AWESOMELY ULTIMATE ADVENTURES! is an ongoing, impromptu storyline made by two guys in alternating posts. too confusing? THIS IS A STORY OR SERIES OF SHORT STORIES FEATURING HOGWASH, BALDERDASH, MALARKEY, POPPYCOCK, AND WHATEVER ELSE WE COME UP WITH!
Basically, what he is trying to say (and by 'he', I mean 'I', which would then change 'is' to 'am', unless you're ignorant) is that AWESOMELY ULTIMATE ADVENTURES! is made up on the spot, with little to no planning beforehand, just the previous story to go on. Kind of like a story jam, but with more stupid.
If you like random shit, you will enjoy AUA. And if you like laughing at the mentally retarded kid down the street, not only will you probably enjoy AUA, but you're probably going to hell. But that shouldn't stop you from reading it. Nothing should. Now go read it.
"I AM FUCKIN' HAPPY, SAD, AND PISSED!"
"SHUT THE FUCK UP TIMMY, BEFORE I PADDLE YOU IN FRONT OF THE CLASS ONCE AGAIN!"
Later that day, in lunch...
"That may be true, Timmy, but what were you talking about in class?" Walter inquired.
"Oh yeah. As I was saying, I'M FUCKING HAPPY SAD AND PISSED!" Timmy reiterated.
"But what about?" young Bartholomew asked innocently. He looked timid enough, but most everyone hated him anyways cuz his father sued the governor for a blowjob and a part time job as a ballpark line-chalker. This is why nobody liked Bartholomew, cuz he was a pansy.
"Well I forgot why i was happy and sad, but I'm fucking PISSED!" Timmy shouted, gaining the attention of at least 3 people around him who were originally talking about world events but were distracted by the importance of Timmy's tone.
"I have homework tonight, but I dont wanna do it! We should just quit school and pursue our dreams guys! Whatdaya say gentlemen?"
"Dude, why the fuck do you keep saying 'gentlemen'?" Walter pondered quite viciously.
"But our band isnt very good." Ass stated matter-of-factly. Everyone called him Ass, but that's because that was his name. Some called him Gregory, but he preferred Ass to Gregory because his name reminded him of his grandmother, who was a crack-addict. Not many kids liked Ass either, but Bartholomew's enemies were much more wicked.
"Look, you bastards!" Timmy squealed. He had gotten up on the table some time during the explaination of why everyone hated Ass. "As that one famous guy said, 'I had a dream the other night', so theres no reason why i cant quit 8th grade and make u guys quit too so we can take our middle school rock and he-bitch man-slap the universe with it. I play guitar and you guys play something too. We can make this happen. We just have to believe!"
Some guy started a slow clap, but he was punched in the face. no fight resulted. no chanting. everyone continued eating. everyone behaved quite maturely for a pack of middle schoolers. most still had high whiney voices though.
"What about old school and new school?" Bartholomew squeaked. No one listened again. He slumped in his chair from rejection.
"BUT I HAVE A TEST TOMORROW, I CANT QUIT SCHOOL!" Walter screamed.
"I'll make your mother suck an egg." Timmy threatened threateningly. "Do you want that to happen?"
Walter frowned with surprise. "No, I just don't know what to think anymore."
"It's ok, we all have emotions" Timmy assured.
Just then Ass shit his pants and smiled.
-written by J
The next morning Timmy awoke with a grin and a boner. "Today is the day" he thought as he nearly zipped his dying woody in his rusty zipper to his unwashed blue jeans.
-passage by C.
"Oh my God, we're late!", Bartholomew bellowed in an abnormally low pitch for a little kid.
Timmy stopped dead in his tracks to look at his buddy with eyebrow cocked in astonishment. Most kids are tiny, but Bartholomew is so small you could stuff him in his mother's underwear drawer, which was voted smallest underwear drawer by the Prepubescent Panties Poachers, or PPP. His tininess, when combined with the low sound he just made, perplexed Timmy to the core.
