The Classics Updated

glitter-graphics.com

Children's Classic Updated

by William Shakespeare

for Ye Olde Crappy Tymes Literary Section

Forsooth! Mine good olde chum Dr. Seuss was so much impressed with Ye Spooky Guy's collaborative effort with Ye Cheese Mistress, otherwise beknownst as Lily Strange, that he asked Spooky to help him to update his classic tale of Ham and Eggs of Green for today's more worldly child. Here be the result with which Dr. Seuss was most impressed.

"Spooky is indeed a great ghost writer," he said. "For he tells it like it is!"

I have ne'er in all my time living or dead seen a literary work for children quite so profane. Yet Seuss speaketh truth--the Spook telleth it plain! I myself hope to see more works by this salty-spoken Swede in future time. Perhaps I shall have him help me update mine own works for audiences of this modern day.

Forsooth, the Spook sayeth with me he would be glad to collaborate, and he hath already taken the liberty of translating a well known work of mine for modern audiences. Here be mine version for thee to first read in case thou wert not previously aware of it.

Shall I Compare Thee To A Summer's Day?
by William Shakespeare (1564-1616)

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate.
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer's lease hath all too short a date.
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimm'd;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd;
But thy eternal summer shall not fade
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st;
Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou grow'st:
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.


And now the version created by mine respected ghost writer. With language most salty, this profane Scandinavian swain indeed pulleth no punches. The reading of his version maketh me swoon indeed. And thus, without much further ado about nothing, here be ye translation for thee to read as well.

A Fucking Hot Comparison of Hell and Summer

by William Shakespeare

Shall I compare you to a summer's day

Which is fucking hot and makes the sweat drip in my hair

And in the spring the fucking wind is always blowing

And it blows my hair into my mouth

Some fuckheads say the summer is too short

But I say it's too fucking long and makes me sweat a lot

And also I have to listen to the ungentle and totally fucking untalented strains of Death Cheese at all these fucking outdoor festivals

And that sucks goat ass more than anything

Oh well, you look sweaty and miserable just like me

And so together let us bitch and complain, my beloved fellow Curmudgeon

And I will kindly give you a pair of ear plugs to drown out the awful riffs of Death Cheese

If you will but pass me a towel that I may wipe the god damn sweat off of my brow before it drips into my eyes again

And together we shall be sweltering here in hell for all of eternity

Because hell is like an eternal hot fucking miserable summer day

Forsooth, I cannot wait to see what he hath wrought upon the lines of Romeo and Juliet!

William Shakespeare

More Grate Speling and Gramur From the Gerri Atrik Retarmint Comunitee

Today's spelling gaffe baffled The Cheesemeister:

Thou not till Saturday 26
Please put up now on Saturday
I posted only two places

"What could this mean?" pondered The Cheesy One. "Doth it mean, thou shalt not post this until Saturday? And if so, why dost thou givest it to me lo on this a Tuesday?"
But then she realized that what Chip or Dale meant to say was:

Though not till Saturday 26
Please put up now.
On Saturday, I posted only in two places

I guess one really does have to use their brains around this place after all--to figure out what Alvin N. Chipmunkk and his cronies REALLY mean!

78%

You Are 78% Creative

You are beyond creative. You are a true artist - even if it's not in the conventional sense of the word. You love creating for its own sake, and you find yourself quite inspired at times.

How Creative Are You?

When Children Play with Gods

Edwina Nystrom glared at Kalidasa Crewe from her hiding place in the trees. She knew that the dirty little blighter had invoked the terrible ancient goddess Kali, for whom he was always bragging he was named, and smote her poor innocent pony Rothschilde out of spite for Edwina's taking first place in the Ultimate Riding Challenge. Kalidasa was a spoilt rotten brat and a sore loser. But he did know how to invoke the ancient and terrible goddess of his grandmother's people.
"Well, I'm not afraid of him," Edwina said. "And I'm not such a coward as to have the ancient gods of my father's family smite a poor innocent horse. When I invoke Loki, it won't be to have Zebulon fall and break a leg. But the house of Crewe may well encounter Ragnarok this day!"

This story (and the picture) originally appeared here.

Traci's New Lips

Traci was really happy with the new lips she got at Dr. Quincy's Plastic Surgery Emporium in the Netherworld. She was so happy she couldn't stop smiling. Then she realized something awful: she really COULDN'T stop smiling!

Originally posted on Indie's blog, which is where the picture is stolen from.

X Zone Radio

This is a letter I wrote to the X-Zone radio. They feature various paranormal topics.

