Manuel can dance. I mean, really dance. He can meringue and do the cha-cha, tap, waltz, two-step, foxtrot, ballet, swing, he can even do modern dance and break dancing. It is truly staggering how quickly he can pick up a new dance in mere moments. He would be a superstar if not for one small problem: he’s a skeleton.
Most skeletons, in old movies and science classrooms have brilliantly white bones. Not Manuel. His bones are more tan, stained by age and the dirt of generations of, well, dirt. He was discovered by Bananas Foster in Madrid, around fifteen years ago. A local tavern employed him as entertainment. A pianist played a medley of tunes while Manuel danced in a medley of styles. The customers were entranced, watching his tibia and fibula prance and twirl across the stage. Until the music ended, and they were reminded he was a skeleton. There was never applause, just muted gasps and grumblings. Bananas approached him after the show one night and discovered Manuel lived in a small crypt just outside of town, alone. Bananas offered him a home at the University of Genial Monsters, teaching dance. Manuel hasn’t looked back since.
He’s not entirely sure who or what he was in his previous life, but he’s pretty sure he had a thin black mustache, and has applied one to his skull with a permanent marker. Other than that, he wears a gray Homburg and nothing else. He’s proven to be a passionate, yet patient teacher. He knows the difference between a student who needs extra care and one who isn’t trying. And in his spare time, he practices dancing, because it is his true love. And you should see him dance!
MANUEL THE SPANISH SKELETON
17 FebTHESE ARE THE MOST PLEASANT ZOMBIES I’VE EVER ENCOUNTERED: A SONG
4 JanV1: Zombie in the kitchen, slicing up a pie.
Zombie with a telescope, checking out the sky.
Zombie with a snaffler, opening a jar.
Zombie in the garage, tuning up the car.
C1: They don’t want our brains, no!
They don’t want our flesh (no!)
They just want the living and the undead to be meshed.
V2: Zombie at the Christmas tree, hanging up the lights.
Zombie at the park, flying all manner of kites.
Zombie painting baby’s room a gender-neutral yellow.
Zombie in a derby hat, what a dapper fellow.
C2: They don’t want our brains, no!
They don’t want our blood (no!)
They just want to hold hands and share a box of Milk Duds.
Bridge: Zombies laughing, zombies smiling, a zombie selling ice cream, and none a potential threat. Zombie high-fives, zombie bear hugs, a zombie happy birthday, no flesh eating as of yet.
V3: Zombie writing to the Senate to save the humpback whale.
Zombie selling lemonade at the church yard sale.
Zombie rising as the ladies get up from the table.
Zombie turning down the offer of illegal cable.
C3: They don’t want our brains, no!
They don’t want our skulls (no!)
They’re so very undeadly, a zombie with a soul.
Zombie kissing skinned knees to chase away the cries.
Zombie singing little ones a zombie lullabye.
THE NEFARIOUS DR. WILHELM SKREEM’S NEFARIOUS SLIME CREATURE!
11 NovAh! Hello there, glad you could drop in. I am, of course, the Nefarious Dr. Wilhelm Skreem, evil laugh. Oh, excuse me, that was a stage direction. Bwah-ha-ha! Tremble with terror at my Evil Uneven-Temperedness! Wail with woe at my Sinister Short-Sleeved Shirt! Howl in fear at my Fur-Bearing Fore-Arms! Screech with… speech at my hypnotic hand gestures!
Since we last spoke, I have been a busy little mad scientist. Busy like a mad fox scientist! I’ve barely had time to cackle maliciously and curse the meddlesome do-goodniks that thwart my every move, what I like to call “me time,” and what the Grammar Police refer to as “I time.” But all my work has not been in vain. No, it has been in my secret hideout, in a hush-hush location known only to me. It has no physical address, just coordinates. And it’s not in Utah. Anyhow, you best prepare to behold my latest and bestest creation.
