oh we're back
That is to say, Mo said " Oh we're back"
Anastasia kicked him in the but and said "Get your ass down the trail and find out who caught that rock for you"
Moe turned and started down the dark jungle trail. He wasn't feeling too good after his trip to the new server. He had lost track of his place in the story. He knew he was going to boink this Anastasia girl. He could tell because the writer had given her pert, upturned breasts, and an ass that made his jaw tremble. No caring human being would put him in a story with a girl like Anastasia and NOT let him screw her, right? Right?
BUT, just then, SHE RECOILED and asked for the twenty dollars!
He read chapter 6 again and realized that he already had given her the chariso grande. Why didn't he remember? Then it came to him; the writer hadn't gone into any detail. There were no descriptions of sweat slick loins, or arching backs. Not even curled toes. No hot breath. No moaning.
Damn, this was a problem. Now there were two writers and neither was letting him get at Anastasia's honey pot.
"Hey writer" he called out. "I think my author is a prude. Any chance you can write a story that doesn't have me getting hit in the head every other paragraph?"
"OK, I don't need to screw her. Could you just loan me twenty and write us into the damn bushes for say ten minutes?"
Anastasia walked over to the edge of the monitor and leaned out. She yelled out "I need to talk to you" but as she turned, her perfect boobs unbalanced her and she went tumbling out. She landed on the keyboard; her fine ass landing on the F6 and F7 keys. She got up and walked across the keyboard 9iujhnbvcfcdxsza
"Wh t re you doing with thi plot?" she tried to say, but couldn't because she was standing on the "a" and the "s" keys.
She jumped down to the desk and walked towards me. "Did the possibility that I'm gay ever enter you puny little testosterone soaked brain?" I had to admit that it hadn't. But now that she was standing there next to the track ball I could see what was driving poor Moe nuts. She was HOT. There was no way she was gay. It would just be too great an injustice. Couldn't be.
"Oh yeah? Just write a cute redhead into the story and see if I don't jump all over her." Anastasia put her hands on her hips and looked up defiantly.
Then it hit me. This can't be happening. If I made Anastasia then she can't be arguing with me. Right? I mean, she has no will. I could make her turn into a duck if I wanted to. Maybe I will. Maybe it will be Moe and his duck, waddling off to start a new world. Hey Anastasia, want to rethink your attitude?
Anastasia took a step forward. "Go ahead Mr Big-shot Boxorocks (email@example.com). If you make me into a duck, I'll just be a gay duck and then where will you go with the plot? And don't think I didn' notice your cheap ass trick to sign your name to this story."
"A story which, if you ask me, is rapidly coming unraveled"
Who the hell was that? I looked back at the screen and saw Moe leaning out. Oh man, Moe, I don't need more complications. Do you think you could go back into the story and wait until we get this straightened out?
"I'm not going back until I get a promise of at least a hand job before chapter 8."
"Get back in the stinking story" this was from Anastasia as she picked up an old bottle of White-Out and hurled it at Moe's head. Moe ducked and the bottle went flying off into the screen. There was a thump and another moan. "Aren't you curious as to who that is?" asked Anastasia.
"I think that should be whom, not who." said Moe as he dodged a flying AOL disc and ran back to the story.
I put a coffee cup over Anastasia and tried to think of a way out of this mess. I pulled the hospital robe tight and decided to go down to the smoking area. I wasn't sure where to go with the plot. The only thing I knew for certain was that I wanted the stranger in the Jungle to be Bill Gates. I was also toying with the idea of having him beaned a few more times with even larger objects. I tried it out in my head: "Anastasia, the duck, picked up the piano and aimed it at the executive" No, that wouldn't work; you have that in every story these days.
Wait a minute....Hospital robe.. Where the hell am I? I looked around the ward. There were all these vacant-eyed old men playing checkers. There was this big Indian standing mute. There was the medication trolly. I had on these cheap throw-away slippers. Now I started to remember.....
It was a long time ago, but I remember coming across this never-ending story on the web that you could add to. I started out killing time, writing something every few days. Then it hit me; this would be the perfect medium for testing the Rumor.(That old Rumor, the one that says anyone making fun of Bill Gates' butt-hole on the web would disappear from the face of the earth within a week) I thought that if the Rumor were true, Sonic would pay the price. (nothing personal) So I wrote something silly about His Excellency's hinnie.
