Last night, a fish named Darius was faced with a choice of choosing a blue worm or a red worm as part of some Matrix-like process to determine whether or not he was the one… of the undersea world.

                             “So… he choose the red worm and… well, that was the worst decision made by fish since that shark in the movie Jaws bit into that oxygen tank,” said a lobster named Neil.

                          Apparently, according to maritime reports, after Darius bit into the red worm, he was pulled from the water onto a boat, where he was immediately tossed into a large ice cooler, which was loaded with other unlucky sea life including, crabs, oysters, tuna, and one of Captain Crunch’s crew members who had just gotten a unsatisfactory employee evaluation.  Darius was then transported to an unsavoury fish market on the south side of Baltimore, where he was rejected for having too much algae under his armpits and being too sarcastic towards the fish mongers.  Darius then sat at a local bus stop for six hours, waiting for the number 13 to take him uptown.

                     “Hell no, I didn’t let him on my bus,” said bus driver Sandy Davenport, 33.  “He didn’t smell right, nor did he have exact change.”

                After three days of wandering the streets of Baltimore, which is only a few blocks from WormHole Square, Darius was finally picked up by a homeless man, who promptly scaled and gutted him.   Darius was then placed on a makeshift grill which consisted of the undercarriage of an old shopping cart placed over a burning fifty-five gallon metal trash can.

                        When Darius failed to rise from the flaming grill, doubt began to mount as to whether he was, indeed, the one of the undersea world.

 

                         Yesterday, Eddie Robertson, 55, was attacked in the 2800 block of Riggs Avenue by an assailant with a bottle.   And despite having eyes in the back of his head, Mr. Robertson was unable to describe his attacker to police.

                     “Yeah, the eyes in the back of my head don’t see too good no more,” said Mr. Robertson.   “All them years of sleeping on my back on the beach has really done a lot of damage to my vision.  Not to mention the astigmatisms and cataracts I developed from playing long hours with toy trains.   Not to mention the really, really large amount of cannabis that I smoked to counteract the cataracts.  So… that all considered, there’s no chance in hell that I would have been able to describe my dealer, who hit me in the goddamn head over a five dollar bag of weed and the remnants of a vintage Lionel train set.”

                    But according to witnesses, there was another unknown attacker who became hostile when he didn’t like the way Mr. Robertson was looking at him.

                                “Maybe.  I get that a lot,” said Mr. Robertson.  “People think I’m looking at them when I’m simply walking away across a room or out the front door.  Or… if I’m simply trying to figure out whether or not I’m being followed.   But that usually happens after an interaction with the cannabis.”

 

                                Yesterday, the Wolfman, who has secretly been suffering from hair loss for years, finally went to see a doctor about his condition.

                             “I believe his hair loss is due to stress,” said Dr. Lance Bigelow.  “You know, with all that lack of sleep because he’s constantly staying out late, howling at the moon, and mutilating innocent people.  That kind of lifestyle would be very stressful for anybody.”

                     “I must confess… I’ve been employing one hell of a combover for the last several years,” said the Wolfman.   “But after I migrated north and began attacking victims in the Chicago area… man, that wind coming off the Hudson really played havoc with my hairstyle.  I mean, some days I’d come home after a long day’s work of attacking random victims, looking like Al Sharpton marching through a category 5 hurricane.  My hair was constantly jacked-up, so I just started wearing a toupee.”

                   Dr. Bigelow has prescribed Rogaine for the Mr. Wolfman.  Hopefully, this will restore the Wolfman’s mane to its former glory.

                     “I hope this stuff works,” said the Wolfman.  “Some nights it’s really, really hard to motivate myself to venture out into the woods and mutilate hikers and campers when I’m looking like Danny DeVito.  You know what I mean?  People just don’t take my howling seriously when the my dome is shinning in the moonlight like a Turtle-waxed polish melon.”

                        Yesterday, Kegan Taylor, 33, was injured when he attempted to retrieve a hamburger that had been placed on a trap by an unknown perpetrator.

                       “Nobody would have suspected in a thousand years… that this burger was part of an elaborately disguised ambush,” said a mouse known to the locals as Sniff.   “Like… my main concern was that it wasn’t a legit burger.  I mean, they’ve got all these new plant based imitation meat patties coming out now.  You just can’t be sure what you’re getting when you go into a store, a restaurant, or when you attempt to lift one off of a cleverly camouflaged booby trap.”

