Wacky Weirdness

Furnigarbeclovenience Car Wash

Morning, Readers

We here at Armenian Fungus Cake don’t like having to choose. We want the best of both worlds, and then some, in one package, whether that means a bunch of different food in the same bag or a unified Mangoustan.

So, after a long day of searching for funny foods and other oddities to bring to you, we decided to stop for lunch at the  only place that meshed perfectly with our desires to combine everything we could possible desire under one single roof.

But how could we possibly do this? I mean, sure, there’s Asian fusion and other such combinative cooking, but our interests extend far beyond food, although sometimes we have our doubts. We are more than what we eat. We are car owners and furniture users and clothes wearers, as much as we like all sorts of consumables.

For this reason, we were thrilled when we discovered the true identity of an anonymous (for the sake of being anonymous, and convincing you that we write out of Cleveland) and commonplace looking gas station and car wash, two things common both on their own and together. We looked up something to eat in a wealthy and somewhat chichi suburb called **************, where we ended up after plenty intracity travel. Naturally, we were surprised when we saw the listing for what we thought was just, as I said, a gas station and carwash, under the restaurant category–and rated four stars to boot. We figured it was our duty to try, even if we expected the purported four star food to taste like oil and soap.

The building, which we’d seen before, is big and nondescript, and next to gas pumps and what I later realized was a car wash–I always assumed that the building wasn’t truly a building, but the housing for the wash, and that car wash looking thing on the outside was something else. I was wrong.

We walked into the building, and were slightly taken aback. The floors were made of nice concrete, the place was comfortable lit and well decorated, and even more, gigantic. On one side was a counter surrounded by cigarettes and condoms and other gas station convenience store fare. On the other was a counter with a kitchen behind it and a chalkboard above with, for whatever reason, barbecue items.

The rest? The rest was plain strange. There were pieces of wicker furniture, tables, stools, tchotchkes, sculptures, odd food items, like traditional South American chocolates and artisanal condiments. The whole thing was one weird juxtaposition of gas station and import store, with fine wines next to refrigerators full of cheap beer.

We sat down and ordered several barbecue items, and filled something like 7 cups with all different sorts of sauces. The food was quite good for a gas station, and even for a restaurant.

But honestly, that’s not the point. The food and its quality are not the important part.

What’s important is WHOSE IDEA WAS THIS?????

THE PLACE IS NUTS! DID I LIKE IT? YES? BUT STILL!

DO I WANT MY BRISKET IN VIEW OF STRAWBERRY CONDOMS! APPARENTLY SO.

WHY IS THERE BRISKET PERIOD? BARBECUE AT ALL? THIS ISN’T EVEN A NEW COMPANY–IT’S AN OLD GAS STATION CHAIN, THAT SOMEONE CLEARLY REVAMPED ON A CONFUSINGLY LARGE SCALE! WHY ARE THERE IMPORTED CHOCOLATES! WHY CAN I BUY PEACH RINGS AND A MINI STATUE OF AN ITALIAN CHEF WITHIN 5 FEET OF EACH OTHER?

I’M CONFUSED! IS IT FOOD? IS IT GAS? IS IT CONVENIENCE? IS IT HUMAN? IS IT DANCER?

DOES IT GET BETTER?

AM I GAY?

IS MY FOOD GAY? IS GAS A WOMAN? WHERE IS MY MIND (DON’T SUE ME)? HOW IS THIS SUCCESSFUL? IS THIS SUBURB OSTENTATIOUS TO THE POINT WHERE EVERY FANTASTICALLY BIZARRE IDEA AND ITS MOTHER GETS MONEY? I GUESS!!!

AM I COMPLAINING? I DON’T KNOW! I DOUBT IT, I LIKED IT, WHAT I LIKED, I DON’T DAMN KNOW!

AGH!

ARE EXISTENTIAL CRISES NORMAL WITH  COMING HERE?

AM I CRAZY?

