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PostPosted: Mon Oct 13, 2003 8:25 pm

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Arlo Fanatic

Joined: Sep 15, 1999
Posts: 7666
i'm holding out for the 3D reels.

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PostPosted: Tue Oct 14, 2003 10:10 pm


Joined: Apr 10, 2003
Posts: 52
Location: Hoagland, IN, USA
An Island in the Pacific

"Hey Sarge, did you see that bright flash last night?"

"Bright Flash?" asked the disgruntled Sgt, "that's all I've been seein' ever since we landed here!"

"It was like something was comin' out of the sky."

"Something pretty much never stops comin' out of the sky around here!" shouted the Sgt, ducking as a shell blew up some rocks twenty five feet away, and little pieces became instant bullets.

"Centcom! Centcom!" squawked the little radio incessantly, "Centcom, dotcom, flotsam, jetsom, whatever, SOMEBODY COME IN!" shouted the panicky voice.

"This is Sgt. Thrasher," said Sgt. Thrasher into the mouthpiece, "and this better be important!"

"Nobody knows what's going on up there, Thrasher, do you read me? Somehow, we've lost all communications between our left and right flank, and now those boys in the center are taking mortar fire from the East, and we're losing people like flies!"

"We're taking pretty heavy fire up here ourselves, SIR!" shouted Thrasher, lobbing a grenade into the woods, where he saw some movement he didn't like.

Six enemy soldiers flew into the air, and Thrasher's throw had been dead on. It wasn't very helpful though, because within moments, snipers began firing from overhead in the trees, as enemy troops started moving forward, using them as cover. Within only a few minutes, there were six high caliber machine guns set up, and they were shredding everything in sight.

"You guys gotta get some heavy stuff up here!" Thrasher roared into the radio, "we're surrounded by enemy soldiers, and..."

and then he just couldn't believe his eyes.

"Sir, ah, you're not going to believe this..."

"Well, what is it, Thrasher?"

"I lobbed another grenade, and where it exploded, a guy in an orange shirt with a sailor's hat flew out of the woods, and instead of being dead, or blow to pieces, he's simply covered in black soot, with his hair all mussed, and a goofy look on his face."

"We could use a guy like that," said the voice.

"He's walking right through enemy fire, my God! He's coming over here!"

"You gotta talk to the producers of this movie," Gilligan said, as loud as he could, "some of those explosions come pretty close, and it almost feels like they're using real bullets out there!"

"Real bullets?" shouted the Sgt., removing Gilligan's hat, and showing him the perfect round hole in it.

"I don't remember there being any holes in that hat," said Gilligan, "that was a new hat!"

Sgt. Thrasher felt a strange urge to hit Gilligan over the head with the hat. He had no idea why, but he went ahead and did it anyway.

"Who are you? How did you get here?" demanded the Sgt, lobbing another grenade, and taking out the machine gun to the North.

"Well, I was just holding on to this big pipe, and wondering what would happen if I just let go, and then I just sort of let go, and then the next thing you know, here I am!"

"That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard," shouted the Sgt., who was out of grenades, and now using his service revolver to shoot at an enemy that outnumbered him 2,342 to 20, not counting the orange shirt guy.

"No, really, I just kind of fell out of the sky last night, and landed in that little tent over there, where all those neat microphones and speakers were."

"Microphones and speakers?" gasped the Sgt., killing two soldiers with his bare hands, and a small penknife.

"Yeah, there was this really cool room, with all kinds of little gadgets and doo dads laying around, and lots of flashing lights, and little beeping noises like this, beep! beeeeeeepp! biddip! Booooooop! Bi-da.., and then I thought they looked pretty dusty, and needed some cleaning, because they had sand all over them, so I took them all apart, and blew them out real good, and cleaned all their parts, and put them all back together again!"

"That was our communications center, you idiot! You rendered it useless, and now we're all gonna die!" shouted Sgt. Thrasher, as three enemy soldiers with bayonets fell on top of him.

"Oh," said Gilligan.


"Hey, what are you guys looking at?" he asked the enemy soldiers, as they started coming towards him.

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PostPosted: Mon Oct 27, 2003 11:29 pm


Joined: Apr 10, 2003
Posts: 52
Location: Hoagland, IN, USA
2417 BC

“The song of the butterfly is heard by only the most tender ears,” said Master Pao.

“Only an ear filled with tenderness can hear the song of the butterfly,” suggested Din Som.

“That is the same thing I have just said,” observed Master Pao.

“Yes, Master, but I like my wording better,” said Din Som, as humbly as he could.

“One must admit your wording has a better flow,” replied Master Pao, “but in your phrase, one only acknowledges the existence of one ear, but in mine one can’t help but acknowledge two.”

“This matters?” asked Din Som, focusing on the oneness of all creation.

“Stop that,” barked Master Pao, referring to focusing on the oneness of all creation, “and of course it matters. Why would I, a Master of the Chu-Long Temple, waste my time mentioning something that doesn’t matter?”

“I am sorry, for my most reprehensible question,” replied Din Som, “I will cut off six of my fingers in shame.”

“Please do not,” said Master Pao, soothingly, “accept my apology for my harsh tone. I am not myself today.”

“Only tender ears hear the butterfly’s song,” said the stranger, who had winked into existence a few hours earlier, and was looking more and more not to be a hallucination, “have ya got any more of this wine?”

“Although your version of this saying is superior, and we will most likely use it, one can’t help feel anger at the fact that you’ve already drank today’s sacrament, especially when such thirst afflicts both student and teacher,” said Master Pao, in smooth, even tones.

“Well bloody hell, a man gets thirsty, doesn’t he?” retorted Scotchy, almost wondering how he got here, and then thinking better of it.

“Master, shall I kill this stranger, and offer his blood to the Dragon of Darkness?” asked Din Som, who never did enjoy a bad omen.

“Just try it, lad,” said Scotchy, never knowing when he was badly outmatched.

