Super Spectacular Saturday Morning Cartoon Hour™
Super Spectacular Saturday Morning Cartoon Hour is © Copyright and ™ Trademark 2014. All Rights Reserved.Why is it when you check in they show Recommended Blogs? If I wanted to read them I would
Oh, so another day back. Anything change? No. Still no one is reading this stupid thing. I really don’t know why they started it. Well, because this way they can write down their stupid title names and have it be on record that they came up with them. Stupid. If you want a title name, just use it and let the chips fall where they may.So, why am I writing this if no one is reading it? Excuse me, needed a drink. I guess I write it for the purpose of writing it. Yeah, no one is reading this dreak. But does that matter? Meaning, if someone was the last man on Earth, would they stop writing if they knew no one was going to read it? Now there is a question!
I was going to write more, but instead going to clip my toe nails.
DCB
TOTALLY FUNNY, that no one even reads this trite.
And for that matter, does anyone today know what trite is? I doubt it. I have to hurry, because they will be up in a few minutes.I want to say that I have been reading a book that talks about how it doesn’t really matter, something like Camus or something like that. But I haven’t. But I have been thinking that.
Why am I even writing on this no existent thing. No one reads this. Heck, how many free eBooks are out there and they are not read, and for that matter why the e before the Book? Is a book only something that is printed? I’m just saying.
Please go back to whatever it is that you do. Oh, wait, no one is reading this anyway!
DCB
- Dec 10
Does it even matter? And I would swear if I could but the MAN would censor me
This is the Drunk Carruthers Brother. The one that likes the Spirits. The other pussys are asleep. Nelson Mandela is dead and it doesn’t matter because the world goes on. Superman is 75 years old and it doesn’t matter because the guy who created it, his family doesn’t get all that money and everyone today celebrates the corporation. I of course say this and no one is friggin reading it (wait, can I say fucking or since Yahoo bought this is it censored??). And you know what Hippy? I don’t have a problem with Yahoo buying it because that is the way it is supposed to work. You created something and if you want to sell it you sell it. That is the way of the world. What’s the other way of the world you ask (or don’t ask because no one reads this stupid blog because my Brothers are stupid and don’t know what the fuck they are doing) that it is dog eat dog, even though a young Hippy long ago said we is supposed to be our brothers keeper. Hmmm. That is very interesting. Especially because those that is in charge keep quoting this long haired Hippy.You know I was supposed to write comic books. That was my destiny. Didn’t work out. Tried. But Life does what it wants and it has a sense of humor. God is supposed too but not sure about that. Not really happy with God right now and have called him a fucking pussy before and probably will again.
Oh! Me now supposed to write on blog, they don’t know I have the password and will change it once they find out that I have it, but me don’t care. I will write what I fucking want to write. Me being drunk means nothing because that is what it is. What does that mean? Whatever it bloody wants to mean!
Oh.. this is supposed to be a creative blog with creative stuff to it (or writing the fucking names to things that they want to trademark. Fuck. Please. Trademark goes to the highest bidder anyway). I don’t have anything creative to contribute at the moment. Excuse me.. I just burped. Oh, wait, me not supposed to write that! Oh!!!
Let me tell you something, most blogs and websites and god (know, right now me not capitalizing) knows what out there that say they are real, they are not. They think they are but we are never real. To real to be real. If we real someone will not like us and we have to be liked. Remember, we are sheep.
I will write something again if I feel like finding the changed password and the Gin is good that night.
Oh, wait, it doesn’t matter because no one is reading this.
They are reading about Nelson Mandella.
No, wait. They are reading about Miley Cyrus.
No wait. Are they even reading.
Do you even know how to read?
You all are pretty stupid you know.
