Katherine's Stories!

I know this is my homepage...And I would put my own stories right here...
Except my stories all suck...So I'm putting some of my best friends stories here instead.
Now, be warned. These are kinda weird.
In the words of Dan Reitz...
"What was Katherine on when she wrote this?"
Or, in the words of Drew Fornarola...
"Your friend Katherine is a nutcase."
Or, take a quote of Kurt Vonnegut's into mind...
"I have always thought of myself as a paranoid, as an overreactor, and a person who makes a questionable living with his mental diseases. Fiction writers are not customarily persons in the best mental health."
So, if you tend to like wacky, trippy, off-the wall things...

Superman Salt Shaker

     It looked like a rotten egg, with its ugly, putrid colors; but it didn't smell like one, confusing Mr. and Mrs. Dipple all the more...
        " Maybe it's simply discolored," suggested Mr. Dipple, shaking his head " You know, maybe a whole bunch of different Kool-aids were spilled on it."         Mrs. Dipple shook her glasses fervently, "No! No! That egg is as rotten as my teeth! Maybe the wind blew the smell away." Wrenching a black tooth from her ragged mouth, she put it next to the egg, " See? The resemblance is uncanny. No doubt that egg is bad."
        " But no wind could drive away the evil fumes of a rotten egg!" cried her husband, pounding his fist in the air.
        Both expectantly turned to the egg. It just sat there, green beneath its moldy shell.
        This went on for some weeks, when suddenly, the egg moved.
        Mrs. Dipple's shoulders moved up, and her eyes widened to saucers. Mr Dipple raised an eyebrow. The center of their life (for many months) rolled across the countertop, stopped at the Superman salt shaker, and rolled back away. The Superman salt shaker, being rudely rejected, sulked away.
        It spinned around and around, stood on the narrow end, and layed gently back on its side.
        A crack was heard! From the top a fissure began to form. Soon a shoe appeared, followed by a leg, an arm, a torso, another leg, a head, and lastly, another little arm.
        The little man was fully clothed, and pushed his glasses up his nose. He oddly resembled Bill Gates.
        " I'm sorry to inform you, but your rent is under my chalice, and I forgot to send it." said Bill Gates calmly.
        Mr. and Mrs. Dipple replied by having their eyes fall out of their heads.

The End

And Mr. Ed Hurried on Home

        As Gone-o-Ron began to speak, my eyes involuntarily rolled up to the ceiling, as night dawned in my coffee mug. Resigned to listen to yet another of his hog-washed tales, my vision focused on his termite-eaten left leg, and his creaking voice began...
        "I tell you, the war of '84 was a harsh one, many chairs and cats dies, I tell ye. It all exploded on Jan. 61st of 1984. Everyone knows there are 61 days in a month. This was also the day butter was invented, and I was there to wotness this amazing event. The vat, full of its greasy treasure, was a sight to make eyes sigh and mouths gargle spring mud, fresh from Mama Cole. As we slapped ourselves, a great mooing was heard, and the cow had fallen in!
        "You see, it had been dancing on one of the rafters, being as it was the supervisor of our illustrious hoard. It was flailing its legs desperately, drowning in the lavish liquid.
        "Immediately the pioneers fished her out, using John Lennon as the bait. But you see, as we rescued the bovine, one of the wild limbs knocked off my leg! Off, off through the air it traveled, landing neatly in front of Mr. Rogers. Unfortunately, he promptly ate it, being Mr. Rogers, of course."
        "But, why was he there?" I asked, lulling my tongue into submission.
        "Because he was the only pedophile who can shake down Napoleoninese, language of the cattle," the freckle said obstinately, "And so, I was slowly shipped to the hospital, through a UPS truck. Now this is where the War begins." His smile, a great masquito buzzing about the ears of LaToya Jackson, his eyes caught afire, I could see the great Slug awakening in his soul, and oozing to the ridiculed floor.
        "Lying in the hospital bed, as Ronald McDonald preached cheesy crayons on TV, a woman entered my room. Tagging along, a hologram followed, immediately shattering to the sticky scum-yellow floor. For you see, glass was invented that year also.
         'Who's going to clean this up?' I said, prodding the pieces that had once been my long lost sleeve.
         'The janitor?' she replied, licking her snake-like teeth with a quivering tongue.
        "Ronald Reagan leapt through the candy-pane window, and commenced to beat Ronald McDonald senseless with beef-jerky. Oh, it was a commerating brawl, now available at fine china stores in a theater near you." With a firm nod of a weasly head, the tale ended.
        My shoes contacted the door, and commenced to lead the brain into the cool makeshift air. The evening's memories dripped into a blind man's pocket, and Mr. Ed hurried on home.