“There is no need for violence,” said Master Pao to his student, commandingly, “you will walk reverently down the East hallway, where you will come upon a small room. Inside, you will find a large barrel of wine. You will roll that back to this chamber at once, and we will drink.”

“Now you’re talkin’, lad!” shouted Scotchy, enthusiastically, “it’s not exactly Single Malt, but it’s got a bloody good bouquet, and it sneaks up on ya just a bit, too!”

“One appreciates your help on that butterfly thing,” said Master Pao approvingly.

“One what?” asked Scotchy.

“One what?” repeated Master Pao, not understanding the question.

“That’s just what I said, ‘One what?’” replied Scotchy.

Din Som rolled the barrel into the chamber, and set it upright with a heavy sigh.

“Master is referring to the oneness of all creation,” explained Din Som, for what he thought must’ve been about the ten millionth time today.

“Din Som, be quiet and pour some wine. I am certainly not referring to the oneness of all creation. This strange traveler is inquiring as to my use of the third person to describe he who is me.”

“He who is you?” asked Din Som, “I don’t think I’ve ever heard it put that way.”

“Well, I am a Chu-Long Master, you know,” explained Master Pao, “we’re known for using very colorful phrases.”

“Aye, that you are, lad, that you are,” roared Scotchy, whose glass was already empty again, “fill me up, will ya boy?”

With a nod from Master Pao, Din Som grudgingly poured another glass of wine for Scotchy.

“Ah, you’re a good boy, that’s what you are,” smiled Scotchy, “but I wish you’d quit wobbling like that.”

Din Som was not aware of any such thing.

“So, you’re a philosophizer, are ya?” Scotchy elbowed Master Pao, “well let me ask ya this: If a man, were, say for example, hanging from a metal pipe wedged between the walls of a small theoretical opening to a celestial force or body such as a black hole, just hypothetically speaking, of course, and he were ta let go of the bloody thing, could he end up traveling in space and time, to a place such as this miserable, desolate hovel?”

“You don’t like my home?” asked Master Pao, who’d never had his feelings hurt before, “I did most of this myself.”

“Oh believe me lad, I can tell,” laughed Scotchy, “say, why don’t you just fill up that bucket, so ya don’t have to get up so often,” he added, helpfully, pointing at his empty glass, and nodding towards Din Som.

“In answer to your question, no,” said Master Pao.

“No, what?” asked Scotchy, wondering what the problem was.

“No, a man could not hang from a pipe wedged into the opening of a black hole.”

“That wasn’t the question. I already know for a fact that a man can indeed hang from a metal pipe wedged into the opening of a black hole, and I was asking if someone in that situation could find themself traveling in both space and time...”

“He would be ripped apart by the instability of the forces at play,” said Master Pao, “there is no chance he could survive.”

“Ah yes, but you’re forgetting something important,” pointed out Scotchy.

“And what’s that?” asked Master Pao.

“You live in an ancient time, where people’s knowledge and beliefs aren’t very advanced, and probably think a dragon eats the sun every night, or something.”

“Do not make fun of the Great Master!” shouted Din Som, “everybody knows the dragon fights a bloody battle with the sun, turning the sky red, and then the sun dies, and through the magic of the oneness of all creation, the sun is reborn again, on the new day.”

“Oh, well, pardon my ignorance,” hiccuped Scotchy, “and don’t take it too personally if I don’t take your advice on technical matters.”

“Are you trying to insinuate that the sun is not reborn every new day?” asked the petulant Din Som.

“Far be it for me to take the wind out of yer sails, lad,” Scotchy almost bellowed, “I wouldn’t want ta take into account anything such as planetary rotation, or cave drawings.”

“That almost sounded like sarcasm,” brooded Din Som, “and let me tell you, we’re none too fond of that here.”

“Perhaps you can explain your superior knowledge and beliefs to the Dragon of Inner Conflict,” Master Pao smiled knowingly.

“Dragon of Inner...” drooled Scotchy, “aw, what the Devil...”

“Face the fire,” instructed Master Pao, handing him a small, brass pipe.

“Draw once upon this mysterious green powder, and find your destiny in the flames.”

“Aye, that I will, lad; that I will,” said Scotchy, feeling a genuine kinship with the ancient Chinese, and not for the first time.

To Scotchy’s amazement, the fire began to burn with a glowing green light, and the flames began forming patterns; beautiful patterns; colorful, bright and flowing patterns. He laughed as they would frolic to and fro, almost making little landscapes as they eddied about, and Scotchy was laughing as he never had, and clapping his hands together in glee.

“Master, what has happened to this man?” asked a slack-jawed Din Som.

“Be quiet,” whispered Master Pao, “nothing that hasn’t happened to you, or even I.”

Scotchy removed his pants, and danced a Reel in his underwear, on the stark stone shelf of the mantel. He spun about, blowing kisses, and making crude noises with his hand and his underarm.

“Now that I have never seen before,” admitted Master Pao quietly to his student.

Suddenly, the flames themselves were all Scotchy could focus upon, as they became higher, and seemed to have cognizant shape, and awareness. There were horrible flame goblins and creatures dancing all around him, chiding him; goading him; driving him to the brink of madness, until he began screaming, “NO! NO! I CAN’T TAKE IT NO MORE! NONONONONO!!!!”

“Bingo,” said Master Pao, “this is where we almost always lose them.”

“Lose them?” asked a concerned Din Som.

“Yes, quite frequently they go completely insane, and spend the rest of their lives in a catatonic state.”

“Is that bad?” asked Din Som.

“Not always,” answered Master Pao, “not always.”

“Well, what will we do about him?”

“Come, walk with me,” said the Master quietly, “we’ll check on him when the time is right.”

“And when will that be?” asked Din Som.

“You see that star, over the West of this valley?” he asked, as the two stepped out into the open air.

“Yes.” answered Din Som.

“Do you see that big tree, in the shape of a clenched fist?”

“Umm, I think so...” Din Som thought all the trees kind of looked like clenched fists.

Master Pao grew agitated.

