[an error occurred while processing this directive] [an error occurred while processing this directive] [an error occurred while processing this directive] [an error occurred while processing this directive] [an error occurred while processing this directive] [an error occurred while processing this directive] [an error occurred while processing this directive] [an error occurred while processing this directive] [an error occurred while processing this directive] [an error occurred while processing this directive]
[error in top2002.shtml]
Kibo : Kibo : Spot Christmas Story #11 (2004)

2004's improvised Christmas story. This one's short... but wet.


(or, Spot's Eleventh First Christmas)

written Christmas Eve, 2004
Copyright (C) 2004 James "Kibo" Parry

Happy little Spot! What a good little puppy! Spot turned around in bed three times and fell asleep, knowing that in the morning it would be Christmas and he would receive fabulous prizes, presents, trinkets, and entitlements of all sorts.


In the morning, he woke up, rolled over, and screamed. He was in bed with a creepy guy dressed like a playing-card character, with a fluorescent orange beard and a cardboard crown. The Burger King held out a deep-fried croissant sandwich and licked his lips suggestively! Spot screamed again!

"Wake up with the King!" said the mysterious voice of the narrator who often spied on Spot through a hidden peephole in his bedroom wall. Being in this creepy commercial that compared fast food to waking up after an unintended drunken gay romp scared Spot so much that he wet the bed.

"That's not very nice, Spot," said Santa Claus, who was standing by the bed with his arms around his friends, Ronald McDonald, the Michelin Man, and the Jolly Green Giant. Spot tried to cover his face with the pillow so that the various creepy advertising characters in his bedroom -- especially Santa Claus -- couldn't see him sobbing. But he did keep wetting the bed.

Later that day, Spot found that he had no presents, and his bed was so thoroughly wet that it wasn't drying out. There was nothing he could do except switch apartments with his neighbor Einstein, who really didn't care how wet his bed was.

Spot made himself at home in what had been Einstein's apartment, enjoying the sight of Einstein's festively-decorated Christmas tree. Suddenly there were jack-booted footsteps on the roof and an FBI agent dropped down the chimney and held a gun to Spot's head!

"Albert Einstein, you're under arrest for being a genius and a priceless national treasure!"

"But I'm not Einstein! I'm not even people! I'm just a pathetic little puppy who thinks he's people! Waah! Why won't you believe me that I'm pathetic?" Spot left a trail of tears as the agent dragged him off to the interrogation lounge.

Once Spot was strapped to an Eames chair upholstered with Brillo pads in the interrogation lounge, the agent calmly and rationally explained the situation. "Albert Einstein, because it is essential that the United States Government Of America know all the coolest scientific secrets in the world, and because you understand the Theory Of Einsteinology and we don't, we're going to torture you until you can explain your theory to us. You know, the one about how clocks get fatter when you turn their hands backwards while going the wrong way in the Southern Hemisphere, or whatever it is."

"Waah! I'm not Einstein! I didn't invent the Theory Of Relativity and I sure as hell can't explain it because I'm just a dog and I'm really starting to hate Christmas!" wailed Spot as the agent injected him with a needle of boiling sodium pentothal to make him talk. But all he talked about was how the pentothal injection was interrupting the good cry he'd been having. The drug wore off, and Spot resumed crying right where he'd left off.

"Tell you what, Einstein, if we can't make you talk about your Theory Of Einsteinology... we'll simply freeze you. Then, in the future, we'll thaw you out again once newer and more futuristic forms of torture have been invented, and then you'll talk. What do you think about that?"

"Your plan is ridiculous, and also, I'm just a dog, and I may not know anything about no science, but I do know that dogs die when you freeze them."

"Don't worry, we've solved at least half of that problem. When you freeze a whole dog, it dies of frostbite before the cold can penetrate all the way through the dog. So what we're going to do is run you through this baloney slicer, and then all the thin little slices of you can be frozen in a fraction of a second before they even bleed, and then someday after both medical science and torture science have been perfected, we'll reassemble you in perfect health and then torture you to death so you can tell us all about those clocks that turn from blue to green when they cross the International Date Line backwards."

ZZZZZZORCH! went the baloney slicer and Spot was sectioned up and frozen between pages of an old dictionary.

Much time passed.

Later, Spot awoke in a futuristic white plastic prison cell. He had been revived after all his slices had been peeled out of the dictionary and glued together in alphabetical order. Unfortunately, this meant that because his body had been alphabetized, his mouth was now between his eyes and his nose, and his bunions were all connected to his butt, making it hard to walk. A digital sign on the wall of the prison cell said:



Oh no! Spot had only a few days to escape before he'd be forced to sit in some sort of futuristic spanking machine or whatever, until he made up an explanation for why the Theory Of Relativity made clocks get all woozy! And worst of all, this cell had no windows or door or chimney so there was no way Santa could visit him here in this futuristic, dystopian Christmas!

"Hello, Einstein," said the ghostly voice of an invisible man who entered through the wall.

"Well, I'm not Einstein, but I'm happy to have the company. Who are you?"

"I once was one of your old contemporaries, Nobel maven Niels Bohr. But while being imprisoned here for most of the last million years, I meditated until I evolved into a higher being -- I am now a superhero named Captain Nil. I can pass through walls and bullets can pass through me and nobody but you can see or hear me."

"Wow! How does that work?"

"It's because I don't exist, you stupid dog," said Captain Nil, who Spot now realized was only a figment of his imagination. He was alone again. He sat on his butt (even though it wasn't the same part of his body it used to be) and waited for it to be Christmas, and then time for lethal torture.

After a little while, Spot was feeling sleepy, so he curled up in the corner of the cell and tried to sleep. He couldn't, partly because the cell was too small for him to be able to turn around three times -- he only managed to do it twice -- and because the cold hard plastic floor was so uncomfortable. He wished he had his old mattress.

Suddenly he realized, Captain Nil was right! Anyone could circumvent the wishes of even the most repressive science-fictiony police state by just wishing really hard, because in science fiction none of the laws of logic ever apply! He squeezed his eyes shut and wished until his ears bled. There was a soft "pop", and Spot's mattress appeared beneath him.

After a million years, it was still damp and yellow, but now it also had a million years' worth of futuristic cooties. Spot cried himself to sleep on his pissy mattress and dreamed of a world where people didn't care whether or not they understood the theory of Relativity.

Meanwhile, back in the year 2004, Einstein was drinking all the beer from Spot's fridge.


[error in bottom2002.shtml]

Last revised
December 25, 2004
webmaster@kibo.com Web site contents & design
Copyright © 1997 - 2022 James "Kibo" Parry
All rights reserved.