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|Wednesday, July 30th, 2008|
It was a long, hot November day. Hotter than most.
I spent most of it out campaigning for John McCain, a man whom I had a crush on for some time. Every moment I saw him on television—his aged, mole-free, glowing skin; built chest; muscular torso; tiger-cage ruined arm—I just knew he was the man for me. I devoted months to learning about him, his thoughts, his dreams.
And finally, that moment had arrived. I was going to vote for John McCain.
I entered the school gymnasium—it was almost empty, save for the voting machines. Swallowing hard, I slipped behind the curtain and reached up to the McCain lever...my fingers lightly grazing the surface.
Just as I was about to pull downward, I heard a gentle voice from behind.
"Wouldn't you rather vote...for a real
Startled, I turned around. My mouth drew slightly agape as I gazed upon a black stallion dressed in a form-fitting Brooks Brothers suit. It was...Barack.
Words failed me. My finger slid from the McCain lever as my head started filling with confused thoughts. I had wanted John McCain so badly... and here I was in the voting booth with another.
"Barack... but, I w..."
His bicep flexed a little in his oxford shirt as he drew his finger to my lips. His mannerisms were confident; reassuring. I stopped talking and looked him in the eye.
"I know you've been admiring me from afar, watching CNN for hours on end just to try and catch a glimpse of me."
I tried to argue the point in my head, but I just couldn't. For so long I had deluded myself into thinking I was watching CNN to learn more about McCain and his positions on the issues. But now, in this tiny voting booth with the towering, confident Obama... I could think of nothing more than his positions—no—our positions.
I started to nod silently as a slight smile curved across his lips. He knew he had me. Months of work for McCain...and yet being in the Illinois senator's presence for a few seconds had placed me firmly—firmly
—in his column.
"I want.. I want to vote for you," I stammered.
His hand met mine, slowly bringing it up to his lever. My heart started racing.
"I want you to vote for me, too," he replied.
I bit my lip a little as my fingers touched the sleek, metallic object. I wanted to make him happy. I had to make him happy. I had to make him my president.
I swallowed hard as I applied pressure to his lever... slowing bringing it down to reveal the X—the X that proved my devotion and longing for him. I turned back to look him in the eyes as a satisfying clunk rattled through the air.
I exhaled deep, filled with a happiness I'd never felt before. But we weren't done, Obama and I.
"I want you to..." Obama gazed deep into my eyes; my soul as he paused, making sure he had my attention. "I want you to vote straight ticket."
Straight ticket!? Could I? The thought never crossed my mind until now, until the powerful, manly legislator suggested it. But there was no use fighting the feeling that was growing inside me. This was destiny. I had to.
"Yes, Barack! Oh, God, yes!" I screamed; my hands wildly attacking the voting machine, pulling the lever for John Kerry, Mike Capuano, and every single Democrat I could find there in that booth. His cologne filled my nostrils as one X turned to two; two turned to three. Soon, the entire machine was covered with votes...votes that proved my love for the ebony God before me.
My head flung back as I grabbed the massive lever that would cast my ballot, bonding me with Barack Obama forever. His breath warm on my neck, my sweat-slicked fingers wrapped around it, slowly moving it to the right.
I screamed out in pleasure as my vote was recorded; the thunderous clank of the gears ringing out in the gym. The curtains flew open behind us... our love for each other would be exposed.
Startled, I spun around... my hand not leaving the machine. I had so much to explain, so many feelings I needed to get out.
But just as quickly as my black knight came...he was gone. I gazed around the gymnasium for seconds that turned into minutes that turned into hours...seeing nothing but a few scattered elderly poll workers.
Had I imagined it? Was Barack Obama real?
That night, I settled into bed, watching as Barack captured a record breaking 90% of the vote. Democrats picked up Senate seats in Idaho, Wyoming, and even Utah, despite there not even being a Senate race there. A smile spread across my face as I saw him stride confidently to the podium, ready to declare victory.
But before he spoke, he gazed directly into the camera. And again, directly into my soul. He gave me a sly smile and winked knowingly before starting his address.
At that moment, I knew that we both felt the same rush of destiny. He was my president, now. And I was his constitutent.
And I'd never felt so happy. Or alive.
|Wednesday, August 2nd, 2006|
A Good Rose Is Hard to Find
Pasquale wanted to go to Florida! He sat in the middle of the front seat between Jimbo and Rose on either side of him. He had a basket with Peekaboo, the cat, in it. He didn't intend for the cat to be left alone in the house because he would miss her too much.
Rose set Pasquale on her knee and bounced him and told him about the things they were passing. When there was nothing else to do they played a game by choosing a cloud and making the other two guess what shape it suggested. Pasquale took one the shape of a spaceship and Jimbo guessed a pirate ship and Rose said, no, a motorcycle. Pasquale didn't hear them because the shape of the spaceship reminded him of his dream ship, and he was fast asleep, flying about in it. Eventually, he hit the brake, in reality the basket, and Peekaboo, the cat, sprang onto Jimbo's shoulder.