WORD COUNT: 666

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Ain’t Nothin’ But A Hound Hog

Are you sincere?

Are you sincere?

While shoppin’ around for an interesting restaurant, I received a tip about a certain regal barbecue restaurant. There is so much world to see that I can’t always be aware of every new culinary craze, so I decided to give it a try. Normally such a mission wouldn’t be permitted under Federal Bureau of Foreign Culinary Relations rules, but in keeping with other recent events, we have now been cleared to perform domestic operations. Fortunately (for them) or unfortunately, all of the other FBFCR agents were on other assignments, including one that involved investigating some strange snacking situations in Siberia. This left me to tackle this tremendous task on my own.

When I pulled in to the designated location, I found a small pink building that could have passed for a beach shack. I immediately noticed a sign that advertised a BBQ beef sundae, and I thought to myself, “I think I’m gonna like it here.” Another sign made mention of a peanut butter and banana sandwich. At this point, I started to get an idea of what I would be getting into.

I carefully entered the small pink building (not really in the ghetto, at least not that much), and I was greeted by an amazing array of carefully chosen decorations. At this point I briefly thought, “I really don’t want to know.” But a mission is a mission, and I knew I had to complete this one, whatever the cost.

Do you know who I am?

Do you know who I am?

After looking over the menu for a few moments, I got the attention of the man with the apron strings and prepared to place my order. I arrived after the lunch rush, so I was first in line. I briefly considered ordering one of the traditional BBQ offerings, but my adventurous nature tried to convince me otherwise. “Alright, okay, you win,” I said to myself, and I ordered the peanut butter and banana sandwich, the BBQ beef sundae, and a tutti frutti soda in a can. I paid with my card (who needs money?), and the man asked me if I’d be bringin’ it back or if I’d be eating it there. I didn’t want to miss out on any of the atmosphere, so I took a seat at a table.

After a few minutes, the man behind the counter assured me, “it won’t be long.” After a little while, he brought me the sandwich, the sundae, and my soda. I noticed that a few things were different from what I expected (the menu is almost always true). Instead of getting all shook up over this, I asked the man to tell me why the sandwich was made with dried banana chips, and why the cherry tomato was missing from the beef sundae. At first he was a bit evasive, and simply said, “don’t ask me why.” I continued to press him, and he finally explained that a rather large man wearing blue suede shoes had eaten up all of the ingredients. I demanded to speak with this gluttonous gourmand, but the waiter told me that he’d left the building some time ago.

Is it so strange?

Is it so strange?

As I was finishing my lunch, the man behind the counter brought me a cinnamon roll, and explained that they will be serving these starting next week. All I could say to him is, “thank you, thank you very much.”

I don’t know if this establishment will achieve fame and fortune, or if I’ll be back. But I do know this: I’ll probably never again encounter such a strange smorgasbord.

Some events have been fictionalized for comedic effect. No Elvis songs were harmed in the production of this article.

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Fares, Please!

December 5th, 2042

 

The RTD took my neighbors away last night. I don’t know why. They seemed like such nice people, and they certainly weren’t the types to cause trouble. Of course I know better than to ask why. With the definition of “causing trouble” being so broad these days, everyone knows better than to ask questions. Most people just accept that if the RTD takes someone away, that person must have done something wrong. They have to accept it; it’s the only way they can avoid thinking about the more unpleasant possibilities.

I don’t know where my neighbors were taken. Nobody knows where the RTD takes people, other than the rumors that it’s somewhere to the north. That’s why those who can’t bring themselves to speak the truth will say that their friends or relatives “went north”. It all sounds so harmless when it’s put that way, as if the person had just decided to go on a nice vacation. Of course it’s not nice at all, and no one who has gone north has ever come back.

Just writing this would be enough to get me taken away, but it’s a risk I have to take. I only hope that someday the RTD’s reign of terror will end, and future generations can avoid a similar fate. Many have already forgotten how the RTD took control, or even who they used to be. But I remember. At least I think I remember. Sometimes even I have a hard time recalling the way things were.

