”
“Must’ve been sad,” I said. Secretly though, I admired the cracked asphalt-weed combination.
“Yes. Yes, it was terribly. I don’t believe that my mother, an immigrant from the Northern Hole Area, ever got over it.”
We walked on and eventually came upon a Pappy’s Chicken. I was suddenly starving.
“Hey, you wanna’ get a 24-piece? Maybe go out into the woods with it?”
She looked at the ground. “No…no…I will wait here.”
It took forever. While in line, I was suddenly challenged by another patron. We fought around back with clubs that had been set on fire at both ends. I came away victorious but with a terrible mark on the forehead. Plus, I had to buy the 24-piece all over again. “I told you to set it aside,” I yelled. But the fucker at the front counter played dumb. I knew he’d have at the bucket as soon as I left.
“I’m sorry,” I said to the bimbi.
“It was a challenge,” she said and shrugged her shoulders. From somewhere, she produced a moistened cloth. “Come back to my room.”
By candlelight, the bimbi nursed me back to health. I admired some paintings that were flanking a battered bureau.
“Those were done by my mother. They are meant to reflect the difficulties of immigrant life in Lankville.”
“I like the yellows,” I offered. I closed my eyes and listened to the trickle of water in the basin.
“Think of things besides the fire clubs,” she whispered.
“I won that challenge. You know that.”
“There are no winners in a challenge. Look at the paintings again.”
They seemed suddenly transformed. The figures had changed, were far more grotesque than before. One was holding a pizza.
“That is what I see when I see Lankville. That is what my mother saw.”
I was beginning to understand.
Nevertheless, we had intercourse.
Columnist Thurston Makes Miraculous Recovery from Fugue
By Brock Belvedere, Jr.
Senior Staff Writer
File photo
Lankville Daily News correspondent Dr. Kevin Thurston (expert on men’s feelings) made a miraculous recovery last night from a rare coma-like condition known as a psychogenic fugue. The therapist and writer is expected back to work tomorrow.
“He was on death’s door. We thought he might be dead,” said the presiding doctor, an island person. “It is very rare for someone to recover from this.”
Thurston was observed sitting up in bed, laughing at some gentle, restrained riddles and eating from a tray of chuck.
“He’s doing real well, just looking forward to getting back, writing about men’s feelings,” said his brother, who then offered this reporter a used portable carpet sweeper for $9.99. “He loves to be out there, servicing men.”
Thurston has been penning the column Feelings by Dr. Kevin Thurston since 2013.
Ric Royer’s Recipe for Thanksgiving Larded Roast Hare
By Ric Royer
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Incarcerated business magnate and sports club owner Ric Royer (who elected to use his given name for this recipe) is not just an innovative executive. He is also quite the gastronome. He shared with The Lankville Daily News his recipe for Thanksgiving Larded Roast Hare.
“Well, we’re going to skin, draw and truss the little motherfucker,” said Royer, from the kitchens at the Foontz-Flonnaise Home of Abundant Senselessness. “Then, you want to lard the back fillets with finely-cut lardons and braise them in a sauce Irlandaise. While you’re doing that, you want to get a square piece of buttered wax paper and just roast the holy hell out of it for twenty minutes. Just incinerate the bejesus out of it. Then, we’ll remove the paper, meanwhile keeping it well-basted, remove the strings, the cheese cloth and the clippers and serve the whole load of bullshit up on a hot dish.
Have the Irlandaise sauce ready to go in one of those old god damn sauceboats. Make a fucking mess of it with watercress– just pummel it diabolically and serve it up with some trenches de jambon aux tomates.
Christ’s ass, it makes a big bitch of a meal, I’ll tell you. You get some of that green gooseberry sauce on the side and you can write yourself a fucking ticket to the goddamn moon.”
Ramping it Up With Some Mail with BIG CHIPS
By BIG CHIPS
Special Correspondent
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Yo, man, “The Cut” and I were hanging out on the porch real late the other night. And “The Cut”, he goes, “Hey man, you ever think about the mail?”
