Last week, Darius Shell, going against his father’s wishes, became the first peanut in his family to go to college.  What follows is a brief excerpt of their tense, verbal exchange.

            OFFICIAL TRANSCRIPT:

MR. SHELL:  Your Uncle Jeff was a good nut.  He did what he had to do to provide for his family.

DARIUS:  How, by working three and four jobs until he finally lost his mind?

MR. SHELL:  He lost his mind because he married that cashew from the Southside.

DARIUS:  Aunt Jean was nice.

MR. SHELL:  She was outta her friggin’ mind!  Jeff was working so hard to try and keep up with her high maintenance lifestyle that they couldn’t afford.

DARUIS:  She was nice…

MR. SHELL:  Yeah… for a Cashew.

DARIUS:  You didn’t like her because she was a Cashew?

MR. SHELL:  I’m not saying that.  A guy on my bowling team is a Cashew.  Nice enough guy, but he sweats a lot and his feet smell funny.

DARIUS:  None of us have feet!  You’re just making up excuses to justify you intolerance towards Cashews.

MR. SHELL:  NO, I’m not!

DARIUS:  You’re a…(thinks) nut-ist.

MR. SHELL:  No, I’m not.

DARIUS:  Okay… ( thinks) how do you feel about Brazilian nuts?

MR.  SHELL:  I ain’t got nothin’ against them.  Good soccer players, excellent dancers… but they need to go back to their own country.

DARIUS: What?!

MR. SHELL:  And Pistachios… that sounds foreign too, so they need to go back to wherever they come from as well.

DARIUS:  I can’t believe it.  My own dad is nut-ist.  I’ve always suspected, but…

MR. SHELL:  It ain’t like that, Darius.

DARIUS:  No, then what is it like, Dad?

MR. SHELL:  I try to live by the golden rule, you know?   Treat other nuts the way you want to be treated… unless they’re  Almonds, who are good at math, but are horrible drivers.

DARIUS:  You’re ridiculous!

MR. SHELL:  Or Macadamias… who are good at construction and harvesting, but are lazy as fuck!

DARIUS:  See, you just completely contradicted yourself!

MR. SHELL:  No, I didn’t!

DARIUS: ( chuckles)  And you have just answered your own question about college.

MR.  SHELL:  How so?

DARIUS:   I don’t need college to teach me that what you believe is total bullshit.  But, if nothing else, it’ll get me away from this nutshell of ignorance you’re living in, Dad.

MR. SHELL:  Whatever!   In time you’ll see that I’m right.

DARIUS:  Yeah, whatever, I’m out of here.

MR. SHELL:  Oh, yeah, where are you going?

DARIUS:  I don’t know-George’s, Mike’s-anywhere but here right now.

MR. SHELL:  Well, how are you gonna get there?  My car is off limits until I get an ignorance oil change!  Get it?

DARIUS:   Yeah, hilarious.  Whatever, I’ll just take an Uber.

MR. SHELL:  ( fatherly tone )  Okay, Darius… look, I’m sorry we’re not seeing eye to eye about this college thing right now, but I want you to know that… I still love you, Son.

DARIUS:  ( conflicted )  I love you too, Dad.

MR. SHELL:   And always remember these two things no matter what happens between us.  One: we’re family…

DARIUS:  For sure, for sure, always.   What’s the other thing?

MR. SHELL:  If you take an Uber… beware of them Chestnut drivers.  Good at taxes, but sneaky as fuck!

THEND

 

 

 

 

 

                               Last week, we’ve covered the first part of a tragic episode where Nick Ninja was given away by the sound of his maintenance keys, an instant before his was to assassinate crime boss, Mr. Dingle.  We pick up the episode where Mrs. Peterson, who hired Nick, has walked in on the two men, with her pet lemur on her shoulder.  What follows is the actual transcript of the tragic ending.

OFFICIAL TRANSCRIPT

MRS. PETERSON:  ( to Dingle )  Ahaaaaa, there you are!  I thought you’d be sliced up like a bologna sandwich by now.  ( to Ninja )  Why is he not sliced up like a bologna sandwich by now?