It all started about 30 years ago. Everyone was on guard for any signs of tyranny, and they were quick to question the actions of many agencies. Some thought the tyrants would come from DHS, others thought FEMA was the agency to be feared. A few suspected that the governments of the world were being secretly controlled by aliens from another planet. There was even a theory about some vast conspiracy involving obscure tropical fruits. But while we were all distracted by such things, the real threat was growing.

The RTD’s power grew gradually. So much that no one realized what was happening until it was too late. Maybe if they had an Orwellian name such as the Thought Police, someone would have stopped them before they gained so much power. But that’s not how it happened. At first, the RTD had just a bit of control in one city, and their assistance with maintaining order was welcomed. But in time, their influence spread over a larger region. They were given more authority. They began to carry guns. But still, no one sensed the beginning of their tyrannical reign. It all happened so slowly, as it almost always does.

Most people don’t even remember what RTD used to stand for. Nowadays, of course, the letters have taken on a meaning of their own. It’s a word in its own right, and it strikes fear into the hearts of all those who hear it. Their badges still bear the name from which those letters were derived, but no one dares to look at an RTD agent closely enough to read those words. When the RTD is around, one cares only about staying out of trouble and hoping that the agent will take notice of someone else.

The only word more fearful than the name of the RTD itself is a word that entered the language about 15 years ago. It’s an absurd-sounding word, just like all of the new words these days are. But to those who’ve grown up hearing it, I suppose it sounds as normal as anything else. Sometimes children will use it as an indication that one of their friends is in big trouble, and this always causes much consternation among their parents, since it’s a word that’s much too terrifying to be used so casually. The word is “fezpleez”. It seems so silly that the most terrifying word in the language could contain 2 Zs. Z used to be such a fun letter, but it’s not anymore.

People forget things so quickly nowadays, which I suppose is due in no small part to the popular entertainment that seems designed to make them forget everything. Almost everyone I know has already forgotten where the word fezpleez comes from, or even that it hasn’t always been a word. They know what it means, though. It means that you’re the one who’s in big trouble. It means that you’re going north. It means that you’re about to disappear.

I think the RTD enjoys having their own terrifying word. An ordinary police officer might place someone under arrest, but they don’t have any special word for doing so. The RTD, on the other hand, does. I still remember the first time I heard it. That was before it was so terrifying, of course. And I didn’t hear it as it is now, with all those Es and Zs. I heard it from an RTD agent in its original form: “Fares, please!”

At the time, it was a simple request. The RTD agent simply wanted to verify that everyone on the train had paid their fare, and he was asking passengers to show their tickets. No one was afraid, except for a few scofflaws who deserved to get in trouble anyway. It’s amazing now to think that there was a time when hearing that phrase, “fares, please!” wouldn’t have been the material of nightmares. Over the years, it’s changed into its current form, fezpleez, but I think even the original would be enough to make the bravest person cower in fear.

Perhaps no one else remembers where the word fezpleez came from, but I’m sure the RTD agents do. It reminds them of who they once were, and of the fearsome power that they now wield. As I mentioned before, their badges still bear the original name of their agency: “Regional Transportation District”, and across the middle is emblazoned the city where it all started: “Denver”.

In the end, it wasn’t the secret societies or the corporate cabals who brought tyranny to the land. They are now as much under the control of the RTD as everyone else. Instead, our masters are those who once were the lowly fare inspectors. They still say, “fares, please!” but now they really mean business. I only hope that someday, someone can learn from this so that it never happens again.

(Author’s note: This was inspired by a recent trip to Denver where my light-rail fare was checked several times over the course of a few days. In reality, my experience with the RTD was very positive. Their service was on-time and efficient, the vehicles were clean, and the personnel were friendly. Of course, the RTD fare inspectors don’t actually have any plans to take over the country and institute a tyrannical dictatorship. At least, I think that’s what I’m supposed to say.)