Rose and Pasquale were thrown out the door onto the ground. The car turned over once and landed right-side-up in a gulch off the side of the road. Ever the captain of his ship, Jimbo remained in the driver's seat with the cat clinging to his shoulder like a parrot.
As soon as Pasquale woke up and saw he could move his arms and legs, he shouted, "We've had an ACCIDENT!" Jimbo and Rose sat down in the ditch to recover from the excitement.
"Maybe a car will come along," said Rose, wishing she were a motorcycle mama.
In a few minutes Jimbo saw a car some distance away. Rose stood up and waved both arms dramatically to attract attention. The car continued to come on slowly, disappeared around a bend and appeared again, moving even slower. It was a big black battered hearselike automobile. It came to a stop just over them. The driver got out of the car and stood by the side of it, looking down at them. He was holding a black hat and a gun.
"Good afternoon," he said. "I see you all had you a little spill."
"We've had an ACCIDENT!" Pasquale screamed.
"Lady," the gunman said to Rose, "children make me nervous. Would you mind your husband and your son stepping back in them woods there with me?"
"Look, a nature trail!" Jimbo observed, and he and Pasquale wandered into the woods.
"Where are you taking them?" Rose screamed.
There was a pistol shot from the woods, followed closely by another. Then silence. Rose's head jerked around.
"Does it seem right to you, lady, to go twenty-two years in the funnies without never oncet being funny?"
"I need to lean against my 'let it be' tree," Rose moaned, and she collapsed onto him. He sprang back as if a snake had bitten him and shot her three times through the chest.
"She would of been a good woman," he said, "if it had been somebody there to shoot her every minute of her life."
Then something strange happened: a beach ball, a candy cane, a rainbow, and a sunburst appeared around his head, and he smiled.
real pleasure in life!"
|Thursday, June 15th, 2006|
[not strictly fanfic, but definitely awful...]
"More tea, Thistlebottom!" bellowed the Field Marshal.
Ernest J. Thistlebottom, Professor of Unconventional Trousering at the University of Basingstoke, sighed gently to himself and tugged on the bell pull by his arm. He had known Field Marshall Witheringly-Smalls since he was a small boy but still could not quite come to terms with his roughshod assault on the English Language and life in general. If it wasn't for his fond memories of terrorising the various members of the diocese that ran their childhood boarding school with him, the Professor wondered if they might be friends at all. The maid walked in carrying her tray.
"Another pot of tea please, Meredith."
"Ha! Aha!" snorted Witheringly-Smalls. "You're too nice to them Botty! Too nice by half. Why, I don't have the faintest clue what my maid's name. Women's business, what. Now the gardener, a gentleman and an officer should always be..." he was cut off suddenly as a tumultuous fart ripped from the depths of his stomach. His face dropped, the blood draining swiftly from his cheeks. Thistlebottom started to speak.
"I say W..."
"THEY'RE COMING!" roared the Field Marshal. "The Zulus are coming man! Can't you hear the rumble of their drums; their inhuman howls? Where are the rifles? WHERE ARE THE RIFLES?!" he leapt from his chair sending it spinning backwards into the bookcase.
"I say W.S., be a little more careful will y..." started the Professor. He was cut off abruptly as the Field Marshal's face, having recovered from its blood loss and now returned to its normal beetroot shade, appeared within inches of his own. He lifted Thistlebottom slightly off the chair by his lapels.
"RUN YOU FOOL, THEY'LL BUTCHER US ALL!" He threw the Professor back in the chair with such vigour that he careened backwards on the rear chair legs, feet slamming into the table as they shot skyward, sending the cups and saucers arcing across the room. The Field Marshal clambered over the chair and the Professor, thrusting a foot enthusiastically into his compatriot's groin, barking, snorting and honking wildly as he did so. He charged for the door, opening it into the maid's face and splattering the hallway with a freshly brewed pot of India's finest. He trumpeted something incomprehensible at the maid who was cowering against the wall clinging to the silver serving platter, her face a picture of terror, before charging through the front door. Thistlebottom watched from his prostrate position as the door slammed behind him. He surveyed the carnage that had once been his living room with resignation and sighed gently to himself.
|Thursday, April 20th, 2006|
The Tao of Presley
Elvis sat under the shade of the cherry tree, the very picture of serenity. Occasional blossoms spiralled from the branches, caught in the spring breeze. All was at peace in the monastery.
Two disciples came and sat near to Elvis in complete silence. Almost an hour passed, not a thought crossing his mind. Then he spoke thusly:
"Y'know Heaven and Earth last for ever, baby.