"Dude, fuckin' A, Bartholomew, did you just hit puberty?" Timmy asked with an interrogative tone?
Just when Bartholomew was about to answer, Billy the Bully jumped out from behind an open door, grabbed poor young Bartholomew by the skull with two hands and hurled him straight into the ceiling. As it turned out, he went straight through and did not come down immediately, much to the surprise of Timmy.
This event could have occurred for many reasons, Timmy thought. Either the force behind the throw was so great that Bartholomew's mass multiplied by his velocity equalled a greater force than the usually sturdy ceiling was able to withstand, or he could have hit a weak spot in the ceiling's structure. However, the fact that this broke Newton's rule of 'what goes up must come down' disturbed Timmy and cast a thick shadow of doubt upon all the knowledge he ever had of such reasoning, leaving him in a high state of mental disarray. You could practically feel the ora of advanced ponderance radiating from his bewildered 12-year-old-body.
As he stood there pondering and scratching his chin with one finger as the most intelligent of people do when they ponder, Billy the Bully asked him a very thought provoking question.
"Gimme yer lunch monee!" Billy said assertively.
"Wait, that wasn't thought provoking or a question!" Timmy exclaimed.
"What err yoo talkin bout?" Billy asked in an attempt to seem more thought-provoking and questionlike.
"I dunno, I just suddenly got this feeling that what you were about to say would be a question that provoked thought."
"That's silly. You're Silly", said Billy
Just then Bartholomew fell back out of the ceiling and landed on Billy. A very loud crunch was heard. Everyone looked at the kid eating Cap'n Crunch and shook their heads slowly in disapproval. Embarrassed, the kid glanced at the floor tiles.
"Shithell!" Timmy squealed with apparent agitation. "When Billy wakes up from his comatose state, Bartholomew is as good as dead! Why the fuck am I quitting 6th grade if my band members cant stay sane and/or alive?"
"I thought we were in 8th grade." Bartholomew stated with blatent disregard for the seriousness of the situation.
"Oh right." Timmy said as he reached realization.
Just then a super-hottie with a real bra and real hair strutted out of nowhere and touched Timmy in his no-no area.
"You're quitting school to be in a band? That's hardcore! If you did that I'd soooo date you!"
Timmy smirked and giggled. He saw that the main reason he was dropping out of school was because he wanted hotzilla to come sit in his lap.
"Let it be so!" Timmy screamed epically, fists on his hips, and his pale, underdeveloped chest glistened in the light.
"Ew, put your shirt back on," 4 random people requested in unison.
"When did you take your shirt off?" Bartholomew questioned.
"It's been off this whole time" Timmy said confidently.
"Wow. Zany." Stated Bartholomew.
"Hey guys, I found a dead squirrel!" Ass screamed gleefully as he skipped into the hallway. "His home is my pants."
Timmy was not surprised by this, but the hot girl standing next to him vomited directly on Ass's face and ran away in horror.
Even that was a turn on for Ass, the poor deprived child. Or maybe it was the squirrel.
-invented by J
As the shrill ringing of the school bell filled the hallways and the ears of elated children, so too did the pain of a thousand peeled babies in a flaming bag of salty lemons fill the head of poor, distressed Walter.
"AAAAGGHH!!! I CAN'T TAKE THIS SHIT!" Walter screamed maniacally, doing his best impression of a drunken redneck at a democratic convention. "I CAN'T JUST DROP OUT OF SCHOOL, I HAVE SO MANY MORE REPORT CARDS TO RECEIVE!"
Timmy, who was daydreaming of stardom and delicious, nipple-lickin', junior-high harlots, snapped out of his fantasy and turned his attention to his crazed friend. Walter's loud whining had scared away Timmy's boner-inducing dream, but not his boner, which came as a surprise to Bartholomew, who had been observing intently. However, being the new owner of an illogical boner was a rather embarrassing state of affairs, and Timmy was none too happy about it.