Boom. That was all it took. That night storm trooper nerds broke in and pouced on me. Most of them hit like girls so I did have a chance. The nerds I was able to hit would run away crying, but there were dozens of them and before long they had me worn out. I fell to the floor and looked up at them gathered around me. They all wore identical nerd uniforms, with pocket protectors and thick glasses.
"I see you looking at our pocket protectors" said the lead nerd, "They are very practical, you know"
I tried to get on their good side with " I know, I was just wondering where I could get one. Where'd you get yours?"
"None of your beeswax, mister." came the reply. Just then a size 7 nerd shoe connected with my head. Then the lights went out.
The kick didn't hurt but the kid delivering it had somehow gotten the lamp cord wrapped around his leg. His kick started a chain reaction that sent the lamp, two bookcases, and a stolen J C Penny mannequin crashing down on us.
There were wounded nerds everywhere. Most of them were having a good cry and didn't notice me as I jogged out the patio door.
I was too busy laughing at them to remember that I lived on the third floor. I hit the rent controlled railing and went right through it. Then I did a Buggs Bunny running on air routine for about a second before zipping downward at 32 feet per second per second.
I guess I would have been killed if it weren't for the dumpster. The German deli downstairs had just thrown out tubs of rotten sauerkraut and the fermenting cabbage had broken my fall. I didn't smell so good, but I was alive.
I was sitting in the dumpster reflecting on how this wasn't the first time my life had been saved by pickled vegatables when the first wave of flying nerds hit. They had been distracted by the nude mannequin but had finally noticed my absence and given chase.
It's a well known fact that nerds fall as good as anyone, and these guys produced all the expected velocities and impact forces. The next thing I knew I was in this ward and they were feeding me pills that they called "fagedaboutit". Little yellow fagedaboutit pills.... lalalalalalal.. little pills... little pills....
little pills .. can't do a proper job on http://www.his.com/~rodgerse/ because I'm wacked on these little pills...from under a coffee cup you can hear Anastasia, "Are you gonna unravel the unholy mess you've made of this plot or are you gonna shamelessly advertise?"
The writer (as in typist) (cause, face it, a real writer wouldn't have created a mess like this) (this mess mainly being that he wants to get back to third person but hasn't left an easy path in that direction) (but typist isn't exactly right either because real typists use more than two fingers and a thumb) (unless they're wacking-off) walks back to the coffee cup and wispers "both, but the ladder may be a little trickier than the farmer"
Anastasia wonders if he was trying to be cute with the farmer thing. She already knows how to reset the plot but she's not going to tell him just yet.... Let him rack his brain while he works on that government bid that's due..... oh nevermind; that's part of that pesky real world...
Meanwhile, the Mossad assault force gathered at the staging area. Each soldier was as silent as certain John Cage composition -- they have never carried out an "action" in the United States before, and they were nervous. Suddenly, the leader spoke.
"We all know the world will be a better place without Tori Spelling."
Even the birds in the trees said "amen"
The Mossad assault force heard the birds and aimed their uzi's. The leader issued a few short commands that sounded to the birds like he was clearing his throat.Then the lead started to fly.
No not the lead as in chemical symbol Pb. Lead as in lead singer for the Byrds. The lead bird started to fly. I say started because he jumped off his twig, took 2 or3 flaps and then went into brain freeze. Like when you start speaking and some random neuron fires and all of the sudden you can't think of what it is you wanted to say. Just like that.
Only when a bird does that in mid flight, he can't just pretend to sneeze and go on talking about something else. When a bird stops flapping he changes from graceful creature to Newtonian object and this bird picked a bad time to become a kinetic mass.
The squad leader was speaking in Hebrew. What he said was "Shoulder your weapons nowbbb." Where the "nowbbb" represents the word "now" when it is ended with a sparrow in the back of the throat.
Too bad for the other birds that "nowbbb" also sounds like the Yiddish word for "Ah, screw it, blast their little eyes out"
Now the lead began to fly. And this was Pb lead; which flew a lot faster and nastier than the other kind. As luck would have it, one round went wide of it's target. It tore through some bushes and was last seen heading for the fagedaboutit wing of the state hospital.
Slicing the air without compromise or remorse, Mr. Bullet screamed through the air with the greatest of ease. Blowing apart, the gardners knees. But Mr. Bullet was not yet winded. "What for I spy with my little eye?" Said Bullet. Leaving the poor gardner behind to be mended.
and so, while passing through the air with a pretty tint of red trailing in it's wake, senor bullet, with a somewhat bloodthirsty grin that did not exist on its surface, ended up not greeting the ferryman (damn!), but rather, someone else. very not nice to see in its entirety, mind you. and somewhere, a woman blows her nose.
