HELLO GOOD SIR I AM FROM PLANET MARSHMARROW

With the most untimely and unwelcome nuclear holocaust came the death of nature. This is something of a foreign concept for most, but I don’t mean the death of a few plants and some obscure species of bear- I mean the heart and soul of nature herself were ripped out, tossed into a rubbish bin, and then shat upon until she cried “Uncle!”. 

As nature was dead, really quite deceased- decaying and everything-, it didn’t take very long for the government of Marshmerica to realise that there was a sudden lack of oxygen, and by extension a sudden lack of breathing. A favourite activity of Marshmarrowites, breathing could be considered essential for their wellbeing and thus we had a pressing issue on our hands.

Before that pesky nuclear holocaust, bees were pretty cool guys. They pollinated plants and didn’t afraid of anything. Sadly they weren’t radiation-proof, and like most everything they couldn’t quite cowboy through the gale-force winds and firestorms that briefly blessed the countryside with their presence. 

“Maybe”, said president Marack Mobama to his cabinet (or at least their charred remains- but they were never much for conversation anyways), “maybe we should reintroduce bees. If we do that, nature will be bros with us again and we’ll have air to bre-“, cut short by the lack of oxygen and abundance of suffocation. 

Thus the Sincerity Bees came into being. With a spray bottle and a makeshift bumblebee suit, they roam the countryside spraying the remains of plants and animals with water in the hopes that they’ll spark life into the world once more.

As of yet, it doesn’t seem to be working. Shit sucks. 

One of the most radical changes that came with shelter life was a complete lack of barriers between individuals. After two hundred years of rapid innovation in telecommunications had placed thousands of miles and multiple mediums between you and mother, Marshmarrowites suddenly found themselves face to face with each other, their every word overheard by everyone around them.

Consequentially, one of the most radical changes that came with surface life was a complete lack of desire to speak to the person next to you. Years of absolutely no privacy and a sudden option of it made in-person conversation a thing of the past almost overnight.

Now Marshmarrow was faced with a new problem. People hated speaking with each other, but no technology existed to allow them to communicate any other way. Three more tragic and unwelcome nuclear holocausts happened in the first week alone, and it was only after the second that Marshmarrow’s leaders decided to take action.

Together over the course of a day, a committee formed to find a solution published a list of the three most pressing matters that Marshmallow faced. They were, in no particular order:

1. Unemployment

2. A surplus of mutated, giant bananas which were soon to spoil and/or rebel against The Man

3. The lack of communication which was about to cause yet another totally unwarranted and unappreciated nuclear holocaust

4. Bobcat

While Bobcat was technically the most worrying of the concerns, Marshmarrowite leadership opted to postpone efforts against Bobcat in favour of killing three birds with one stone. On that fateful day, Bananagram was born.

Bananagram is a very simple concept, in theory. If you’ve something to say to someone else and it’s not something you’re comfortable saying in person, Bananagram allows you to pay a one-time fee and send a personalised message in the form of a poor person wearing a banana on his head.

As Marshmarrowites are naturally negative creatures, Bananagram’s niche was quickly carved (from giant bananas) as a simple and lighthearted way to announce divorces, abortions, and varying degrees of seething hatred. For an extra marshdollar, you could even throw in a punch or stab wound!

Today, Bananagram is a multinational conglomerate responsible for 50.000 jobs and 50.000.000 stab wounds per year. If you need something sent, someone assassinated, or a birthday greeting for grandma, Bananagram promises prompt, friendly service in the form of a poor person wearing a banana on his head and quietly having a cry over being forced into his line of work after spending eight years in medical suit. 

Ding dong Bananagram! What’s the word on the street, Pete? Fuck you, you manipulative lunatic.

(Hastily) Created to deal with the sudden influx of irradiated patients in hospitals all around Marshmarrow, the Robert J. Oppenheimer Guide to Radiation Exposure is a handy dandy reference guide for every doctor on the planet.