"I'm none too happy about it," Timmy stated in a tone the great orators of yore would be proud of.
"None too happy about what? What are you talking about?" Walter pondered, the pain of peeled babies still running amok in his head.
"Hell-oooo!? Did you not just hear the narrator explain this already?" Timmy shouted.
"Dude, are you on crack?" snapped Walter viciously.
Just as Timmy was about to confirm or deny Walter's suspicious allegation, he was hit by an epiphany. The blow was so powerful, it propelled him into the air and sent him flying across the hallway. Suddenly, as Timmy was still airborne from the forceful blow, everything turned into slow motion, presumably to increase the drama of the situation. The kid peeing on the plant in the corner of the hallway seemed to notice this, since this new loophole in time posed quite a dilemma to his "pee quickly, run quickly" plan. He looked anxiously from side to side and his palms started to sweat, making his willy all slippery. This all happened in slow motion of course.
As Timmy was floating through the air upside-down at a 57 degree angle to the floor, he remembered his epiphany and began to ponder.
"What if dropping out of middle school to pursue a far-fetched dream isn't the best choice?" Timmy's brain whispered to him. "What if we try and we fail? What if nobody wants to sign us? What if no ladies with real bras ever want to board the Timmy-train? What if girls find me unappealing? What if I never get my pimp cup for Christmas? What if nobody invents meat bread? What if we never get back home and I never see Auntie Em again? What if God is a hippo?! or even A WOMAN!?!?! SWEET JESUS, NO!!!"
At that point in his pondering, Timmy realized that his brain had made a very rude and sexist thought.
"Such actions must be met with cold vengeance," Timmy's right brain rationalized rationally, despite the fact that logical and formulative thinking was the duty of the left side of the brain.
"Eh, whazzat? You tryin' ta rationalize agin?" Timmy's left brain exclaimed. "Why, I'll learn you a thing 'er two!"
Timmy clenched both his fists in rage and frowned wickedly, preparing to punch himself in both sides of his head simultaneously in order to carry out the vengeful wishes of each side of his brain. Just as Timmy was about to teach his brain a lesson in manners, time reverted back to normal and he slammed into the locker door of the only goth 8th grader in school. The impact left an impressive dent in the thin metal casing of the locker, and a single black tear ran down the cheek of the unfortunate goth kid, smearing his mascara. Timmy was too dazed to be impressed by the fact that goths cry black tears, and he laid on the floor, looking around in a flabbergasted manner.
Walter and Bartholomew rushed to the side of their fallen friend as fast as they could.
"What the fuck just happened?!" Walter demanded, unable to hide his curiousity as to what the fuck had occurred just recently.
"Oh my God, are you OK?" Bartholomew asked Timmy in an attempt to gain brownie points and move up the friend ladder by seeming sincerely concerned.
"Ughgghh...my head", Timmy whined. He tried to pretend like it didn't hurt because the hotties were passively observing, but the pain was too much.
Out of the corner of his eye, Timmy noticed the striking young bitch Ass had vomited on earlier peeking at him around the back of that 200 lb kid, who always seemed to be holding an ice cream cone regardless of time or situation. Some thought he produced them with black magic. Others just thought he was obese.
"Dude, I don't know how you did that but...my brain hurts too much to think about it." Walter added, contributing to the overall mood of pain and whining. "And I think you made the fucking babies in my head scream louder!"
"Those are your babies?" Timmy shot back. "Well can you come claim your goddamn babies, because they're screaming in my head too!"
"Nah, you can keep those. I never loved them," Walter declared.
Finally, the question floating around in everyone's head became audible.
"What happened?!" 67 kids and 11 staff members asked simultaneously.