Greetings,

I hope this doesn't appear too arrogant, as I am really not an arrogant individual, but the guest I would like to suggest is myself. My name is Lily Strange and I am a clairsentient medium who wrote a book with the help of a spirit. The book is horror fiction but it also contains elements of truth. My co-author is a very interesting and unique man who committed suicide in 1991 when he could no longer endure his troubled life. We made contact with one another in 2005. I was working on editing a book at the time and he started giving me suggestions. Quite by accident, we became co-authors. If this sounds at all interesting, feel free to visit our website at http://www.lilystrange.com to find out more.

I also do Tarot and other divination readings and would be interested in being a guest reader if you would have the need. While I don't consider myself a professional reader, I've been told by those I've done readings for that I have a good accuracy rate. I go into great detail and treat every client's question as if it had personal meaning for me. To look at some of my readings for an idea of what I do, I have a blog at http://lilyscrystalball.blogspot.com
Unfortunately at this point most of the readings on the blog are those I have done for myself as I do not have a vast client base, but it will give an idea of the style I use. I also have a page at http://www.mysticvision.org
If I sound like someone you would like to interview, I would love to hear from you. You can contact me either at this email address or at (666) 555-4444.
If I don't sound like someone you would like to interview, I would love to hear a quote of your advertising rates so I could potentially advertise with you.
Blessings,
Lily

Gloom and Doom

Yeah, I'm really depressed and unhappy right now. I write because it's the one thing that I still believe is worthwhile. Often it is not pleasurable but can be cathartic I suppose. Some pretty ugly shit dumps into it from the back of my psyche.

Possessed By The Writing Demon

This was actually a reply to a statement made by a friend that once I earned the godforsaken nursing degree that I don't really want I can write for the love of writing rather than to make money. While this would work for someone who is sane, it doesn't work for the certifiably insane. And that would be--my evil twin, of course!

That being said, here is my explanation of what my amazing hack-titude at writing means to me.

I don't write as a means to earn a living. I do it because I'm possessed. Not by him (my spectral co-author)--I've just always had this need to do it. I don't really expect to ever make any money doing it. But like Bierce, Lovecraft and Poe before me, I do it because it has taken hold of my soul.
I've always had a love-hate relationship with writing. It's like one of those pathological romances that is both destructive and as essential as breathing. I sometimes hate that I HAVE to do it or I start becoming insanely depressed. But I love creating the alternative realities.
I can't put off writing while earning this godforsaken nursing degree, which I would jump ship from in a heartbeat if anything else I'm working on starts making money for me! The fact of the matter is that I do NOT have any desire to be a nurse. It doesn't speak to my soul. It's just a damn job. Which means I'll be a half-assed nurse, just like I'm a half-assed medical technician. But I've been stuck in the medical field for so long that I'm too old to do anything else unless one of these online projects takes off.
In the meantime, I will strive to make my place on the list of great weird fiction writers. I can't actually ever hold a candle to those who went before, but I hope that someday someone will read what I've written and say "hell yeah! I want to write like Bierce, Lovecraft, Poe and STRANGE!" Then I'll have succeeded.

Care for a slice of Prome Rib?

I'm always griping about the grammatical errors of the activities department here at the Gerri Atrik retirement community, but as I was about to update the date on this menu, which was typed out and proofread by none other than someone who looks very much like me but couldn't be me because I would never be this stupid, I noticed that the chow du jour was:

Roast Turkey With Gravy

Prome Rib Au Jus

Surely I was possessed by a very stupid demon when I allowed this particular typo to get by! Either that or there really is something called Prome Rib which is reserved for the elite of society and is so uppah-uppah crust that we peons don't even know of its existence!

Lying To Myself

What a horrible feeling, having actually written a book but coming to the distressing realization that so many people write far better than me. I realized after the book was published that what I write is actually pulp trash, and while I enjoy pulp trash, it's kind of a come down to realize that I'm not truly a good writer.
It's too bad I have no other skills or interests. I once wanted to be a psychotherapist but I didn't think that crazy people could do that, and I'm too old now.
It sucks knowing that in truth I have nothing of interest to say and my writing will never make the difference that I wished it would.
It sucks realizing that I am worthless.

The puzzle that is me

You Are a Crossword Puzzle

You are well read, and you have a good head for remembering facts. You are a wordsmith. You have a way with words, and you're very literate. You are a mysterious person who enjoys dropping little clues every now and then.

What Kind of Puzzle Are You?

It's all true!

My Mind Is Blue

Your Mind is Blue

Of all the mind types, yours is the most mellow. You tend to be in a meditative state most of the time. You don't try to think away your troubles. Your thoughts are realistic, fresh, and honest. You truly see things as how they are. You tend to spend a lot of time thinking about your friends, your surroundings, and your life.

