Mark A. Rayner's Blog: Mark A. Rayner's Goodreads Blog, page 77

Give a Little Monkeyjoy this holiday

If you're still looking for gifts, both of my novels are available on Kindle for 99-cents — until the end of the year!

And yes, you can give a Kindle book as a gift. Just click on the "Give as a Gift" button on the right side of the screen when you get to Amazon.

You can also get them in all other formats at Smashwords: Marvellous Hairy | The Amadeus Net.

And, of course, the dead tree versions are also available wherever books are sold online.

Alltop loves dead trees! Especially at Christmas.

Trooper Jinglo at home

Every time he thought about the Death Star, and how he was supposed to be on duty that day, Trooper Jinglo just needed to cuddle with his dog.

More pics and cutlines like this at Monkeyjoys (my Tumblr blog).

Alltop was supposed to be cleaning out the garbage containers, but got held up at the Senate. Stormtrooper by Anthony Georgis on Flickr.

Jesus visits the Denver Broncos

I've been without TV for the last three months, so I haven't witnessed all the miracles Jesus has performed on behalf of the Denver Broncos and Tim Tebow, but I do remember the Elway years…

Alltop knew Mormonism was all real!

Betsy of Narnia Reveals the Ugly Truth

'Allo, dearie, I suppose you'd like to hear all about your hero Aslan and those Pevensie folk, but you don't want to hear it from the likes of me.

You want to talk to Edmund's horse Phillip or p'raps those Beavers (desperate suck-ups the Beavers). They'll tell you want you want to hear.

Now, don't get me wrong. I was not a fan of that bitch queen at all. Not at all. Us Jersey cows are not made for the cold, and the White Witch had the thermostat turned down all the time, but at least when she was running things, me and the other ladies were more or less left to my own devices.

But since the Pevensies have taken over the establishment, it has been nothing but toil for the likes of me. I get milked at least once a day, usually by that pervert Mr. Tumnus.

(Would it surprise you know that he always has a slurp of me longer teat before milks t'others? He bites a bit too.)

And don't get me started on General Otman. You'd think a famous centaur like that would have his choice of lady centaurs, and even horses, 'fer Christ's sake, but he has a taste for the Jersey, if you get me meanin'.

But it's not so much the milking and unwanted attention. It's what happens to the young 'uns, the male young 'uns.

It's not like that Christmas roast just magically appears, you see.

Alltop never did trust that Mr. Tumnus. Photo by normanack. Originally published in 2005!

Sad Spaceman Sighs

Alltop can hear laughter, even in space.

Clown Apocalypse: The Day the Laughter Died

It was as though everyone who was infected by the Bozo Virus (BV) had received an extensive education at the Barnum and Bailey Clown College. In fact, one of the early ways of detecting the infection was for doctors to test if patients could juggle, even just a little bit.

It was a sign of the hilarious malady to come.

In addition to physical skills, victims of BV had a gnosis of clowning techniques. For example, after the onset of the physical symptoms, sufferers would understand the idea of having a framework, a general structure for an act, whether a short "side dish" or a longer "entrée." These would be fleshed out (and covered with whiteface) with bits, gags (running and stand-alone), and occasionally, with some business. Sometimes with props, sometimes with other clowns.

For some, the disease was relentless. As soon as they had a framework, and another victim or prop to work with, and even some weak business, they would start the show. It didn't matter if they had an audience or not. It didn't matter if they were any good. They just needed to clown.

But the laughter that clowns and virus victims alike long to hear would never come. The blow off arrived, but there would be silence. Many a joke "chomped the flower", and produced nary a chuckle.

These poor bastards did not have to wait for the inevitable end of the Bozo Virus. The end would find them sooner. As their gags died, so did they. In horrible, horrible droves.

Some lay on railroad tracks, some took pills, and a lucky few found cannons to fire themselves from. Most of them would just pretend they tripped on something, and fall into traffic. (This was dreadful on two fronts: in addition to the guilt of thinking they'd just killed someone, drivers discovered how impossible it was to get pancake makeup off their fenders.)

Everyone agreed: even clowns couldn't make suicide funny.

Alltop likes a good blow off. Depressed Student Clown, a photo by Phil Kneen(www.philkneen.com) on Flickr.

Troy and Abed — Christmas Infiltration

Alltop enjoys "infiltrating" your funny bone.

A Traditional 'Christmas' at the Tundra Household

Dr. Maximilian Tundra was heading home again for the holidays, dread clutching his heart like an iron fist. He'd managed to avoid Thanksgiving, but there was no escape from The Feast.

The Feast, as it was known amongst Clan Tundra, was a toxic stew of carbs, fats, and pharmaceuticals that had a tendency to drive the family bonkers.

Not that they weren't certifiable to begin with.

Dr. Tundra's sister, Eugenie, was a brilliant "installation" artist, who was nevertheless, seriously bi-polar. His younger twin brothers, Xavier and Xenophon, had never really recovered from their childhood "incident" — as the family called it — following a plane crash in the Andes. His Da, Dr. Halvard Hemming Tundra, seemed perfectly normal; of course, the Great Danger of attending the Feast was that Dr. H. H. Tundra didn't attend, and that he sent his doppelganger, Mr. Angry McBucktooth in his stead. His Mum, Beatrice Pelagia Tundra (nee Sweeney) was in denial, but otherwise safe to be around.

And that was just the nuclear family. Getting the extended clan together required a number of court orders, insurance waivers and to be on the safe side, Da usually hired off-duty members of the SWAT to patrol the grounds.