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Momordicae Grosvenori Part 2

CONTINUED FROM PART 1

After the strange sensation had passed, I found myself standing on a road with the Masticiphiator (or whoever he was) next to a bright red Royal Mail box with a small slot near the top. “You’re not going to try to tell me that we were in there, are you?” I demanded.

“Of course I’m not going to try to tell you that. I’m just going to tell you that. Because we were in there.”

“That’s impossible!” I insisted. “You couldn’t even get one of us in there if you tried. And what about all the controls and gadgets and blinking lights?”

“It’s smaller on the outside,” answered the Masticiphiator.

“Right. So where are we supposed to be?”

“We’re supposed to be in Cleveland.”

I looked up at a street sign that read Blvd Charles de Gaulle and commented, “this doesn’t look like Cleveland, or Paris for that matter.”

“It’s not,” he replied while he poked at some device in his hand.

“Then where are we?” I demanded.

“Ouagadougou” was his answer, which he gave without batting an eye.

“Do you mean to tell me that you were trying to fly…or warp…or transmute…or whatever…You were trying to get us to Cleveland, and you managed to set down in Ouagadougou instead?”

“Yep.”

“Oh, that’s just great,” I huffed. Then I realized it really was about the same either way. We walked past Avenue du Burkina, and the Masticiphiator finally started to explain what had happened:

“As I was saying before you got us off on this tangent, you started writing all those stories on that web site about various strange snacks. What was it called again? Something about Funnel Cake?”

“You know what it’s called.” I glared. “You blew your cover while we were still inside that…mailbox.”

“Oh, right. So anyway, we were writing all of these snack stories. And if I hadn’t been undercover, I would have seen the big red light flashing on my control panel. You know, the one that signals the imminent destruction of the universe! But I didn’t see this coming until it was almost too late. Except for that one time when I had a bad feeling about something…”

“And when was that?” I asked.

Momordicae Grosvenori Drink Mix

“Do you remember that time when you found that package of drink mix that had one label on top of the other?”

“Of course. The Momordicae Grosvenori drink mix, that said Shireqing Flavoured Beverage underneath the label.”

The Masticiphiator seemed to shudder when I even mentioned those words. “And do you remember taking a picture of it both ways? With and without the label?”

“Of course I do.”

“And what happened when I sent those pictures to you?”

“You only sent me the Shireqing one. What ever happened to the Momordicae one, anyway?”

“Could you please stop saying that word?” he said as he clenched his teeth. “I deleted it from the camera. That’s what I did.”

“Why did you do that?”

“I told you. I had a bad feeling about it! And I was right. Now, do you remember what you did after that?”

..or is it?

My memory was starting to return. I don’t know if it was was from the hot sun of Burkina Faso, or if it was just being out of that stuffy mailbox, but I did remember what happened. “I bought another package of it.”

“You bought another package of it. Then what?”

“I took another picture of. So I could write an article about it, for the web site.”

“What else?”

The truth is revealed!

“Well, I started seeing Momordicae Grosvenori everywhere.” The Masticiphiator winced at the sound of those words. “It was on that drink mix, and it was in the Canton Love-pes Vine Drink, and then it was even right there on the shelf. The fruit itself.”

“Wait, what’s Canton Love-pes Vine drink?”

“I don’t know. It’s still in my refrigerator. I never actually tried it. But it has Momordicae Grosvenori in it.”

“And you’re lucky it’s still in there,” the Masticiphiator scolded, “since if you had managed to destroy the universe you would have destroyed your refrigerator in the process.”

“I still can’t remember how I almost destroyed the universe. Are you going to tell me about that?”

“Oh yes, that was what got all this started, wasn’t it?” observed the Masticiphiator. “It all started when you sat down to try to write that article about Momordicae Grosvenori. But when you saw the horror of that cursed fruit, you didn’t even know where to begin. You struggled valiantly to find some way to write about the fruit that smelled like a dead tree on the outside and looked like a horror movie on the inside.”

