A little explanation: In college, I developed an alter-ego writer that I called The Mustard King. Really it was a way to just let go of anything I called sensible and write in a style that fit my mood, which was mostly ridiculous. I did a lot of writing in snippets but never anything that amounted to a real story of any kind, in other words I’m a great starter but bad at finishing. So, here are a few of the random starts and stops from the archives, enjoy!

The look on Ursula’s face turned to disgust as she took the turkey flatbread sandwich off the serving tray and as she began to hurl it towards the wall Marge then realized that she had indeed used the imported Norwegian mustard and NOT the Big Bird yellow store-bought kind.

Had he realized what he had done before he entered the convenience store, Todd might not have asked the clerk for change in Drachmas-the national currency of Greece-when he purchased that pack of Hostess mini-gems, he might still be alive.

Further angered by the fact that he was wearing light colored clothes, Marla asked Greg to step further towards the curb allowing the cab’s broken mirror to fatally cut him right in his femoral artery, a sight that the townspeople of Hingsburg hadn’t witnessed since Jim Thomas had that horrible run-in with the public park grill in 1986.

As far as haircuts go, Stan’s was bad…but not too bad. Kind of like when you have a Caesar salad that is just a few minutes old.

When she ordered the Croque Monsieur Fatima forgot about the one she was carrying in her purse. It was angered so terribly that it exploded in a violent rage so extreme the thin lining between space and time was completely destroyed creating the chaos that we now know as, reality television.

The alley was dark except for a single light, shown in the back behind a chain-link fence; however, the suicidal man who had previously doused himself in kerosene committed his last act by setting the alley ablaze with a fiery light. The howl that escaped his now charring lips was so great that it set off nearby car alarms in a cacophonous symphony.

As he made his way to the back entrance of the bar, Albert Fillstein–the bar’s owner–tripped on a large rack meant to hold hamburger buns and hurled himself through the back door, bursting into the alley. Much to Albert’s horror, he was greeted face-to-face with the now smoldering corpse, which was propped up against the building adjacent to the bar’s back door. There were flaming footsteps that led back to the alley entrance where, to Albert’s chagrin, stood Betty Fundt–his high school crush. She was holding a cigarette in one hand and an uncooked Cornish game hen in the other. Just as he noticed it, the hen popped out of Betty’s hands and hobbled over to Albert, reached up and produced a business card from it’s neck hole.

The bird held the card for “Bert’s mobile taxidermy and dry cleaning service” up to Albert and he bent down to pick it up, but upon doing so he realized that his unattended pot of boiling potatoes might just go dry if he left them there any longer and began mumbling to himself about inkwells and staircases, hoping it might be enough to distract the bird and Betty. As he turned away expecting to find the door to the bar, he was greeted, instead, by a huge Morton Downey-esque mouth. As he stood there in terror, waiting to be eaten or at least bitten in half, the mouth let out a thunderous burp that made his ears ring and knocked him back into the brick wall behind him. Just then, the seemingly quiet corpse let out a chuckle, softly, then louder, all while smoke poured from its mouth.

It was then that Betty decided to reveal to Albert the real reason she was there. “I’m your destiny,” she said, and threw her arms open wide then began to flail them about in a spastic fit uncharacteristic of someone so seemingly, well, human. The corpse, who by all means should be silent at this point, said “don’t forget about your potatoes, Mr. Fukamachi.” “Ignore him!” yelled Betty as she walked over and lit a cigarette of of the corpse’s smoking knee.

“For alls I know, I should be ignorin’ the both of yous,” said Albert in a perfect impression of the late bluesman John Lee Hooker. Startled, Albert turned his gaze downward. “Oh, I’m sorry, the three of yous,” as he addressed the cornish hen which was still dancing around by his feet and intent on handing him business cards.

“This is all just a bit for me to take in right now,” said Albert in his normal tone of voice. Betty opened her mouth but before she could speak the giant mouth yawned loudly and its tongue came rolling out of its mouth to reveal Albert’s grandmother, clinging to the tip with one hand and holding a hatchet in the other. “Eeeep!” the Cornish hen squealed as Albert’s grandmother gave chase down the alley towards the entrance and out onto the street.

“Nana, no!” cried Albert as he ran after his granny, who was screaming at the little bird–“you little fraud! He didn’t do nothin’ to them squirrels but eat ’em clean up! I’ll put an end to your little scheme! Ahhhhhh!” As they vanished from the alley and their screams faded into the night, Betty was startled when the corpse suddenly blurted out, “I’m famished, wanna go get a burger?” Betty stood there for a second then nodded, figuring that her night couldn’t possibly get any worse. “Yeah..but I’m buying,” she said. Fearful that he’d be left out, the gaping mouth asked to come along too. “Why not,” said the corpse “she’s buying.”

Sadly, the potatoes dried up.