It’s slightly outdated, with screaming webdings ice cream cone being only a middle-tier stage of radiation poisoning, but in the first months after that rather unexpected and most unwelcome nuclear holocaust it was used as a quick and efficient means of gauging the severity of one’s injuries and assign a priority number to each case. This priority number would be checked against insurance records, and if lacking medical insurance would be thrown out of a window and fed to starving gypsies. Being that most insurance companies were turned to dust in the blast, the problem of gypsy starvation quickly turned into a problem of gypsy obesity.

Fat gypsies roam the plains of Marshmallow hunting scream webding ice cream cones. It’s pretty much exactly like Hiroshima.

Let me be no nearer
In death’s dream kingdom
Let me also wear
Such deliberate disguises
Rat’s coat, crowskin, crossed staves
In a field
Behaving as the wind behaves
No nearer

The usage of cosmetics on Earth dates back to over four thousand years ago, with make up being worn by Egyptian royalty. It’s used to project an image that isn’t us or to enhance the one that is, and throughout modern history we’ve used everything from crushed insects to toxic lead in an attempt to whore ourselves up.

On Marshmarrow, cosmetics are not used to enhance or project an image. They’re used to deny one. Really only prized by one group in particular, known as the tribe of angels, cosmetics are a means of covering up any and all traces of the recent and rather eventful nuclear holocaust that scar the flesh of the marshmarrowites.

In the case of the angels, plastic and paper bags looted from BIGSTOREs are worn over the head. These bags were the only real source of beautification in the earliest days of the post-apocalypse, being used by survivors carrying their belongings into the shelters, and they were quickly adopted by ashamed marshmarrowites who would otherwise resort to drastic and often fatal surgical procedures in an attempt to hide the burns, cuts, and other disfigurements that designated them as witness to the bomb.

Angels see their bags as we see our own faces, and will wear the same one from the day they salvage it until their end, at which point it’s cremated along with its owner. To the angels, this is seen as the ultimate joining of the bag and the body- an angel remains as beautiful in death as they were in life.

————

Holy shit it’s been a long time since I made one of these. I’m working on my novella, quite similar to Marshmarrow in theme and feel, and the angels are one of the factions I’ve included in order to explore identity in a post-apocalyptic environment. They play a huge role in the book as an outlawed social caste whose continued existence on the surface ends up threatening everything and bringing the other factions to the brink of war.

Business and You: A Survivor’s Guide to the Post-Apocalypse- coming soon to an internet near you ;D

One my my favourite things to do is ask someone this question: “Yo dawg, sup. What is art? For real.”

Everyone has a different impression of what constitutes art. To some, it’s “that dern paintin’ in the loof wit the purdy lady ‘n shit”. To others it’s that dern painting, drawings, and sculptures- artefacts of that era’s culture. Some bring in music, movies, and video games to the mix. Others include theatre and performance art.

Personally, I think most art is rubbish. Most art is uninspired tripe, nothing more than a make-shift photo from the Sears portrait centre. This is because I see art as anything that reflects the artist’s soul, and most art has as much soul as roadkill or a German person. Art is your psyche in physical, verbal, or smellable form- an extremely personal look into your reality and both the internal and external influences on it.

My arty tastes reflect this: surrealism, absurdism, bold colours and fun takes on subjects which shouldn’t have fun sides. I’m an anti-artist, a proud opponent of fine art and all it stands for. Pretty sights and practised technique? Fuck that. Sloppy, distorted, weird, human. I love art with humanity infused into it like a shitty, overpriced coffee from a barista with learning disabilities. Art with purpose, art with emotion, art that lives instead of art that exists.

Marshmarrow is a planet built on this idea. Their culture never evolved into fine art academies and symphony halls because those were all lost to the recent and most surprisingly unexpected nuclear holocaust. It’s immature, unrefined, lacking in anything that could reflect years of practise. Instead, art serves a purpose on Marshmarrow.

Art on Marshmarrow is therapy, a coping mechanism for a society without any scientific concept of emotional trauma. At times it’s angry, violent, and cold. It’s hatred expressed through ink. Other times it’s a mesh of blue and grey with no distinguishable subject matter- despair on paper. Still others it’s idealistic and optimistic, a post-war throwback to pre-war happiness and the naive hope that it will return.