Momordicae Grosvenori Fruit

“You’re right,” I interrupted, “the inside really does look like a giant legless, headless, pregnant spider exploded and all of the babies came scurrying out.”

The Masticiphiator anxiously brushed some imaginary insects off of his arm and continued, “Thanks for that image. Anyway, after dozens of hours of writer’s block, you wished you had never even bought those stupid fruits. You wished you could go back in time and buy the Shocking Popping Candy instead, with its four delicious flavors and the bright colors and the pointy packaging with the googly-eyed guy on the front who has the cola can exploding in his mouth…”

“Snap out of it!” I shouted. “You have to finish explaining this to me before you get hypnotized by those imitation Pop Rocks again!”

“Right, right. You found yourself staring into an innocent-looking rock. But what you didn’t realize was that it was actually the Heart Of The Fungus Cake. The center of time and space that links everything together, at least as far as snacks are concerned. It pulled you in, and spread you throughout time and space. How stupid could you have possibly been? Why did you stare into the Heart Of The Fungus Cake?”

“Stupid?” I protested. “You just said it was innocent looking! How was I supposed to know it was the key to the whole universe?”

“Didn’t anyone ever tell you not to stare into random rocks? You never know what they might be!”

“No.”

Pleasant dreams!

“Well don’t stare into random rocks! You never know what they might be!”

“I know that now.”

“You found yourself spread throughout time and space, and you somehow got the brilliant idea to put references to Momordicae Grosvenori everywhere. For some reason, you thought it was a good idea to just throw them out there. You had the chance to put up big warning signs, or post threatening messages to yourself on Facebook, or even prevent Momordicae Grosvenori from ever evolving in the first place. But instead you plastered the name all over everything, and that made you so incredibly curious that you just had to get yourself some of that fruit!”

“But wait,” I sputtered. “Wouldn’t that be a paradox? I mean, buying the fruit is what caused the writer’s block, but the writer’s block is what caused me to put all those references out there, and those references are what caused me to buy the fruit. How is that possible?”

“Oh, now he gets it,” sighed the Masticiphiator to no one in particular. “Of course it’s a paradox! That’s how you almost destroyed the universe! Ten more seconds and the whole thing would have been reduced to a quivering lump of grass jelly. You’re lucky that I was keeping an eye on things and not busy computing the standard deviation of Shocking Popping Candy!”

“Good timing for a paradox, I guess.”

“Just tell me one thing. Why did you put all those references out there? Why didn’t you just go back in time and tell yourself not to buy Momordicae Grosvenori?”

“Well, I thought it was a good idea at the time.”

“See! That’s what you get for thinking!” exclaimed the Masticiphiator.

“I thought it was a creative way…”

“Look what happens when you get creative!”

“It was supposed to be so spooky that I’d be scared away from it forever.”

“You’ve eaten raw duck eggs that have been soaked in calcium hydroxide and stored at room temperature. Did you really think a few strange coincidences would scare you away from a little round fruit?”

I fired back with, “You just told me I shouldn’t think.”

“Good point. So now you know. That’s how you almost destroyed the universe. Have you learned anything from this experience?”

“Don’t stare into random rocks?”

“Excellent!” exclaimed the Masticiphiator. “Don’t stare into random rocks! You’re practically a genius now.”

We retraced our steps along the streets of Ouagadougou and arrived back at the red Royal Mail box, which was right where we had left it.

“You called this thing the SIDRAT”, I began. “What does that mean?”

“Snack Investigation Device Resembling A Tomato, of course.”

“A tomato? It looks like a mailbox to me.”

“Well, it’s red, isn’t it?”

“Ah yes,” I agreed, and then I snickered. “You said to-MAH-to!”

“Well of course I did,” retorted the Masticiphiator in his Estuary accent. Then he pushed a button on something he had in his pocket, and we were suddenly back inside the SIDRAT.