Superhero Superfluity™
Superhero Superfluity is © Copyright and ™ Trademark 2014 The Carruthers Brothers. All Rights Reserved.The Thunderous Bigfoot™
The Thunderous Bigfoot is © Copyright and ™ Trademark 2014 The Carruthers Brothers. All Rights Reserved.The Diary of a Fat Man with a Beard™
The Diary of a Fat Man with a Beard is Copyright © and Trademark ™ 2014 The Carruthers BrothersThe Claus Collective™
The Claus Collective is © Copyright and ™ Trademark 2014 The Carruthers Brothers. All Rights Reserved.Bigfoot Sidekick Number 3™
Bigfoot Sidekick Number 3 is ™ & © 2014 The Carruthers Brothers. All Rights Reserved.Tales of a high school dropout Superhero Hunter™
is Copyright © and Trademark ™ 2013 The Carruthers Brothers. All Rights Reserved.Tales of a high school dropout vampire hunter™
is Copyright © and Trademark ™ 2013 The Carruthers Brothers. All Rights Reserved.The History of the 21st Century as Told By a Giant Bionic Laughing Buddha in the 22nd Century ™
is Copyright and Trademark 2013 The Carruthers Brothers. All Rights Reserved.The History of the 21st Century as Told By a Monkey in the 22nd Century
is ™ and © 2013 The Carruthers Brothers. All Rights Reserved.I’m Just A 19th Century Vampire In A 21st Century World™
I’m Just A 19th Century Vampire In A 21st Century World; I’m Just A 20th Century Zombie In A 21st Century World; I’m Just A 19th Century Werewolf In A 21st Century World; I’m Just A 20th Century Kaiju In A 21st Century World; I’m Just A 20th Century Bigfoot In A 21st Century World are ™ and © 2013 The Carruthers Brothers. All Rights Reserved.Super Colossal Zombie™
Super Colossal Zombie is ™ and © 2013 The Carruthers Brothers. All Rights Reserved.THE ADVENTURES OF ALED UP AMEE™
The Adventures of Aled Up Amee are ™ and © 2013 The Carruthers Brothers. All Rights Reserved.Santa Claus the III™ and Krissy “Kid” Klaws™
Santa Claus the III (AKA Trey) is copyright © 2012 and trademark ™ The Carruthers BrothersKrissy “Kid” Klaws is copyright © 2013 and trademark ™ The Carruthers Brothers
Coming This Year (or next- we are lazy remember!)
Not @ All ™ & © 2013 The Carruthers Brothers.The Nuhtt Family ™ & © 2013 The Carruthers Brothers.
A conversation between a sock and a shoe
SOCK: I have this very strange feeling that we journeyed out last night.SHOE: We did. You were sleeping so well that I didn’t want to wake you.
SOCK: That’s extremely nice of you, ol’ chap.
SHOE: Have you always had that English accent?
SOCK: Why, of course I have. Did I never mention that I was born in the land of fog and royalty?
SHOE: No. No I don’t believe that you did. How interesting. What’s it like over there? Do they really eat stuff like blood pudding?
SOCK: Actually, they— wait. We were talking about something else.
SHOE: Hmm?
SOCK: What were we talking about.
SHOE: I have no idea. Something about you having an English accent and me never noticing it.
SOCK: No. That wasn’t it. It was… Oh, yes! We were discussing our journey of the other night.
SHOE: Right! That’s it. You are very smart you know.
SOCK: Thank you. So, my dear chap, where did we go?
SHOE: The master was hungry and wanted to make a quick trip to pick up some fast food.
SOCK: Oh. That explains why I am splattered with ketchup.
SHOE: That’s not ketchup.
by the Carruthers Brothers
Once upon a time
still messing around with the whole poetry thing. if you like it then you are what the rich call eccentric. if you don’t like it then you are what we call our family.Sat an old drunk drinking his irish whiskey
And he would sip and sigh and sigh and sip while mumbling woe is me
Most of his brothers and sisters would pass him by without a look into his eye
Until one soul would sit and ask what does it all mean then match the old drunk’s sigh
Remember, the old man would say, remember, hey
All that life is about is keeping your whiskey glass full
If you remember that, and remember that you are the bartender, then it is truly a good day.
by the Carruthers Brothers
Boom
been reading Robert Howard’s poetry and thought would give it a try. it might work, it might not. but, it’s probably better than drinking cheap whiskey.the music makes her sad.
Boom.
clouds black like the devil’s soul float above her and within her.
Boom.
the knife edge tickles her palm and she feels the rush.
Boom.
her eyes close.
Boom.
the percussion replaces the beating of her heart.
Boom.
her palm tickles as the skin comes close to being peirced.
Boom.
the notes from the key of black and white dance together in the dark places of her thoughts.
Boom.
she smiles as the edge slices.
Boom.
her tongue slides across the edge.
Boom.
she wonders what would she taste like if she were still alive.
Boom.
by the Carruthers Brothers
Yesterday was the day that the King died. No. Not that one.
the following was written in one sitting (meaning our asses are numb now) and was fun. it is what it is and may contain the secret to life or it may just be nothing.He felt just below his chain mail and new that the wound would kill him. He thought he was going to laugh. He had heard that his great grandfather had laughed when the evil one ran him through with the Spear of Lies. But he didn’t laugh. He instead thought of his father and found that he missed him now more than he ever had in his entire life. He wished he could talk to him just one more time and tell him that he had never been the same since he had left that sunny day so long ago.
The blood begin to trickle from his mouth and he thought to wipe it with the back of his glove, then decided no. He would leave it. He did not know why. Perhaps it was to be his version of a death mask. He took his hand away from his wound and say that his entire forearm was painted with crimson. Blood, sweat and tears, he thought. That was what life was all about.