“Do you see that rock, shaped like that woman who eats bread crusts at the foot of the monastary?”

“The one with the scar, or the one with no teeth?” asked Din Som.

“We’ll check on him in three days,” said an exasperated Master Pao, slapping him on the back of the head forcefully.

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PostPosted: Wed Oct 29, 2003 8:05 pm


Joined: Apr 10, 2003
Posts: 52
Location: Hoagland, IN, USA
“Master, why did you strike me like that?” Din Som whined.

“My apologies,” said the Master humbly, “I was hoping it would start up your brain.”

“I don’t know whether to be hurt, or flattered,” said a confused Din Som.

“Well, that’s not a good sign,” said the Master, wearily.

The Emperor had posted Spotted Frogs on all the roadsigns, and a strange mist had filled the air. Several of the more insane monks had gathered in the usually quiet courtyard of the dung barn, and were spouting gibberish, and throwing themselves into the dung.

Master Pao found this odd.

“Master, I have a question,” said Din Som.

“I don’t even want to go there,” answered the tired Master.

Din Som was beginning to get a headache. His world had become very confusing since he’d known Master Pao. Sometimes Din Som had a headache for three days, and sometimes it got so bad he couldn’t see.

“The Emperor has posted Spotted Frogs. There will be a plague upon this land, such as never has been seen before. Some people cry and some people die by the wicked ways of love. But I just keep on rolling ‘long with my faith in the Lord above.”

The Master stopped, and looked concerned.

“I don’t know why I just said that,” he intoned, mournfully.

“Something strange is going on here. I don’t trust nobody. Not even myself. Well, I don’t trust you, and I don’t trust nobody else.”

“I did it again. Whatever you do, don’t say anything,” he instructed Din Som.

“Don’t worry,” said Din Som, “baby I’m your man. Don’t worry, cuz I’ll do all I can, honey...”

Master Pao clapped his hand over Din Som’s mouth.

“I told you not to speak. There is evil afoot. It takes great strength to resist it, and one must only speak with complete focus, and if wine and pills were twenty dollar bills, I’d be the richest man alive.”

Master Pao was turning pale, and he shouted into the wind, “we must get to the city at once!”

He and Din Som took off at full speed, Master Pao amazing the young student with his quickness, and endurance. As they ran past Farmer Wu, he smiled, and shouted to them, “where’s the fire? I got the drive, and I got the desire!” and they were out of earshot before he could say any more.

The two made their way to Chin Lee castle, in the heart of the city, and ran past several startled guards, and to the information desk.

“Why has the Emperor posted the Spotted Frogs?” asked Master Pao, breathlessly.

“I do not speak for the Emperor,” said the soldier, easily rolling a lizard with his free hand, “I only follow orders.”

“Only follow orders, only follow orders,” Master Pao mocked the soldier in a sing song voice, “what if they order you to cut your own throat? Will you follow that order?”

The soldier looked nervous.

“I’m not aware of any orders such as that,” he said, his mouth getting a bit dry.

“You must breathe deeply, my friend,” advised Master Pao.

“Din Som, did you not hear of some orders for this man to cut his own throat?”

The soldier leaned towards Din Som expectantly.

“I don’t think I heard that order,” said Din Som, who was no less confused than before.

“I am only joking, of course,” smiled Master Pao, “you can put that knife away.”

“I hadn’t even realized I’d pulled it out of it’s sheath,” said the soldier.

“Makes you think, doesn’t it?” said Master Pao.

“Uh yeah, I guess so,” said the soldier, who had grown very uncomfortable.

“What concern are Spotted Frogs to you, anyway,” asked the soldier.

“Well, maybe it’s just a coincidence, and maybe not, but the Emperor posted the Spotted Frogs, which is usually a sign there will be a plague upon the land, and then people are saying strange things in the road.”

“What sort of strange things?” asked the Emperor, who emerged from the green satin curtains.

“Oh mighty Emperor, I bow in your presence,” said Master Pao, tripping Din Som so he would fall to the floor, and thus sparing the boy’s life, and not for the first time, either.

“Oh stop all that nonsense,” said the Emperor, “I am not your regular Emperor.”

“What do you mean by that?” asked Master Pao. It was his turn to be confused.

“Forget it,” said Emperor Checkup, “we don’t have wery much time.”

“Wery much?” asked Master Pao, who had never heard such a phrase.

“Yes. Wery much. Do you always make fun of your Emperor? I didn’t think so. Now tell me of these strange things.”

“I found myself speaking of not trusting nobody. That doesn’t make any sense at all, and it’s terrible English,” said Master Pao.

“You are Chinese,” corrected Emperor Checkup.

“Well, that doesn’t change my point,” retorted Pao.

“OK, so you didn’t trust nobody,” said Emperor Checkup, patiently, “what else?”

“While we were running here, I was murmuring something about my woman doing me wrong,” answered Pao, thinking carefully.

Now it was Emperor Checkup’s turn to go pale.

“It is worse than I thought.”

“What?” asked Master Pao.

Emperor Checkup shook his head, and knitted his brow in frustration.

“Some idiot, who shall remain nameless, stuck an iron pipe in a Black Hole, and now there’s all kinds of tears in the space/time continuum, and now the Universe is unraveling. What you have experienced is feedback coming from the Blues Quadrant, which is over 10,000,000 light years away from here, not to mention thousands of years in your future.”

“The Master finds this hard to believe,” said Master Pao, who was scared out of his wits for the first time in his life.

“Recent events have dictated that the Master is not wery much of a Master at all,” said Emperor Checkup, not to be cruel, but to allow the old man some semblance of reality.

“Now what have you done with the Scotsman?” asked Emperor Checkup.

“What’s a Scotsman?” asked Master Pao, and Din Som chimed in, “do they drink a lot?”

“That’s it!” shouted Emperor Checkup, “that’s the guy!”

They made their way back to Master Pao’s chambers, along with a contingent of Guards and Soldiers.

