Archive
Small Motel Girl Wrestling: Lankville’s Newest Sport?
By Dick Oakes, Jr.
Senior Staff Writer
File Photo
There are times when beauty can penetrate a man’s soul and awake senses which his mind cannot control. Then, with the sort of helplessness usually reserved for the drawing of a moth toward a flame, he must obey his instincts to possess the wonder which has excited him. Often, this lust-fueled turmoil is accompanied by the consumption of an alcoholic beverage or perhaps a particularly thick desert.
It is then that the man will find himself attending a small motel wrestling match, Lankville’s newest sport. He will know upon entering the small hotel room that he has infiltrated a den of unabashed iniquity. Sweaty, spellbound men form a mean ring around the room– they are all here to be erotically aroused. A pile of gambled money rests on a battered bureau, pushed into one corner– a squat, brutish thug monitors it from a little stool. The combatants, beautiful heavily-lipsticked women, suddenly throw open the bathroom door and make their way through the ring of bodies.
At times, bikinis are ripped off and yet, the girls continue to wrestle across the carpet in their nude glory. The men exhibit a certain sophistication at the proceedings before them– no matter how aroused they become, they will continue to calmly stand and watch the proceedings. The brutish thug sees to it. Unfortunately, there is a first time for everything.
It was my third time (strictly for journalistic purposes, you understand). The matchup was Tara vs. Shayna and they were a little late arriving. The thug, in an unusually charitable mood, passed out extra bottles of champagne. The heat was terrible and the windows of the small motel room began to fog up. “Sorry about the air conditioning boys,” the thug noted, though no further explanation was proffered. We waited.
There was an engineer there, guy named Harold Martin. A university man, this was his first slip into the pit of Small Motel Girl Wrestling. He drank not wisely and admitted that he had eaten nothing all day. “We had a robot that went off down the hallway and entered a classroom,” he stated quietly. He loosened his cheap tie.
It was a jolly crowd by the time Tara and Shayna made their way into the ring. The men lifted their glasses in unison, however the ladies were far too focused on the coming match to notice. Neither one would state later that they noticed anything strange about the crowd.
The two lithe but busty beauties locked arms immediately. The clinch went on for some time– swaying back and forth until finally Shayna was able to crush Tara into the carpet, shedding her bikini completely in the process. The men politely cheered. The match continued on– the women tore at each other with savage abandon. Shayna’s bikini suddenly popped off to moderate applause.
It was then that Harold Martin, his shirt torn off to reveal a sunken, hairless chest, jumped into the ring. “OH NO!” cried the thug, who got up from the stool as quick as his little legs would carry him. The crowd of men stood stunned as Harold attempted to insinuate himself into the match, only to be viciously beaten by both women. He seemed to be enjoying the thrashing and the men turned their heads– the sight was sickening. Finally, the thug and two other men grabbed Harold out by his legs and pushed him up against a far wall. The match was immediately ended and the hotel room emptied.
“This is what we try to prevent,” said the thug, later. “Small Motel Girl Wrestling insists upon decorum from the crowd, it INSISTS,” he continued, slamming his fist into his hand. “You must understand. This is NOT ACCEPTABLE!”
“What will you do?” I asked.
He thought about this.
“We may have to move Small Motel Girl Wrestling out of the small motel room and into a venue that allows for better protection for our fighters. That may be the only way. The future of Small Motel Girl Wrestling depends on it.”
The thug promised a decision within days.
“I’ll need to meet with the other organizers. Reports will need to be issued. The commissioner will be consulted. It’s a process, Dick.”
Stay tuned for updates on the future of Small Motel Girl Wrestling.
Getting to Know Fingers Rolly (Part Three)
By Bernie Keebler
Senior Staff Writer
File photo
The low moan continues to dusk. When the desert disappears in darkness, the face of Fingers takes on another stunning transformation.
“There’s them cake hunks in the icebox,” he says aloud.
Indeed, I find a creased and rumpled bakery container filled with asymmetrical hunks of cake. I push them gently onto filthy plates. Fingers begins eating almost before the dessert is even before him.
“They had this guy come out and he bought up the earth beneath us,” he comments. Indeed, an enormous plot of desert land had recently been purchased by the heirs of Ferdinand Buntz, mallows king of Lankville. Rumors, none verified, were flying around the region. “What do you think he wants with that land?” I ask. “The land is an asshole. What would you do with an asshole?” He pushes his plate away and then onto the floor. It lands in a pile of garbage.