What Color Is Your Mind?

I don't think I'm in a meditative state so much as I'm trying to escape from reality! I've always been a daydreamer. And a nightmarer.

The RIGHT Kind of writer

This person is a good writer.

They write the sort of stuff that the New Yorker likes to publish. Their English composition teachers would be proud to say "She was MY student."
I am not a good writer. I am a hack who writes pulp trash. I've never been good at writing poignant, meaningful stuff. But I like reading pulp trash. I like writing pulp trash. And dammit, I want to be sure that it's good pulp trash before I thrust it upon the world!
I once read that you shouldn't write for yourself, you should write for your audience.
I say why the fuck bother if you ain't writing for yourself? You'll only start hating it. Yourself is the first person you should write for--always.
Oh yeah--and despite what all the English composition teachers may tell you?
Sometimes pulp trash leaves a great impression.
Hail Lovecraft!

Gerri Arik Retirement Community Staff Butchers English Language

Wanted: Gerri Atrik Retirement Community Activities Department
For: Butchery of English Language Above And Beyond the Call of Duty

This sign was given to the long-suffering Cheesemeister to be posted on the announcement boards. Not wishing to sound like a smart-ass, The Cheesemeister merely sighed, rolled her eyes, and wished that she had brought a fifth of Jungle Juice to work with her.

THE SIGN OF CRIMINALLY BAD ENGLISH USAGE

NOW EXCEPTING

DONATIONS FOR THE

CLOTHES CLOSET

SET OUTSIDE THE DOOR, GARDEN LEVEL

I wonder, the Cheesemeister pondered, if the donations are being excepted, what are they being excepted from?

The Cheesemeister wondered if she could be excepted from having to deal with other departments, administrators or patients while working.

Yanick's Nightmare

The story and picture originally appeared on Indie's blog, here.

"The more things change the more they stay the same," thought Yanick. He had gone to college in Norway in hopes of finally living out his quixotic dreams away from the judgmental scrutiny of his tyrannical parents. But in leaving Kansas, Yanick's life had just become a worse nightmare. Instead of going to college as he thought, his parents had instead given him a one way ticket to live with his fearsome Uncle Ulf and Aunt Ester way out on the Fjords in a terrible hut that the chill winds blew through. One night when the moon was full and so bright that he could see all the way across the frozen land, Yanick decided to make good his escape. Even living in an alley in Oslo would be preferable to spending one more night in that hated shack, he thought.
Then something fearsome had transpired. As Yanick made his way across the barren, frozen land, a horrific thing, half man, half wolf, leapt from behind a rocky outcropping and tackled the slight youth. Yanick managed to escape from the awful thing by jabbing his fingers into one of its eyes, but not before it tore into his left arm. He now wondered if he had simply been delirious with the cold and had stumbled. He had seen a doctor about the wound and the doctor had been kind enough to direct him to a place where he could sleep and get a meal for not too great a price. Now Yanick stood at the bus stop in the rain, hoping that his cousin Walter would be able to put him up. He shivered as he tried to shake the memory of the wolf creature attacking him. What made the whole thing all the worse was the fact that he could recall hearing his Uncle Ulf's voice calling after him as he ran from its slashing claws and gnashing teeth:
"You'll be back, Boy. It can't be helped. You're one of us now."

I don't know what anyone else thinks, but I really don't care. This is actually one of my favorite short-short story creations. --C

Cover Letter

If sending a copy of your book out for review, here is a basic cover letter you can use.

Bookie Reviewer
666 Hellzapoppin Drive
Gehenna, Netherworld 66666

Re: Eternal Death I: Lost Beneath The Surface
ISBN #978-1-4327-0591-6

Thank you for your recent interest in the press release regarding my book. Enclosed please find the review copy you requested.
Also enclosed is a data sheet containing information about the book and its availability.

I would welcome a book review or author interview. Anything I can do to accommodate your needs in that regard, please do not hesitate to ask.

For your convenience, I may be reached via email at lily@lilystrange.com or telephone at 666-666-6666.

Thank you in advance for your time and consideration.

Sincerely,
Lily Strange
Netherworld Hotel
666 Nightmare Heights Lane
Pandemonium, Netherworld 66996

Only 2 Days Left

In my sidebar there is a little banner for the War Child project. This group helps underprivileged children. A group is creating a book made up of submissions from various bloggers. The proceeds from this book will go to help the War Child project.

Here are some communications between Loony Lily and the project coordinators for your intellectual voyeurism.

