- Diary -
Please do not read my Diary. This is very private.
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Lost in the Wilderness
Dearest Diary,
It has been a fortnight since the snow began. I've been forced again to write your letter with wet coal from the fire. The grizzly bear that ate my leg is now at least somewhat sated by the meat. I decided my leg was a small sacrifice since it was rotten with gangrene from when the Apaches shot it with poison arrows. Now hopefully the rabid bear will stop his angry growls, and teeth gnashing long enough for me to document my experiences in the frontier, far, far away from the city.
From my last entry, you may remember when my horse, General Buckmaster III, threw me from the saddle. This shouldn't have been such a surprise since General Buckmaster II threw my father and trampled him to death, and General Buckmaster I threw my grandfather into a nest of bees. He was allergic to bees.
Only this time, my leg got caught in the stirrup. The good General drug me for 70 miles whilst my head was battered about by many rocks and tree roots and rocks and more roots and more rocks and roots again, in the forest and hills and streams along the route. It reminded me of that horrible trip we took down that new river that was discovered. Niagara River I think? If you remember, that did not turn out to be the water route to the western coast we had hoped for. Anyway, the lumps and swelling are almost down enough to take the bandages off of my head. I have faith that even without medical training, I will still look presentable. Especially if you only host your parties on October 31st.
As usual I will give this letter to my otter, Otis. Sometimes when I look into his simple eyes, I wonder if he truly understands the directions I give him to your home. But he waits for me to seal the letter with our customary family crest using left over bacon grease (I ran out of wax because the bees have bought it all leaving only their stingers as currency), and as if on cue, Otis confidently takes the letter from my trembling hands and quickly disappears into the water.
I know I can trust Otis to deliver my words. Not like that angry, untrustworthy Badger I so ironically and aptly named Lying Bastard. To my horror I found many reports, if not all of them, chewed up and buried in his burrow. I was unable to recover the precious documents since the badger saw me as a threat of some kind and viciously tore me apart. Perhaps if the wolves had not taken the precious horse jerky I made from the good General after his "accident", I would have had the strength to defend myself.
Speaking of wolves, I think I hear their howls. That usually signals another exhilarating, if not terrifying night of screaming, and throwing rocks and tree bark. I better sign off so I can get prepared.
I hope New York Towne will be safer with the plague nearing its end. I heard the Queen may raise taxes again. How awful. Perhaps something should be done.
Faithfully Yours,
Cornelius
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Dairy Log Journal Entry 28576
This is my 28576th dairy blog entry. Today I finally, finally created my time travel machine. It took me years, but I did it. After creating the tachyon emitter, I was able to align the transceiver to the frequency of the event horizon field generator.
All I needed was a weird, twirling, mechanical, umbrella device, a smoke machine, one of those metal spheres that shoots electricity, some gum, a bicycle, some sparklers, a playing card to tape to the spokes of my bike, some tape, a lab coat, some beakers with some foamy mist squirting out of them, and a lab assistant who keeps drinking stuff out of the beakers… gets angry… and then smashes the lab while transforming into a hideous, large, hairy, beast man. Oh yeah… and a Delorian.
My only problem was to keep the frequency synced with the field for more than 3 seconds. I still don't have this stable enough to travel back in time. However, I think I can send an electronic message. Perhaps I'll send this blog as a test message. If you read this, please reply so I know it worked.
P.S. Matt is going to try to murder you. This time don't fight him. He will cause you brain damage and as a result, you will think you can time travel. Just let it end... just let it end...
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Spying on my Diary?
Dear Diary,
Ever since I started these diary entries, I can't help but feel that they aren't completely private. It is scary to think someone can read my most private thoughts. I am so glad that this is only for me to see. Still...
Anyway, I helped my sister Lauren move her stuff yesterday. Lauren has a cat named mayonnaise that she gave us. It's really cute. I think her cat has a crush on me. That is soo not cool. I'll have to let her cat down gently. I don't want it to get upset. I will say something like this, "It not you, its me." That should take care of it.
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Not from outerspace
Dear Diary,
I am not from outer space. Just because I wear a silver helmet with matching silver jump suit does not constitute proof that I am an alien. This could be a new European fashion you've not seen yet. Just because I have 4 arms and can speak telepathically doesn't mean I am from an advanced civilization. I could have just been genetically modified and mutated by a common place accident using parnomium cube radiation.
Also, just because my car is silver and saucer shaped, and can hover and fly and go faster than the speed of light using free energy based on sythetic photons doesn't mean that I didn't get a prototype Chevy or Ford concept car.
Just because my passport says I'm from Planet P82117 doesn't mean I wasn't just kidding. And when I landed on the white house lawn and declared earth my sovereign domain does not mean I was really going to take over the Earth. Jokes... It's just Jokes.
