English Club Chatter

It was nights like this that made the memories of her life on the moors seem not so distant. Somehow, her life in London seemed not as fulfilling as she had anticipated in her expectant mind when she was a girl. Did it matter where she went on this tiny island? Could she never escape the isolation and the dread feeling that something menacing lurked just around every turn? Out on the fen the wind played tricks on her ears and eyes and presented a constant littany of monstrous notions. She knows now that there are far more dangerous things to be concerned with than the werewolves or bog monsters that tormented her virgin imagination. Was it her mind projecting the macabre shadows that haunted the walls of this manse? Or was there a deliberate demon who made it his death's work to bring about her unsettled state?

Agitha knew that sometimes she speculated too much. Her imagination was inclined to fly into wild stories. She felt eyes on her back, and knew someone was following her. And in the midst storm, she knew no-one would hear her screams.

Shut up, scaredy cat, Agatha whispered, hoping to quail her growing terror. The cobblestones under her black mary janes gave slightly with her weight, mirroring the sinking feeling in her chest. If only it wasn't so foggy. In the dense fog, it was difficult for Agatha to determine if she was anywhere near Saint Peter's Cathedral. Next to her intense fear, she also harbored another emotion: expectation of the eminent consumation of her love with Saint Peter's most hansome priest. Thoughts his of blonde, sinewy beauty gave her the courage she needed to push through the fog. Agatha was lost in her contrast of the young priest to Jesus Christ when the cathedral's door sprung up before her. At last she was safe! And about to know the physical attributes of a love that until this moment was merely spiritual.

She hadn't realized that the fog was dense enough to condense on her clothing. Walking into the Church revealed that the wind had opened the door and the large foyer of the Church was empty. The internal structure that was probably meant to promote reverence communicated something else entirely. A small bit of light smeared through the fog and fell lightly on the saintly statues, and she was frozen for a small moment as the poor lighting tainted what were once fond memories.

As her mind drifted back, she recalled the way a bright day's sun would cast the rainbow of the stained glass throughout the foyer. She was one of many faith filled worshippers in those days, and her faith fueled her youthful energy, even if it couldn't soothe her loneliness. Her current sense of dread muted her faith like the dim lighting now dripping off her with the fog. Her mind drifted between now and then.
Father Michael had been (and was now) the anchor that kept her faith from drifting away as her dread and isolation increased with age. She denied to herself that his ability to weight her soul had anything to do with the love she felt for him, as much as she denied her initial attraction was for the way he looked under the kaleidoscope of color emanating from the windows. She believed she was beyond such trivial things, that she loved him for his virtues. As she stepped out of the foyer, she cautioned herself about getting lost in the past, and just in time.

She felt frantic when she heard the cathedral doors open again.
Whoever was following her was here.

A small gasp escaped her as the sound of the heavy door reverberated through the cathedral; but she stood motionless, stoic. While her first instinct was to turn and attach a face to the footsteps, she hesitated. She didn't want to be right. She didn't want the whole thing to start again. But she knew that it would -- that it had to.
Agitha knew who was standing in the doorway; on some level, she supposed she had known all along. It was going to start again -- all of it, just like before. And no one could stop that.

"Hello, Agatha." She turned to face her nemesis.
"Hello, bog monster from my ferttile, chaotic sort of hormonal addled adolescent imagination."

"bog monster" is a sort of half saint in the chatholic church. She knew what she had to do. quikly agatha ran towards the holy water. ( which of course was located next to the statue of mary and the blessed trinity, right in the middle of the pews.) The bog was setting closer, its grime heading for the sactuary. Agatha was sweating, and she wasn't thirsty but she grabbed the holy water and with all the stregth she could muster: gulped it down. the bog, breathing heavy swished by her and walked into the confessional room--but the terror wasnt over yet. Her pulse quikened as she knew what she had to do next. She pushed the "occupied" notice on the outside of the oppisite door of the confessional. And then, (reaching in her pocket to caress her rosary and blessed trinity figurine) she stepped inside, ready for the act of contrition.

In that very moment the bottom fell out of the confesional and Agatha fell firm onto the basement floor. The bog followed down the hole and immediately transformed into the handsome priest of her memories. Agatha then realized that the priest was a shape-shifter, and she stabed him in the chest with the crusafix. She then looked to her handy worm-whole watch with time and space bending capabilities and types in the time 2060 -- the date Newton designated as the end of the world.

the watch clicked and there was a loud crack. She could feel her eyes being sucked into the back of her head. her body flew backwards into the crumbled rocks and dead body of the bog monster.

"damn, its broke." she said flustered wipeing bog sludge off her body.

