My Mothball Skippy

MY MOTHBALL SKIPPY
By Billy Krumholtz, Age 9

My best friend in the whole world is my mothball Skippy. He is six years old and is mostly white, with brown and black spots. Skippy is the family mothball, but he likes me best. When I get home from school, Skippy is waiting in the windowsill watching me walk up the path to the back porch. When I open the door, Skippy rolls around on the floor, excited to see me.

Mom and Dad say that Skippy is middle-aged, in mothball years. He used to be bigger, but now seems pretty small. I think it is because I have gotten larger, because I am growing up. Mom says that Skippy is very healthy, but that I shouldn’t feed him junk food. But Mom, I said, Skippy is hungry. And Mom says William, mothballs don’t eat people food. They eat mothball food. Sometimes, though, I give Skippy some of my meatloaf. I don’t think meatloaf is really a people-food anyway, and Skippy likes it a lot.

The best thing about having a pet mothball is that you always have someone to play with. Skippy is usually a very good, quiet mothball, but he loves to play fetch. We run around in the yard and throw sticks. Skippy is very bad at catching things and picking them up, so he usually loses the game. I often throw him around instead. I used to think Skippy could do anything, but I am learning that that isn’t true. For example, Mothballs can’t climb trees, unlike the neighbor’s rat poison, Slinky. Slinky hates mothballs and is mean to us, so I throw Skippy at her to express our hatred. Mothballs and rat poisons just don’t get along.

Skippy is very well housetrained, for a mothball. He never goes to the bathroom inside the house, and doesn’t shed on the carpet ever. Also, he does tricks, like rolling over and playing dead. He is really good at playing dead. Sometimes I think he is dead, but then he moves and I realize that Skippy was just teasing me. Dad says that Slinky the rat poison couldn’t do that, because you can’t train rat poison. Mothballs are friendlier than rat poison, says Dad. I think that is true.

Sometimes, we have to go away on trips and leave Skippy at home. We ask Uncle Fred to be our mothball sitter. He stops by our house make sure that Skippy is ok. I miss Skippy a lot when we go on trips, so hard that it makes me want to rip the heads off of my Power Rangers. Then I get sad. But when we come home, Skippy is always waiting.

At night, Skippy curls up on my bed. Mom makes him sleep in the blanket chest because Skippy smells bad, but I think that is inhumane. I like the mothball smell. Dad says that Mom is bitchy because she grew up in the city and doesn’t drink enough. Skippy loves her anyways. Sometimes, though, I think Mom wishes that we had rat poison for a pet instead of a mothball.

And that is my report about my best friend in the whole world, Skippy the mothball.

We Support Silver Genitals.

School children may want to avert their eyes. Oh no, too late. The image above was taken by Ain't it Cool News from the trailer of Fantastic Four: Rise of the Silver Surfer. It would appear that the Silver Surfer as he appears in this summer's FF sequel is anatomically correct.

And we here at Moonsquabble dig it.

Ain't it Cool News was the first to break the story a few weeks ago, but since then it has fallen under the radar in favor of Swagdance Film Fest reports and close-ups of Optimus Prime. This, I feel, is a grave error in online journalism.

The consensus of Ain't it Cool News is that the Silver Surfer's junk is nothing more than one sick animator's easter egg for the audience, like Jessica Rabbit's vag or Ariel's priest's boner. We at Moonsquabble feel that a petition is in order to ensure that the Silver Surfer's chrome covered nuts appear in every frame possible. Is it not enough for big time film producers to water down epic Marvel plots? Must they rob Norrin Radd of his manhood, too?

Purists will argue that the Silver Surfer's crotch resembled Ken's in the comics, but I think purists need to move out of their mothers' basements and get a life. Moonsquabble supports Silver Surfer genitalia. (In theory, only. We're not prepared to be welded on him like a jock strap. That's a journey we can't take...no oxygen in space, dig?)

To see it yourself, watch the trailer.

If that version of Sue Storm and Reed Richard's wedding looks too lame for your, check out the original version.


Kitty con Carne signing out.

On The Lam and In The Zone

Humanoids and Cephalopods:

Welcome and good evening. It’s nice to meet you. Take off that hat and put up your feet. Check out the dreary and ridiculous world around you. It is filled with terror, despair, and betrayal. It is populated by monsters and thieves, along with a growing hoard of coked-out celebrities. It’s kind of sexy, too.

In the left hand corner of the galaxy, you have Larry, a blithering platinum-belted fighter with a mouth full of foam. Let’s say that he represents all that is chaotic and wrong with the universe, and that he wants to hurt you. Yesterday, he tried to set his VCR to record a rerun of CSI: Miami. Today, he discovered that he accidentally taped Judge Joe Brown instead. Larry hates Joe Brown. So do people who steal furniture from their diabetic in-laws. Larry does this frequently.

In the right hand corner of the galaxy shivers Melanie, who, let us suppose, represents enthalpy and the natural order of the cosmos. She just lost a Golden Globe nomination to Halle Berry, and knows that seeking revenge is wrong. Mel watches Masterpiece Theater and lives on Brattle Street in Cambridge. She takes long walks in the park, and kickboxes every Friday. Tonight, however, she is doomed. You can tell by the way she keeps muttering “I’m fucked,” to herself over and over again, and how she tried to disqualify herself a few minutes ago by faking an epileptic seizure. Larry Chaos looks on fire tonight, and your bookie will probably give you some fine numbers on him. But don’t be fooled – Melanie Order is wearing a mission fig aloe rub that makes her slipperier than an otter slathered in KY. We encounter such otters with surprising frequency.

The bell rings. The judges grunt in some Neanderthal tongue. The galaxy shudders as Order and Chaos duke it out in the cinderblock boxing rings of our galaxy. And in the middle of all of this sits you. And us.

We promise not to lie to you about that.

Welcome to Moonsquabble! Johnny and Kitty (that’s us) are in disguise somewhere near the planet Xena, on the run from killer sexbots. We hope to make you laugh. We ourselves laugh often, mostly at inappropriate times, and sometimes at harmless but pervasive stereotypes. The best remedy for a weary world, we feel, is a healthy dose of sarcasm and satire. No target is above us. No line is too sacred. Lines are for children. We are bigger than children, and can scare them easily.

Remember, the best disguise is one that nobody knows you are wearing. And we are not wearing anything.

Hello!

- Johnny Desolation and Kitty con Carne