Now, I know what you’re thinking. “Nefarious Dr. Wilhelm Skreem, have you not learned your lesson yet? All of your other creations have been complete failures. Certainly you’ve given up by now.” Well, I never give up, and don’t call me Certainly! You see, unlike other lazy evil geniuses, I am highly motivated by a lust for power and a mad mind bent on doing devious deeds the likes of which you’ve never seen! Bwah-ha-ha! I’m also motivated by the most adorable poster of a beagle high-fiving a kitten with the caption, “Bark My Words, We’re a Purr-fect Team!” They’re just so cute; I want to eat them up! But who knows where that picture was taken, and I don’t have time to hunt down cute animals, let alone prepare them properly.
For you see, I have finally- finally- created the perfect weapon in world domination! And he is not cute in the slightest! I even removed the little pink bow that appeared in the original schematics. Yes, he’s fifty feet of pure terror! A monstrous nightmare from which you cannot awake! A horrible beast of appallingly pernicious proportions! “Bark” my words, you will go creature over my ape! I mean, you will go ape over my creature! Bwah-ha-ha!
He is a giant slime monster with teeth of steel and eyes of fire! He breathes noxious gas from his furious nostrils of fury and his claws are made of rusty nails! Rusty! His Latin name is Creaturus Insanitare Nefarious Dementible Yeticus or C.I.N.D.Y. for short. And he will strike fear into the hearts of your minds, despite his feminine-sounding name! Your worst nightmare is just behind this door! Prepare for putrifying petrification! Or.. the other way. You’ll see what I mean as I open the door!
Or not. Oh, wait. Is that.. yes, that’s him. There he is. All the way down there! Why is he so teeny-tiny like that? It seems I mistakenly replaced the fifty in my calculations with five, and the feet with inches. He’s a five-inch slime monster! And actually, he is kind of cute. I should’ve left that pink bow in after all. Curses! I wanted C.I.N.D.Y. the slime monster to roar mightily and frighteningly, not mildly and inconspicuously. Foiled by adverbs again! Oh, well. You will still cower in fear at the sight of C.I.N.D.Y., my most terrifying creation, if you study him up close with a magnifying glass! Bwah-ha-ha! I’ll just place him in the sun like so, and- oh, no! He’s melting! Stop! Stop! Wow, C.I.N.D.Y. the five-inch slime monster is super-flammable. Don’t try this at home, kids.
Curses! My creation melted in the sun, like a dream deferred or something. But I shall have the last laugh. Bwah-ha-ha! See? No one else is laughing, so there! Now if you don’t mind, I have a fifty-foot slime monster to create. Let me grab my Abacus of Astonishment and correct these calculations. Trust me, when I’m done with this monster, you’ll be quaking in your boots or sandals or tap shoes or other footwear of choice. Bwah-ha-ha, and begone!
SEVEN MORE MONSTER LIMERICKS
27 OctBecause he’s au fond a huge slob,
I would not double date with The Blob.
That might seem a bit mean,
But just ask Steve McQueen,
Their encounters were truly macabre.
Run and hide if you chance on an alien,
Or they may turn on you and assailien.
You think they’re so benign,
They’ll implement Plan Nine!
For the Good of Mankind just curtailien!
The Creature, when gifted with speech
Went to his fans to wildly beseech:
“For the ninety-ninth time,
My name’s not Frankenstein
Just The Creature, close friends call me Creach.”
Nature’s best friend, Hank David Thoreau,
Would’ve despised that Dr. Moreau.
One peep at the Beast people,
And Hank’s peepers would squeeple
Like a rocket would shoot his chapeau.
Do you know who’s not had a fair copera?
The (considerate) Phantom of the Opera.
Sure, he haunts the theatre,
But to check the floor graters.
To sick patrons, he’ll loan a cough dropera.
You know, I’m as brave as the next fellaton,
But when I see an animate skeleton
There might be a high shriek
My stance a touch more oblique
And shivers that I just can’t quelleton.
