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Thursday, Apr. 20, 2006 - 21:40

I started this thing last summer and serialized it (quote unquote) in my illegal underground newsletter at work and I've been adding to it lately and I totally love it, it amuses me to no end. I might have had some fairly serious or at least respectable plan for it when I started it but it's only become sillier and sillier. I love these two girls and I love writing stupid nonsensical nonsequitur chapters with no introductions and no endings. It's all silly out of the blue random things and I think it's fucking hilarious. I write these things at work and I laugh and laugh, sitting at my desk, laughing and laughing. I changed Myrtle's last name and Taffy and Myrtle sometimes get mixed up and they've been old and fat and young and on a crime spree. I don't know if anyone else finds it funny but I do.

In the newsletter the first week's story ended with this:
... Don't miss next week's episode: Myrtle and Taffy join a motorcycle gang!

I'll post more of them here because I love to amuse myself. Here's the second installment:

And now for the exciting dramatic tragic conclusion of
The Fairweather Friendships of Myrtle B. Jones by Regina Toowomba

The silence in the gymnasium was deafening after the cacophony of shrieks and screams and scrambles that had followed the frantic crowd outside.

Principal Fisker scowled as he pulled another black shard from the lifeless boy's leg. "The clarinet is an odious instrument," he hissed at Myrtle.

"But it's the gateway to the saxophone!" Myrtle protested.

"That's no excuse," said Principal Fisker, wiping his bloody hand on his pants. "Now, thanks to you, I'm going to have to call this boy's parents. And an ambulance." He exhaled loudly and dramatically and then marched out of the gymnasium.

"Come, Taffy," Mr. Black said.

"But my dress is ruined," Taffy said through her tears. "What will Mother say?"

"Don't worry about your dress," Mr. Black said. "We'll get you a new one. And Mother is dead, remember, honey?" He put his arm around his daughter and they headed for the double doors.

"Get that girl some counseling," someone yelled from a corner.

The circle of people who had remained inside stood staring at Myrtle. Myrtle stood staring at the shattered pieces of her clarinet. Finally, she bent down and started picking them up. "I will never play the clarinet again," she said sadly and softly.

"Obviously," someone said.