“Tell me about your wife?” I ask. It’s a dicey question; Fingers’ bride had died decades before.
“She was in the stenographers pool at the high school,” he responds in an even, quiet voice. “They gave her a little cubicle and I used to go in the cubicle and talk to her. Lovely girl. Very fat. But lovely. She looked like a gibbous moon.”
“And then you moved here, to the desert?”
Fingers slowly shakes his head. The sweat is pouring off him. I bear witness to the rising vitriol.
MOTHERFUCKKKKKKKKKKERRRRRRRR. He gets up and grabs the shotgun again. I stop him.
“Rest. Rest in the chair,” I command. He does as told though I notice that his face has changed again. I decide to press.
“Why? Why do you hate the desert?”
But he will not answer. He is gone now.
For want of something to look at, I find a small stack of old gas station road maps in a heap of floor garbage. Many are of the desert region. Opening them, I find a thick series of crude markings in various inks with arrows leading to the margins and annotated with a mysterious combination of letters and numbers. These markings are virtually impossible to explain so I pocket one of the maps so that it may be photographed later. It is reproduced here for the first time.
Gas station road map of Desert Region with Fingers’ strange markings.
Hours pass. My curiosity is insatiable. I quietly move to the living room and, with the faint illumination of a cellphone, look through the signs again. Moving to the coffee table, I begin sifting through the mass of papers and letters (many never opened). Yet, there seems to be no key that I can stick in a keyhole, turn, and, by the rotation of moving cylinders, pin tumblers and so forth, unlock the mystery.
Then, I am surprised by the distant sound of a motor vehicle. Lights flash across the windows. It seems to be coming surprisingly fast– the crunch of boots on the gravel outside causes me to freeze where I stand. Then I drop to the carpet and attempt to construct a hiding fort out of blankets and pillows. They are outside the door now.
“Flatten them,” someone says. Boots crunching again, then the sound of my tires being slashed by a knife.
“You jus’ let me know when you’re ready,” the same man says. It is in monotone; a brutal voice without mercy.
I throw off the blankets and pillows and make a beeline for the backdoor. I pause only for a moment as a deadly shotgun blast bursts through the wood frame. It seems to have come from nowhere; almost silent, faintly sibilant.
Then, I am running across pitch black scrubland, away from the house. A booming roar of an engine starts up and I am now being chased by a raging pickup burying everything in its path.
This may be my end.
The story of Fingers Rolly and Bernie Keebler’s possible murder will be continued in future issues.
Every Town Should Have a Hill with a Cannon
By Fingers Rolly
Man on the Street
File photo
I’m not fucking around here. Put a cannon on a hill in every god damn town. Stop shitting us.
If you don’t have a hill, build one. What the fuck are all these yellow fancypants asshole machines sitting around for? Put ’em to work.
When that sonuvabitch is in place at the top of your new grassless hill, you let me know. Don’t come out to the house though. That asshole of a desert. Best leave it alone. And don’t send no mother-of-shit letter either. Those fuckheads.
But I want to feel that aged cast iron. And then I want to scream at that fuckhead desert.
You let me know.
Screaming at the Desert: A Primer
By Fingers Rolly
Man on the Street
File photo
You set up your chair and put the blinds up. Needs to be before dawn. Make yourself a pot of shitbird coffee– that asshole kind of coffee that comes in a god damn big can. You peel off the metal top and you get hit with that blast of fucking air. People think that means freshness– I’ll tell you what that means. It means LIES.
The sun’s going to come up over the butte. You’ll notice the shadows first. That’s when you start.
You don’t want to blow your voice out early. Start with a low, doleful moan. You need to sell that shit though. Don’t go half-assed. Go half-assed and, god as my witness, I’ll take you out back myself and kick your dick in.
Build slowly to a crescendo. By lunchtime, you should be at full blast. They should be able to hear you for miles. Make that asshole of a desert cringe– shake a cactus to its mother of a whore core. Don’t let anybody get away with anything. Show that pisspit of a desert what it means to have to account for itself.
Slow down by evening. Rest.
Then repeat the next day.
To Hell with These God Damn Little Asshole Hills
By Fingers Rolly
Man on the Street
File photo
Everywhere you go now, it’s these little god damn asshole hills. Just staring at you, the little whores; they know they got you by the balls. Some of them have these rocks– what in the name of all that is decent is that supposed to mean?
Sometimes you gotta walk all the way around before you find a staircase leading up to the food kiosk. I oughta’ stop going to that bullshit place. You can’t put your kiosk on flat ground then fuck you, I’ll take my business elsewhere.