Blood. That thing you spilled, real or not, in every battle that you faced from the moment you left your mother’s teat. Blood. Whether it came from scraping your knee in trying to find who was the fastest of the village. Blood. Or if it came from the first time your heart was broken when you saw her lips touching another. Blood was always spilled in this life, he thought, and if it wasn’t then you truly had never lived.
Sweat. He began to sting his eyes as it poured down from his brow. Sweat. It was almost as important as blood. Sweat. It was given freely to those things in this beautiful life that one wanted. Sweat. Sometimes cold and sometimes hot it was always there as your took your journey. He had sweated while he paced outside the chamber while his beloved struggled to bring forth his greatest creation. Would he be a good father. Sweat. He had sweated entangled in silken bed sheets with his blonde temptress. He was just like his father. Sweat flowed in a different river bed than blood but it flowed as an important part of a man’ life just the same.
Tears. He had shed many. When he was a young child he had been embarrassed to shed them and would always hide in the forest of the light and the dark until his face was dry. Tears. He had cried when his son was born. Tears. He had cried when his father left. Tears. He had cried when his beloved died for him and brushed her fingers across his lips and told him that she always knew and that it didn’t matter because when she had given him her heart it was his to do with as he pleased. Tears. A life lived without tears was not a life, he thought as he begin to feel the life bleed from his wound.
He feel to his knees. Looked at his killer and smiled.
"I’ll see you in Hell, my king."
"I’ll see you in Heaven, my father."
The king died.
by The Carruthers Brothers
"The Jeatsha™ Chronicles"
They will be appearing soon in an imagination near you!The Jeatsha Chronicles are ™ and © 2013 The Carruthers Brothers. All Rights Reserved.
A DAY OUT
Ron and Roy decided to browse the local purveyor of used books one winters day.Ron looked at one section; Roy looked at another and the world continued on its way.
"Roy, look! It’s The [a word that once got Robin Williams thrown out of the house] Sisters!" Ron said loud enough that the mother of four standing near the dressing rooms would silently curse his unknown name for years.
Roy came to whisper in Ron’s ears.
"It looked like a C."
Roy took Ron to get fitted for glasses the next day.
by The Carruthers Brothers
WHEN IRISH EYES ARE SMILING….
It’s usually because The Keepers of St. Patrick’s Cross™ have thwarted the leprechaun vampires that threatened to lay siege to the world, unplugged the rogue cybernetic zombies who were programmed to dye the ale pink this year and stopped the drunken werewolves from spilling the secrets of the real Blarney Stone.Happy St. Patty’s Day!
by The Carruthers Brothers
HOW MANY ZOMBIES DOES IT TAKE TO SCREW IN A LIGHT BULB?
None. Zombies don’t care about the dark, they’re Zombies!by The Carruthers Brothers
SEE…. IT’S NOT ALWAYS ABOUT WEREWOLVES AND VAMPIRES
by The Carruthers BrothersShe had promised him that she wouldn’t go. Had held his hand at the door, shading her eyes from the afternoon sun and told him that she loved him, that she always would and that she understood what he had to do and for him to always carry in his heart her treasure for him. He had kissed her cheek and then turned to leave. She wanted to reach out for him, just hold him one last time, but she knew she had to be strong. He needed her to be strong. For him. “I have, and always shall be, your son,” he called back to her as he made his way down the dirt road, towards his destiny. She had promised him, but she was his mother, and a mother must be with her son when he is dying.
She knew that they would be taking the body down at any moment. She hurried her pace and whispered not to take him yet, let her see him one last time. He owed her that. She thought she would have to stifle a sob at the thought. “… the body down at any moment” but there was nothing. Perhaps it was because she had lived with that thought for 33 years; it had woken her up at night and not let her get back to sleep; it had blown in her thoughts while watching him run and play in the fields with his brother and father, but it had never truly found the soil of her heart like it had today. She remembered Joseph telling her about the night his father died, “One minute he was my father, the next he was, ‘What are we going to do with the body.’” No matter what was told to her in dreams. It was not right. He had no right. Not like this. They didn’t deserve his sacrifice. Not from him. Not from her son.
She found a crowd gathered around where he was. Some grieving. Some pointing . Some simply staring in silence and asking in their hearts for forgiveness for a fate they had nothing to do with. A gentle breeze made its way down from where he hung and caressed her cheek as she maneuvered her way through the people. Finally she made her way out of the sea of humanity and she saw him. She had thought she would go numb at the sight of seeing him like this, that she would faint, that she would shriek at what his brothers and sisters had done to him. But, she didn’t. She simply stood and stared at her baby and felt the Angel of sadness take her into her embrace.