                      Mr. Taylor suffered a flattened hand and a giant knot on the side of his head when the trap was triggered.

                     “The pain was awful,” Mr. Taylor said.  “But the worst part is that now none of my gloves fit right… and all my hats lean to the side, all pimp-like.”

                         An orthopedic hand specialist was brought in to weigh different options to   unflattened Taylor’s hands.

                                “A basketball pump with a dual hose inserted into the palms of the hands was unsuccessful,” said Doctor Sidney Yee.   “Yes, the hands did regain some volume when air from the pump was inserted.  However, Mr. Taylor’s hands went flat a short time after, when the inserted air did not hold.  Instead, the inserted air exited through his nose, left ear and anus, producing an odd aroma somewhat akin to rubbing a Viking’s armpit repeatedly up against a leather saddle.”

                                Carlos Jackson, 44, who works at the WormHole Square Fertilizer Plant, was discovered in a restroom yesterday, stuck in a state of confusion over the company’s hand washing policy.

                      “It really doesn’t make a whole lot of sense to me,” Carlos said.  “I shovel cow doo-doo into bags from sun up to sun down.  Why do I have to wash my hands after I use the rest room, if I’m just gonna go back out there and shovel more cow doo-doo?”

                According to Carlos, the company apparently has another sign posted that is somewhat perplexing as well.

                       “Yo, they got a sign over the main first floor stair case that reads:  ELEVATOR OUT OF ORDER.   Okay, so that’s nuts because the whole joint only has  one level.”

                     Carlos is reportedly still in the restroom debating whether to actually wash his hands or not, before returning to work.   “Yo, I just talked to my union rep and we’ve worked out a reasonable compromise to end this stalemate.  I’m going to wash one of my hands before I go back in there and being shovelling the product again.  That way, I’m obeying company policy and I’m not driving myself crazy doing something that makes no fucking sense what so ever.”

 

               Early this morning, George Pilsner, 38, was assailed by two hundred and fifty-seven feet of register receipt tape, as he self-checked out of the WormHole Square grocery store.

                    “Is it me, or does it seem like grocery store register receipts are getting longer and longer these days,” said Sally Salisbury, 72, who witnessed the altercation.   “And this register receipt was particularly aggressive, I thought.   First, swooping around that young man like a viper, engulfing him with an endless barrage of worthless coupons, rebates, and unreachable cash back points.”

                          The receipt tape continued to wrap around Mr. Pilsner until he was completely covered, mummified, and rendered unable to move.  It was at this point that several customers began complaining to the store manager that Mr. Pilsner was holding up Self Check Out Lane.

                 “My ice cream was melting, so I called for the manager,” said Chaucey Ray, 41.  “I mean, I felt sorry for the guy, and all.  I mean… no one expects to go into a grocery store to pick up some beans and potato bread, and what not, only to be turned into King Tut.  I mean… that would wreck anybody’s day, right?  But still, my Ben & Jerry’s was starting to go soft.  What was I supposed to do?”

                   Mr. Pilsner was later hauled away by a group of archaeologists from the Egyptian Origami Consortium.

                             Yesterday, Sean Evans, the host of the popular YOUTUBE show, Hot Ones, actually melted on set, as smoke, steam and volcanic ash drifted from his ears.   The show features Sean asking celebrity guests questions as they both eat chicken wings doused in hot sauce, that get increasing hotter and hotter as the conversation goes on.  Yesterday, the show featured a celebrity guest who is actually part jalapeño pepper, cayenne pepper, and hot coals exotic dancer, named Sizzler Six.

                    “Sean was hanging in with the Sizzler Six dude until he got to the eighth chicken wing, which had Dragon’s Tonsils hot sauce on it,” says onlooker, Neil.   “Then Sean’s face turned baboon’s-ass red and I could see that he was in trouble.”

                  The ninth chicken wing ( of ten ) on the agenda had been soaked in hot sauce called Diablo’s Volcanic Lava & Blast Furnace Hemorrhoidal Sauce.