The Pondicherry Association News would like to apologize for the preceding article.
Getting to Know Fingers Rolly (Part Two)
By Bernie Keebler
Senior Staff Writer
File photo
Fingers gnarls at his dinner; he has a strange habit of putting food into his mouth sideways and hunching over his plate protectively. Suddenly, he will bolt upwards in his seat and, remaining completely still, will gaze for an interminable period at something far off and distant out the window. Then, he will slowly return to his meal. For Fingers, eating seems a completely pleasureless experience.
I ask him about his last job. “Physical education,” he blurts out. “God damn desert high school. No fields to speak of, just that cracked brown whore dirt.” He spits on the floor. “For a time, I enjoyed it.” “How so?” I probe. He stares at me. Then: “It was fun to torture the unathletic children. But then I’d have to go into my office to fill out grades or something and even with the blinds shut, I knew that god damn desert was out there, mocking me.”
He takes a long, steadying drink of coffee. This is a rare, lucid moment. I know it will not last long.
“Then, I took to sleeping under the gym bleachers at night. I could no longer use facilities because, standing there, I could see that asshole desert out the window. So, I started defecating under the bleachers. The principal called me in after a few weeks.
“What did he say?”
“He said, Fingers– he said, we like some of the work you’re doing. You’re making important strides in teaching the fatter, unathletic kids how to wear their gym shorts. But we can’t have this moaning and screaming at the desert. And now that we’ve learned of this expelling of waste beneath the gym bleachers, well, I’m afraid that’s the last straw. So, he kicked me out on my ass.”
“What did you do?”
“I went home and made up two signs– I still have ’em, in there in the living room. Then, I took up a post here in this very chair and started screaming at that sonuvabitch. That cracked, god damn sonuvabitch…”
He gets up from the table (his rugged gait now marred by age) and starts towards the back door with a shotgun. I stop him.
“There’s nothing you can do, Fingers,” I plead.
He breathes rapidly but stops at the counter. He removes his hat and looks at the floor for several moments, blinking. He seems near tears.
Then, suddenly, his face changes completely. The transformation is stunning. FFFFFFUUUUUUCCCCKKKK OFFFFFFFF he moans slowly. He tries to strike me but I duck out of the way. He moves to his chair and begins the deeply unsettling desert moan broken by occasional moments of vile profanity. I keep out of his way as best I can. “At this point, he’ll start tearing the kitchen up,” warned a journalist friend.
I dig in and prepare for the worst.
The story of Fingers Rolly will continue in future issues.
Just Try to Find a God Damn Adapter to Fit a Sonuvabitch Three-Prong Plug Into a Mother of a Whore Two-Prong Outlet
By Fingers Rolly
Man on the Street
File photo
I’d challenge you to find a god damn adapter to fit one of those sonuvabitch three-prong plugs into a mother of a whore two-prong outlet. You’ll wander around staring at that blue piece of shit carpet for hours before you finally bump into some Johnny Fuckhead with a little name badge who don’t know his ass from a bunch of balloons and just wants to sell you some tapes. And you’ll just go back home still not being able to plug in that new asshole meat slicer and so you’ll just scream at that desert, that cracked and brown shitcan and then you’ll just fall asleep at your own table.
Then I called up some company and got the scream down to a low moan. I could talk in between. But the guy on the other end was from out in the islands and I damn near couldn’t understand a word he said. I think by the end of the whole god damn snowjob, I sent a check for something and then I caught that motherfucking desert out of the corner of my eye and I just couldn’t help but to scream loud and strong hoping that would be the final time with that big ol’ bitch.
I think it came the other day in a little yellow box. God damn assholes.
The Pondicherry Association News would like to apologize for the preceding article. Fingers Rolly is no longer being given assignments.
Give No More Than $15 for a Tiger Painting
Fingers Rolly Man on the Street
I’m telling you straight– don’t let these godforsaken pissants cheat you. Give no more than $15 and you’ll get yourself a perfectly good god damn tiger painting.
You can hang it over a chair. Maybe the chair where you sit and scream at that asshole of a desert– all cracked and fucking brown and just mocking you. But give no more than $15.
I’d go $20 for sofa-sized.
Musings of a Decorative Ham Man by Chris Vitiello
By Chris Vitiello
File photo
There is so much to a Vitiello Decorative Ham. When it arrives at your door, you will receive a little card, inserted into a delicate golden envelope. Removing the card, which is printed on only the finest papers, you will find that each ham has been named. At the bottom of the card, you will discover a “seal” which forever binds you legally to the ham. There needs to be accountability.