When I had recovered from the shock of being squeezed through the tiny mail slot, I asked, “So, where do we go from here?”

“Where we go from here,” replied the Masticiphiator, “is right back to where we were before you started this whole mess. Eating strange foods and pondering strange products. I’ll write my articles, and they’ll be shared by hundreds of people throughout the world. You’ll write your articles, and well…you’ll write your articles.”

“Hey! My articles get shared too!”

The Masticiphiator snorted, but he said nothing.

“So that’s it?” I continued. “You have this amazing…SIDRAT…that can go anywhere in space and time. You’re responsible for maintaining the snacking balance in the whole universe. And I’m supposed to just pretend none of this ever happened and that I don’t know about any of it?”

“That’s basically it,” replied the Masticiphiator.

“Since you’re an Earl of Edibility, and you know all these things, at least answer one question: do we ever become famous?”

“We?” he chortled. “Let me just tell you this. In a few hundred years, there’s going to be a galaxy-wide surge in the popularity of vaguely Anglicized Vietnamese noodle soup. My likeness will be on every package. Do you know what they’re going to call me?”

I thought for a moment and then answered, “The…Masticiphiator?”

“Of course not! They’re going to call me The Face of Pho!”

I groaned and said, “I should have known.”

“Now,” said the Masticiphiator, “we’re going back to where we came from, and you won’t remember any of this. You’ll think it was just a funny story that you wrote for your blog. I’ll force myself to say to-MAY-to and you’ll be none the wiser as to what’s really going on. But this time I’ll be keeping a closer eye on you to make sure you don’t try to destroy the universe again!”

I started to protest. I thought that surely I could be entrusted with knowing these secrets of snacking, but it was too late. The Masticiphiator pulled a lever, then he turned a dial, then he pushed a button.

THE END

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Momordicae Grosvenori Part 1

“What…what happened? Where am I?” I asked, as I woke up from what felt like an eternity of sleep. Something like sleep, anyway. Possibly more like death, whatever that feels like.

“Oh, what happened? What happened?” replied a voice that was vaguely familiar, yet it had a distinct Estuary accent that it never had before. “What happened is that you almost reduced the whole universe to a quivering heap of jelly. That’s what happened!”

“You mean like grass jelly?” I inquired, still in a daze.

“Yes, just like that. Just like grass jelly. The whole universe. Billions of stars and planets. All those civilizations almost reduced into something that you’d find at the bottom of a drink in a Cambodian restaurant.”

“But, how did I do that? I don’t remember anything.” I looked at the figure standing near me, but it was still a blur. It seemed like whoever it was, it was manipulating some controls. The figure didn’t reply, but instead appeared to pull a large lever. The whole room shook with a tremendous jolt.

My vision began to clear, and I recognized the figure working the controls. It was none other than my slightly famous culinary compatriot. But I had no idea where we were, how we got there, or why he was speaking with that ridiculous accent. I managed to sit up, and I asked him what was going on and why he was talking like that.

“I’ve already told you what’s going on”, he answered. “And what do you mean why am I talking like this? How am I supposed to be talking?”

“Not like Gordon Ramsay,” was my retort. At least I had kept my sense of humor through the ordeal, whatever it had been.

“And why not? Don’t you even remember who I am?”

“Of course I remember who you are. You’re Arr…”

“I’m The Masticiphitator,” he interrupted.

“The what?”

“Masticiphitator.”

“Mastic…what? What kind of a name is that? How am I even supposed to pronounce that?”

“Mas-tic-i-phi-a-tor,” he said impatiently. “The Masticiphiator. That’s me.”

“The Masticiphiator? That’s it?”

“That’s it. The Masticiphitator. Isn’t that enough?”

“Well, I guess it is. But when did you start calling yourself The Masticiphitator?”

“I’m 1,500 years old. When you do you think?”

