DAILY MONSTER 164
Good morning. How are you? I hope you’re having a good weekend so far, and that your Sunday will be a nice one. Thank you for coming to visit the Monsters on a day off. You’ve got all kinds of brilliant stories about yesterday’s creature waiting for you right here:
All the while Monster 164 is already lurking:
For the most part, I tend to like all the monsters to the point where I wouldn’t mind having them around the house, but 164 here actually gives me pause. I’m not sure if he’d be a welcome house guest. He’s got a mean look about him. But maybe I’m wrong? Maybe I see mean when it’s really a monster that’s simply lost its glasses? Or got cornered? Maybe you can help me open my mind to the hidden truths of 164? I’d really like that. If you have a few minutes to spare, please…
Thank you again for checking in on the monsters
on a Sunday. There are four more to come in this series.
Next you’ll get to see the monster mural go up
in Seward, Nebraska from Wednesday through Sunday,
reports from the Monster Launch Party on March 15th,
and then one more month of Daily Monsters in April.
All the while, you can be sure that 344 LOVES YOU
I surely wouldn’t invite this one in for tea and crumpets. 163 however…
Well, shoot……all you need is his twin and you’d have a great pair of suspender clips to hold up your pants…
Of course, having two of these guys at your back might give you pause.
Mortimer the Rat was not amused. Not at all, mind you. One look at his face was sufficient enough to tell you this. He lived in a one-person-hole in the kitchen of Mrs. Ghoulston. Wasn’t much, but for a single like him, it was decent enough.
But on to the story which made him furious today. Actually, Mrs Ghoulston and he got along quite well. He killed the isopods which lurked in the cellar, as well as the occasional cockroach trying to take a crumpet of the delicious fisheye cookies she made. In reward, he never had to worry about food and a warm place. What more could a rat want?
However, since a couple of weeks, he could sense that another monster had moved into this house. He smelt it. Whenever this person was around, the obnoxious smell of cologne wafted through his beloved kitchen. Mortimer was pondering whether to purchase a gas mask or rather just putting two corks into his nostrils. But oh well, Mrs Ghoulston was all happy when this monster with the disgusting cologne was around, so that meant more cookies for him.
Until this dude saw him. Mortimer only wasted one glance up to that proper and ordinary guy to know that he was about to puke. “P-P-Pandora!” the man yelled. “There is a rat!” “Of course there is a rat.”, Mrs Ghoulston replied. “What’s wrong with it?”
And then the dude spoke the most abhorrent words poor Mortimer had ever heard, the words that oozed “DOOMSDAY” out of every syllable.
“I will get the exterminator.”
Mortimer the Rat was not amused. How could he? He was forced to leave his comfy den together with the best fisheye cookies this side of paradise. But what should he do? A man’s got to leave when he had to. Angrily, he packed his things together into a bundle. Throwing it over his shoulder, he prepared to leave the house.
While opening the loose plank of the door to go outside, Mortimer had to snicker, though. He had left a little ‘present’ in the bed of this dude. Hopefully, he would…like it.
Samee was in the mood for a fight. You see, Samee liked cheese so much, that he had spent a lot of time amassing his cheese hoard. When he left to go to the barber shop this morning, all was fine. After his mohawk was done, however, he came home and found that someone had stolen all his cheese. Samee was now a rat on a mission and he didn’t care who got hurt in the process.
There’s no mean look about it. it’s urmel the second out of the egg, the bad looking brother of urmel one.
He was a little one. The smallest one of the bunch. Until the day Mama Dinomonster told him that he was capable of things beyond imagine. He took her words to heart with no regret and set out to do what he once always dreamed of, live amongst the Rangle Crab Tower Trees (aka. The Forest of Greatly Largish Trees (working title)) They, just like his family, did not except him with open arms and for that his spirits dampened like the moss upon the ground of the forrest. But with Mama Dinomonster’s echoing words he continued a strive all the harder! He thought to himself what he had that the trees and other beings in the Forest didn’t. A light bulb was not quite the answer although did appear above his head… he began to figure. “I am small, and these trees are enormous of sorts. I am mobile and they are stationary? I have legs and they, they do not!”
Coming to final terms with all his ponders he discovered that he had abilities that none other possessed and used them to his greatest advantage!
He became a Post Man for all the forest. Delivering packages and mail and letters all the day! The Rangle Crab Council of The Wise Tree met one day to declare him one of them.
Mama Dinomonster was correct… There is a place for everyone in the world. Thanks to her kind words he showed them wrong and live in the forrest happy as a bean for a long while thereafter.