I was once asked to host an award show for decorative meats. But then it was decided that I could not host, as I would likely be the winner. Coffee was served and fragile, graceful women moved about the tables which were covered in finespun gauze. There was no place for me to hide my whip– I wrapped it around my neck as a challenge to the men. And the men backed down.
I was awarded a prize and as I was leaving the ceremony, one of the fragile, graceful women called my name in a coquettish fashion. I whipped her mercilessly. I would not allow the tyranny of her sex to crush me.
Later, I went home and wrapped myself in overly hot towels, head to toe. I collapsed out of sheer exhaustion into bed. I thought of my award as a sort of bad dream.
The next morning I took one of my decorative hams and cracked it open. Stale air was released.
That was the last time I hurt them.
“Profiteroles Are Not Haunted”, Says Inner Hammer
By Enceladus Sheets
Senior Staff Writer
File photo
Reacting to the latest “Royer Experience” published yesterday, Early Peoples GM “Inner Hammer” stated categorically and loudly that, “profiteroles are not haunted.” The executive then produced a number of profiteroles piled into a red wagon and invited reporters to observe the seemingly placid pastries.
“You see any ghosts? You see any god damn phantasms?” he questioned in an agitated manner. Receiving only a slight murmur in response, “Inner Hammer” then turned over the profiteroles and stomped them into the carpet which, for some reason, was sodden and fetid. He then left the room.
The press conference was ended early.
Shortly after submission of this article, several of the reporters began “fooling around” with the pile of spilled profiteroles. In the ensuing melee, Enceladus Sheets was accidentally drowned in the pastries.
Royer’s Madcap Experiences: The Haunted Profiterole
By Ric Royer
File photo
I decided to order a profiterole for dessert. The waiter brought me a copy of Profiterole Digest. The cover showed a gigantic pile of profiteroles photographed in a red wagon. “We have everything in there except for custard, chocolates, and the one that has the hose attached so you can suck out the cream.” He pressed his crotch as he said that last part but I decided to ignore it.
I went with the “Special Occasion Profiterole”. The waiter disappeared. Ten minutes later, another waiter appeared with the pastry. He went away wordlessly.
I stared at the profiterole. They had presented it well– there were little lines of chocolate all along the plate edge and a series of minced strawberries along one side. They had also placed a little off-white card and the words “pastry ball” had been written there in fine calligraphy. There was also an emergency number printed on the back.
I picked up the profiterole and ate half in one bite. It was then that I became aware of an eldritch phantasm from the borders of this world.
I dropped the profiterole. It had turned green and was covered in blood. I could taste the gore in my mouth but could not expel it. Two waiters, watching from behind a ledge and a series of hydrangea bushes, suddenly expired.
“It was a hell beast, unleashed by your indulgence,” said a voice that sounded not unlike a kindly grandfather. I fell over backwards in my chair. Next, I was being dragged by something unseen, deeply into the purlieu. There seemed to be a lot of vomit there.
The next thing I remember is the cargo train. I was packed roughly into a boxcar full of sacks of grains. There was another man there who had had a series of pastries slammed against his face. He nodded slowly.
It was then that I could finally scream.
On the Decorative Ham by Chris Vitiello: AN OPINION PIECE
By Chris Vitiello
File photo
It need not be a holiday or even a special occasion to place a decorative ham. Nor is the placement of a decorative ham limited to one room of your home. I even stress the outdoors during my professional placements. I have placed decorative hams on porch gliders, in hammocks, in trees and on fences. The possibilities are limitless.
Imagine, if you will, a home without a decorative ham. You can’t, can you? That is because my decorative hams have become so ubiquitous that they are mere second nature to even the most casual observer. Even the blind are aware of the decorative ham. I often encourage the blind to take both their hands and grope the decorative ham. I also do the same in schools.
It is fashionable at this time of year to place decorative hams in windows, particularly windows with high visibility to the street. Depending on your home decor, I will sometimes place a laurel wreath or a series of ribbons around the decorative ham. At other times, we elect to go with candor– the decorative ham is placed naked in the window– perhaps not even set properly. It can be quite startling.
My consultations are free. I will come to your home.
The opinions of Mr. Vitiello are not necessarily the opinions of the Lankville Post-Dispatch Intelligencer News of Some of the Nations.
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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LETTER SACK