"Agatha!" Micheal ran down the asile and there she was, his long lost love, in a crumpled heap with the bog monster, her clothing askew, her face flushed...oh god. Oh god. No it couldn't be, she was his pure love, his Virgin Mary.

"Micheal, help me up, it's not what it looks like! He attacked me, I said no! I love you, Micheal!" Agatha yelled as her dying companian, the bog monster reached a dying hand up to her breast and stroked it one last time. "Get off me!" Agatha told the monster as she wrestled away and climed out of the hellish hole where the monster had commited horrible sins against her person.

She wished that she had never messed with her worm-hole watch she wished that she had never messed with time. Micheal reached down and pulled her up. Her hair frayed and the wind blew through the open doors of the sacristry--but something still felt wrong. Something in her insides--creeping around. she felt like she had the flu.

micheal looked deeply into her eyes. "its alright now, i have you...i have you in my arms."

Agatha looked away, she couldnt tell him. She knew what had happened. she knew why she felt like spewing all over. the bog had gotten in her, he had not finished.

Micheal walked her over to a pew and sat her down. He wasn't sure of what to do next. propose, or clean up his church.

But then, he remembered he was a Catholic priest, and decided a proposal might not go over well with the Bishop. So he started to clean. The church was a slippery mess, but he'd seen worse. Much worse. But that was a memory he'd always struggled to suppress. Fortunately, just when his mind was drifting back to that earlier, more slippery, more messy time, Agatha (or was it Agitha? Michael -- or was it Micheal? -- could never remember) distracted him. As she reached down to help him scrub, he couldn't help but notice . . . .

...that she had reset her worm-whole watch and that the date was set for 1517. As he looked more closely he realized that the numbers beside the date were counting down and that there were just two minutes until they warped back in time.
"What're you doing?" He asked with frustration?
"I have to try and fix things -- fix them so that we can be together."
"What will you change by stopping Luther?"

Agatha was perplexed, "Everything, darling, everything. I will be sired by an upstanding Catholic family just like yourself and then when we are young maidens together in the vinyard, we can marry instead of your parents sending you off for theological training and retched celebacy.

If you weren't forced to fight the heretics then you and I could've been together."
Agatha checks the watch and notices that there's only seconds until they transport back in time.
"I love you Agatha, but time travel won't change the fact that..."
In that moment Agatha disapears. Only, she's been mistakingly transported to 1987.

Angelina Jolie set the script down. "This is the worst piece of crap I've ever read. I must make this movie. Maybe my brother can co-star with me. But first I should probably adopt a couple more children from various and random spots on the planet. Do my lips look too big ? I am my father's daughter."
Angelina always had this bizarre thing for priests, and she could easily identify with the inner demons in the script. She was saddened that day when she found out the guy who wrote The French Lietenant's Woman just passed away. Just up and passed away. She wondered if she even existed in this story or was just some sort of pawn in a mini-homage to that guy who wrote The French lietenant's Woman. If so, she mused, why the hell wouldn't they have chosen Meryl Streep? She looked at her watch. "I don't remember my watch being in military time." Suddenly she felt her eyes (and lips) being sucked into the back of her head. Her last thought stretched across time with her. 'What time is 1517 anywaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay?"

Brad Pitt took off his priest costume and flexed his muscles in the mirror of his ridiculously huge trailer with the giant bowl of blue M&Ms, which were the same blue as his eyes and were imported especially from Europe.

He looked around for Angelina so they could discuss the ethical implications of extracting blood from their newly adopted Japanese baby to hang in vials around their necks, but he could not find her.

He said, while wiping fake bog monster residue off of his tan, sinewy arms, "Maybe we can name our Japanese baby Pear... that'll show that damn Gwyneth once and for all. Or banana... mmm, bananas sound good."

Since Gwyneth is pregnant again, she has taken to watching The Food Channel in order to find a name for her new baby.
Jennifer Aniston picked up the half of the priest costume that was legally hers. "she already had Billy Bob, why would she want to settle on Brad," she said out loud to no one in particular, just this vague notion of half a confession perhaps. She sniffed the priestly garb. "Ewwww. Smells like bog monster. What is she feeding him. His poor pores."

:::meanwhile back in toyroom in the new Pitt residance:::

"really, we can totally just pioson them." said a small ukraniane boy

"and our citizenship is safe? We would still be, you know American" A small korean girl, with the biggest most innocent brown eyes that you had ever seen in the entire world, said.

"I heard from this one girl--Ciely Rose, she put arsenic in the cottage cheese, and it totally did her parents in" A small Jamacin boy muttered.