So lower your pitchforks and other primitive weapons before I use my ultra-anilation Robot to crush you into subservience.
Oh, and ignore all the coincidences that make it seem like I'm not a human. Cuz I am. I swear on the hydroponic growing tube that birthed me's grave.
To recap: Silver Space Suit with Ray Gun = European Fashion; Odd Appearance = Tragic Mutation; Advanced Transport = Concept Car; Alien Passport and Urge to dominate the Earth = Just Jokes Baby... Just Jokes; Giant Crushing Robot = Aluminum Can Crusher (On sale now. Only 300 easy payments of 400,000 zirksons each.)
So remember, the next time you point fingers and jump to conclusion, ask yourself... Am I just being prejudice?
Sincerly,
Zorg, The Advanced Secret Scout from an Alien World, Who Will Use Thier Superior Technology to Crush You and Your Precious Planet and Force You and Your Loved Ones to Become Our Slaves.
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I saw Santa Kissing Diary
Dear Diary,
I'm so confused. I saw you kissing santa last night. What the hell? I thought you only loved me. I was so mad that I ripped off my red coat, tore off my fake beard, threw off my red stocking cap, smashed the mirror, and pushed you on the floor.
I never want to see you with anyone else again diary. You cheating bastard.
Love,
Benta clause
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Goat Molest
Dearest Diary,
Ok... This is soooo strange. But I could swear that many months ago a goat broke into my room in the middle of the night and had it’s way with me.
I woke up to find animal hair and hoof prints on my bed, but I still couldn’t believe it happened. Well now the goat is back and it’s claiming that I raped it/her. It wants money from me or it will tell the police. Well that’s just perposterous I thought. But then the goat showed me this.
I wouldn’t believe it, but here it is. Hard, undeniable proof. Do you think people can somehow fake a picture or something? Is that possible? And if so, how much would that kind of super science fiction device cost. Millions... Right? So this has to be real.
Scared,
Dr. Goat Lover
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Turkeytron 9000
Dearest Diary,
Dude… I ate so much friggin food I passed out. I just woke up this morning on a kitchen table wearing the turkey carcass like a hat, and my orange colored hand was resting in a pie tin clutching a fistful of Pumpkin Pie. My left hand, much the same as the right, was in a bowl of whipped cream and mashed potatoes. Also, and maybe I shouldn't tell you this part… there were torn blood soaked clothes on the kitchen floor. I'm told some family members are missing. Actually, all of them. And I was the one that told me.
Anyway, my brother in Wisconsin texted me, "happy turkeytron 9000". I wrote back that perhaps Skynet had a malfunction and confused judgment day with turkey day.
So Skynet sent turkeytron 9000 back in time to infiltrate thanksgiving. Either that or the terminators in the present need a robot turkey they can eat for thanksgiving. Either way… we thought it was funny. I told some young people, like 18 years old, at the table about this, and they looked at me strange. So I explained it. Turns out, they don't know what the terminator is. L
Now I know how my grandfather used to feel when he'd make political jokes about Eisenhower.
Sincerly,
Ben Conner
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Dear Ben,
Thank you so much for your letter about thanksgiving. But I have more important things to deal with then some stupid imaginary robot from the future. Me and your cousin Laura are investigating real murders that have occurred over Thanksgiving day. A string of serial killings involving women named Sarah Conner. Our case is baffling since our forensics analysis shows that the murderer used sharp beaky points to stab the victim and the murderer was only 3 feet tall.
So parden me if I can't share in your thankfullness for the givings.
Annoyed,
Diary
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Dearest Diary,
Are you sure? I mean this is what I was talking about. I can't believe it really happened. You need to get some granade launchers and some heavy caliber weapons.
Strange,
Ben Conner
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Dearest Ben,
If it's alright with you, I'll stick to the real world .22 caliber pistol. This isn't some shootem up movie where I get some kind of machine gun that never runs out of bullets and ever hits anything. Look, you had a fun day eating turkey and are suffering a psychotic break from the stress of eating so much food.
Just let it go... I have to leave anyway, I just got a call that some "turkey" is tearing up a bar in Southlake. Whoever this guy is... he better watch out.
Sincerly,
Diary
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Dearest Diary,
Wait... they called the perp a turkey? Do you think they might mean that literally? Like a Turkeytron 9000?
Scared,
Ben Conner
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Dearest Ben,
No, don't be retarded. We call perps, jerk, or jackass, all the time. Turkey is just another term we call these loosers. It's just a coincidence that this one is extremely tough to take down. He's probably high on PCP. Look, I'm bringing my .22. I should be just fine.
Sincerly,
Diary