Vaalarian
03-04-2004, 05:24 AM
Nihou!
I had just posted this rambling on another board for the heckling of some friends when it was suggested I put it here also. I hadn't put out anything for this community for a while (I'm a tease), so here ya go.
Written under stress and influence of Guiness. "Drink Guiness nin the evening, and you don't need breakfast in the morning!"
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
SO....there I am, up to my asshole in alligators and used hand grenade pins. I have my Ronco battery powered hair dryer in my left hand and my rusty trusty Swiss army spork in my right. I was gnawing on a fudgesicle stick while I hummed the Sixty Minutes theme song.
Coming up at me from out of the bathroom shower drain was a troop of Nazi frogmen armed with flame throwers and fried chicken. Behind them came the rabid koala driving the low flying Volkswagen beetle (1969, red). And while I couldn't see any, I could swear I heard the sounds of wood-chippers and Vietnamese poodles.
Quickly I took cover behind the lamp! The cover didn't last long under the onslaught of 'Ice Ice, Baby' by some infamous rapper from the 80's. As my cover disintegrated I was forced to relocate to the lettuce crisper in the refrigerator, which would have been excellent if I hadn't had to kill 14 lesbian nuns on roller-skates along the way, which left a trail for the paste eaters from third grade to follow.
When the enemy threw open the 'fridge door and light poured in (yes, the bulb does go out when you close the door), I was momentarily blinded. However, I had spent my time well as I hid with the carrots and had rigged a Tiger-Gate trap out of celery and old spaghetti. I know I killed at least 3 tuba players, and wounded maybe 2 tax auditors with the lima bean claymores. It was an ugly scene.
In the confusion, I slipped up the stove vent and into the duct system. I quickly frog crawled to the living room register, where all I could see were ankles, high-heel pumps (most were gold...tacky, I thought), and spent shell casings. I needed to get to the garage, but I had far too many blips on the radar between me and there. I had three options: 1 ) Kill them all and then walk passively to the garage. 2 ) Create a distraction and then make a mad dash for the garage. 3) Call 'time-out' and take a smoke break. Upon due consideration, and discovering 32 cents in change in the register duct, I opted for number 2.
Quickly fashioning a basic magnaphone from navel lint, dried yams, and snot, I placed a call. Then I had only to wait.
While I waited I was appalled at the conga line that had formed and was snaking around the living room and knocking over my prize 6 foot tall stack of comics. I vowed vengeance.
Finally, the distraction began. The doorbell rang. After some debate and coin flipping on the part of the enemy, one was sent to open the door. A Southern Democrat wearing a Hawaiian shirt and a yamaka opened the door with his .45 drawn and ready. He was greeted by a tidal wave of pamphlets that crashed down on him like a flaming horde of locusts from out of the sun. He, and the slack-jawed members of his troop of home-invaders were completely unprepared to face the combined literary confusion brought to bear by the representatives of the Church of Mormon, Hari Krishna, Scientology, Chuluism, Sears, MasterCard, the Sheriffs Department of Tennessee ("Would you please make a donation to help keep wife beaters out of jail?"), Pizza Hut, and Verizon.
Sensing my opportunity, I sprang like a pimp after a wide-brim felt hat! I burst forth from the register vent (note: open it first next time to avoid getting 'grate-face') into the confusion. Amidst the chaos of religious conversion vs. gunfire, I wove through and made it to the garage and my Hemicuda.
Climbing into the drivers seat, I quickly ignited the engine into life. Making a quick decision, I said 'Screw first gear! Third gear, here we go!" The Hemi burst through the garage door and out into the street, where I gained some minor satisfaction in mowing down the neighbor's yappy ratdog. Squish.
Having since disappeared from enemy radar, I have since found gainful employment by renting myself out as an enigma.
Updates to follow.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
With Tolerance For Relatives Who Find This Stuff Amusing...
Valarian
I had just posted this rambling on another board for the heckling of some friends when it was suggested I put it here also. I hadn't put out anything for this community for a while (I'm a tease), so here ya go.
Written under stress and influence of Guiness. "Drink Guiness nin the evening, and you don't need breakfast in the morning!"
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
SO....there I am, up to my asshole in alligators and used hand grenade pins. I have my Ronco battery powered hair dryer in my left hand and my rusty trusty Swiss army spork in my right. I was gnawing on a fudgesicle stick while I hummed the Sixty Minutes theme song.
Coming up at me from out of the bathroom shower drain was a troop of Nazi frogmen armed with flame throwers and fried chicken. Behind them came the rabid koala driving the low flying Volkswagen beetle (1969, red). And while I couldn't see any, I could swear I heard the sounds of wood-chippers and Vietnamese poodles.
Quickly I took cover behind the lamp! The cover didn't last long under the onslaught of 'Ice Ice, Baby' by some infamous rapper from the 80's. As my cover disintegrated I was forced to relocate to the lettuce crisper in the refrigerator, which would have been excellent if I hadn't had to kill 14 lesbian nuns on roller-skates along the way, which left a trail for the paste eaters from third grade to follow.
When the enemy threw open the 'fridge door and light poured in (yes, the bulb does go out when you close the door), I was momentarily blinded. However, I had spent my time well as I hid with the carrots and had rigged a Tiger-Gate trap out of celery and old spaghetti. I know I killed at least 3 tuba players, and wounded maybe 2 tax auditors with the lima bean claymores. It was an ugly scene.
In the confusion, I slipped up the stove vent and into the duct system. I quickly frog crawled to the living room register, where all I could see were ankles, high-heel pumps (most were gold...tacky, I thought), and spent shell casings. I needed to get to the garage, but I had far too many blips on the radar between me and there. I had three options: 1 ) Kill them all and then walk passively to the garage. 2 ) Create a distraction and then make a mad dash for the garage. 3) Call 'time-out' and take a smoke break. Upon due consideration, and discovering 32 cents in change in the register duct, I opted for number 2.
Quickly fashioning a basic magnaphone from navel lint, dried yams, and snot, I placed a call. Then I had only to wait.
While I waited I was appalled at the conga line that had formed and was snaking around the living room and knocking over my prize 6 foot tall stack of comics. I vowed vengeance.
Finally, the distraction began. The doorbell rang. After some debate and coin flipping on the part of the enemy, one was sent to open the door. A Southern Democrat wearing a Hawaiian shirt and a yamaka opened the door with his .45 drawn and ready. He was greeted by a tidal wave of pamphlets that crashed down on him like a flaming horde of locusts from out of the sun. He, and the slack-jawed members of his troop of home-invaders were completely unprepared to face the combined literary confusion brought to bear by the representatives of the Church of Mormon, Hari Krishna, Scientology, Chuluism, Sears, MasterCard, the Sheriffs Department of Tennessee ("Would you please make a donation to help keep wife beaters out of jail?"), Pizza Hut, and Verizon.
Sensing my opportunity, I sprang like a pimp after a wide-brim felt hat! I burst forth from the register vent (note: open it first next time to avoid getting 'grate-face') into the confusion. Amidst the chaos of religious conversion vs. gunfire, I wove through and made it to the garage and my Hemicuda.
Climbing into the drivers seat, I quickly ignited the engine into life. Making a quick decision, I said 'Screw first gear! Third gear, here we go!" The Hemi burst through the garage door and out into the street, where I gained some minor satisfaction in mowing down the neighbor's yappy ratdog. Squish.
Having since disappeared from enemy radar, I have since found gainful employment by renting myself out as an enigma.
Updates to follow.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
With Tolerance For Relatives Who Find This Stuff Amusing...
Valarian