Big Chips was a little discombobulated for a min but then I started to see where he was going.
“You got this dude, man, and he brings you mail.” “The Cut” let the sentence waft through the air and out past the pines.
I looked out at the mailbox– nailed to a stake in the ground by the driveway. I had walked past it a million times without any realization whatsoever of its purpose.
“They could put things from anywhere in the World in there,” I stated aloud. “The Islands, the Snow Regions– man, you could even write to your next-door neighbor and they’d have to put that letter in their mailbox.”
“That’s what I’m saying, dude,” “The Cut” answered. We slammed fists together and “The Cut” made one of those explosion sounds because truly it had blown our minds.
I woke up at 3PM the next day and waited for Pops to come home.
“Hey, Pops. Big Chips wants to know what kind of mail we get,” I said.
“As a matter of fact, Big Chips, I forgot to get it. Why don’t you go grab it for me?”
I didn’t feel much like crossing the yard but I went anyway.
And yo, man, there was like a summons in there. For Big Chips. Something about serving on a jury and all.
“What’s this, Pops?” I said, once I had returned to the kitchen.
“Looks like jury duty,” he said. He started looking through a newsprint circular advertising Decorative Hams. “Everybody has to do it.”
“Pops, it’s like “The Cut” predicted this, man.”
Pops looked at me funny. Then he went back to the Decorative Ham ad.
So, dude, pretty soon Big Chips is gonna’ be ramping it up in the courtroom.
Oral Histories of Some Former Lankville Pugilists
By Oort Cloud Cook (1949-1950, 8W, 1L, 6KO)
File Photo
I boxed for a long time in the amateurs– never getting anywhere. And it killed me because I had bought this nice little ice cream truck, painted it green, ran a good business in the summer. I’d take that truck through the alleys and rake in a hundred a night on the hot days. “You’ve got a career in that,” my wife used to say. “Forget about boxing.” Then, she’d wipe down the plastic tablecloth and I’d think Christ to Hell I want to get that wire foundation bra off of her and get all over those cans. But you gotta control yourself.
One time I was careening through an alley and this guy we called the professor stopped me for a Frozen Mallows Bar. Started talking about random comets or some such nonsense. But I thought it sounded good so I wrote down this Oort Cloud rubbish on account of it sounding good. And my agent, he worked up a whole thing about my punches being like comets coming out of nowhere. The press bought it up. And that’s when I went professional.
Started out against Wayne Lemons down out at the Boulevard Theatre. They had taken all the seats out and put a ring in there. I beat Wayne in four rounds– it was a simple jab to the jaw and he went down like a stack of pancakes. I went to him later in the dressing room. “Good fight, Wayne,” I said. He gave me a sneer and told me he was going to wait for me outside. I couldn’t believe it. Sure enough, when we went out to the parking lot, there he was– he even had a little blade. “I’m gonna cut you,” he said. A bunch of guys intervened and that pretty much ended Wayne’s pro career. You gotta control yourself. A few years later, they cut Wayne’s head off.
I won eight straight, six by knockout. But then I came up against Andypop Lennus. Christ, this kid wasn’t even a pro yet and when he did become a pro, he was terrible. But he kicked hell out of me that day. In the seventh round, we snuck a piece of chain into one of my gloves– we were looking for an edge, I admit it. I let the chain come out just below the bottom edge of the glove and raked it across Lennus’ face three or four times. Damn near took his nose off. Then, I hit him with a folding chair. “Getting close there, Cook,” the ref said. “Might have to call that next time.” But Lennus, he still knocked me out. And after that, I lost my taste for boxing.
My wife was wiping down the plastic tablecloth after that– I recall it was a checkerboard sort of pattern that amused me. And she said, “Forget about boxing. Think of your ice cream truck business. Think of the children.” We didn’t have any children but I figured on her talking about the ice cream kids. So, I said, “Alright, I’ll retire”. She looked real pleased by my decision and I was able to get that wire foundation bra off that night.