"So we need to start bringing them breakfast for starters." The Ukraniane boy, with the biggest most innocent blue eyes that you had ever seen in the entire world said.

"Whatever, I get to put in the arsenic, I can't believe that they changed my name to Peach. Do I look like a peach? Is there anything 'peachy' about me?" The Jamacin boy muttered throwing a alphibet block across the room.

All three children watched the block tumble behind a shelf. the shelf shook and from behind erupted another figure. the figure in the shape of a small boy, much older than the three of them, had tousled hair. the glasses he was wearing were round and brown.

the children looked towards the nursery, watching for the nanny to come back, they were not familiar with this new child.

He walked up closer, sat down next to Peach, and smiled. there was a large Gashy hole on his nose.

" hi my name is Larry. Larry Hotter. I'm from Rowling. J.K. Rowling. --but they didn't want me. I was a bad idea."

"Hey Peach, don't throw blocks!" said Taco, who is from Nairobi.
"Shut up, Taco! Leave Peach alone!" said Can O' Beans.
"Wait a second..." asked Peach, "Where the hell did Haggis go?"

Meryl Streep set the script down. She then took Hunter Thompson's shotgun, which she had recently purchased at a celebrity auction raising money for over-political celebrities, and shot herself into the year 2060.

Michael Moore picked up the blood-spattered script and said, "Excellent! This will make a great movie... it's all the fault of the media!" laughing maniacally.
"It can star Tim Robbins and Sean Penn"

"Now I'm going to France to talk about America behind its back!"

....and that is why we are going to call them freedoom fried. i mean fries." said George Bush as he stepped down from the podium and thier was a HUGE uproar of applause from all the people that he had promised not to shoot with his texas gun.

The bog monster dipped a freedom fry into the congealing red mess on Miss Streep's carpet.

Can' o' beans sighed reliefedly that he was not a can of Bush beans. Suddenly he heard Pan flutes and smelled the randy aroma of a thousand goats in priestly garb. "Angelina", he shouted. "Or should I say Agatha."
"You can say whatever you want. Or can you, being just a can?"
"Enough can jokes, A-worm-hole. Like you're one to talk. Go adopt another woman's kid , Lara Croft, Womb Raider."

Suddenly Meryl Streep reappeared and said, " I must warn you! The world is going to end in 2060... I've seen it with my own eyes! If we don't stop burning fossil fuels and take care of the earth, Global Warming will eradicate us all!"

"Thet's all faulted science, Meryl! There's no such thing, and anyway...yer dead, so why should we listen to you?" George Bush yelled at the apparition.

"Drivin big trucks and guzzlin gas is what Amerca's all about, ya hear? We're problem solvers, anyway... if there's a problem, we'll solve it... cause... you know... we're problem solvers," said the red faced President as he set down his golf clubs.

"But, Mr. President, what is the problem, and how are we going to solve it?" a strange man in the back of the room asked. "I just don't understand what you mean."

This is not what I had in mind.

" I'll tell you what the problem is. Ya see, we got WMDs in the hands of the Japanese, and they're breeding hybrids that are gonna come over here and try to take prayer out of school... wait a second, is that right, Dick?... maybe it's cyborgs, made by Honda... that want to take away our human rights... I don't know, I get so confused after all these briefings."

As a reader of this ongoing fiasco, I feel it necessary to mention that I am suing each of the authors involved in this assault on my good name. This classless action suit contends that slanderish folderol, heretofore referred to as sf , except in Item 6/a, where it is merely called Jeff, was wilfully and willy nillyishly applied to a written work (referred to as 'play') in a manner consistent with malicious and psychodamaging spite. God, herself or himself or Herself or Himself or itself or Itself, designed the Bog Monster, and, so, the creature, known as BM, is intelligently designed and not to be put down in a callous and deliberately demonical method. As God is my witness, I feel I have an excellent chance of winning. Therefore, it would be in the best interest of each of the authors to consider an out of court settlement, heretofore referred to as 'ponying up." According to a good book, I am considerably more than half saint. More like 11/16th.
Yours,

Bog Monster

As the legal representation of the aforementioned Bog Monster, or BM, we ask that this egregious misrepresentation of our client, and the slanderous material therein, cease and desist immediately. Any mention of BM for any reason whatsoever will result in a serious increase of the amount you will be 'ponying up.'

Sincerely, the Law Firm of
Boyd,Dewey,Juan,Chor-Money,and Howe

The bog monster sat perplexed wondering how its holiness could afford its legal fees. Suddenly its eyes fell on a copy of People magazine lying askew on its coffee table. The cover displayed a newlywed Brad and Angelina with their thirteen newly adopted fruit children. Suddenly an idea began to take shape.