Y'ask why do Heaven and Earth last for ever?
They ain't born, so they don't stop living.
The King? The King stays behind, thus he is real far ahead.
He is lonesome, thus at one with all.
Through selfless action, he attains real fulfillment."
He paused for a minute, the disciples meditating on the words of the King.
"That's the way, baby. Now where's my burger?"
|Wednesday, April 19th, 2006|
Never trust a hobo.
Ernie awoke with a start, his fur drenched with a cold sweat. He reached out to the adjacent bed.
"Bert? Are you awake, Bert?" He lay there for several minutes in silence, listening. The bedside lamp flickered into life. Ernie stared at the space where Bert should have been.
"Bert?" called Ernie anxiously. "Bert, are you there?" He climbed out of bed slowly, his mind racing. He'd never woken up without Bert beside him. The comfortable feeling he usually garnered from his friend's presence slowly drained away from him. He pulled on his dressing gown and tiptoed towards the bathroom.
The shaving light in the bathroom was on. "Oh silly Bert, you're so forgetful" he said out loud. He turned towards the combination bath and shower. The curtain was pulled shut. Horrific thoughts flashed across his mind. He began to imagine seeing dark shapes lying behind the curtain. "Bert? Are you in there, Bert?" he stammered. He crept slowly towards the tub holding his breath. His fingers closed around the curtain, its thick waterproof nylon felt damp underneath his fingers. He tore the curtain back, popping it off its rail. The tub was empty.
The plastic bag descended over his head in a moment and was pulled tight against his throat. Elbows and fists flailed wildly at the unknown attacker. Ernie's frantic screams for his companion faded as the blackness drew into his vision.
Ernie lay in the dark. He could hear voices. They sounded familiar. Bert's Voice? He raised his head slightly, the murky black room swimming in front of his eyes. The smell hit him, the warm stench of fetid food, decaying animal corpses and faeces washed over him. He retched several times before spewing thick, bloody vomit over himself.
"Hey... Hey! That's somebody's stuff you're puking on there buddy" a voice growled from the darkness.
"Oscar!" cried Ernie. "Oh thank god it's you, Oscar. It's been horrible. Bert's gone, Oscar."
"Gone where? He dropped by but he's gone home now, if that's what you mean."
"Oh..." Ernie trailed off, his thoughts in turmoil. "So why am I here?"
"I'd love to tell you, I really would." Oscar played with something that gleamed in the half-light of the rubbish cave. Ernie strained to see what it was. "You should be more careful Ernie. You haven't made any friends with that positive attitude of yours."
"But I just try to..." Ernie was cut off as the shard of glass thrust into his neck, his throat filling with fluid. Oscar's leering face loomed in front of him as he drowned in his own blood.
"Never trust a hobo, Ernie, my boy. We'll do most anything for junk."
|Sunday, January 22nd, 2006|
Once upon a time near Peoria there was a real boy named Pinocchijoe. Every night Pinocchijoe would pray to the Bryan Ferry to become a puppet. Jiminy Critic came to counsel Pinocchijoe, but he paid no heed. Pinocchijoe enrolled at the university because he forgot only real boys went there. Pinocchijoe eventually graduated but never gave up his dream to become a puppet. Brief Candlewick invited Pinocchijoe to come along to Rock Island, but Pinocchijoe insisted he wanted to become a puppet not a donkey. Finally after reading Pitchfork Media and praying to the Bryan Ferry, Pinocchijoe became a puppet and sang "I've got strings to hold me down" and lived happily ever after.
|Sunday, November 20th, 2005|
A love supreme
There was a sexy knock at the door.
"Come on in" said supreme court justice Samuel Alito. It was white house counsel Harriet Miers.
"Is the coast clear?" asked Harriet on her way in, and Samuel winked at her like this: ;-)
"I know you've been sworn, I've read your complaint" said Samuel.
"Now wait a minute" countered Harriet, "this better not be small claims court." They laughed lustily, then Harriet continued. "You are the best supreme court justice ever, deserving of great respect!"
Samuel poured two glasses of wine red as the righteous 3/5 of America. "Oh Harriet, you make it extremely hard to exercise judicial restraint."
Harriet giggled, "I love me some Jersey boy! But I never thought power could corrupt you and turn you into an adulterer."
Samuel burst into singsong:That was never part of the plan / I never said that's all that I am
Harriet giggled some more, "Prove it."
"Alright" agreed Samuel, "but be forewarned the fine for solicitation is $50 and time served."
"And what about contempt of court?" asked Harriet with a fake frown.