NINJA:  Sorry, but he pulled his pistol on me before I could-

MRS. PETERSON:  Excuses, excuses.  I expect a full refund of that down payment I gave you.

NINJA:  Okay, sure, that’s fair.  Do you have change for a twenty?

DINGLE:  Change for a twenty?  Change for a twenty??  How much was the hit?!

NINJA:  Twenty-two bucks.

DINGLE:  Twenty-two bucks?  What?!  I’m a highly sought after crime personality and I only command an open market  price on my head of twenty-two bucks?   That doesn’t make any sense.

MRS.  PETERSON:  It makes perfect sense.  I’m on a fix income.  And besides… you haven’t been relevant in the crime world for over forty years.

DINGLE:  Oh yeah, says who?

MRS. PETERSON:  Says the last major drug deal you pulled off, which was on the parking lot at Guns N Roses concert in 1987.

DINGLE:  Okay… it’s been awhile.

NINJA:  1987?  I wasn’t even born yet.

DINGLE:  Shut up, Ninja!   You’re one to talk.  Prancing around in the shadows with them keys sounding like a parking meter was having a seizure.

MRS. PETERSON:  He’s right, I could hear you outside on the fire escape… and on the elevator… and in lobby…

NINJA:   Okay, I’m sorry, but I’m on call, alright?  I could get an emergency maintenance request at any-

MRS. PETERSON:  How about you emergency request return my fucking twenty dollars for a job not completed?

NINJA:  Okay, can I cash app that to you?

DINGLE:  Cash app… what’s cash app?

MRS. PETERSON:  Shut… up… both of you!   You almost made me forget why I came in here.

DINGLE:  Okay.

NINJA:  What’s the matter?

MRS. PETERSON:  Because of you two idiots, Lincoln Jefferson has suffered a psychologic setback and now he is in a complete state of catatonia.

NINJA:  Who is Lincoln Jefferson?

DINGLE:  And where the fuck is catatonia?   Sounds like some shit on the west coast.  Am I right?

MRS. PETERSON:  Idiots!  Lincoln Jefferson is my beloved pet lemur.

DINGLE:  Oh, you mean that thing on you shoulder?

NINJA:  Yes, that’s what she means.

MRS. PETERSON:  Insensitive, blind bastards!  How could Lincoln Jefferson not be the first thing you noticed when I walked in here?

NINJA:  ( looking away )  I don’t know.  What about you Dingle?

DINGLE: ( thinks ) Mmmmm, it was probably because I was distracted by them big-ass titties sitting in that there wheelbarrow.

MRS. PETERSON:  ( appalled ) Pig!

DINGLE:  What I say?

NINJA:  But how is Lincoln Jefferson’s catatonic state our fault, Mrs. Peterson?

MRS. PETERSON:  He heard you two nitwits in here earlier, talking about the future… and time machines…

DINGLE:  And…?

MRS. PETERSON:  And that made him think about the movie Back To The Future.

NINJA:  Yeah… and…?

MRS. PETERSON:   And he’s aways struggled with whether has was… a Delorean in a past life or not.

DINGLE:  Was he?

MRS. PETERSON:  How the hell would I know that?!

DINGLE:  Could have been on his papers when you go him from the pet store.

MRS: PETERSON:  Anyway…. the reminder has sent him over the edge once again.

It was at this point that Lincoln Jefferson reportedly fell from its perch and unto the floor.  Dead.  Mrs. Peterson attempted CPR on the lemur, but to no avail.  And then the Ninja had remembered that amongst his massive chain of keys, happened to be an old Dolorean car key.  Well… he carefully inserted the key into the lemurs butt, turned it to the right and…

Yup, still dead.

 

 

 

 

 

 

                          Last night, Nick Driver, an on call maintenance man, who moonlights as a Ninja, attempted to assassinate drug kingpin, Don Dingle, with tragic results.  Here is the actual record of the encounter.

OFFICIAL TRANSCRIPT:  CLOSED CAPTIONED FOR THE HEARING IMPAIRED

DINGLE:  Ahaaaaaaa!  Thought you could sneak in and take me out, while I was fast asleep watching the Golden Girls marathon!   Not to be, Ninja.  Not to be.

NINJA:   Dammit!  These fucking keys keep giving away my cat-like, stealthy movements.