"Hey, celebrities are rich, kinda, and they probably love there kids," Thought the blog monster, and then sighed sadly because blog monsters are never loved. "Anyway," he continued to muse, "I bet if I stole a few, Brad and Angie would pay big bucks to get them back."

See, that's what I'm on about. That's why I've brought solicitors into the fray. Never loved. Pah! My mother loved me very much, thank you very much. She was 13/16ths saint.

Hannibal set down the script. "Ha, this is way better than shakespeare, no one will be able to decipher this. I shall call it--"The Master Disarray Of the bog monster, and his most lamitable Court Fries." He laughed, then pondered if Bog-Monster was in the O.E.D.

While he was at it, he figured there were quite a few words in this story that needed to be looked up. He started with 'lamitable.'

The bog monster's thoughts turned inward. He thought about when he was but a lad, hanging out with his friends. He remembered fondly those harmless, mischievous days with Swampire, Fentom of the Opera, Marvin Marshin, The Morassassin, Michael Mires, Peat Bogdonavich, Blue Bayou, Poldergeist, Killer Swale, The Bogie Man, Spiro Muskagnew, and Sherlock Holms. They were so tight.
It wasn't until they discovered Agatha, that this great rift spread them apart. All they could talk, think, or dream about was Agatha. All they desired was Agatha. Oh,they were smitten with that kitten. The Cyclopses took control of our group, and one-by-one they reared their ugly heads and spat. They began to quarrel about who among them would be the first to have her, not knowing that it was she who would always possess and control them. And yet, she would have none of them. Then she split.
Bog Monster struck out on his own in search of the elusive Agatha,and, because he knew she would never be his, he looked for a piece of her in every woman he met.

H. H. thought " lamitable...hmm"

Bog Monster ate his spam like Pac Man. I mean he actualy made that annoying sound when he ate.

"How la·men·ta·ble." commented H.H. of his writting.

All of a sudden the pain shot through his body. Erick screamed in pain, “Why the hell do I do this to myself?” It was all he could do not to run naked into the hallway. He knew if he did he’d be humiliated, just the other day he swore to his mother that he’d quit dropping acid and masturbating, and now? Now, he had rubbed himself raw. All of those strange thoughts, and just who the hell was this Hamlin guy? Why did he find himself falling for someone he made up in his mind? His mind was racing, somewhere deep inside of his brain the was a voice. A loud and condemning voice yelling, “Just when the hell did I start dreaming of dudes?” this wasn’t going to be a good day.
Erick got up from his bloodied bed and grabbed his little brothers hamster before he knew what he was doing he found himself holding the dripping corps of the fury rat over the toilet. He herd the voice again, “NOW GO, GO TO THE SCHOOLYARD AND KILL! KILL FOR ME!” Erick realized the acid might still be working.
No, this wasn’t going to be a good day at all.

As Erik stepped from his house, a van pulled up. Masked humans, armed with whatever sort of guns the kids are using these days, opened the side door and forced Erik inside. They took him to an abandoned warehouse where they made him star in a snuff film. Bye, Erik. Oh, and the name of the group which abducted him was known as The Corps of the Fury Rat.

Newton set down Sarah Steven's international bestselling novel, The Pornbirds. He looked at his watch. Where is she? How can the world end without Agatha? And why, in the year 2060, can we still not get a reasonably priced loaf of marble rye? Ah, the esotericism of the Gnostics.

A vortex opened up somewhere near the vicinity of Brighton on Lampshade, England. Several vortexans appeared out of a missed episode of a baudy British comedy television program on BBC 4. It was not The Vicar of Dibley, though that is a charming program with lots of bizzare characters, witty banter, and a skippy cadence. The vortexans aimed some weapony looking things at the author of this particular blog. The digression ended abruptly.
"We have come to fascilitate the end of the world," they said using some sort of pathy, most likely 'tele', but I'm not a true believer in that sort of thing. Although that spoon bending stuff that Yuri whatever his name was used to do was interesting. So I don't know. Oh yeah, the weapony things.
"Please point us in the direction of that place (its like a palace or a church or something) on top of that hill in the Palestinian or Israeli area, whatever it is now, so that we may knock it down, rebuild it and knock it down again, and thusly bring on the Armeggadon as promised in that thing called the Bible that you people seem to hold so near and dear. Though we're not sure how many times we need to knock it down and/or rebuild it before this thing happens. You wouldn't happen to have one of those Bible thingies handy would you? We knew we should have entered through The Vicar. But did we listen to us? No, we had to have it our way didn't we?"
The author begged them to shoot him/her (does it matter who the author is?) with their weapony things. They did. I died.