                      “That one really fucked Sean up,” continued Neil.  “He took one bite of that chicken… with that hot-ass sauce on it… and the dude started melting like MC Hammer’s bank account, two years after You Can’t Touch This came out.  Smoke started coming out of his ears, and shit.  The sprinklers came on.  It was crazy up in there, man.”

                       The fire department had to be called in to contain the smoke.  Several spatulas had to be employed to pry Sean up from the table.  He was treated with an IV of freon gas, ice water from an Antarctic glacier, and two litres of Arnold Palmer Half and Half Iced Tea Lemonade.  He was then placed in a cryonic chamber for six hours, where he was forced to chant the lyrics to multiple Coolio rap songs.

 

                                                             Yesterday, the Lost Dryer Sock was spotted riding a horse in the Equestrian event at the 2021 Tokyo Olympics.

                              “I didn’t really know what to make of it at first glance,” says Sue Spignoli, equestrian judge and part-time belly dancer.   “The sock was riding the horse with reckless abandon during the jumping portion, in which he knocked over poles, a cameraman and a peanut vendor near the finish line.  However, during the horse ballet, the sock and horse performed multiple elegant moves which can only be categorized as a cross between Baryshnikov and Mr. Ed French kissing in the front window of a New York deli on a moonlight summer night.  Beautiful.”

                       The Lost Dryer Sock was subsequently disqualified from the Equestrian event when the horse broke tradition by accepting a dollar bill that was stuffed into its G-string by one of the other equestrian judges.  And then as quickly as it had appeared, the Lost Dryer Sock was gone from sight, exiting the venue with a Pegasus-like maneuver.

                            Last week, a Munchkin who is known as Quimby Dextometor, was banished from MunchkinVille when it was revealed that he was not actually of dwarfian height.

                         “The bastard is actually 5ft, 7 inches tall,” remarked the Mayor of the MunchkinVille, Wilson Dextometer.  No relation.  “I don’t usually swear, but this character has been perpetrating this lie for years and the situation just brings out the ghetto in me.”

                It seems that Quimby is part accordion.  His mother, who was a Munchkin, apparently had sexual relations with a Hohner diatonic accordion way back in the Hayday of Vaudeville and Oztoberfest.  For his part, Quimby swears that he didn’t realize until recently that the lower half of his legs were expandable.

                  “You think I would have stayed in MunchinVille all these years had I known I was not really a dwarf?” Quimby says.  Regret crawls over his face.  He continues.  “I missed out on a lifetime of dreams.  I could have played in my high school Polka marching band.  I could’ve split from MunchkinVille and become the mascot for Jack In The Box.”   Quimby’s regret deepens.

               The Mayor issued Quimby’s Proclamation of Banishment after receiving numerous complaints from the residents of MunchkinVille.

                 “Good, I’m gone, anyway,” says Quimby.  “Gonna follow a couple of my other dreams like becoming a ninja.  And if that don’t work out, next, secret agent.”

                        Good luck with that.

 

                         WormHole Square WebComic & NewsLike Blog will be going on vacation starting 49 seconds after you read this update about no updates for two weeks.   It’s been three hundred and fifty-six years since we’ve taken a real vacation.  It was 1849 to be exact.  ( Check the math )  A pocket full of gold nuggets.  We’re in Puerto Vallarta, Mexico.  Two weeks later, hazy to zero memory of what went on spells one hell of a vacation.  In the summer of 1975 we took three days to go to Woodstock, but no one was there, so that wasn’t a real vacation.   And last summer, our whole gang relaxed on a beach near the Chesapeake Bay for eighteen minutes… until the authorities insisted that we were not on a nude beach.  Still trying to figure up why they singled us out, when there were also several hermit crabs who were quite the opposite of their namesake.   Exhibitionists everyone of them.  Flaunting their unmentionables, all while mocking us as we were being chastised by the beach patrol.  The beach patrol is probably one notch above a mall security guard, but two notches below the post office police.

              At any rate, we’re checking out for a bit to relax, unwind, and to clear up those pending charges pertaining to pelican fights in MW’s basement.  Some things never end.   Thanks for reading on our pages and we’ll see you soon ( actually, you’ll see us ) on July 26th.

       MW