Much like how Marshmarrowite music is little more than snare drums and cats, their visual art is very simplistic and to the point. Most of it involves murky shades of orange and yellow in a mushroom shape, for obvious reasons, while the rest of the scene develops on or around it. The bomb was, both metaphorically and literally, burned into the minds of the Marshmarrowites and as such they involve it in their works without even realising it.

As for displaying their art, museums and galleries are entirely foreign concepts on Marshmarrow. Artists are neither shunned nor celebrated because the idea of art has evolved into such an intimate matter that unless explicitly made for group morale it will almost never be shared with others. It’s because of this idea that art will never become a commercial parade like it is on Earth, and, to those who can understand their reasoning, Marshmarrowite art is in many ways the second-most beautiful in the galaxy- right behind the scorpion people of Isk’tk 59 dash 2. Heil Scorpion Picasso, master of five races and father of us all.

I could speak for days, maybe even weeks, about class warfare. The rich and the poor, haves and have-nots, bourgeoisie and proletariat, viasya/landoweners, lords and serfs; I loves me some caste system.

On Marshmarrow, the land was once ruled by a tribal dinosaur clan called Shk’tk’tk 9, led by the revered warrior-despot Shk’tk’tk’tk 9.5 Now With Instant-Messaging Functionality. For many centuries, Shk’tk’tk’tk 9.5 Now With Instant-Messaging Functionality and his people spread across the planet creating everything from fire and bread to spaceships and pyramids with built-in hardcore fetish pornography cinemas. Times were good for the Shk’tk’tk 9, as well as all the species that flourished under their guidance.

Much to the dismay of the Shk’tk’tk 9, evolution did not favour their small arms. Unable to reach the controls of the spaceships they had built, they relied on what would later be known as the Marshmarrowite to ferry them around the galaxy.

The Marshmarrowites didn’t take kindly to driving miss dinosaur daisy. Having taken centuries of oppression and abuse in stride, their contempt reached a boiling point sometime around 2007 AD and rose up against their masters. Shk’tk’tk’tk 9.5 Now With Instant-Messaging Functionality was beheaded after a short kangaroo court trial and overnight the sociopolitical landscape of Marshmarrow was forever altered.

Without their leader to guide them or their slaves to assist them, the Shk’tk’tk 9 faced imminent extinction. Realising this, the Marshmarrowites extended their hands in mercy toward the wounded beasts and attempted for almost six days to get them  back on their feet. After this effort failed, however, the Marshmarrowites cut their losses and created an informal caste for the dinosaurs called “stupid jerk-idiots” .

The Shk’tk’tk 9 now roam the urban jungles of Marshmarrow, identifying as a sort of loosely-organised dinosaur gypsy band, and survive by begging on street corners and prostitution. On cold winter nights, you can sometimes hear through the window “mistah is thatta chickens I smells in thur? I’s real hungy and my babies ain’t even got a nuffin to eat or anyfin’. Can we’s come gets some chickens? Please mistah just a one of them just unlock your door kay?” in a voice that can only be described as the verbal embodiment of pure sadness.

===

Dinosaur Gypsies are a real problem, but they do not have to be. Rampant alcoholism and substance abuse riddle their bodies, and without proper education and rehabilitation these majestic creatures whom we owe so much to will be gone forever. If you are capable of donating time or money to help them, please visit the Bureau for Shk’tk’tk 9 Empowerment in Sector 5 of Marshmerrica. Also, bring chicken because we hungy as fuck and don’t gots even a nuffin to eat or nuffin and we gots kids man just a dolur man I’ll pay you back and won’t not steal a thing from no one no more. Ever.

Unrelated to Marshmarrow:

This is what happens when I’m stuck at an airport for too long. I start buying spaceships on EVE Online and naming them after Animal Collective songs. Cool story, brobro.

In Soviet Russia, the way to deal with undesirables was to exile them to the region of Siberia. Siberia is more or less a giant ice cube poised in the centre of hell, and for the most part it was pretty effective at quelling dissent.