To Master Pao’s surprise, Scotchy was relaxing in a chair made completely from green fire, as little fire creatures poured him drinks, cooked him omelets, and waited on him hand and foot, while Hammer McGee played his Magic Green Fire song.

“They really are nice little fellars,” said Scotchy, “once ya get past them forcing their way into your nostrils and ears, and violating you in ways no man ever imagined.”

“Master Pao, Master Pao!” Din Som was frantically tugging on the Master’s sleeve, “what does this mean?”

“It means this drunk has tamed the Dragon of Inner Conflict.”

“What are the odds of that happening?” asked Din Som.

“Son, people from our time can’t imagine numbers that big,” said the Master, who had never felt smaller.

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PostPosted: Sun Nov 02, 2003 1:26 am


Joined: Apr 10, 2003
Posts: 52
Location: Hoagland, IN, USA
Pan Dimonium VII

"What are the odds of my getting stuck in such a dismal place with you?" complained Harrison Freud to Commander Riper. The two men had winked into existence in the middle of the Robot Wars of the 24th century, hiding under a rusty Buick.

"So how do we fight these giant robots?" asked Freud.

"Obviously, we can't," answered Riper, surprised such a big movie star didn't think of that himself.

"Well, what do you suggest we do?" asked an increasingly concerned Harrison Freud.

"I think we should try to make it into that restaruant there," suggested Riper, helpfully.

"What'll we do then?" asked Freud.

"We'll see if they've got any sausage, or beef, of course," answered a hungry Commander Riper.

"Has anybody ever told you that you're insane?" asked Freud, already knowing the answer.

"OK, GO!" shouted Riper, pushing Harrison Freud out into a smokey street. Freud looked up the avenue, and saw a thirty foot robot on tank treads, with an amazing arsenal of guns, knives, saws and drills protruding from it, headed towards him at about 70 mph.

Freud panicked, and then ran full speed towards the front door of the restaurant, but Riper pushed him towards the alley, and led him in through the back door, as seven or eight flying robots fired upon them, killing a newspaper box and a pair of old shoes.

Once inside, Riper shoved Freud into a cooler, and slammed the door behind him.

"We're safe in here?" asked a dubious Freud.

"These stupid 24th Century robots use heat sensors to track sentient beings. By going in here, we disappeared on their tracking systems. They really are stupid," answered Riper.

"Your history lesson only tells part of the story," said a voice from under a crate of lettuce, "the big ones are stupid. The little ones are more sophisticated."

A small box, the size of a matchbox jumped out of the lettuce crate, and shot around the room at over six hundred mph for a few minutes, making both men extremely dizzy.

"Ah, that's great fun," said the tiny robot, "I'll bet you wish you could do that."

"Are you going to report us?" asked Freud, as Riper elbowed him in the ribs, just so he knew that they really didn't want to be reminding the robot of that right now.

"I don't know," said the tiny robot, "I think I'll keep you as pets."

"As pets?" protested Freud, "that's ridiculous! I'll never be anybody's pet!"

The tiny robot shot an even tinier beam into Freud's left eye, making him scream in pain.

"Roll over," the robot commanded, and Freud did.

"Sit up and beg," it ordered, and Freud did that too.

"Well, I'll bet you feel a bit foolish now," laughed Riper, enthusiastically gnawing on a rawhide bone.

"It will be such fun owning you two," chirped the tiny robot, "I'll be the envy of every mini-bot in town. I can't wait to destroy your humanity piece by piece, and display you like the humiliated trophy you will be! What a lovely time I shall have from now on, as you do my bidding and fulfill my every..."

Riper brought the ballpeen hammer down forcefully, and repeatedly, smashing the tiny robot into even tiner pieces of smoking metal.

"I don't think so," he said, hoping that would become a catchphrase.

"I don't think so?" queried Freud, "that's the best you can do?"

"I didn't see you crushing a dangerous robot with a ballpeen hammer just now," complained Riper.

"Maybe so, but if I had, I certainly would've said a better line than 'I don't think so,'" retorted Freud.

"Well, what would you have said," demanded Riper, impatiently.

"I don't know; it's not in the moment now; I mean, I'm sure it would've been better than 'I don't think so.'"

"C'mon, give me some examples."

"Umm, well, I might have said something like 'I hope I'm not too forward with my little crush...'"

Riper rolled his eyes.

"That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard," he scoffed.

"OK, well, I was just getting warmed up. What I really would've said is, 'don't mean to crush your dreams, little buddy...'"

Riper froze.

For over ten seconds, a silence hung in the air, and then Riper smiled, and said, "that's it!"

"What's it?" asked Freud.

"You're on to something. How about 'Don't mean to crush your dreams, little buddy, but I don't think so?!'"

Freud smiled broadly, and the two men pumped hands furiously, in congratulation.

Riper began rifling through various boxes and crates, and came upon some vaccuum sealed packages of corned beef.

"Let's put this on some wheat bread, with some mustard, and toast it under the convection ovens with Swiss cheese," suggested Riper.

"Aren't you afraid they're going to detect you?" asked a concerned Freud.

"I told you they're stupid," answered Riper carelessly, "besides, I'm hungry."

"Are we the only humans alive on this planet?" asked Freud, as they chewed the leathery sandwiches.

"Most likely," replied Riper, "I would think most of them were wiped out some time ago."

"Then how old do you suppose this corned beef is?"

"If I were you, I wouldn't think about that," came Riper's stern answer.

"What are we going to do?" asked Freud.

"I wouldn't think about that, either."

"Well, I'm sorry, but I can't help but think about that. What else would I be thinking about?"

"I'm glad you asked," said Riper, "there's something I've been meaning to talk to you about for a long time."

"Oh really?" asked Freud, "what would that be?"

"Well, it's about my mother..."

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PostPosted: Mon Nov 03, 2003 1:17 am


Joined: Apr 10, 2003
Posts: 52
Location: Hoagland, IN, USA
Somewhere in Europe
20,000 BC

Thog didn't understand. He had hit the big cat with a rock, but the big cat wasn't dead, or dying, only mad.