DINGLE:  Yeah, you sound like a walking bag of nickles.   I suggest you lose the keys before you try to whack anybody else in the future.

NINJA:  Well, I would need a time machine for that, wouldn’t I?

DINGLE:   Time machine for what?

NINJA:  To whack somebody else… in the future.

DINGLE:  (thinks for a second) No, you would not need a time machine, because you’d be whacking  your victim at the same time of the act itself …  which would be your present.

NINJA:  You sure?

DINGLE:  Yes, I’m positive!

NINJA:  (thinks)  But what about-?

DINGLE:  What about…  you put down the sword nice and easy-like, Ninja!

NINJA: (complies )  Okay.

DINGLE:  Who hired you?  Was it Joe Jefferson from the Westside group?  Was it Banjo Batts from the CherryHill Squad?

NINJA:  No, it was Mrs. Peterson from apartment 4-G.

DINGLE: Mrs. Peterson?  The old broad with the long breast that she carries around in a wheelbarrow?

NINJA:  Yup.

DINGLE:  But why?

NINJA:  The Golden Girls playing, volume up high, day and night on your TV… it’s driving her crazy.

DINGLE:  Wow… it’s really that bad?

NINJA:  Yup.

DINGLE:  Okay… (reflects)  I’ll turn it down.  Problem solved.

NINJA:  Okay… what about me?

DINGLE:  Well… I’m not really sure.  First, I was gonna blast you, but… my kitchen faucet’s been leaking for a couple days now… so I guess you can just take a look at it while you’re here.

NINJA:  I can take a look at it, but I can’t fix it.

DINGLE:  Why not?

NINJA:  No tools.

DINGLE:  No tools?

NINJA:  No tools.

DINGLE:  What kind of on call maintenance man goes around with no tools?

NINJA:  I’m not… exactly on duty right now.

DINGLE:  What do you mean?  Oh-the whole ninja assassin thing.   Right.

NINJA: Right.  Plus you need to put in a service request through the help desk first.

(to be continued… )

 

 

 

                        Last night, a snail, who goes by the name, Herbie, had his face dissolved in a salted, French fries eating incident at a local restaurant.  Here is the transcript of what happened.

OFFICIAL TRANSCRIPT

LADY SNAIL: ( to Herbie as his face was melting ) I distinctly heard you say… no salt on your fries.

HERBIE:  (garbled )  I bid bay… no dalt oooon  mmmm bies.

SERVER:  Oh, I’m sorry, I though he said… no catapult on his fries.

LADY SNAIL: No catapult on his fries?  That’s ridiculous.  What does that even mean?

SERVER:  Our fries come with several options including, salt, no salt, catapult, or no catapult.  Fries with catapult are launched across the room onto you plate… or directly into your mouth.  Your choice.

LADY SNAIL:  Well, that’s not what he ordered.

HERBIE: Dnope.

SERVER: My apologies, sir.  I will bring out a fresh plate of fries for you asap.  No salt.

LADY SNAIL:  And how do you propose he eat those fries?  His whole face is gone.

SERVER: The cook can put the fries in a blender, make mashed potatoes, and perhaps your husband can suck it through a straw.

HERBIE:  I bon’t blike maff badatadas.  Dey gib be gasth.

LADY SNAIL:  Not good enough!   We’ve been coming to this restaurant for years and this is by far the worst service we’ve ever had.

HERBIE:  Burst sterbice eber.

LADY SNAIL: I want to speak to the manager!

HERBIE:  Yeah, da banander.

SERVER: Yes, ma’am.  ( walks away, but comes back to the table )  I hope this incident does not negatively affect the amount of my gratuity.

 

 

 

                                       After a long seventeen year wait, the Matrix series has finally returned with The Matrix Resurrections and the movie has succeeded tremendously… in being even more confusing and convoluted than the previous three Matrix movies combined.

                                 “The Matrix Resurrections was really perplexing and hard to follow,” said David Mitchell.   “It was like watching a kabuki theatre version of the Pythagorean Theorem going through a coffee grinder.  I couldn’t understand what the hell was going on or why… and I co-wrote the screenplay.”