"Oh Harriet, I'll get you on this court one way or another!" They hooted and hugged and hugged some more, and Samuel stripped down to his legal briefs. Harriet waved his big black robe like a cape, and Samuel charged:I'm too sexy for my robe / Too sexy for my bench / Too sexy for my gavel
The gavel banged one, two, three times, and the lights went out for the night.
|Tuesday, November 1st, 2005|
The Democrats are closing the Senate!!!!!The Reichstag is burning!AAAAAAARGH!
A red checkered tablecloth, poker chips, a bowl of potato chips and sodas. It would have been your average Tuesday night in the U.S. of A. had the two players not been the President, George W. Bush, and his closest and most trusted friend Karl Rove. George W. Bush has just dropped his hand, and a triumphant Karl Rove is collecting the chips, and enjoying life's rewards, while Bush has his hands folded dramatically, maybe a little putdown. "Three of a kind," Rove chuckled, "What did you have?" he asks of George as he picked up the cards from the table, "Mr. President, you had a full house!"
"Yes," George replied with a twinkle of Christian mischief, "I let you have it, because everyone knows you can't beat a Texan at Texas Hold 'Em." They both laughed and George went for Turd Blossom's fridge in the next room. "Hey Karl," he peeks from around the corner, "Is it okay if I bum one of your Orange Crushes?"
The reply and the wave of the hand was anything but disapproving, and Dubya soon returned, popping the tab of the can with a light fizz. "Anyhow you said you wanted to talk politics, so let's talk politics. You called me over for a reason, just like the American people called me to be President for a reason," Bush demurred as he sipped at the bright soda before setting it on the table. Karl, for his part, stopped smiling from where he was sitting and his face took on a very serious aspect.
"So what are we going to do about Scooter, then Mr. President?" He spoke out, was silent, then eased back into his chair as the apprehension sank in. Dubya didn't sit down or else he would have gotten up, he was not pleased but he didn't noticably lose his cool. "Karl," he began, walking over to touch the collar of his colleague of freedom. "You have to let him go," now his voice began to waiver in recumbent frustration, "I know he was one of those orphans that Cheney raised, but, still, he's no longer even human." #43 stepped away, turning away to face the balcony and a dazzling city of thousands of terrorless Americans outside. "He was beginning to crack. He was going to the other side." Rove blurted out something loudly in response but Bush willingly ignored him, adding, "He mentioned names, the CIA, pretty soon he would have mentioned The Chamber. We all saw it."
The CIA was only the beginning of what he knew, what he had doubtlessly been reminded of every nightmare. Hidden, eternally guarded many floors under the CIA in a sealed vault was the truth about Iraq. Unspeakable abberations of the noblest vanguard of science that no civilized world needed to ever know, yet preserved in vitro
, like smallpox a generation ago, in the desperate lingering thread of hope they all agreed someday man's worst intentions might prove indirectly his best.
Rove was silent, his head was heavy, when Bush turned around. They both were still for some time. At some point, they wordlessly played a few more hands of poker like old soldiers. Atleast they were until Harriet Miers came in, frantic, her mouth pursed and her fists curled like little knots. Both men got up as her sobbing brought her to their attention.
"MR. PRESIDENT! MR. PRESIDENT! It's THEM! They have it! Oh god, please hold me, Mr. President."
"There there, Harriet Miers," George Bush said to her as he held her comfortingly in an attempt to soothe her, "Someday people will begin to understand your subtle ways."
"Something must have startled her," Rove murmured thoughtfully as he got out of his seat to flick the switch to his small countertop television. He wanted to see if the Daily Show was on yet. "What channel's Comedy Central again?" he thought to himself.
All three of them recoiled in disbelief as the image on Fox News flickered to life. The image it projected was the silver spined dome of the Arch-Democrat antagonizer, Harry Reid. Harry Reid, the antithesis of great men, preening a fake leather legal pad clutched tight in his webby paws next to his firm-pressed suit like some kind of fag Hitler. He gesticulated and sneered, confident for once he held both sides of America in his strengthening grasp, "The Democrats have closed up your Senate, Mr. President, and for a price." He paused, doubtless his unfortunate presence was making the cameraman swoon from the odour of lanolin. "The American people," (knowing that using his own term to extort him would incense Dubya even further!) he guffawingly adjusted his glasses like some villainous auditor who'd finally caught someone's tax code violation, "want to know the whole story about the intelligence and the Iraq War!"
"Blessed Almighty!" George Bush cried, "we must stop these madmen at all costs!"
Meanwhile, unaware and under a Missle silo in Wyoming, Dick Cheney clutched at his heart.
|Saturday, August 27th, 2005|
Dagwood Grows a Pair
Dagwood Bumstead was pissed. Julius Dithers had denied him yet another promotion and now wanted him to put in unpaid overtime? Putz.
"No excuses! No, ifs, ands, or buts, my boy! You'll stay until I say so!"
"No," Dagwood replied quietly.
"What?" Mr. Dithers removed his cigar from his mouth and faced Dagwood for the first time today.