No, you shouldn’t torment or harassquatch
The mysterious beast known as Sasquatch.
Though, I might flip your wigfoot,
He’s not all that Bigfoot!
The camera adds ten pounds of massquatch.
A ROBOT MONSTER BALLAD
20 OctRobot Monster, Robot Monster, why is it you must be so mean?
You are a large & hairy cuddle bug and have a Billion Bubble Machine!
Perhaps it was your upbringing, a mother gorilla and dad calculator,
Which frustrated and inspired you to use the death ray Calcinator!
And destroy all forms of life on earth, every animal and human being,
Except for five, including Alice, for whom you had very strong feelings.
You come from Ro-Man, which is also your real name, coincidentally.
That must be a lot of pressure to live up to, physically and mentally.
And Great Guidance questioning all your calculations is a raw deal,
It’s no wonder you resemble nothing but a pooped-out pinwheel.
While the humans thwart your every move and look at you nonplussed,
Your motivation becomes more complex, you, “cannot, but you must!”
“At what point on the graph,” you ask, “do must and cannot meet?”
No answer found, you “cannot, but you must,” you glumly repeat.
And so we bid farewell, Robot Monster, as we escape this land,
In a rocket ship held aloft by an uncredited crew member’s hand.
I shall think upon you often, you half-robot-half space creature,
Whose calculations failed you, much like my Algebra teacher.
Good-bye Robot Monster, I should be mad enough at you to steam,
But I’m fairly certain all of this is actually a dream.
SEVEN MONSTER LIMERICKS
13 OctThere once was a frightening mummy,
Whose favorite game was gin rummy.
But the players all fled,
Not because he was dead,
But because his card playing was crummy.
Larry was the world’s most forlorn werewolf,
When he tried to make friends he would scarewolf.
They’d run off with a cry
And he’d sob and he’d sigh
No one there to offer a, “there, therewolf.”
Many have celebrated in song,
The life and great fall of King Kong.
But there will be a day
For poor hapless Fay Wray
Who really was not in the wrong.
You can keep your ferret and chinchilla,
For a pet, what I want is Godzilla.
If you must clean your room,
Let his flaming breath plume
And you’ll be left with just a scintilla.
A new roommate had moved in with Dracula,
As he needed a new place to shackula.
But the match was a dud,
Not from drinking of blood
But Drac hogged the entire towel rackula.
The Creature From the Black Lagoon
Was once subject of a scathing lampoon.
Now why would a feature
Spoof this dangerous creature
Who can do much, much worse than impugn?
It is quite hard to act with aplombie,
When you come face to face with a zombie.
None among us would fain
To hand over our brain,
Upon which the undead would nom-nombie.
THE SQUASH! IN: TERRIFYING TRIFFIDS AT TEATIME!
30 Sep“And put it in the oven for me and me,” Eugene said, sliding the chocolate-coconut confection he had just finished mixing into the oven. It was six in the morning on what was shaping up to be a potentially perfect Saturday. Saul Spratt, Eugene’s grandfather, was just getting up himself and headed into the kitchen to brew the first of many pots of coffee. Eugene’s parents liked to sleep in on the weekends, but Eugene and Saul liked to rise as early as possible to get a jump start on the day. They were simpatico in many ways like that. Also, they were the only ones who knew Eugene’s secret: he had consumed an entire plate of radioactive squash and thus gained the proportional strength, speed and agility of said gourd. He fought crime, injustice and bullies under the name The Squash! “I hope I didn’t wake you making this birthday cake,” Eugene said.
Saul shook his head. “Not at all, Eugene, not at all. Who’s birthday cake?”
“No one in particular,” Eugene replied. “I was just making it for breakfast, you know; get a head start on my sugar consumption for the day. You’re welcome to a small piece, if you like.”