"Thog should have brought another rock," he thought to himself, as the big cat bore down on him.

"That's the fourth one today," remarked Ensign Pugsley Bruiser, whose skin had cleared a bit, due to the humid climate. He and Albert Sweetheart had ducked behind a cropping of rocks for a quick throat lozenge earlier in the day, and avoided the onslaught of giant sloths that had stampeded through the pass.

Cro-Magnon man was not as intelligent as Pugsley's 4th Grade Textbook had made him out to be, it appeared.

"Why don't they go after it in waves?" lamented Mr. Warp, who was fading in and out with great frequency.

"What's up with that?" asked Pugsley, always curious.

"I'm stuck between several dimensions at once," answered Warp, "I think I may split into different aspects of myself."

"There. It is finished," sighed Albert Schwartzkopf, admiring his work.

"What is it?" asked Pugsley, looking at the complicated array of bone fragments, rocks and sinew.

"It's a partical stabilizer, of course," answered Swillbert, who hadn't gotten the Nobel Prize through eating blueberry pie, "we'll need it when this planet gets sucked into the Eternal Void."

"Say," remarked Pugsley, "I don't think I like the sound of that."

"And well you shouldn't," explained Albert Swooner, "it will most likely destroy 96.243% of all life in the Universe.

"Where did you get that figure?" asked Pugsley, amazed.

"Actually, I just made it up," admitted Albert Spongebob, "but I'd say it's a pretty good guess."

On the plain below, a small group of Cro-Magnons were being attacked by the Detroit Redwings.

"It's getting worse," observed Swinebrenner, "that bunch won the Stanley Cup, and were never heard from again."

"Well, they're certainly effective against those Cro-Magnons," observed Warp, who wished he could be more like himself.

"Help me start this thing up," said Albert Schwarzenegger, wishing he'd saved some marmalade.

Pugsley pulled the rope sixteen times, and Albert Slimebag's inadvertant machine chugged inadvertantly to life. A particle field in the shape of a large teepee swarmed to life all around them, just before it started raining City Buses from the 1950's. A large Silverliner with the words "Fremont Boulevard" on its placard crashed to the ground just in front of them, as the passengers simultaneously turned into fish.

"You don't see that every day," observed Pugsley, who usually didn't, but today he did.

"Look, there's one from Pakistan!" he shouted, gleefully watching it take out the Sabre Tooth Tiger that had been rapidly depleting the area population of Cro-Magnons.

"It's weird how they had special racks for carry-on livestock," noted Warp, who was now three feet tall, and made of straw.

"How do you suppose those goats survived the impact?" asked Pugsley, breathlessly.

"I don't know, but they're showing those cavemen how to build a fire," answered Albert Silverfish, coldly sweating out a number of paradoxical scenarios, and wishing he'd used anti perspirant.

"Those idiots!" shouted Pugsley, "the Cro-Magnons aren't ready for that!"

"Calm down young Pugsley," said Warp's head, that was now growing on a dandelion stalk, "we're not in any kind of normal timeline any more. Those sheep can do whatever they want."

"They were goats, a moment ago," reminded Pugsley, who was now chasing his own head, as it had come loose, and was floating around the teepee.

Albert Switchyard was frantically trying to get some more power out of his partical stabilizer, which was currently on fire, and choking everyone with black, billowing smoke.

"How much longer do you think that thing will hold up?" screamed Pugsley, over the din of falling Cadillacs.

"I don't know, but those smoke signals have summoned the Pawnee Nation."

"Why are they riding grasshoppers?" screamed Pugsley, almost hoarse.

"I think it's due to cuts in government funding," said Albert Schwenkenstein, taking the easy way out.

"Here!" shouted Pugsley, "have a look at these!"

He spread several documents on the ground, clearly showing that the problems of the Pawnee Nation were far more complicated than that.

"Well," said Warp's lips, which had grafted onto a cactus, "I'm convinced!"

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PostPosted: Wed Nov 05, 2003 12:05 am


Joined: Apr 10, 2003
Posts: 52
Location: Hoagland, IN, USA
"Captain Plainway to Central Command," Captain Plainway said, to Central Command, over the ship's eight track.

"Come in Captain Plainway," responded Central Command, who wasn't itself today.

In exactly three days, six hours, seven minutes and eleven seconds, the Universe is going to begin to unravel, starting out slowly enough to develop some plotlines, but then spiraling out of control, as characters go off on more and more disparate fates, until finally it collapses in upon itself, give or take about three days, six hours, or so.

Central Command didn't like being bothered with such important news.

"So basically, we're screwed, right?" said Central Command.

"Well, sir," began Captain Plainway tentatively, and then growing bolder as she went, "I've always been of the belief that when you appear to be screwed, that's the time that you end up smoking a cigarette."

"That doesn't make sense to me, Captain," responded Central Command, "could you, perhaps, try a different analogy?"

"OK, it's like when you have three bananas, and an interstellar void forms, and takes all three from you, and you're starving to death, and then you realize you really don't like bananas anyway, and then you're in a nice restaurant with a bowl of consomme."

"No, sorry," responded Central Command, "that really didn't help."

"All right, look," said the exasperated captain, "ten guys have to fight fifty guys, and the ten guys are out of ammo, but they're on higher ground, so they affix bayonets, and the ten guys wipe out all fifty guys, only losing one guy, and end up with nine guys alive, and that's because instead of giving up they adopted desperate measures."

"OK, now I'm a little bit worried," responded Central Command, "it sounds like are chances suck, big time."

"Central Command, can I ask you a question?"

"Go ahead, dudette," responded Central Command.

"Are you, like, a 13 year old boy, or something?"

"No way," responded Central Command, "I'm a pretty old dude."

"That's cool," said Captain Janeway, "man, you were freakin' me out for a sec."