Calling All Baboons to Port

        "Shave it off! Shave it off!" she screamed, as the lemur contorted wildly on its pedestal of wooden shavings. The spectacle disgusted myself and Mr. Drogynous, whose glasses were crawling across the pile of balloons on its ill-borne path, leading to the Samoa Salami guarding the ill-bred cherries shrieking bloody perks.
        "How long must this go on?" I asked, and my shoe cautiously sniffed the table. It bit the blameless piece of furniture ferociosly, "Sell it, sell it is what required to knock the monk off that poor Persian's chin."
        The chin was scruffy, giving the impression it was dirty, but it wasn't. Thw monk sat there calmly, and waved cheerfully. Yet our problem was immediately solved by the lemur's betrayal of its sociology teacher. The little amphibian-based slave marched across the table and took the tiny Franciscan hostage, hiding it in its new refrigerator.
        With that, my cavalier came to escort me off, changing the butter and jam frequently so as not to get the mouse sticky.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

        I live at #155 thread in your 5th tablecloth of infancy. Looking back at me is like taking a step off a trunk of beautiful Swiss kangaroos. Kangaroos are secretly relative to the wholy cheese but moved when the sheik took over. Where are my sins? I left them here on the bathroom door but apparently they've gone out with Gabriel for some ice cream. Today's ant hills are so unreliable. For instance, I once left them in charge of my timpanzee, and they sold it to a band of raving apples (No One's Dependable).

The Cookie Sheet

(Keep in mind, this is Katherine's first "automatic writing" piece. She's seems to be proud of it, though.)
        The cookie sheet sat on the stove and sat and sat. Until one day, somebody greased it, put it in the oven and burned it to death.


(This was Katherine's present to me for my half-birthday. I am gonna do my best, while typing it in, to not change the format of this piece. She seems to be on a decimal kick in this one.)
        Little CarA dismally Walked arouNd and aroUnd in a circle about 3.58729 (after 9:00 32798) ft in diameter. She was stuck there because the shell was about as thick as the contact lens of a sheep, and she couldn't possible break through that. " How dreadful!" she cried. "All I have is a paTHetic friend who thinks stupid thoughts about cheese and a boyfriend who could hack into the govt.'s computer system and cause complete global anarchy in 2.85791 minutes flat!"
        At that moment Dougie Howser rolled by, which appealed to her PrEttY little eyes. She began to follow it, the fortress moving with her, trailing the camouflaged shack with an undistinct odor blabbering about its time in the Service. Eventually they reached Sunderland, where the BeastIe BoYs and the minister of fRance were ducking it out on a lamenting butterchurn. Unfortunately, though, a shilling came through and stole the M right from the (now) inister's gold.
        " Oh no!" Cara cried. " Now there will be no pie!" And so she and the Bloke who ate the dock began to pursue the thriftalicious thief. Como estas? They fumbled upon a grat bridge made out of gelatinous tricks. "What do you font?" called the jiggly goof prancing about on the water.
        " I want your daughter!" said the Bloke.
        The bridge threw a clue-moose at the blue boon and went upon its way. They crossed the riVer of running wafers to only find in their way another story. " Oh no!" cried Cara. " Now we must wait to--"

                                                                                                            Interruption to this program.                                                                                         I must report that-BLIMEY!!!!!-uh, sorry.
The sock which must be seen has left a seraphim on the sin city's strip, caking up the soap-dish.
                                                                                     Now, back to malorious glory story roaring.
        And then the tight light flashed bashed and clashed with the only one left. "Oh no!" Cara cried. "The was the last of my crayons!"

+ the end +


(Katherine's birthday letter to me which accompanied what I call a strawberry orgasm - a rice krispie treat made with Strawberry Fluff)
So you're thinking: "Katherine is such a cheap ignorant misanthopist as to not realize how insulting it is to get your gift not only wrapped in common aluminum foil, but to get my card (which isn't really a card) on mesolithic grade B ruled paper." However, Katherine does realize, and feelings of postmodern monetary-fed guilt are quite real. So, I shall try and show the usefulness of your gift with:


1. She can hold illegal underground ring-fights with it.
2. She can take it out to dinner.
3. She can knock some sense into various persons (who don't need to be mentioned)
4. She can use its bumpy, slightly sticky surface as a therapeutic device.
5. She can frame it.
6. It can be claimed a holy relic.
7. She can teach it swing.
8. She can make faces at it.
9. It could be the focus of transcendental meditation.
10. To break the ice at gatherings.
11. As a Scrabble piece.
12. As a flotation device.
13. To Jack up a clown car.
13. As a decoration for Kwanzaa. (yes, two 13's)
14. As a basis of a new holiday.
15. Take it in for further examination.
16. Test it for drug abuse.
17. Pet it.
18. Poke it.
19. As a discussion piece.
20. To better butterify you love with Patrick.

Yes, that's double the number, but that usually equates to triple the lung.

Oh yeah...and I don't know if it's true, but I heard something once about actually eating it...I don't know, sounds kinda risque, but...
In short little tunes, you are now 17, one step toward being considered a legal human being and one year (strange and confusing) behind to look back on, smear with jam, and serve with tea with a few live-bellied amigas y amigos.
Eternally yours to smack around,
P.S. You could also use the R.K.T. as a tax deduction. It takes a lot of support, you know.

And now, for your worst NIGHTMARE!!