In a land without humans, not because this was a time before humans, but because this was a time that came after the human era, the era known for nothing but their wars and destruction of our planet with every technological advance they ever made…
Sorry about that. I didn’t want to sound like a history teacher or anything. My name is Willbie. I just entered the Rodent Train Industry. Civilian rodents have to go through a very rigorous training process if they want to become a rodent train. For example, The Corporation Of Insects, the company that trains us rodents, for it is them we become trains in the first place, but I’ll get to that later. They injected some chemical concoction that causes my teeth to grow outwards a hundred fold. They then drilled a hole into my head in order to allow my ideas (the things that fuel the train) to exit the main headquarters, which would be located in my head. They added micro wheels to my feet so I wouldn’t have to rely on a track that can only take me from point A to point B. This way I can go from point 0 to point M to point 6352345354757 to point EVjL to point anywhere. My tail was elongated and my fur was stiffened by a chemical mixture that caused the fibers to attach to one another. My insides were hollowed out completely. To make room for the insects you see. They used a device the size of a needle on me that caused me to grow in size, instantly. I went from the size of a rodent to the size of a train in 1 second flat. My teeth acted as a guardrail. My insides could now hold thousands of insects, even insects of different species, comfortably. The richer insects spend most of their time around where my eyes used to be, for that is where the best view is. They even have the option of closing my eyelids and opening them, considering how much light they want in their suites. The poorest spend the majority of their time located at the tip of my tail, cramp to say the least.
Eversince he had been thrown out of the casting for the latest Pixar- movie, Stan’s self- esteem had terribly suffered…
Eldridge was not a red cap ratkin. No, he was an orange cap – fifth cousins, thrice removed (according to Mother) from the ratkins who served the dunters living in Merrie Olde England.
Eldridge longed to be a red cap. He knew the blood that coursed through his veins was just a thick and black as any ratkin who’d been around in the days of Robin Redcap and William de Soulis. (The man with no soul, who’d died in Dunbarton castle.) Why, Mother had assured him that her Great-uncle Wilfred’s third cousin on her father’s side had been one of the red cap ratkins who brought food to Lord Soulis. Of course, she often muttered, “That may’a been what killed the poure mun. Lord knows, what ratkins eat ain’t fit for the innards of a landed gent’lman.”
No matter, Eldridge longed for the life of a real red cap. There was just one little problem – Mother. She’d forbidden him to ever murder anyone, including the inhabitants of 32 Borcht Bottom Road, their current home.
Eldridge really didn’t mind that, since the lady of the house had a taste for blood – blood oranges that is. He spent many a night sneaking into the larder and ravaging the orbs. Then smearing the juice on his cap. Okay, he’d say to himself, it isn’t blood, like a real dunter. But, it’s close enough. Then, next morning, Mother would see him and into the laundry would go his badge of honor. But, Eldridge had noticed that repeated juicings were rendering his cap incapable of being washed completely clean. Its dull orange was better than that snowy white cra– darn, he couldn’t even think the word without hearing Mother’s voice, “Ellll—dridge! Don’t ever let me hear you —” He’d learned to block out the rest of her tirades.
Tuesday – grocery day! Eldridge’s mouth watered at the thought of fresh blood oranges. He barely gave a second thought to the strange-looking box that the woman brought in. He only had eyes for the bulging produce bag.
When the humans had gone to bed, he began his midnight creep. Over the drain pipe and through the hallway, up the stairs and into the kitchen. Eldridge spied the open pantry door and sucked up a line of drool before venturing onto the tiled floor. Mid-kitchen, he felt a strange warmth on his back. “What the heck is that?” He turned around to find himself face to face with a large orange tabby.
“Aaaack!” He raced his own scream to an abandoned mouse hole. Pressed against the wall, his little heart was beating near out of his chest. When he was finally able to breath again, he peeked out into the kitchen. The cat was prowling the baseboards, a bright red cap perched between its ears.
Eldridge – the little poltroon – fainted dead away.
The lady of the house never lost another orange, and the cat’s hat slowly faded to pink.
I love the evil-Chinese-rat-monster. If I ever get a monster tattoo, this would have to be the one!
164 launches the ‘résumé wizard’ in Microsoft Word and starts filling in fields. He has no objectives; no education; has received no awards; speaks no languages; his hobbies are unsavory; his volunteer experiences non-existent; his references suspect. But he types in what he can, and the document is created. At the top, in Arial Black, it says “MONSTER 164”; under “Qualifications” it says “fez” (there is nowhere else to put this that makes sense), and under “Skills” he has typed “second-stage periodontitis — receding gums meens a bigger smile??” (This is so 164: getting “periodontitis” right, only to blow it on “means”.) It’s worth a shot. He logs onto monster.com (obvious, in retrospect) and uploads it. Now there’s nothing left to do but stare at the phone and wait for it to ring.