Greetings from the fifth level of hell, at 5:45 A.M.
I'm almost positive you haven't had anyone make this claim yet.
I'm Lily, and I talk to ghosts.
In fact I co-wrote a whole book with a ghost.
What makes this ghost very special is the fact that he committed suicide and wants to stop other people from making the same mistake. So he told me to find a charity to give his half of the profits to, one that wants to help people with mental illness.
We chose the World Health Organization's Mental Health and Substance Abuse Division.
I feel like I've failed him because he really wanted to get his story out where people could read and understand what was going on inside him. But so far, not much is shaking.
I tend to feel sad a lot too. And very tired. When I was a kid I had a lot of hopes. At this stage of my life I don't have much hope at all. I know that being depressed is something a lot of people can relate to. Being bipolar is something a few can relate to. It makes me angry because I feel like I have to consider myself lucky if I get a crumb of any kind tossed my way. Like I shouldn't expect more because I'm "nuts."
It's 5:45 in the morning and my shift at work is almost over. Perhaps not the best time to write because it doesn't make a hell of a lot of sense. Then again, it reveals what's really going on inside--what I try to hide behind a mask of some semblance of stability.
**************************************************************************************************************************************************************
If you happen to be crazy or desperate enough to want to print what I have regurgitated here (you're probably wondering how I ever authored a book!) I have a few different blogs, but probably the least depressing one (it's actually fun) is http://creativecrabbing.blogspot.com

Hya
Thanks for your mail - pick whatever you'd like to submit from your blog and send it in!
Best
SJP + Team

This came at the right time to cheer me out of the funk I was getting into! :-)
This one describes me and my experiences pretty well, and is short enough that it should fit your guidelines nicely.
Lily

Creating
I'm in the process of creating a chapter and I'm so tired I can't even think. It was dangerous for me to drive to work tonight, that's how exhausted I am. All I know is that I want the chapter to include Thor, Tyr, Hades and Freya. There's an argument about the Conquering Hero being imprisoned for an impulsive decision. Oh yeah...and my IBS is killing me. Being an author is very glamorous, folks. If you are one of the Beautiful People you should probably consider another profession. If, however, like me, you are mentally unstable, have numerous physical problems, have a great face for radio and a head full of ideas that have caused others to tell you that you really should consider checking into Happy Acres for a little stay and maybe a lobotomy, being a writer just might be for you!

Creepy Chess

The scenario is two girls playing chess. One has a bit of an evil smirk on her face.
See what you can add to this!
Also, feel free to go through and add to any of the previous entries. I use Comment Moderation, so I'll know if a new entry has been added. But it will help if you write which entry you added to with the older ones because the Moderator doesn't tell me that!
Here's the story. Please add to it. Don't be shy. I'm really getting tired of playing by myself. :-(
This story originally appeared here.

"Just wait till Izzie finds the squashed bug under the rook," smirked Eugenia. "She's going to freak and run away screaming. And then I'll win by forfeit. She's such a wuss!"

Lez Girls

Originally posted on Indie's blog.

BTW, thanks for trying to recruit participants in the now-Undead Valentine's story contest, Indie. But Brittney really is much too intimidating. People are scared of her wrathfulness. And maybe I am too, just a little. Or it might be the spookiness of the tall spectral blond dude standing behind me--that's my co-author and he's just a tad bit ghostly, after all.

And now, without further adoo-doo, here is the story in all its glory!

"Ooh La La!" cried Pierre. "Les girls!"
He pulled his car over to the side of the road and beckoned for the two lovely lasses to come ride with him. He slicked back his hair and twirled his mustache, stroked his neat Van Dyke beard, and set his cap at a rakish angle.
"Where are you going, mon cheres a deux?" the randy Frenchman inquired, visions of menage a trois dancing in his head.
"To the Lesbian Power Convention, good sir," said the dark haired girl. "I'm Zoe and this is my wife Felicia. Thanks for offering us a ride. It's nice to meet people who are supportive of gay rights."
"Well, I was more right than I could have imagined," Pierre muttered to himself. "They are indeed Lez Girls."

Olveg and the Jackasses: A Tale of Competitive Ogres

Picture stolen from Indie's blog, where the story originally appeared.

"Oh hell," cried Olveg the Ogre. "Those blasted jackasses are back. They're always asking for hay and going away with such gloomy expressions on their faces when I tell them 'no, I have no hay. Not today, not tomorrow, not next week, never. I am an ogre and do not eat hay!' But oy, they make me feel ever so guilty with those disappointed expressions. I suppose I ought to get me a bale of hay. Just for the jackasses. Maybe they could come in and keep me company for a while. I seem to recall seeing a film about an ogre who has a jackass for a friend. Now if I had three jackasses? Well, who would be the better ogre then, eh?"