                  In the original Matrix, Neo was given a choice by Morpeus.  Take the BLUE pill, remain in the Matrix and believe the computer generated life that you’ve always known.   Or take the RED pill, leave the Matrix and experience the real world.  And in a mostly over looked plot point of The Matrix Resurrections, Morpheus offers Neo eight additional pills of various colors to take.   Each colored pill would have its own unique purpose and effect.   Like the GREEN pill that would make Neo experience a Matrix where all cars would run on battery power.   And since humans were the battery source, expect to have two adults stuffed inside the battery compartment of every Tesla.   Or like the PURPLE pill, where Neo would see a Matrix full of rain, doves, and little red corvettes.  Again with two adults stuffed into the battery compartment.  Or consider the BLACK pill, where Neo would experience a Matrix in which he would be constantly pulled over by Agents, who would introduce him to a difference type of bullet time.

 

                                              Last week, Jasper and Beth Daniels ended their fifty year marriage, citing each other’s blindness as the main reason.

                         “I hate his face,” said Beth.  “And although I’ve never really seen his face, I have touched the skin and contours of his grill, and it reminds me of a volcano surrounded by a McDonald’s, surrounded by two dumpsters.  And the dumpsters are full of decomposing Big Macs and Quarter Pounders with Limburger Cheese.   And… Mayor McCheese is doing something in one of the dumpsters, without his clothes on, that would be considered illegal in forty states, insane in nine states, and performance art… in Kentucky.”

                        “I hate her face,” said Jasper.  “And although I have never actually seen her face, I have fondled the likes of her nose, lips and eyes with my fingers… and lately with my 3-D Powerpoint Braille Etch A Sketch.  And her face reminds  me of the under side of an armadillo… after it’s been run over by covered wagon hauling frozen armadillos.”

                             Beth and Jasper met fifty-one years ago today when they were both members of a group called the Solar Eclipses Watcher’s Club.  Apparently, the group only had one gathering and then the club disbanded due to a precipitous drop in membership.  Attempts to form a shadow group called the Lunar Eclipses Watcher’s Group failed as well.

                       “I hate the way he makes love to me,” said Beth.  “Three minutes and he’s done.  It’s so frustrating… mainly because he’s so blind that he often mistakes the folds in his Bomber Jacket with the folds in my honey pot.”

                       “Well, at least my Bomber Jacket occasionally has an orgasm,” said Jasper.   “She’s so dried out, that last month, I saw a tumbleweed roll out of her vagina.  That’s an image I can’t get out of my mind… and I’m blind!”

                 “He’s like Mr. Magoo on steroids,” said Beth.  “If only he were like Mr. Magoo on Viagra, then we might not be having this conversation right now.”

                 “What do you want from me?  I’m eighty-seven and blind,” Jasper said.   “Sometimes my performance might not spectacular.”

                   And then Beth closed with, “Well… maybe your understudy can finally bring down my curtains.”

 

 

                                  Two weeks ago, Julius Caesar got a new, adjustable, Sleep Roman Numeral Bed to help alleviate his back problems and insomnia.  “My old bed was made of straw mats, strings and the hopes, dreams, and necks of the Roman plebeian class, “Caesar said.  “I was hesitant at first, but I decided to give the adjustable bed a try after I heard some of the testimonials.”

                And here is some of what actual Sleep Roman Numeral Bed customers had to say.

           “I spend a lot of my time sitting in colosseums, watching the Christians and slaves being feed to the lions.” said Marcus.  “It’s terrible and tragic… how uncomfortable those seats are… and I’m talking box seats.  And sometimes I suffer back aches because of it.  So, I put my Sleep Roman Numeral Bed on the IV extra soft setting, and after witnessing a long day of glorified violence and human carnage passing as entertainment, I tend to forget how awful those colosseum seat really are.”

                   “I work construction, so at the end of the day, my whole body aches,” said Titus.   “First, I take a long bath in the Tiber River, where I use animal fat and wood ashes to replenish my rawhide skin.  Then I get in my Sleep Roman Numeral Bed and adjust the setting to medium XI for a restful sleep.  The next day I’m refreshed and ready to go back to my back busting, non-union job, as a brick mason on the Pantheon construction project.”