I retired in 1981. We vacation at a trailer at Lankville Beach every year. I think boxing has gone downhill. You got all these foreigners and hillbillies now. I don’t have no thoughts on it.
The Mystery of the Slick Model (Part One)
By Dick Oakes, Jr.
Senior Staff Writer
File Photo
It was a family out in the suburbs. They had a living room carpeted in greens with thick brown drapes that blotted out the sun.
Pops was a bookish type– an engineer maybe. He had a little brown case of mysterious tools sticking out of his shirt pocket. Mom sat off in a corner– distant and detached. There was some coffee but it was instant. I complimented it anyway. No cream was offered.
“We want you to find our Jennie,” Pops said suddenly. He handed me something that felt like a magazine, encased in ancient, flaking brown paper.
It was an old pornographic slick– saturated colors, clearly shot in a rented hotel room– I put it about ’72 or ’73. There was a buxom blonde on the cover. She was on all fours leaning over some asshole in tight briefs. There were a bunch of decorated paper fans on the wall behind them. I couldn’t make any of it out.
“This is Jennie? On the cover?” I asked. Nobody said anything. Had to be.
I opened it up and scanned the copyright page. 1973. Damn, you’re good Dick, I silently congratulated myself. King Barry Productions– little fucking crown over the “King Barry”, some office address in Western Lankville.
“This is forty years ago,” I said aloud.
“I know,” the engineer said. “The…police…they stopped searching a long time ago.” He looked grey and ancient– too old even to have a daughter now in her sixties. “That…that magazine is all we have. All we have to go on.”
Nobody said anything further so I flipped through it. It wasn’t a bad issue– a little on the fancy-pants side– bunch of complicated positions but no penetration. The guys weren’t even hard in most of the shots. I tossed it on the coffee table.
Mom cried out and Pops ran over and shoved the damn thing quickly into the bag. “Mr. Oakes, it’s odious for us to have this– you understand?” I nodded and finished off the coffee; got out of there and huffed it over to an adult magazine dealer I knew in Western Lankville. Fat piece of shit named Fritts but he was alright.
“What do you know about King Barry Productions?” I asked. He was pricing some lubricants and watching a game show on the TV mounted to the ceiling.
“Yeah, sure, King Barry. They put out 10 or 11 slicks back in the 70s. Owned by a guy named Dean Nettles.”
“Yeah? Where can I find this Nettles character?”
“Nowhere.” He stopped and looked at me awhile, then looked back at the TV. They were giving away a dinette set and he seemed suddenly distracted.
“Nettles? Where can I find him?”
“Right. Dean had a lot of problems. He was living in a tent for awhile and then they just took him out and cut his head off. That was in ’79 or ’80, I’d guess.”
“This King Barry Productions– they must have had employees– photographers and the like?”
He thought about that. “Yeah, there was a faggot by the name of Trent Nettles. I remember thinking it was funny ’cause they both had the same last name but they weren’t related at all.”
“Fucking hilarious.”
“Yeah, right at that. Anyway, this Trent Nettles guy came into the office one day and Dean hired him on the spot as his graphic designer. I think he’s still around. You should look him up.”
I thanked him and bought some lubricant just for show.
I caught a cab out to the address from the slick. It was long gone– the building had been demolished and they had put up a Buntz Mallows Palace in its place. Meanwhile, I had had my secretary do a little research on this Nettles character. She called me with some gold.
“He works for Pappy’s Chicken and Biscuits,” she said over the phone. “Draws little chickens and umbrellas on bags, umbrellas, that kind of thing.” She gave me an address. I thanked her and tried a couple of lines I had heard the night before in a bar. Nothing doing but I was working my way in there.
Forty minutes later I stormed into Trent Nettles’ cubicle. I’ve found over the years that it’s difficult to storm dramatically into a cubicle; nevertheless, I’ve developed a sort of a system. I generally just take a wall out.
This, I did. Then, I grabbed Nettles by the collar. He was a thin, pasty sort. Pretty easy to man-handle.
“Who’s Jennie,” I demanded. “Spring 1973. You know what I’m talking about.”