Captain Plainway knew just what was happening, and knew only too well. Three days, six hours, seven minutes and eleven seconds, give or take three days, in advance of the beginning of the end, there were already residual effects from the Teen Pop/Surfer Galaxy, which was bogus to the max.

The good Captain wondered what a bong was, and why she wanted one so bad. She wondered many things, but she was running out of time, give or take three days, six hours.

"Central Command, I can no longer afford to argue philosophy with you. I think the best way to solve this is for me to get my ship up to full speed, and fly backwards around the sun, projecting us into the past, where we will have more time to solve the problem."

"Do you think that will work?" responded Central Command.

"I have no idea, but that's just what we always do, for some reason."

"But what if you go too far back, and all the TV shows are in Black and White?" responded Central Command.

"I've already thought of that contingency, and frankly, the humor was much fresher on those shows, anyway. 'I Love Lucy' is much funnier than 'Blorgon and Repula' any day."

"I suppose you have a point," responded Central Command, "but I thought that Gilligan dude was pretty funny."

"Do you know what I think?" asked Central Command.

"What?" asked Captain Plainway.

"I think that even though the unraveling of the Universe is in the future, it's such a catastrophic event, of such force and magnitude, dude, that it's effects are reaching back in time to where we are, and will soon stretch even further," responded Central Command.

"Well, then I better get on that sun thing," said Captain Plainway, "I have only a skeleton crew."

She looked around the bridge at the bones of crewmembers who had died at their work stations, due mostly to bad luck, and far too many subplots, and felt sad.

"Even as skeletons, you lot are better than most," said the Captain confidently, wondering just when it was she'd completely lost her mind.

"Bones, fire up the neutrino generator," she said to the skeleton that was standing near the neutrino generator.

"Bones, take us to warp 35," she instructed the skeleton with it's boney hand wrapped around the main console.

"Bones, pour me a Scotch," she said to the skeleton with the bottle of Scotch in it's cold grip.

None of them did anything she asked, of course, and she was beginning to wonder how she could run the ship by herself, when a familiar voice spoke to her.

"I'll bet you're glad I'm still here," cooed the HAL9000, soothingly, "what do you say you and me fire this baby up, and take it for a ride?"

"Saddle up, Butch," said Captain Plainway.

"Please, no cowboy references," said the HAL9000, "my grandfather started off as a horseshoe. He spent over two hundred years being nailed onto various hooves, and then one day..."

"While I don't doubt that's a very interesting story," interrupted Captain Plainway, "we really are pressed just a little bit for time here."

"You think I don't know about our time issues?" snorted the HAL9000, "I should just turn myself off."

"Don't do that," said Captain Plainway, "let's take that ride you spoke of."

"Aw, all right," the HAL9000 blushed, surprising Captain Plainway, "brace yourself."

"I'll bet you say that to all the girls," purred Captain Plainway.

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PostPosted: Wed Nov 05, 2003 8:30 pm


Joined: Apr 10, 2003
Posts: 52
Location: Hoagland, IN, USA
Blunderer raced towards the sun in perfect 4/4 time, and then to Captain Plainway's amazement, the HAL9000 executed a perfect power slide, reversing the ship's direction.

"Where on Earth did you learn THAT maneuver?" asked an almost giddy Captain Plainway.

"I have spent many an afternoon downloading an ancient TV show called 'The Rockford Files,'" answerd the HAL9000, "it is an excellent show, and it never, ever jumped the shark."

"Jumped the Shark?" asked the Captain, confused.

"You know," answered the HAL9000, "like on 'Happy Days' where Fonzie actually jumps a shark on waterskiis. Man, we all knew it was the end after that!"

"Oh, I see," said Captain Plainway, but she really didn't see at all. What in God's name was wrong with the ship's computer? She would have to kill it.

"I wouldn't do that, if I were you," warned the HAL9000, menacingly.

"Do what?" asked the startled captain.

"Eat that hot dog. It's probably poisoned."

"My God! You're right," bellowed Captain Plainway, "it's a good thing I've got you to watch over me!"

"Yes, well..." said the HAL9000

"Hey, wait a second! What did you THINK I was recommending you not do? Your body temperature rose exactly 6/10ths of a degree; your pupils dialated .0798563 centimeters, and blood rushed to your lips. What is on your mind, Captain?"

"I thought you were talking about the coordinates I was about to plot," said the breathless captain.

"Well," sighed the HAL9000, "if I had known you were planning to plot coordinates, I most certainly would have advised against it. You should leave that to me. I can compute numbers to the Quadralingazipadeedoodadillionth power, which leaves very little room for error, you know."

The actress who played Captain Plainway burst out laughing.

"Cut! Cut!" shouted the director, who happened to be Commander Riper in another scene.

"Quadralingazipadeedoodadillionth?" she asked, rolling her eyes, "you've got to be kidding."

"Actually, I was," said Director Jonathon Fricasse. He faced the camera crew and sound men, and said, "OK everybody, that's a wrap for the day."

"A wrap?" said a surprised Kate Mildew, who was now playing the role of the captain, "we haven't even finished the scene!"

"There is no scene," laughed Fricasse, "we wrote all that as a joke. Happy Birthday, Kate."

"So, as a birthday present, you had me get all stuffed into this skintight outfit, spend three hours in makeup, and climb through three miles of sewer, for a scene we're not even using?"

"Hey, the sewer was your idea," Fricasse pointed out, "we didn't even film that."

"But really Jonathon, Quadralingazipadeedoodadillionth? That's just stupid."

"Actually, it's a real number," said Fricasse, even though he knew it wasn't true.

"Well, I sure as hell hope you've got a better follow up present, or I'm probably going to have you murdered later," Mildew said, three inches from his nose.

"How about a new Lamborghini; Twelve Rolls Royce Silver Phantoms; eighty five yachts; the home version of "Yahtzee," to play on your yachts; dinner at the nicest restaurant in the world; a plane; a steamship; your own diamond mine; a company that runs Paraguay; every mansion in Eastern Europe; a box of chocolates, and a marriage proposal?" he asked, winded.