Being the helping kind, Mr. Bullet tried to help anyone he could find. Seeing Ms. Thing trying so hard to work that stubborn booger out of her newly reconstructed, and chemically altered nose without anyone noticing, Our friend and comrad decided to help Ms. Thang blow her nose. Boy did he ever. That stubborn, sticky, hardened piece of snot blasted clean out of her face!.... Along with an eye, half a cheek, and three molars,(which Ms. thing was going to have removed anyway) all of which landed on the Ferrymans Biscotti, ruining his Latte'. Mr. Bullet looked up from the Biscotti au juice, and said "your the one I've been searching for!" But alas, Mr. Bullet was tired and could fly no longer, and now he was just a lonley Buck. The Ferryman looked down at Mr. Bullet and said
"I've been sitting here all along, you're the one who's late"
Mr bullet laughed, coughed, and attempted to argue. alas once more (since i enjoy saying that word so much), he could not plead his case with monsieur ferryman. he just sank into the caffeinated depths of the biscotti au juice. the ferryman laughed like a diseased little child (he happened to have a nasty cold) and made the most of his completed search...
And so we see in the following passage, how someone with no idea about what has preceded can nevertheless continue a story since he has web access, a lot of time to spare and enjoys leaving his mark on a lot of useless pages, closer inspection will reveal a certain fetish for long sentences which are achieved mainly by substituting full-stops with commas and then hoping that the next idiot to pass by will have the patience and capacity to read it once and still make sense out of it, as a passing remark he will also like to mention that he is glad Diana is dead, how this has any bearing on the story is for the next person to figure out and helps only by leaving a reference of roughly when this passage was written so that all future generations can know in case they want to.
At that moment, however, back at HQ, Dr. Phelps - that diabolical mistress of Science (and scatological ontology) - was about to begin the experiment. Gripping the lever firmly, she paused to adjust the bulging leather straps. The mechanism whirred contentedly. Roger of course had little interest in the events about to transpire (What did he know The Project anyway?). His prime concern were the phone cords biting into his rippling thighs. Writhing inside the dark cupboard, his bonds only seemd to tighten upon his gleaming form. The hanky in his mouth wasn't helping matters either. Alas, without his chakra beads and scented lotions he was powerless. Or was he?
OH GOD. no help for us all (what was that about about fetishes for run-on sentences? hm. curiousity...). anyway, without further acknowledgement to whatever the bloody hell someone else is trying to whine out with q-tips impaling their bleedy-poo severed head, someone turns the channel on a broken tv. ahh, you kids these days. you'll really put your eye out, you know.
And then, after he pulls out the qtipifier and the bloody wiggly is gone, he says, "ah" that was fun and i think i'll do it again but no wiggly was left so it didn't happen.
But seriously. If you really want to have wiggly fun, you're going about it altogether the wrong way. If I was're you and you wer'se me then I would say "hay, you have to put the wiggly in alcohol so he stays alive, then he goes back in through, well, you know where." but then you would say "yi yi!".
CRAP! i can't get it off my finger! it's stuck! "well you have to get a wimple!" WUZZat? well a wimple is a clothe wound 'round the head, framing the face, and drawn into folds beneath the chin, worn by women in medieval times and as part of the habit of certain orders of nuns.
ok. i've tryed that. ok. it's off. oh! and it would like to talk! "hey man! i hate them wimples! man, the last time they did that, i whipped out muh fro and slapped them up a bit. but now they are back with a vengance! damn they's some PHaT mo-fo's in dat mug! shee.. i've never seen such a big ass wimple in muh do-gigger life, mama!" oh.. well that was very intresting, you 'phat' crap. no go back in there. i never want to see you again! well.. unless i have a baby. then you can come out for a lill' bit. BUT THEN YOU HAVE TO GO BACK IN! "but it's smelly in there, biotch!" you think i care? now get [wiggle wiggle wiggle] "ohhh! he he he."