                   “I’ve had my Sleep Roman Numeral Bed for about two weeks now,” said Caesar.  “I’ve used multiple settings from an extra soft II, all the way up to an extra firm XXIII.  It’s been great.  I no longer suffer from insomnia, although sometimes I do wake up in the middle of the night when I hear Cicero off in the distance, giving rhetorical speeches about whether Rome could be built in a day if we just took shorter coffee breaks.   And my lower back sciatica has gone away completely.  Unfortunately, I haven’t been able to find the right Sleep Roman Number to alleviate the stabbing pains I sometimes have in my upper back.”

 

                Unfortunately, last week, our creative team was hit by Covid-19 and we will not be posting today.  Hopefully, we will be able to post sometime before the end of this week.   Stay with WormHole Square, as we look forward to producing the crazy content, and low polyunsaturated stuff we love to make.   Thanks for understanding.    Best regards, MW

                                    Last week, biblical scholars discovered a controversial event that transpired long ago, outside the manger in Bethlehem, on the night that Christ was born.

                                “A newly discovered document proves, with almost one hundred percent certainty, that Frankenstein attempted to visit the manger on that first Christmas night,”  said biblical scholar and part-time sandal repairman, Jeremiah Cross.  “However, according to this document, which was an ancient visitor’s log written in Hebrew, Aramaic and Egyptian Ebonics, Frankenstein was denied entry into the manger because of a big misunderstanding.”

                         The ancient visitor’s log showed that the Baby Jesus was visited by Three Wise Men on Christmas night, who brought gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh.  Another entry in the log also showed visits from Four WiseGuys, who also brought gifts of gold, frankincense, myrrh… and cannoli’s.

                                 “According to the log, the misunderstanding centered around Frankenstein mistaking his name with frankincense,” said Mr. Cross.   “Frankincense, although no one was really sure what the hell it was at the time, was widely accepted as a gift item… along with ear muffs and a gift certificate from Bed Bibles and Beyond.   Frankenstein, however, was not accepted, due to his reputation as a reanimated, cobbled together corpse, and his penchant for regifting.”

 

                                            There has been growing concern at the North Pole that Christmas may have to been cancelled this year because of Santa’s reported crystal meth addiction.

                          “Santa started experimenting with substances that would give him the energy boost he needed to keep up with the growing demands of the holiday season,” said Joey, Assistant Elf in charge of North Pole Logistics.  “Santa was also looking for something to help him lose weight.  He tried a lot of things including, coffee, energy drinks, and putting three gerbils with ADHD up his ass.  Those things didn’t help increase output all that much.  He also tried low latency faerie dust and high potency angel dust, but they didn’t worked out too well either.”

               And then everything changed for the better and unfortunately… the worst.

                    “Santa tried crystal meth back in November of last year,” said Joey.  “And the results were incredible and immediate.  Santa increased his Christmas presents deliver rate from 10,000 packages an hour to over 500,ooo packages per hour while he was on the meth.  So… combined with Amazon, he was able to meet last season’s holiday demands.   That was the good news.”  Joey sighs deeply, continues.   “Unfortunately, Santa became addicted to the crystal meth somewhere around March of this year.   He started acting erratically and started making bizarre business decisions like, getting rid of all the senior elves and replacing them with garden gnome temps.  He also moved our main warehouse from the North Pole to Baltimore.   Then he started selling all his stuff to feed his meth addiction.  I mean, he sold workshop tools, eggnog by the barrels, laptops, and even lap dances.  He started selling off tons of Christmas presents at rock bottom prices.  He sold most of his reindeer, except the slowest two, Donner and Vixon.  He sold his sleigh, and darn near everything else… down to even his Santa boots.”

                 Joey shakes his head, continues.   “He has lost over three hundred pounds.  He’s no longer fat and jolly.  He’s now skinny, frail and can barely function.  If Santa can’t get straight, I don’t see Christmas happening this year.”

                  So, Santa’s reported crystal meth diet was merely a byproduct of his need to increase his holiday season production output.  As of this writing, Santa Claus was last seen still slumped up against a tree, eating handfuls of yellow snow, with three dead gerbils up his ass.