"No," Dagwood repeated. "If your wife is man enough to stand up to you, by gum, so am I."
"How dare you draw my wife into this?" Mr. Dithers sputtered. Violet-red with rage, he trembled, then fell over. Dagwood whistled and looked the other way as he went out of the office, leaving Mr. Dithers unconscious on the floor for the janitor to find.
* * *
Dagwood didn't wait for his usual carpool. He took a taxi home, threw off his sport jacket and shirt, and collapsed onto the couch.
"Is that you, Dagwood?" Blondie cawed. "Don't get too comfortable. I need you to run to the supermarket."
"I ain't going to no supermarket," Dagwood grunted. Blondie didn't hear him and came into the living room.
"Get up off the couch if you want anything to eat tonight," Blondie ordered.
"Eat this, bitch!" suggested Dagwood, clocking her right in the kisser. "I don't do errands no more. I don't do repairs no more. I am the king, and this is my castle. Got that?"
"You'll never get away with this!" Blondie gasped as Dagwood shook her senseless.
"Whatever. It beats another day in slavery with you." He tossed her aside with an air of triumph. "Rawr!"
Satisfied, he smiled to himself. There was at least enough time to fix himself a sandwich before the police came.
|Friday, July 15th, 2005|
the smurfiest smurf of all
it was a smurfy day in smurf village. the sun was shining, and all the little birdies were singing. "doesn't it just make you want to smurf your smurf?" asked hefty smurf. lazy smurf nodded and rolled over.
hefty smurf finished his smurfberry protein milkshake and smurfed off to the great oak. mother nature and father time stopped smurfing long enough to wave at him, and he waved back. soon he arrived at the great oak, where he was supposed to meet the smurfiest smurf of all!
but hefty smurf smurfed a smurf he'd never smurfed before. "who the sm-sm-smurf are you?" he stammered.
the strange smurf hid his hands behind his back. "i'm cutting smurf. i smurf to myself most of the time," he said. cutting smurf didn't make eye contact.
"aw, you need a friend," hazarded hefty smurf. he grabbed cutting smurf's hand to shake but smurfed out at all the scars.
"what's going on?" wondered smurfette, and cutting smurf used the distraction to smurf off into smurf forest.
"oh, nothing," smurfed hefty smurf. "but now i know who keeps stealing my needles."
|Wednesday, July 13th, 2005|
RAMBO -- No Retreat, No Surrender!
Rambo swooped down low over the treetops of the waterway, his chopper filled with the precarious cargo of P.O.W.s. A white plume of smoke ejected from the rear stabilizer, helplessly circling on its flank like a wounded hippopotamus. The Russian Mi-24 Hind gunship roaring behind him, effortlessly bearing down on him. Inside, the Russian commandant sneered a merciless Slavic grin as he twisted his thumb, firing the rocket dead into the path of Rambo's crippled helicopter.
A BLAST!, a large explosion burst through the sky as the rocket collided with something, blocking the windscreen of the red starred pilot's vantage point momentarily. The Soviet helicopter menaced over the area, searching for the debris and helpless bodies of his victims. His eyes narrowed, scanning over the ground. Suddenly, he saw something! Rambo's helicopter, still intact, was hovering miraculously just over the water, Rambo unconscious in its cockpit! The Bolshevik brought his craft down, face-to-face with the strange sight. Suddenly, Rambo popped up, aiming a shoulder-mounted rocket launcher and firing it out of the hole in the front of his cockpit. The Hind disintegrated in a ball of fire and metal. "Wow, that was a close call, guys," Rambo laughed, turning back. His glance met with the sight of the entire back compartment seared black-grey, the P.O.W.s' bodies instantly cremated by the backblast at close quarters. Rambo paused, then shrugged and tilted the helicopter to its side, gravity dumping the incinerated remains into the Vietnamese river below.
"So it turns out there weren't any P.O.W.s over there after all," Rambo said as he got back to the base in Thailand, adding, "I guess you were right all along, Murdoch."
"But I thought I saw you with a P.O.W.!" Col. Trautman insisted empathically.
"Oh, he's from Belgium," Rambo said, "and it turns out, he likes Vietnam."
And with that, Rambo walked off to go make a sandwich.
|Sunday, May 22nd, 2005|
Terminus Victor Fan Fiction—CD RELEASE PARTY
At long last, it was time for Terminus Victor to release their second album, "Under Surveillance." Don got dressed up in his suit, and Scotty got dressed down in his duds. There were paparazzi on mopeds taking pictures left and right. It was totally the talk of the town.