“Well, alright, Masticiphitator. Are you going to tell me where this place is and why you look exactly like Arr…”

“Ah!” he interrupted. “Masticiphitator!”

“Right. You’re The Masticiphitator. I get that. Now, for the last time, where in the world are we and why do you look exactly like Arr…?”

“First of all,” he said, “we’re not in the world at all. And I’ve never heard of this Arren fellow in my life. I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about.”

“Ah ha!” I interjected. “You never let me finish that name. How did you know what I was going to say?”

“Lucky guess, of course,” he said, but his countenance looked a bit concerned. “Anyway, sit down and I’ll try to explain all of this to you.”

I took a seat, and as I did, I added, “You’d better really tell me, or else I’m just going to get up and leave.”

The Masticiphitator didn’t look up from whatever it was he was doing, but he pointed toward a small slot high on the wall and said, “good luck with that.”

I realized that wherever I was, I was going to be there for a while, so I sat and listened as The Masticiphitator recounted the story in his Estuary accent:

“It all started when you got that crazy idea to buy those strange snacks at the Asian market. And you thought they were all so funny and delicious. You just couldn’t keep it to yourself, could you? You had to share it with the world. At first it was just pictures with funny captions. But then the captions got longer and longer, and they turned into stories. You started writing stories about these strange foods. And they weren’t even stories about how the foods tasted. They were about some place called East Mangoustan, and how the East Mangoustanis were out to get you.”

“The East Mangoustanis are out to get me,” I interrupted testily. I fumbled in my pocket looking for my FBFCR badge, but it was gone.

“Right, of course they are. Anyway, you came up with all these funny stories about mangosteen and jellyfish, but then someone suggested that they could help you keep the stories going. Do you remember that?”

“Of course I remember that! It was you!”

“Don’t be silly. I’m The Masticiphitator, not some half-baked blogger who writes about soursop as if it’s some kind of vast conspiracy.”

“Soursop is a vast conspiracy! At least I think it still is. I don’t even know anymore.”

“So you brought this person on…”

“I brought you on.”

“You brought this person on. Why?”

“I brought this person on because he wrote his doctoral thesis on the 700 ways that the structure of the universe resembles a can of Ching Poo Luong.”

“Wasn’t it fascinating? I’ve come up with 14 additional similarities since I wrote that!” exclaimed the Masticiphitator, his face almost giddy with delight. Then a moment later he realized his mistake.

“Ah!” I shouted. “I knew it! You couldn’t resist bragging about that paper! Now drop that ridiculous accent and tell me what’s going on here!”

“What ridiculous accent? Oh, you mean you think this accent is fake? Well, it’s not. And let me tell you, if you think jaunting through time and space to maintain the proper balance of sweet and salty snacks is hard, it’s nothing compared trying to talk like you.”

“Maintain the proper balance of sweet and salty snacks? Space and time? Are you ever going to explain this to me, or are you just going to keep throwing these things out there as if I’m supposed to understand them?”

“Alright then,” he said. “It’s really very simple. I’m an Earl of Edibility. This place is the SIDRAT. I use it to travel through space and time to make sure the universe is supplied with tasty treats. It’s a terribly important responsibility.”

“You make it sound like you’re some god of snacks. How important can that be?”

“Incredibly important!” he snapped. “How would you like to try getting through one of your days without your afternoon candy bar? What about the poor soul who couldn’t move one more box without a bag of Nacho Pizza Chips? Or the student who, on the verge of complete collapse, finds the strength to solve one more system of equations thanks to a chocolate-coated ice cream cone?”

“Well, you have a point there,” I admitted.

“Maybe we should take a walk why I try to explain all of this to you.”

“How are we even supposed to get outside?” I asked, as I gestured toward the small slot near the ceiling.

“Right through there,” replied the Masticiphiator…or whoever he was.

“Through there?”