However, Soviet Russia has nothing on Marshmerrican Marshmarrow. In fact, Marshmarrow’s undesirables would probably eat their own hands to go to Siberia instead of the Marshmarrow equivalent. Seriously. Some have tried. It’s neither pretty or effective.

On Marshmarrow, making yourself an enemy of the state- which is quite easy to do as the “state” changes every few minutes as the coup d’etat line stands strong outside the Marshmerrican governmental palace- carries with it a punishment that can only be described as Ryanair + 5. To go against the will of the leader is to buy a one way ticket to SHAME BOX.

SHAME BOX is just that, a remote island prison where the word “shame” spins around you at 5000 revolutions per minute. Scientists don’t know why the word “shame” spins around you at 5000 revolutions per minute, but upon learning of its existence the current Marshmarrowite president (Marack Mobama, r.05:02:15 to 05:04:11 10 July, 2009) declared that it was “fucking sick as, man”. This statement resulted in both the prison’s inception and Marack Mobama’s downfall.

Many Marshmarrowites have done time in SHAME BOX for crimes ranging from petty theft to being a black guy, and ten out of nine agree that it’s “unpleasant” and “not very pleasant at all”. The other six contributed to SHAME BOX’s record 98% suicide rate. Whilst tragic, one cannot blame them.

The future of SHAME BOX has come into question during recent times. A vocal minority party, the Marshmarrowites United for Why the Fuck Are We Doing This Again I Mean Come On Guys We Could Just Shoot Them In the Head With Like a Missile or Something I Mean It Would be Much Cheaper and Quite Frankly We’re a Little Strapped for Cash if You Think About It and Funds Could be Allocated Elsewhere Like Finding Clean Water or Dealing With the Giant Spider People of Drak’tar 5 Seriously Those Guys Are Big Dicks Who Ate My Kids and Really I’d Like to See Some Progress Being Made Toward Fining Them for That Because Truly if Anyone Deserves a Fine It’s the Giant Spider People for Causing Us so Much Trouble, has been a leading advocate for SHAME BOX’s immediate closure, but the effectiveness of their campaign- involving posters with slogans like “SHAME BOX is kinda a stupid thing if you think about it bro” and “Man, if SHAME BOX were any lamer it would be called LAME BOX”- is questionable at best.

Current president, Brigadier General Miet Mepsi Mola, has ensured that under his reign SHAME BOX would continue to bring peace of mind to the dozens not currently in SHAME BOX. Sadly, his reign ended violently as I was typing the “z” in “dozens”.

When that dang ole’ nuclear holocaust got around to turning the world into lava, arguably the worst hit of Marshmarrow’s industries was Mollywood, the Marshmarrowite movie industry. Nobody wants to watch a movie when their skin is falling off by the kilogramme, and certainly nobody wants to watch a movie when everyone else’s skin is falling off by the kilogramme. Screaming is a terrible mood-killer.

The highest-paid actor on the planet, Bill Murray, has become somewhat of a hermit in recent times. Whereas he once entertained everyone with such wonderful movies as The Mife Maquatic, Mantastic Mr. Mox, The Moyal Menenbaums, and Mity of Member, Mr. Murray has since hit trying times in both his career and mental state.

In response to reports of attacks by Bill Murray in outlying villages, the Marshmerrican government set up the Centre for Bill Murray Awareness. Together with the Marshmerrican Army and reconstruction police forces, they work vigilantly around the clock to disrupt, deceive, and ultimately destroy Mr. Murray.

Though effective in their education programmes (which consist of watching old episodes of Maturday Might Mive and shooting at the screen whenever Murray’s face comes on) and constant guarding of Marshmerrican borders and wooded areas, children all around the planet regularly walk up to their parents with blood of unknown origins on their faces and tears in their eyes, so traumatised that the only words they can repeat are those that Bill Murray said to them as he departed, “no one will ever believe you.”

whenthebirdsflysouth:

cradfordbox:

iwantmybearsuit:

shesajar:createthinkexperience:on-returning:(via sweetride)

The one on the left on the second row is so my kind of cat.

Only communists, witches, and commuwitches would choose monocle cat over the bottom left owl cat. Owl cat can see into your soul and judge you.