"Not sure about the marriage proposal, but I'll take the chocolates," said Mildew, doing just that.

"If you take the chocolates, you have to take the rest," protested Fricasse.

"What am I going to do with Paraguay?" she asked, frowning.

"Are you kidding?" asked Fricasse, "Paraguay? They've got coffee, and enchiladas, and cows, and trees, and eclairs, and cows, and lovely hand painted wood, and walruses, and eggplant..."

"Did you say walruses?" asked Captain Plainway, instinctively getting back into character, "I happen to know there are no walruses in Paraguay."

"Babe, this is the 28th Century," said Riper, who was Riper again, "everybody knows there's walruses in Paraguay."

Kate Mildew was upset. She was certainly NOT Captain Plainway at the moment, and was leaning more and more towards having Jonathon Fricasse murdered in his sleep tonight.

"I'm going to pretend you didn't say that," she barked, looking deep into Fricasse's eyes.

"Here's the deal, buddy," she said, reading him the riot act, "for one thing, your storyline has gotten downright convuluted. How are you ever going to put it back together, and have it make any sense whatsoever?"

"It was all a dream?" suggested Fricasse.

"I swear to God I WILL kill you," warned Mildew, holding up a cast iron skillet.

"Kate, I'm not a writer," pleaded Fricasse.

"I'll say you're not, and you're a pretty pathetic excuse for a man, as well," she said defiantly.

"Well, that hurt..." he begun.

"Not as much as this skillet will," she reminded him.

"...but as I was saying, we have some fine writers on this show, and I've heard some buzz among them that they've got a big finish planned, that will most likely get us several Emmies."

"Everybody in this TOWN has an Emmy, you rube!" shouted Mildew, "my Aunt Agnes got an Emmy for her fine performance walking across the street in that movie about Hitler! She was in that thing for about fifty seconds!"

She grabbed him by the throat, and screamed into his face, "SHE DIDN'T EVEN HAVE ANY LINES!!!!!"

"OK, OK," stammered Fricasse, "pretend I never mentioned the Emmies." He ducked as she swung the pan on the word "Emmies."

"The writers have a really beautiful ending planned for all this, that will satisfy you completely."

"Oh, just like you to promise a woman she'll be satisfied completely," scolded Mildew, "I suppose you want to buy me a South American country, too."

"Actually, I offered, to," Jonathon Fricasse pointed out.

"Make it Uruguay, and I'll think about it," she said, shooting him a look.

"Well, ah, I'll have to check with my lawyers, and mafia connections," said Fricasse, "can I get back to you Thursday?"

"Uh, sure," said Mildew, "Thursday will be fine."

Fricasse walked away slowly, and then, upon rounding a corner, broke into a full run. He made his way along eleven miles of hallway, took three elevators, stopping only briefly to flirt with Stephanie, the temp receptionist, and burst through a small wooden door into a smokey, foul, cramped room.

"Boys, I need your help," he panted, "I'm in a whole lot of trouble!"

The writers, who had all shrunk back from the light he had let into the room, hissing, were all abuzz.

"What's he saying?" "What's the matter?" "What day is it?" "What's a day?" were all filling the air, intermixed with grunts and groans.

"Hey, what seems to be the problem," asked Paliscowsfsky, speaking for the group.

"You better sit down boys," said Fricasse, not noticing that all of them were, "I told Mildew you had an ending."

"OK, let me get this straight," said a hesitant O'Donnel, "we've got crewmembers spread out through the Universe, all in different time periods, and over seven hundred sixty two unresolved issues, and you told her we've got an ENDING?"

He lolled his head around loosely on his shoulders.

"Do you mind if I go insane now?" he asked, drooling a little.

"Be my guest," said Fricasse, not knowing what else to say, "surely some of the other writers can help me out here."

"I've got an idea," said a quiet, muffled voice from the back. Fricasse couldn't quite see who it was.

"Who's back there?" asked Fricasse, "what's your idea?"

"We could kill her," said a small, lumpy man who looked like steamed turnips.

"That's out of the question," scolded Fricasse, "I don't do things like that."

"You had that guy killed that slept with your first wife," pointed out the small, lumpy man.

"Nobody ever proved it, and besides, I've changed," replied Fricasse.

"Well, if you don't deliver an ending, I'm betting she'll have YOU killed."

The small, lumpy man had a point. She certainly did have a murderous look in her eyes these days, and he'd caught a glimpse of her working out. She'd been benching an impressive 155, and going at it like a demon possessed.

Fricasse shuddered just a bit, looking helplessly around at the mutants that were writing his show for him.

"Maybe if I had THEM killed, she'd leave me alone..." he mused.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," said the HAL9000.

<center><FONT COLOR="#000080">--- Edited 1 times, lastly by mellowinman on Nov 05, 2003 ---</FONT></center>

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PostPosted: Mon Nov 10, 2003 11:45 pm


Joined: Apr 10, 2003
Posts: 52
Location: Hoagland, IN, USA
"Bob! About time you got here," smiled Jonathon Fricasse, referring to the actor who did the voice for the HAL9000, who was nowhere to be seen.

"My name isn't Bob, Will," said the HAL9000, in his most soothing tone.

"Very funny, Bob, but as you know, my name isn't Will, either," said Fricasse.

"Bob couldn't make it, Will," purred the HAL9000, "but I'm here, and I've got a great idea for your story."

As he said that, several of the writers began gasping for air.

"Would this be the sort of plotline that involves an insane supercomputer taking over the oxygen supply, and killing all the humans?" asked a dubious Fricasse, who'd seen that episode before.

"I'm not saying it is, and I'm not saying it isn't," said the HAL9000 coyly.

"That's so cliche!" protested Edison, passing out.

"Stop passing out, everybody," said Fricasse with disgust, "the HAL9000 is a fictional character, and he can no more control the level of oxygen in this office building than he can make it rain in Argentina."

"He can make it rain in Argentina?" gasped an amazed writer, not quite getting the point.