Timmy looked around at the bewildered crowd and opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came forth. He tried to tell them the truth, but he was struggling with words. He fidgeted around uncomfortably and glanced at his feet as he tried to think of what to say. Not a sound could be heard as silence took over the once lively hallway. Everyone was focused intently on him, and he could feel their gazes burning through him. That hurt more than a million peeled babies screaming in his head ever could. Well, maybe considerably less, but it still hurt pretty bad.
Finally after a couple of indistinguishable mumblings directed toward the ground, Timmy looked up, looking from Walter's eyes to Bartholomew's, to the hottie that Ass spewed on, and then to her blossoming bosoms (she referred to them as her A+ cups because she could easily attain excellent grades by flaunting them for her perverted male teachers, as well as the fact that they were not quite B cups). After staring intently at her breasts for about a minute while everyone else stared at him in prolonged anticipation, Timmy finally answered...
"I...uhhhhh.....umm...I....I tripped...yeah. I tripped on...some...plastic explosives. They weren't mine though."
A disappointed groan dispersed throughout the crowd as people started turning to leave. I guess they were expecting Timmy to say the hand of God had bitchslapped him across the hall, therefore challenging him to a duel to the death with katana swords to take place at sunrise with the fate of the Earth resting on the outcome.
"It's ok though. No need to call an ambulance," Timmy yelled defiantly. "The back of my head isn't bleeding anymore. Oh, and I think I'll just walk off this irreversible spinal cord injury. HA, get it? I can't walk it off, because I'm PARALYZED! Palalyzed from my IRREVERSIBLE SPINAL CORD INJURY! HAHAHA!!! OH THE IRONY!!!"
"Does this mean you aren't going to be quitting school to be in our band?" Bartholomew asked selfishly, losing the brownie points he gained earlier with his mock concern.
"Uh, no tiny Bartholomew, we're still gonna go through with it," Timmy reassured. He couldn't reassure himself, however, that this is what he really wanted to do. He didn't want to tell them of his epiphany because he didn't want to discourage them from proceeding with the plan. As the leader of the group, he needed to be strong and confident at all times. It was imperative to the stability of the band.
"We must go on. After all, plan goes on as planned, right?"
"Wow, such unbreakable confidence!" Bartholomew squealed. "Your leadership is inspirational to us, because you always know what you want and what is best!"
Way to rub it in.
"Your conquest for brownie points sickens me, Bartholomew", Timmy scoffed.
"So you still wanna do this dude?" Walter pondered.
"Oh my God, were you not fucking paying attention just now?" Timmy exploded defensively.
"Well yeah, but you looked like you were having some sort of inner conflict, so I wasn't sure." Walter reasoned.
"Your mother has an inner conflict!" Timmy rebutted.
Walter could not come back to that startling remark. He could only stare at Timmy, wide-eyed and mouth agape, with a face of utter shock and offense. This made Timmy giggle inside, and he forgot his moral dilemma for the moment.
Just then, Ass came strutting up to the group, unaware of what took place as usual.
The next day, the sun came up, much to the surprise of no one. The only person to find this fact shocking was the dirty, bearded homeless man on the corner of MLK and 14th street with the 'THE FINAL DAYS ARE UPON US' sign. Generally a quite agreeable fellow, he was always fully dressed in scuba equipment, and he had an inflatable Donald Duck inner tube around his midsection just in case the air tank malfunctioned. Needless to say, the sunshine that coaxed him awake also sent him into a frenzy of ponderance. Not only did this daily astrological occurrence throw all his beliefs and theories of revelation into disarray, it also caused him to thoroughly question his bold investment in the ownership of scuba gear, which he purchased by credit card on a whim. If the world didn't end soon, someone would eventually figure out that his bank account number, as shown on the credit card, did not exist. They would also come to conclude that his name wasn't actually Susan B. Anthony, and the credit card he used was made of cardboard.
All characters, text, and images on this site are © Jon Stelter and Charlie Hedgepeth, 2005-2006 unless noted otherwise. Please don't use anything without my permission. Thanks.
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