At the stroke of midnight, Don and Scotty were ready! First they played "Artic Living." Then they played "Chemical Relief." Everybody clapped their hands and danced to the music. Then Dinah the drum machine got surly! Before Don and Scotty knew what was up, she took out the entire front row. Cecelia screamed. Then Dinah took out the entire second row. There were bodies everywhere and a riot broke out. But then Dinah did this beatbox thing the survivors all agreed was pretty cool.
|Friday, February 25th, 2005|
Night Of the living Dead The Zombie's perspective
I saw her standing there. The rays of the beaming sun glistening through luxurious her blonde hair. She arched over the head stone so sad so solemn yet radiating with a beauty unlike my eyes had witnessed in ages. If in that moment my heart could beat it would palpitate a thousand measures. From the moment I laid eyes on her I knew I would do anything to make her mine. As I approached her, my once dull senses came alive with the most fascinating smell. It reminded me of times long ago in the halcyon days of my youth.
I longed to speak to her to let her know just how I felt. The longing I felt for her. The need I felt for her to be apart of me. Alas in my current state of woe I was unable to produce the words I longed to say. I turned to the ravishing young blonde and said the only word I could produce.
“ Ergggg Brains”
I tried to touch her to reach out to her to let her feel the longing I felt for her again I repeated my urgent cry for her love. I shouted more emphatically.
“ Errhhhhhhhgggg Brains”
Suddenly I felt a blunt object come crashing down into my back. I turned to find a rather bookish looking chap wielding a pruned tree limb in a rather menacing fashion.
“Stay away from my sister”
Now this was a bit of a sticky wicket. Apparently this was the attractive blondes brother and he didn’t appreciate the fancy I had taken to his sister. I tried to reason with the gentlemen, as I wanted no quarrel with the man I hoped some day would be my brother in-law. Unfortunately my limited vocabulary failed me further.
“ Rrrrrraaaerrhhhhhhhgggg Brains”
Much to my surprise the fellow struck me again. I wish my temper had not gotten the better of me though for when he struck me I attempted to dislodge the weapon from his hands. I wish I had known this then but I know suspect the man was a leaper for when I acted his arm somehow became disengaged from his body. I yelled out again for the blonde.
Unfortunately it was to late the altercation I had engaged in had turned her off. True love thwarted, happiness averted.
|Monday, February 21st, 2005|
SPEED RACER -- The Most Dangerous Car to Pass
The race had just started and Speed found himself behind. In front of him stood another driver's car and Speed couldn't pass around him, if he turned a curve, the car turned a curve with him, if he changed lanes the car would change lanes in front of him, checking him. Speed had to win so that he could prove to Racer X that he was the fastest driver on the road, and then him and Trixie could go out alone together and hold hands! Speed even tried putting on his turn-signal, but the car in front of him paid no attention to his proper courtesy. "I guess I'll have to go over him," Speed thought to himself as he reached for one of the buttons on the Mach 5's steering wheel. Instead of jumping over the other car, however, a pair of saws extended out of the Mach 5's front grill and started to instantly tear through the car's rigid fiberglass frame like it was made of paper. Speed panicked, hitting the accelerator, the bumper of the Mach 5 locking under the other car's and the circular blades splitting through the rear compartments. The driver swerved to free himself, but lost control of the vehicle, careening into a tree at the side of the road. He let out a hideous scream as he was cut in half at the torso, a victim of Speed's blind judgement.
"oh god, oh god," Speed thought to himself, regaining consciousness from the force of the impact, "I've just killed an innocent driver, what do I do?" He ran away to go find Pops Racer.
"Hmm..." Pops muttered, scratching his head and looked over the car, taking in the scene. "Speed, you've killed a man, and that means trouble. Trouble and jail time! And jail time means you might not finish the race! But I think I know how to help," he lectured, tipping his cap with a smug look, "Speed, you need to understand that the Mach 5 is a phenomenal machine! A phenomenal machine for driving! I've just finished waterproofing the trunk. We can store the dead body in there until you're finished! Finished driving the race! A race you must win, Speed! -- Even though you disobeyed me and should not be driving the Mach 5 that I built!" he said as he started bounding from one foot to the other angrily.
"Pops, this is no time to get angry, we've got to hide the body," Speed replied, hurriedly moving to the front cab, and slinging the other driver's upper torso over his shoulder. Pops nodded, opening the trunk, "Waitasec" Pops said, looking into the trunk, "Spritle and Chim-Chim are in here and I think they're dead too." Speed made an exaggerated "Oh," as he came over to see. The little boy and monkey had climbed into the trunk, and now were a pale shade of blue. Speed didn't even know monkeys can turn blue! "They must have stowed away when I parked the Mach 5 in the garage eight hours ago. I thought I heard some knocking, but I thought Snake Oiler had sabotaged my fuel line!" Pops chuckled, "I guess eight hours in a watertight trunk will do that to children and their pets!" In spite of the situation, Speed thought it was pretty funny and started laughing too, and then Trixie and Sparky and Speed's mom (you know, that one who had practically the same head as Trixie), came by for no reason and they laughed as well.
|Friday, February 18th, 2005|
HIGH FIDELITY -- How Soon Is Now?, pt 2
John Cusack needed his life back together. It had been five months since he had burned all of his vinyl, and he needed the order and structure that material possessions had once provided in his now shell of a life. At night, he would have nightmares of music being ripped from his hands, and thrown into a towering heap and set ablaze. It was the worst decision he had made in his life, next to that other time he legally changed his name to Rob Gordon and opened a record store to hide from the Feds for being a contract killer. It was never his fault he had snapped that girl's head from her body after they had sex together! Can't a man make one little mistake?