Saul was about to reprimand his grandson for eating poorly and not sharing more of his delicious cake, when the house was shaken by an extraordinary BA-DOOM! This was followed by a series of large KA-KLANKLEs and a smattering of PUH-WOWses. “What the Sam Hill was that?” Grandpa Saul said.
The house shook with a SPLUH-FWOOSH and GER-SCHMICKLE. Saul ran to the front window to see what the Sam Hill could be causing all this shaking and sound effecting. What he saw turned him white as a sheet. Eugene didn’t like seeing his grandpa scared, as it rarely happened. “What is it?” he asked in a trembling voice.
“We’ve seen these before. Remember that midnight movie we watched the other night, at midnight? The Day of the Triffids?” Eugene nervously peeked through the front window drapes. Grandpa Saul was right. A Triffid was a giant plant creature whose arms and legs were ferocious gnarled roots, and whose mouth was a knot with sharp teeth and a long vine which shot out like a tongue. It supposedly carried poisonous venom.
The Triffid was smashing cars with its feet and whipping poor innocent bunnies with its tongue. At least they wouldn’t be eating the peppers, Eugene thought. “We should seek shelter,” Grandpa Saul said from the kitchen, where he’d retreated. “Who knows what that- that thing is capable of.”
“You’re right. You should lock yourself in the basement with Mom and Dad. But I need to face that monster. For I am The Squash! And no one scares me, except for this creature quite a bit. Besides, he ruined my coconut cake. And no one ruins my coconut cake without facing the consequences!” Before Saul could protest, Eugene raced out the door and looped a vine around the nearest non-monster tree. “Eat Squash, creature! Take that! And that! And more of that! And then a scoche of this!” The Squash pummeled the Triffid with a potpourri of pummels.
The creature didn’t notice The Squash’s fists at all. He continued poking and prodding the neighbor’s vehicles and homes. Eugene decided he needed to take a new tactic. Looping another vine around the eaves of Mrs. Dumont’s house, he swung upward, conforming his legs to the bulbous squash shape, and smashed the creature between what appeared to be the eyes. This caught the creature’s attention.
“I say!” he shouted in a surprisingly British accent. “What the deuce do you think you’re doing, chap?” Eugene was taken aback. He hadn’t anticipated the Triffid being able to speak, let alone sound posh.
“Uh…. I’m defeating you, foul creature?” he said.
“That’s not very sporting, is it? Do you see me trying to defeat you? I should say not!” The creature’s hands were on his hips, and his wood-grain eyes looked more disappointed than angry.
“You defeated my coconut cake. And you’re defeating my neighborhood, too. What’s that all about?”
“Oh, dear. Dreadfully sorry, my lad, I had no idea. You see, I was having a spot of a rampage. Being a Triffid, it only comes natural, you see. However, it never occurred to me that there were consequences. Please do accept my apologies, Mister…”
“I am The Squash, righter of wrongs, doer of good, and hero of super!” Eugene crowed. The Triffid, delighted, clapped his tree root hands.
“Oh, jolly good, I’ve never met a real live super hero before! Do show me your powers, please.” And Eugene gave him a presentation of his superheroic gifts. “Good show, Squash, good show!”
“Thanks, Mr. Triffid.”
“The name is Cyril, actually. Cyril Triffid. I come from a planet very far away. And it’s taken me so long to get here, and I intended on visiting the Canary Islands, instead of this godforsaken… Urgh!” Cyril was waving his Triffid arms wildly in frustration.
“Careful, Cyril, you just about knocked the power lines down there,” Eugene said. It was clear he needed to keep Cyril calm or his rampage would begin anew. “How would like some tea?” he asked.
“Why, yes, tea would be splendid,” the Triffid said. “Have you any Lapsang souchong?”
“I’m afraid we only have Tummy Mint,” The Squash replied. Tummy Mint always came in handy after eating an entire coconut chocolate birthday cake.