“Sure. It’s bigger than it looks,” he said, as he pulled a crooked lever. Instantly, I felt as though I were right-side-up, upside-down, moving forwards, moving backwards, spinning like mad, and holding perfectly still, all at the same time…

CONTINUED IN PART 2

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There Was Disco in Germany

Several months ago, Armenian Fungus Cake first broke the story of Persian Hip-Hop. This shocking revelation rocked the music world and led to copycat crimes throughout Turkmenistan, Azerbaijan, and Georgia (the one next to Alabama). Hot on the heels of this acoustic anomaly comes another terrifying truth: there was disco in Germany.

When you think of disco, you probably think of artists such as the Bee Gees, Kool & the Gang, or any of those other names that come up when you search for “best disco artists”. You probably don’t think of Dschingihs Khan (or Genghis Khan as it would be pronounced in English). That is unless you’re German, in which case you should probably stop reading now before I make any more enemies. There are already a few nations (and disputed territories) in the Caucasus region where my name is a common household insult, and I’d hate to see the trend spread throughout Europe.

For those of you who’ve never heard of Dschinghis Khan, they were (surprise, surprise) a disco group that was popular in the 1970s. They often sung about historical figures and famous places. The video you see here is their tribute to the great Russian city of Moscow. Go ahead, watch it. I’ll wait.

How am I even supposed to follow up on that? Should I comment on the costumes, or the dance steps, or that mustachioed Hungarian fellow in the green satin suit? Is there anything I could possibly say that isn’t already completely expressed by the video itself?

Actually there is one thing I should say, considering the dreadful dreams that could be induced by what you’ve just seen. It’s a reminder of the Armenian Fungus Cake motto that you’ve never heard because I just invented it: “Your nightmares are not my problem.” And speaking of nightmares, be glad that I didn’t share the video of the eponymous song about Genghis Khan (or Dschinghis Khan) instead. That is unless you prefer the green Hungarian fellow with cladding that is a bit…scantier.

If you’ve gotten this far, you’re not German, so you probably want to know what they’re singing. Here goes:

Moscow, strange and full of secrets, towers made of red gold, cold as ice.
But Moscow, the ones who really know you, know that a hot fire burns within you.
Cossacks, raise, raise, raise your glasses! Natasha, you’re beautiful! Hey, comrade, a toast to life! To your health, brother, hey, brother!
Moscow, Moscow! Throw your glasses at the wall! Russia is a beautiful land!

Moscow, Moscow! Your soul is so grand. At night the devil runs loose there.
Moscow, Moscow! Love tastes like caviar. There are girls to kiss there.
Moscow, Moscow! Come on, let’s dance on the table Until the table breaks!
Moscow, gateway to the past. Mirror of the time of the czars. Red as blood.
Moscow, the one who knows your soul knows that love burns there as hot as flame.
Cossacks, raise, raise, raise your glasses! Natasha, you’re beautiful! Hey, comrade, a toast to love! To your health, girl, hey, girl!
Moscow, Moscow! Throw your glasses at the wall! Russia is a beautiful land!
Moscow, Moscow! Your soul is so grand. At night the devil runs loose there.

Moscow, Moscow! La, la, la…
Moscow, Moscow! Vodka is drunk straight and cold, it makes you live to a hundred years old!
Moscow, Moscow! Papa, your glass is empty, but there’s more left in the cupboard!
Cossacks, raise, raise, raise your glasses! Natasha, you’re beautiful! Hey, comrade, a toast to love! To your health, brother, hey, brother!
Moscow, Moscow! Throw your glasses at the wall! Russia is a beautiful land!
Moscow, Moscow! Your soul is so grand. At night the devil runs loose there.

Moscow, Moscow! Love tastes like caviar. There are girls to kiss there.
Moscow, Moscow! Come on, let’s dance on the table until the table breaks!

Mustachioed green guy isn’t coming to get you. Really, he’s not. Just go back to sleep. Nothing to worry about at all.

Categories: Wacky Weirdness | 1 Comment