He opened his mouth to speak.
And that’s when the mystery of the slick model began to unravel.
ACCOMMODATIONS
When staying in the Area Beyond the Outlands, pick the Murray. Friendly, creative staff, delightful beds, curtains. Phone Far Outlands 5-6712.
LANKVILLE DAILY NEWS: IN BOOK FORM!
The book is gone. It will never return. We hear stories but they are likely false. We live in the woods now. We make fire with a lighter that we found in the street. It was crushed by a truck but, somehow, perhaps through some intervention that is beyond us, it still works. We are waiting. We are waiting.
Original Pondicherry Association News promotional advertisement (2009)
TONIGHT ON TV! RICHARD AND THE POSTMAN REUNION SPECIAL!
The Hit program from the 1970's returns to Lankville TV tonight on LBC!
ADULT ADVERTISEMENT
Women all over Lankville are just sitting at mammoth computers waiting to hear from men like you! Just insert a floppy disk, write a (non-sexual) message and let the sparks fly! (Computer not included).
ADVERTISEMENT
A Vitiello Decorative Ham makes a great gift. Show that you care today.
BANDED DUFFELS ON PALLETS
Assorted colors. Whatever you want to do, man. Call Lankville Falls, 3247.
BRIAN SCHROPP IN THE LANKVILLE DAILY NEWS
The most important cuisine articles ever written.
CANDY
Jipps Co. Full Service Candy Counter! Our alert girls will push gummy drops into special paper sheaths, engage in restrained pleasantries and explain chocholate-to-nougat ratios. Call Central Lankville 3614.
CAT PHOTO
In compliance with Lankville subsection 11:16-4.
CHAMBERS CO. HAND DRILLS: When Electricity is Not an Option
When electricity is not an option consider the Chambers Company hand crank drills. Perfect for use in tight spaces, on distant islands or for drilling holes in fences to see TITS. Call 4-2309.
EMPLOYMENT
Big Ed's BBQ Shack is looking for a part-time waitress. Someone who doesn't nose around and ask a lot of difficult questions. Call Lankville Rougher Area, 5-2100.
EMPLOYMENT
Nuts, Ah! is looking for an experienced nut-handler. Experience with bagging nuts also important. If you break the nut sack, the nuts will drop onto the floor. Come in person for application to Twin Removed Pines Mall. NO CALLS.
FOX FOR PARTIES
Hire the Poetry Fox for Your Child's Next Party. Reasonable rates. Writes poems, dances, will not stand for any shenanigans. Call South Lankville 2009.
The funny stories of Dick Oakes, Jr. have thrilled millions. Look for them today in The Lankville Daily News!
GELSINGER’S ALLURE CLUB
Topless, bottomless wonderland. Mysterious back rooms. Carpeted entirely in astroturf. NO CALLS.
GREBOV BROTHERS TELESCOPE COMPANY
The Grebov Brothers are Lankville's finest purveyor of telescopes for astronomy enthusiasts. Substantial 4.5" apertures and fast f/4 focal ratios provide bright, detailed views of solar system targets like the Moon and planets, as well as wide-field celestial objects like nebulas and star clusters but also TITS.
GUMP PENETRATES
Only in The Lankville Daily News
HADBAWNIK HAUNTED STAIRCASE COMPANY
The Hadbawnik Company is Lankville's #1 installer of haunted, brush-littered staircases. Friendly non-foreign staff! Call Western (Outer) Lankville, 2154 or 2198 today.
HADBAWNIK HAUNTED BRUSH PILES!
The Hadbawnik Haunted Staircase Company is now offering haunted brush piles for use on your staircase. Create eerie, supernal ambiance. Allow the brush to blow haphazardly in the wind, creates fear, foreboding. Call our friendly staff of white people at Western Lankville, 2154. Brush piles may contain other forms of yard debris.
HEY! WANT A MONKEY?
Hey! Want a live little monkey? They do cute things like climb into pumpkins. Call "The Captain"- Central Lankville Hills, 5264.