One point or another, he abandoned his car to dig through a landfill and after much searching found the precious charred remains of his records. Using a broken metal pipe he tried to beat the huge blob of melted black goo into the shape of an LP. Then, he tried to play it on a turntable. He thought he could still hear the parts of it that were once a TOOL album, but not much else. He tried licking it and thought he could taste the music locked inside, but it was still not enough.
He hid in the dumpster out back behind the record store where Jack Black would smoke weed. Then one night he broke in. After all, they were still all his records in there, he had touched them all at one point or another, which meant he had marked them as his and that made it OK in some way he was sure. He knew that everything would be alright, once he had put all the records into chronological sequence. The guy who looked kind of like Michael Stipe woke up from where he was sleeping underneath the Rusted Root section and said, "Stop, you are breaking and entering." "Why don't you sleep with me?" John replied. He knew what he was doing. After all, he was a contract killer. A very sexy contract killer.
|Thursday, February 17th, 2005|
Who's the Boss Now!
Alyssa Milano strode into the room wearing only a bath towel. On her face was a come hither look. Tony Danza had his back to her while he did the ironing. He was whistling.
"Turn around Tony Danza, I have a surprise for you!" said Alyssa Milano.
"Gasp," said Tony Danza. "Go put some clothes on young lady!"
"I'm such jail bait, you know you want it," taunted Alyssa Milano as she approached. "I'm your birthday present, go ahead and unwrap me."
"No, I have to fall in love with Judith Light by the series finale and this is going to screw it up!" said Tony Danza. "Besides I'm more into Courtney Cox on Misfits of Science."
"That show went off ages ago," said Alyssa Milano. "Now come let me love you, you big Italian lasagna loaf."
"No, no, no! Well alright," said Tony Danza and they smooched, even frenched.
"What is going on here!" demanded Grandma Mona. "Are you taking advantage of her?"
"No, I can explain," said Tony Danza all sweaty.
"That won't be necessary," said Grandma Mona as she moved in. "You want action, I'll give you action."
Tony Danza acted uncertain but that didn't matter. Grandma Mona grabbed his muscular arm and moved in. She opened her mouth to reveal inch long fangs and sunk them into his olive skinned neck. She drained him dry and did the same to Alyssa Milano. She sucked the blood out of them, killing them.
Then she cleaned herself up for a Total Raisin Bran commercial. It sucked too but at least it paid the bills.
|Wednesday, February 16th, 2005|
HIGH FIDELITY -- How Soon is Now?
The moment he woke up and pressed the alarm that morning, John Cusack knew he wanted to go on. Sure it had gotten him that some tail with that one chick but ever since she had bagged that one closeted guy she smelled like hippie bum and he didn't want to be her sloppy seconds. Besides, he was bored and impulsive!
He was wearing a Smiths t-shirt so he ripped it off like he had seen Hulk Hogan do once, since he was a total badass. He brought all of his vinyl into work in a garbage bag that morning, broke each of them individually, and then burnt them in an oil drum in the middle of the store. One customer wept openly as he fractured a Herb Alpert LP. A thin, serene plume of blue smoke like the diminishing of souls rose from the stack of broken records as they melted. John swore it was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.
What was he thinking in opening a record store anyway? He had used it to make moves on attractive hipster women who smelled like vanilla but then found out all it attracted longterm was unbathed middle-aged men who pursed their hands together tightly in a way that made him uncomfortable whenever they talked about Ray Davies & The Kinks. He sold it to the guy who looked kind of like Michael Stipe who's name he kept forgetting (so he always just called him Dick), and then puked on Jack Black while he was talking about the Jackson Five on his way out. He let off a big smelly one, saying, "God, I had been holding that one in for a while." A man walking into the store commented, saying, "How gauche!"