“Tummy Mint? Tummy Mint?” Cyril the Triffid obviously did not approve of this, and his tongue lashed out, nearly smacking Eugene on the forehead with a hearty SMOO-BWACKUM! Eugene rolled away just in time, but the DuMont’s sedan across the street was crushed under the Triffid’s arm.
Cyril stopped suddenly, growing withdrawn. “Oh, dear,” he mumbled. “There I go again. I do apologize. Perhaps it’s best if I just made my way back home.” Eugene nodded. The Triffid shuffled down the street, where a giant meteor had crashed. He hopped into one of its craters. There was the sound of an engine sputtering to life, and gears grinding into place, and the meteor backed out of the crater, into a tree (“Sorry!”) and blasted into space.
Eugene surveyed the damage to his block. To say it was extensive would be an understatement. But the nimble mind of The Squash was already concocting a solution to this mess, something that would reassure the whole neighborhood, and make everything all better. There was just one problem.
He was going to need a lot more Tummy Mint Tea.
BEVERLY THE SEA SERPENT
27 AprCan you keep a secret? Beverly the Sea Serpent can’t. What she can do is make one terrific chicken pot pie. So, don’t tell her about any surprise parties, but if you’re throwing a chicken pot pie party, you’d best get her involved.
Beverly would lie about her age if she could, and I’m too much of a gentleman to share it with you, but I will say she is older than any living thing by a wide margin, that includes that one librarian that seems dinosaur-ancient. She disguises her age well, with several long strands of pearls and boas. And when I say long, I mean looooong! Since Beverly herself measures seven football fields long (or fifteen baseball diamonds), she needs the pearls and boas to be long, or else you would barely notice them, which defeats the purpose of such lovely accoutrements. She has her boas custom-made by Arnie the Smilin’ Sasquatch, and one boa is the length of the city of Duluth, Minnesota.
Beverly lives in Lake Skeerie in the heart of Skull Island, after spending twelve dreadful years skulking about a pond in Springfield, Missouri, which was too small to accommodate her, and was surrounded by a disheartening population of folks who were frightened to death of her. Once word of this spread to noted monster anthropologist Bananas Foster, he made arrangements to relocate her to a more friendly and roomier environment. And she’s been an integral part of the community since.
If you venture to Skull Island, try to come in May, when Beverly has her Annual Chicken Pot Pie party. Seriously, her chicken pot pies are the stuff of legend, made with ingredients only she has access to from the depths of the lake. She has a spacious cave with plenty of comfy chairs and a grand piano, and a little alcove that makes a perfect performance space. The rule is, she provides the food, and all who come (via a short and entertaining little scuba dive) are required to provide entertainment. This could be telling a story, singing a song, juggling, dancing, reciting a poem, or knitting socks in record time. And everyone is welcome, so don’t be stranger!
THE AAARDY BOYS IN: BEACH BLANKET CRIBBAGE
8 Feb“Shiver me timbers!” Frankenbeard shouted. “This be one mysterious beach.”
“Don’t neglect me timbers, shiverwise,” Pegleg Joe, Frankenbeard’s twin brother also shouted. “Methinks this be a beach filled with danger.” They were walking along Little Stone Beach, on vacation from their usual pirating, but not from the sleuthing the pirate twins were known across the seven seas for.
It was easy to see why they felt such a sense of mystery coupled with danger. The beach was populated by sea monsters, and sea monsters only. Sea monsters of every shape, size and stripe, and some polka dots. Hector, the Creature from the Burnt Sienna Lagoon; Beverly the Sea Serpent and a teenaged gill man named Chadwick were just but a few of the strange beings cavorting along the shores of the beach. They didn’t appear to be terrorizing, annihilating or otherwise bothering anyone or anything, but seeing as how they were sea monsters, it was likely they had evil up their gilled sleeves.