Perhaps it was for that reason, or perhaps it was the family's iconoclastic nature, but The Feast was never celebrated on Christmas. It always happened on the Solstice.

The darkest day of the year. Of course, it also marked the start of days getting brighter and brighter. The rebirth of the sun, his Da called it. But when it came to the holiday, his family and The Feast, Dr. Tundra was definitely a glass-is-half-empty kind of guy.

The policeman checked his ID, and waved him past the checkpoint, a set of gates loomed ahead, which would let him into the Tundra compound. A high fence, razor wire atop, surrounded the area. Guards and German shepherds patrolled the grounds, checking the fenceline for weak points.

It would do no good. It never did.

He parked, put on his flak jacket and entered the Tundra mansion. The smell of roasting turkey and peyote stuffing filled the house, and Dr. Tundra shuddered.

An outside observer would wonder if that was a shudder of anticipation, excitement, or perhaps the thrill of visceral familiarity that we get when we return to our childhood places.

But no, it was dread.

Alltop freebases its turkey. The reasons why festive feasting can cause family fracases.. Thanks to ckirkman for the turkey pic. Originally published December 2005.

One of the Magi Explains About the Myrrh

Everyone keeps giving me shit about my gift to Jesus the Son of God and the Messiah, King of Kings.

"Isn't myrrh basically perfume for mummies?" these ass-clowns keep asking me. "Is that an appropriate gift for a BABY?"

Look, first off you have to realize that I planned to bring gold.

But Caspar called dibs on that. Fair enough, I thought, he is the "Keeper of the Treasure" or whatever those freaky Chaldeans call him. I don't know. Those people have some weird habits. Every heard of doing the Chaldean Donkey? But they have lots of gold, and Caspar is wealthier than Croesus.

So I thought, no problem. I'll give Him some nice Frankinsense. That stuff rocks. I would wear it every day if it didn't make me smell like a Babylonian prostitute. But then I found out that bastard Balthazar already had a pearl-encrusted, gilt box filled with the stuff.

"WTF Balthazar? I was going to give The Messiah Frankinsense." He just flipped me off. That Balthazar is an Indo-Parthian twat, and a show-off to boot. Pearl-encrusted, my ass. We said one gift.

I was happy to represent though. I mean, of the three magi sent from The East, I was the only one who was a real magi. I went to Zoroastrian High, did my undergraduate degree at Azura University and my doctorate at the prestigious Zoroaster School at the University of the Great Whore of Babylon (a party college, but the program is well respected.) Without me those tools, who are kings and members of the high caste, but who never finished their basic studies, wouldn't have even found Bethlehem. I mean, they couldn't even identify their own asses, let alone the Star.

Myrrh, for those in the know, is one of the most holy of essential oils, which is why those decadent Egyptians use it for their mummification rituals. And yes, it's a little bitter, but really, I have to object to the freakin' hymn:

Myrrh is mine, its bitter perfume

Breathes a life of gathering gloom;

Sorrowing, sighing, bleeding, dying,

Sealed in the stone cold tomb.

It's about salvation, not just death and dying. It's meant to represent that he was going to help us rise above death again. AND it's got freakin medicinal values. Suck on that gold!

But I must admit, I probably shouldn't have given it to him in a Lamb's Bladder. That was taking the symbolism too far.

Alltop loves a good lamb's bladder cup. Originally published in 2010.

A Magi Explains About the Myrrh

Everyone keeps giving me shit about my gift to Jesus the Son of God and the Messiah, King of Kings.

"Isn't myrrh basically perfume for mummies?" these ass-clowns keep asking me. "Is that an appropriate gift for a BABY?"

Look, first off you have to realize that I planned to bring gold.

But Caspar called dibs on that. Fair enough, I thought, he is the "Keeper of the Treasure" or whatever those freaky Chaldeans call him. I don't know. Those people have some weird habits. Every heard of doing the Chaldean Donkey? But they have lots of gold, and Caspar is wealthier than Croesus.

So I thought, no problem. I'll give Him some nice Frankinsense. That stuff rocks. I would wear it every day if it didn't make me smell like a Babylonian prostitute. But then I found out that bastard Balthazar already had a pearl-encrusted, gilt box filled with the stuff.

"WTF Balthazar? I was going to give The Messiah Frankinsense." He just flipped me off. That Balthazar is an Indo-Parthian twat, and a show-off to boot. Pearl-encrusted, my ass. We said one gift.

I was happy to represent though. I mean, of the three magi sent from The East, I was the only one who was a real magi. I went to Zoroastrian High, did my undergraduate degree at Azura University and my doctorate at the prestigious Zoroaster School at the University of the Great Whore of Babylon (a party college, but the program is well respected.) Without me those tools, who are kings and members of the high caste, but who never finished their basic studies, wouldn't have even found Bethlehem. I mean, they couldn't even identify their own asses, let alone the Star.

Myrrh, for those in the know, is one of the most holy of essential oils, which is why those decadent Egyptians use it for their mummification rituals. And yes, it's a little bitter, but really, I have to object to the freakin' hymn:

Myrrh is mine, its bitter perfume

Breathes a life of gathering gloom;

Sorrowing, sighing, bleeding, dying,

Sealed in the stone cold tomb.

It's about salvation, not just death and dying. It's meant to represent that he was going to help us rise above death again. AND it's got freakin medicinal values. Suck on that gold!

But I must admit, I probably shouldn't have given it to him in a Lamb's Bladder. That was taking the symbolism too far.

Alltop loves a good lamb's bladder cup. Originally published in 2010.