He used all the money to buy a Dodge Viper with a leather interior that only had 94,000 miles on it. "Just think how much action this will get me around campus, heh heh," he said looking it over with a certain satisfaction. He turned up the dial on the radio, not even turning to look back at the hell he had sunk years of his life into. "(What's the Story) Morning Glory" by Oasis came on (John knew this is what the song was called because that asshole who looked like Michael Stipe never let him play it in the store but also because Oasis is the only band worth listening to since the Beatles.) "This commercially-accessible song is exactly the way I really feel right now!" he exclaimed, adding, "I wonder if I can find it any place." He drove off into the sunset, and then parked in a Sam Goody parking lot.
|Tuesday, February 15th, 2005|
WILLY WONKA AND THE CHOCOLATE FACTORY -- the dark side of the chocolate factory
Charlie set the Everlasting Gobstopper back into Wonka's hands. The preoccupied Wonka closes his hand around the charm, and smiled faintly, the smile spreading across his face as he looked up from his desk. "So shines a good deed in a weary world. Charlie, my boy, you did it! I knew you would!" In the coming moments, Wonka explained to him everything, the contest, Slugworth, the factory tour, all of it had been a test -- a chance for him to find someone to pass on the Wonka Chocolate Factory, and Charlie had won the jackpot!
"But first, there's something I want to show to you," Wonka beamed with braggadochio, "This way please," his velvet jacket reaching across to open a sliding door. Almost immediately, Charlie could see a monsterous sight through it.
A small Oompa Lumpa was bound a gnarled post in an enclosed courtyard, his kelly green hair matted with sweat and blood, the tangerine flesh of his shoulders in tatters. A taskmaster holding a large bullwhip in a closed fist barked orders at him.
"WHAT IS YOUR NAME?!?" the taskmaster snarled. "KUNTA KINTE!" the Oompa Lumpa screamed back defiantly, his very identity being taken out of him. He lurching forward as the whip drove home, lacerated him again with a horrendous snap.
"--You weren't really supposed to see that," Wonka said nervously. He blew a few notes on a shrill whistle and some other Oompa Loompas came in, dragging out the emaciated and bloodblotted Oompa Loompa in an organized and well-choreographed mopping up routine. They sang an Oompa Loompa song in a heavy voice:
♪ OOMPA LOOMPA DOOMPADEE DOO
I'VE GOT ANOTHER PUZZLE FOR YOU
OOMPA LOOMPA DOOMPADAH DEE
IF YOU ARE WISE YOU'LL LISTEN TO ME
WHAT DO YOU GET IF THE WORK IS NOT DONE?
THIRTY LASHES IN THE HEAT OF THE SUN
FREEDOM AND COMFORT ARE ONLY A LIE
WORK AND WORK HARDER
THERE'S NO ROOM TO DIS-OBEY.
OOMPA LOOMPA DOOMPADEE DAH
IF YOU'RE NOT GREEDY YOU WILL GO FAR
YOU WILL LIVE IN HAPPINESS TOO
OOMPA LOOMPA DOOMPADEE DO ♪
An Oompa Loompa bowed to them fawningly and slid shut the door.
Charlie felt deeply uncertain now about taking over the chocolate factory from Willy Wonka, and told Mister Wonka that he would think about it. But Grampa Joe said they needed the money, so Charlie signed the forms anyways.
|Monday, February 14th, 2005|
PLANET OF THE APES -- a very special episode
Taylor had had enough! "GET YOUR STEENKIN PAWS OFF ME, YOU FILTHY APE!!!," he shouted to his simian captors. Ever since he'd been captured, they'd had him locked up in a cage -- not unlike an ape on his home planet, in fact, exactly like an ape on his home planet! -- and he was a man and not an ape!!! (One time he looked into a reflection in a pool of water just to check and make sure that he was a man and that the apes didn't keep other lesser apes inside the cages.) He vowed to himself if he ever returned to Earth that he would campaign for stronger gun rights so that he could carry a gun onto a spaceship and something like this would never happen again! Things only got worse for him once they knew he could talk, they were going to cut him up, but then the two friendly scientist apes tried to help him escape. "Maybe you apes aren't all bad, maybe I was wrong to judge based solely on appearances," he told them as they led him into a wagon --OHNO! They had really lied, and he realized too late he had been betrayed by consumerist apes. He hadn't thought of that! They sold him in shackles to a band of Romanian chimps who owned a sideshow. This was the beginning of his unhappy touring career, traveling from one ape-municipality to another, drawing large crowds as the ever-popular Cho-Cho the Dirty Ape-Hating Racist.
But then later on his children grew up not racist and the cycle of hate was broken.
Wonderwoman and the villian
Wonderwoman stretched her arms. It was good to be a glamorous superhero. Than an alarm rang! "Oh god time to spring into action" she said. She grabbed her lasso and stuck it up against her oh so tight superpanties. She saw the villian and chased him round the building. "I am to fast for you" he said. Than he tripped! Wonderwoman tied him up with her lasso and pressed him up against her huge feeders. "I am all about justice and you will pay" she cackled. Than she put him in jail forever and had a big old bowl of ice cream.