“Yo ho ho, Frankenbeard, we best investigate. Yo ho ho.” Pegleg Joe said nervously. Frankenbeard removed his magnifying eye patch and crouched to the sand, casting his eye across the beach, inspecting each grain of sand individually. Pegleg Joe pulled out his Clue Parchment and quill and began writing down every last detail of the beach, down to the last drop in the ocean.
“Excuse me,” a murky-skinned ten-foot tall sea monster laying on a regular-size beach towel who looked a bit like a dragon or an eel said. “You’re blocking my sun.”
The twin pirate sleuths ignored the protestations of the monster and proceeded with their investigation.
“Pieces of eight!” Frankenbeard exclaimed. “A clue! A clue!” He pointed toward the south end of the beach.
“What is it, pirate brother?”
“I think it might be a guh-guh-guh ghost!” The twins tiptoed and tip-pegleged to the end of the beach. As they walked tentatively, one brother would shove the other brother ahead, not wanting to be the first to encounter the ghost. Behind them, sea monsters had started up a volleyball game. They debated about inviting the pirates to join, but since they were acting weird and anti-social, the monsters decided to ignore them.
When they were almost fifteen feet from the potential beach ghost, they stopped dead in their tracks. Neither pirate wanted to move closer, neither could bring themselves to move at all. “Aar, Joe, you be the matey who investigates first.”
“Aar, Frankenbeard, I say you be the matey who investigates first.” The two were averting their eyes from the space where the ghost was floating. Finally, the two wordlessly decided to both run screaming from the beach, to their galleon parked up the road.
Which was a shame, really, because the sea monsters were going to share hot dogs with them, and roast marshmallows and sing around a bonfire, and could not understand why the pirates had been so afraid of an abandoned sail.
THE TEAR-STREAKED YETI: A JOURNAL IN VERSE
7 DecDAY ONE
We arrived at the Arctic, our plane dropped from the sky
like a pinecone, then Jackie, Bananas and I
lit a fire and had a dinner of pumpkin pie
and decided we should probably set up camp.
We traded stories of monsters and foes,
Jackie relayed how she lost her big toes,
Bananas knew a snake which smelled like a rose,
And I told of the haunted street lamp.
Then we all decided it was time for bed,
I had visions of Yeti abound in my head,
I knew we’d be going where few had tread,
but I’d handle it like a champ.
DAY TWO
We awoke with the sun in the sky like a peach,
And pretended the tundra was one giant beach
where the sand had been treated by some cooling bleach
And we needn’t have brought a beach towel.
As we trudged through the snow for most of the day
Bananas assured us we weren’t lead astray
His map would indeed show us the right way
Though Jackie and I tried hard not to scowl.
It’s not that we felt it was a wild goose chase
We just wished we could go faster, pick up the pace
But of course it was hard to show this on my face,
But that was when we all heard the growl.
DAY THREE
We all awoke with a jump and a start
I could feel all my veins pumping blood from my heart
But my friends were both there so were not apart,
And together we could break free.
But the Yeti appeared and indeed was tear-streaked
he was sad and lonely which was why his eyes leaked
Anyone he had tried to befriend he had freaked
like a cheese hater fleeing from Brie.
We listened and apologized for being so scared,
We had fainted when the Yeti’s fangs had been bared
But he meant us no harm and to show that we cared
We stayed over for cookies and tea.
DAY FOUR
As we made our back to our camp, arms entwined,
we invited our new friend, but he declined
stating he was afraid of frightening mankind,
as prior encounters portended.
We insisted that he wouldn’t find that the case,
we could prove it to him and the whole human race
that if they looked beyond the fangs and hairy face
they’d find someone easily befriended.
He was unsure so we gave him some time to think
and we left him with promises to be back in a wink
and bring snacks for eating and cocoa to drink,
but for now the expedition had ended.
P.S.
If you decide to seek out the Tear-Streaked Yeti,
Just head to the Arctic where you’ll rarely be sweaty
and don’t be alarmed by the fellow we’ve metty
Just bring him a scone from us three.
Mark J. Hansen