His agony was hers. She was his mother and he was her son. There could be no other way. She wrung her hands as she saw that his beautiful hair- hair that Joseph had washed everyday while they talked about things that only fathers and sons could talk about, was mangled in a crown of thorns. They had driven nails through his hands. His beautiful hands. Hands that had made her a wooden cup when he was five for her birthday.
As she walked towards him, there arose from the town the resonance of a lone choir, singing a song about a mother watching her boys march to war, knowing that they would never return to her. As she walk towards the cross each note from the violin cut her through her soul
Reaching him, she stretched up, struggling because he was so high up, to try and touch his feet. Feet that she had bathed and played with as a infant, feet that were now covered in blood from the nails that pierced them together. She stretched, holding onto the crucifix for support to try and feel him just one more time. To let him know that she was there. Striving. Trying. Until the very tips of her fingers brushed against his toes.
He opened his eyes and looked down at her.
She smiled.
He smiled.
She told him that she loved him.
He died.
As the soldiers lowered the body from the cross, she fought past them and grabbed him. She took him into her arms and smoothed the blood and tears from his face. She kissed his hands and his forehead as the tears that hadn’t come before began to flow. She looked to the sky and screamed- she screamed in anguish and horror and rage and sorrow. She screamed like only a mother can scream, but nothing came. There was only silence.
As the choir sang about the mother burying her sons under an October sky, the raindrops began to fall and she knew that she did not mourn alone.
The world now had a savior. A father now had his son.
She didn’t care.
Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep
by The Carruthers BrothersIt waited for word to come about it’s younger sister.
It paced the graveyard, silently wishing that it could pray.
It looked to the moon and quietly cursed it for being so beautiful this night and attempting to take it’s worry into her bosom.
It waited for word to come about his younger sister.
And then it came.
And it was death.
And while it wished it could cry, could mourn like those who were asleep with their loved ones in the homes below, it also smiled.
Smiled because it knew that it’s younger brother was finally at rest now.
With a smile it whispered a prayer unto the night that it remembered from long ago.
And when it finished it welcomed the burn where it’s soul used to be.
Yes, sometimes even vampires pray.
"THERE WAS AN OLD MAN FROM NANTUCKET….
by The Carruthers Brothers“who liked to sit in a duct taped cracked leather chair and listen to the Beetles while his wife
(or Venus love slave or future Mars IX king)
“waited on his every whim. Real or imagined.
“The Old Man would tell the Jehovah Witnesses that came to preach the word, those that would accept the invitation to “come inside for a spot of lemonade and talk of the good talk”, that he was one thousand years old in Earth years, seven in dog years and that he had not yet been born in Neptune years.
“The Jehovah Witnesses would smile, nod and tell him that if he accepted Jesus into his life he would truly know who he was. The Old Man would smile, nod and say he once come across Jesus when he was on a road and together they killed a Buddha that they had met.
The Jehovah Witnesses would thank the old man’s wife
(or pet from Dimension X Squared or God from universe 13)
“for the cold drink and leave. He liked the Jehovah Witnesses and whenever he he would find one that would stay, he would flip up his faded black eye patch and let them gaze into worlds and wonders that could either drive men mad or Godspeed them to enlightenment.
“In the summer The Old Man would laugh, close his eye and travel himself back to long winter afternoons in the hot sun when his wife
(or future clone or Hindu God)
“would bring him turnip juice and they would gaze at the stars and talk of novels they had read and kingdoms they had destroyed.
“Then the wife
(or Leprechaun Queen or Lady of the Lake)
“died and The Old Man wept and his tears gave rivers to Fairies whose planets had been barren for generations.
“The Old Man liked to sit in his duct taped leather chair and listen to the sounds of the Beetles; not the rock and roll band that his super hero granddaughters listened too, the group of insects that had taken a liking to him after he had saved their cities and have since that time, every sunset, performed Operas for him, while his wife
(or Zombie or displaced Ghost who haunted the wrong dimension)
“dug her way out of the ground and continued to wait on him hand and foot until it was his time to ascend to the fiftieth level of Nirvana.”
“Umm, no. That’s not the way the poem goes,” said the man sitting next to me.
“There’s a poem?”
“This one’s cut off,” said the waitress to the bartender.
A Werewolf walks into a Bar….
and eats the bartender’s face.What?
That’s what werewolves do.
by The Carruthers Brothers
About
We are professional Expressinologist's. We walk the road that is called life our way, and only our way. We believe in the Easter Bunny and love at first site, but not Global Warming or Editors.
(Of course everything on here is © and ™ us because we write everything on here. But you knew that already, didn't ya?)
No comments:
Post a Comment