Do not judge him too harshly, Potential Employers. He hasn’t had an overabundance of breaks in his life, and he’s a little misguided. And although he’s prone to indulge in self-pity, he tries to do the right thing a lot of the time. We’re not saying, you know, hang out with him all the time, and we’re not saying he’s not going to take *some* office supplies, and we’re not saying you’ll be able to leave something in the break room for more than a few minutes and expect him not to eat it; just: if you can think of a way to show him some generosity, he would probably appreciate it. And he has a nice smile. Why not give him a call?
I admit it. I ate the old lady’s chihuahua only to slip into its place. It’s not like she can see well enough to know the difference. What’s that? Why did I do such a thing? I don’t know. Maybe because I hate those little rat dogs. Maybe because I take perverse pleasure in being carried around in some old lady’s purse. Maybe it’s none of your business and I’m a monster, so why do I need a reason anyway? It’s been three days and so far, so good. A severe “if looks could kill” glare has kept several well-meaning, but meddlesome, neighbors from telling her that I’m not her beloved Mitzi-poo. I find the name nauseating, but it’s worth putting up with. Do you know what this lady does? She feeds me at the table…out of a personalized bowl served on a little silver tray. And my bed…it’s got a little satin pillow in the shape of a bone. I’m telling you the lady is nuts, wacko, certifiable. Just so she doesn’t try putting one of those pink bows in my hair…
Little Fychan Mohikaner couldn’t catch a break. Just laid off from his job at the can opener factory, Fychan didn’t know what to do next. He’s gonna get around $344 a week for unemployment at least. Suppose it’s back to diggin’ through dumpsters until the checks stop coming.
Beware of the Filch Rat (Rodentia Appropriata). He will appear in disguise at your door step pretending to be a friendly delivery rat of one sort or another – but if given any opportunity will sneak in and steal your birthday cake.
Since he is quite adept at sneaking out again the only evidence of his vist will be a large mess of crumbs, accompanied by thick icing smears on your counter. Tidiness is not a rat’s forte.
It is obvious – upon entering the pantry to have a tasty treat of Thin Mints – procured from the little Girl Scout who lived down the end of the block – he was peeved to find out that Monster 161 had already finished the box. He really wanted those Thin Mints. Really, really bad.
***TOP SECRET PERSONNEL ONLY- CLASSIFIED***
Connonsolier Beb Grumwood, Chief Weapo-Scientist at Aldurskeev R&D:
“Various Professionals In The Field, Greetings. The recent advances in the eclectroscience industry such as the Building-Hider© or Intelligence-Gathering Shoelaces© have produced the creature you see before you.
The Spy Oppossum© hosts a multitude of espionage realities. A simple positioning of the teeth onto any unexposed electrical conduit will neutralize or limit the electrical current, with the turn of a convenient orange knob located on the back of the head.
This same dental aperture can be used on fingers to listen to any conversation a subject with fingers has had in the past two weeks.
Its convenient shape has been used in our trial tests to hide the identity of the operative by simple inference. If one is holding a large limp ratlike object, they are automatically assumed to be either an exterminator or a crazy person, and will no doubt be left alone.
Also worth mentioning is the ability to destroy the object by flinging it to the ground, screaming ‘Aiee, rodent!’, and stomping on it mercilessly.
Thank you for your patience, and follow through with the appropriate paperwork for the clinical trials, located under your desks. Please use a Number 5 pencil, and don’t copy off of your neighbor.
If you have either accidentally or on purpose read this data-sheet, please stay where you are and Government Officials will be by to inter your eyesight.
Thank you for your time.”
This poor guy is only anticipating rude comments about his unfavorable situation with his teeth.
After surviving grade school (kids are mean) he found friends in college (in the art and architecture building.) He was separated from them when everyone moved away after graduation.
Now he languishes in a t-shirt design shop (in the back – mind you) creating event t-shirt designs for fraternities, sororities and church groups.
Or – he is staring at the sun…
Nachts schlafen die Ratten doch…???
…Dieses Tier nicht, es ist auf der Suche nach seiner verlorenen Brille. Ob es die allerdings ohne eine andere Sehhilfe finden wird, ist mehr als fraglich. Vielleicht sollte mal jemand seinem Verwandten, dem nicht fehlsichtigen Urmel aus dem Ei einen Hilferuf senden…