HOME DUMP Your Neighborhood Hardware Store 16 Lankville Locations!
Weekly Special: Primitive Forged Hooks. Buy 4, Get a Can of Paint. Or Maybe Not. You'll Just Have to Find Out.
INFLAMED BY STARS AND BLOOD
Lankville's Premier Science Fiction and Horror Magazine Now Appearing in The Lankville Daily News!
JOHNNY PADRES, OPTICIAN
Lankville has been relying on Dr. Johnny Padres for their optical needs since 1973. We offer a full service family eye care center and provide examinations for glasses and contacts and have a large display of designer, traditional and innovative eyewear for both regular prescription eyeglasses and sunglasses all of which will enable you to see TITS better. Call Lankville Business 2618-2.
LIFE LESSONS FUNERAL HOME
Life Lessons Funeral Home has been helping Lankville with dead people since 1932. Contact Eddie or Stummins, Lankville Business, 5-2161.
LOOK AT THESE BEAUTIES!
Really some of our best ever! Have you ever seen anything like it? Call Kelly (male) at Lankville Sound 2615.
MISSING
Missing: adult penguin. Christ, I just let him out in the yard for one minute and now he's gone. Responds to the name "Richard". Call Lankville Eastern Outlands, 5-6213.
NOW PLAYING!
The Unhinged: A New Film by Tom "Vapor" Rayford. Crisp Street Cinema, Eastern Lankville
PINEAPPLE CITY: A New Way of Being
Pineapple City is a new way of being, feeling and having your shirt off. Located in the distant, barren Lankville Pines, Pineapple City is now accepting applications for sheds. Call PINES, 2-5771.
THE PUZZLER
In the pie chart above, what segment represents a certain specific strata of the general population?
REAL ESTATE
Little shed for sale. With door, mailbox, dirt plot. Site of multiple murders but don't worry, they happened around back. To inquire, come to the shed. Go around back.
REAL ESTATE
Four acre lot in Eastern Lankville Cove Area. Price reduced! Site of a fireworks display in which several people fell out of their lawnchairs and died. Locals believe it haunted but that's crap. Call Cove 2751.
THE RECKONER EXACTRA 2.0 : A Danny Madison Product
It's Your Time: CALCULATE
SARAH SAMWAYS: CONTRIBUTING FEMALE
Exclusively in the Lankville Daily News (and some other papers).
SPEAKING ENGAGEMENT
Robin Brox will sit around and get progressively more intoxicated while listening to this other broad natter on about something. LANKVILLE REGIONAL AUDITORIUM, August 4, 11PM.
SPEAKING ENGAGEMENT CANCELED
The Dr. M. Chambers speech and candy-making event has been canceled again following Dr. Chambers' sudden collapse into some baskets. New date TBA
TRAVEL TIPS by Randy Hammers
The Kum Back Inn in the Lankville Desert Area has long been serving road-weary travelers. They feature a restaurant (with cocktails) and two spacious conference rooms. The Kum Back boasts 65 units-- each including window dressing, some chairs and a larger chair (seats two smallish children), a bed with orange comforter, a plastic trash can, clever paintings, and a windowless door. TV also available in 17 (sometimes 19) rooms. Most of the rooms are air-conditioned. Oscillating fans available upon request. Illuminated carports will protect your vehicle from the vicious sudden dust storms that often overtake the Desert Area and the wild thieves that occasionally parade across the landscape like some unmentionable horror. Call now at TU-0780 and ask for Bud or Karen (married).
UTILITY YARD SHEDS
The Lowinger Brothers offer great utility yard sheds at low prices. This one is haunted. Call Lankville Port Area 1072.
VACATION PACKAGES!
Spectacular vacations in campers by little mountains. Your cares will melt away but you will have to be careful of that shack (pictured). A lunatic lives there. Call Mercantile District 2711.
WRESTLING TONIGHT!
8PM, Southern Lankville Man-Arena. Featuring Ric "Wild Boy" Tipps (green trunks).
ZACH KEEBAUGH INVESTIGATIONS
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