Wow, crazy, luk at dat, jus' pull a lever! The world ended but there's tennis on tuesday and basketball wednesdays with Jim and Kareem! Jim speaks in a raspy voice, "follow me and slowly walk down a path into the countryside. Walk through gently rolling hills with the warm sun caressing your head and shoulders. Walk slowly and gently, enjoying the warmth of the sunshine and the gentle breeze on your face. On the next hill there's a sparkling opening." Jim is a person who died but his face is still recognizeable in the primordial ooze. His body lay buried, rotting beneath a collection of cereal boxes - crumpled, drooling on chex and puffins. The 'toons had their revenge. "Don't mistake Alvin the chipmunk for santa's elf who wants to be a dentist" they taunt in 2d. But I continue (some kind of phase shift here, hmmm), draw my head closer to the dead man's words and deny the tiny voices laughing in the dark. Man, this author IS disjointed, but there's a beautiful, shallow woman in a cave in the side of the hill. So I walk to the edge of the opening and see that the walls and ceiling of the cave are covered with crystals that emit a beautiful pink glow. The floor is covered with thick green grass. I enter the cave, sit gently on the soft floor, and look up at the crystal ceiling. Her healing touch surrounds and mingles. It's like, enjoying, relaxed, rejuvenating energy in the cave. I gently get a rise. We make luuv. Barry White's voice narrates from out of nowhere. It's just like a miracle. We exchange #'s then return to the path, walk back down the path, I take the palms of her hands off my eyes and slowly open them. But there's no cave, no woman, no mingly warm shit. Mother Teresa is dead too and only the cold glare of the sun rising on concrete... No, wait, the sun is spitting, and a voice booms from somewhere above, "NOW IS NOT THE TIME TO BECOME AN ASSSHOLE!" This is all too much for our hero who groans, "not even time for sunday morning cartoons yet and this storyline is twisted. I'm going to sleep, damn, back into that cave until breakfast at least."
Suddently, a great rumble became more and more audiable. The world, like a great, multicolored, multi-layered sheet of vivil began to crumple up. From the farthest point in the sky, the corners of dimension collapsed into random folds, one on another until everything great and small crubled louder and faster into a single crunch of mass. Then there was nothing. Silence. Only one spec made up all that was the universe. The point then became a line and the line a square, and the square became a cube and the cube created others. Then the cube grew large untill it seemed to be everything that surrounded the other new objects. The cube then began to slide across time once again, and the symphony began. Inside, they awoke again, for the first time and wondered what was making up everything. He held her hand and she held his and they both looked into each other's eyes and knew they could begin exploring this world anew.
Of course, new world exploration is not something you want to rush into. At least not before your first cup of coffee, and there wouldn't be coffee for another ten bazillion years. Moe said "I'll wait"
Jill looked angrily at Moe. "Wait!?" she said, "you're SO lazy, barely the dawn of time and already postponing your duties!" Jill stormed out of the cave. "Great!" she thought' "the only guy on the whole planet and he turns out to be a loser." She began to walk down by the river to cool off and decide what to do.
"hmm.." Moe thought, "I blew it with the Anastasia girl and now I'm blowing it with this one... WHERE'S THAT COFFEE!?"
But this time things were different. Jill had only taken a few minutes to come to her senses. She walked back up the hill and made Moe a nice hot pot of french roast with real cream and raw sugar on the side. She served it in a Spode cup.
"I see you couldn't find a good silver spoon" observed Moe
Jill was thinking about all the trouble she had gone to trying to force-evolve a civilization for this ungratefull oaf, but she said "Let me see if I can mine some silver and I'll try to have something nice forged for you by morning."
"I also wouldn't mind a little expresso if you think you could manage it. Maybe some butter cookies too?"
Jill felt controlled by some strange force. She couldn't seem to say "no" to this guy. she said "sure"
Moe leaned out from the story and read that part about "not being able to say "no" to this guy."
A grin spread across his newly evolved face. "Oh, honey...." he said as he undid his belt.
Jill saw the look on Moe's face and knew that she would soon be what the English call "rogered roundly", that is, when and if the English evolve this time.
Jill looked to the sky, as if for guidance, and was rewarded with a large splat of blueberry bird poop across her forehead. "This isn't going to be my day" she thought, as she climbed onto Moe's pink pogo-stick.
Up-down-up-down-up-down-up-down-up-down-up-down-up-down-up-down-up-down-up-down-up-down-up-down-up-down-up-down-up-down-up-down-up-down-up-down and Moe moaned.
"There, I'll never do that again. You want some coffee?" Jill was already up and looking for something to wipe her forehead with.
She found an unused diaper and found it super absorbent to the poop. Unfortunitely, she neglected to see the self adhesive strips and soon had a care-bear diaper stuck on her head.