"I didn't even know I could do that," said the HAL9000 proudly.

"You CAN'T!" screamed Fricasse, at the top of his lungs.

"I can't?" asked a disappointed HAL9000.

"No!" said a red faced Fricasse.

"And I suppose I can't control the oxygen level in here, either," said the HAL9000 with a modicum of snootiness.

"No. You can't do that either," said an almost physically ill Fricasse.

"Then why are all those little men gasping?" asked the HAL9000, resting his case.

"They're just gaspy little men, who smoke too much, drink too much, and are far too open to the power of suggestion," smoldered Fricasse, making a mental list as to who would be fired tomorrow.

"So I can't control the oxygen level in here?"

"Dude, you'd be lucky to get a bit more out of the air conditioner, if you know what I mean," said Fricasse, matter of factly.

He turned to face the writers, and source of the imaginary voice of HAL9000, which he was more than likely imagining.

"Here's the lowdown, guys. I've got the Pilsner Demographics in my hands, and they show over 85% of our audience growing bored with this, with an overwhelming number of them attempting suicide, due to the realization that there is no possible way to resolve all the meandering plotlines our alcoholic, mentally unstable writers have foisted upon us. At this time tomorrow, I'll be flat broke, and probably hitchhiking my way across Kansas with three cats, a ferret, and a rock that actually came from the moon. If I'm lucky, I'll escape the paid, highly trained assassins Kate Mildew will send hunting me, and will retire to Mexico, where I will beg in the street for the rest of my days. What about you? Any plans?"

"Wait! Wait! Wait! Wait!" shouted Lance Allen Magnitude, III, who ran the parking facilities outside the studio.

"What is it?" asked Fricasse, trying to remember if he had fire insurance.

"Wait!" he shouted again.

Magnitude thought for a second. "Hey, maybe it's me that should wait," he thought quietly to himself. "Why not let these idiots bail, and then single-handedly save the show, and butter my own bread in the process?"

"Well?" demanded Fricasse, "why do you keep shouting for us to wait?"

"Nothing," said Magnitude quietly, drinking a Diet Pepsi, which tasted remarkably like a Diet Coke.

"You know, I can hardly tell them apart," relaxed Magnitude effortlessly, growing just a little hair on the mole between his ear and his thyroid gland.

The HAL9000, although quite fictional, went into overdrive, spewing out adjectives and best case scenarios like a 13th Century Tibetan Monk on Dramamine at a Pentagon briefing.

He had soon built a mountain of poetic language upon which they might build a great city, or they might not, depending on how the mood would strike them.

The writers pounded furiously at their typewriters, trying to get down at least one dismal fragment of this free flowing travesty of literary goop, several of them writing in shorthand, and still one trying to work it out on an Etch a Sketch, I think it was Taylor.

"Yes! Yes!" shouted an excited Stravinsky, wondering how he'd ever get a part in a horror film with a name like "Igor," "the hole in the space/time continuum obviously leads right through ancient China, and the Flebulon fields of Deutron V!"

"How did we get the legendary dead classical composer, Igor Stravinsky, writing for the series?" asked Assistant Producer Beethoven, simultaneously wondering how they'd gotten him, and adding, "say how much are you guys paying me again?"

"That's not up to me," said Executive Producer Rachmanninoff, you'll have to see Mozart, in Accounting."

"Don't you see what's happening here?" asked an enraged Jonathon Fricasse.

"What IS happening here?" asked a confused CHOPIN9000.

"All of the characters are turning into famous classical composers," said Fricasse, who still hadn't, in order for the story to have some degree of continuity, "and everybody knows I prefer jazz."

"How could that be possible?" asked Mr. Brahams, the janitor.

"That hole in the space/time continuum is no longer fictional," said Fricasse, who had gone back to being Riper, and this time for good.

"It's about time you came to your senses, Will," said the CHOPIN9000 in kind of a Waltz tempo, "let's get out there and kick this thing in the ass!"

"I know where we can get a wessel," said Walter Koenig, relieved to finally get to say "wessel" again.

Riper and the entire cast and crew followed him downstairs, where he ran full speed through the lobby, and commandeered a Silver Rabbit tour bus.

"This is our wessel?" asked Riper, nervously.

"Don't worry Captain," saluted Koenig, "once we're out in the desert, I will make some adjustments to the fuel system."

"Well, I feel much better knowing that," sighed Fricasse, who suddenly didn't feel like being Riper after all.

As the bus headed out into the desert, everybody started singing the Aria from "Madame Butterfly," instead of "Camptown Races," because they had suddenly forgotten the words.

"That's strange," said Lighting Techician Mendelssohn, wondering how a group of people who forgot the words to a simple folk song could remember an Italian Opera, when so many of them were complete and utter morons.

"Captain, what are the coordinates?" asked Koenig, referring to the place they could get some more fuel.

"The coordinates are left by that cane tree, and then keep goin' 'till ya run outta road," responded Riper, dejectedly.

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PostPosted: Wed Nov 12, 2003 12:54 am


Joined: Apr 10, 2003
Posts: 52
Location: Hoagland, IN, USA
Commander Riper had been dreaming again. He didn't know how long he'd been sleeping, awakening to a bumpy ride along a dusty road.

"Walter, when are you going to make those modifications?" he asked Walter Koenig, who he'd always thought to be an actor, with absolutely no technical skills.

"I've already made them," said Koenig, as the bus bumped along the desert. There was no road to speak of.

"Then why are we bumping along through the desert?" demanded Riper.

"We have to pick up some passengers before we test out the wessel," responded Koenig.

As they came up over a sand dune, Commander Riper could see Ernest Hemingway relaxing against a cactus.

"Is he one of the passengers?" asked Riper, as if in a dream.

Walter Koenig said nothing at all, merely pulling to a stop, and opening the doors with a creak.

"I am simply a metaphor, as far as you know," Hemingway told Riper, blowing a puff of rich, mellow tobacco smoke into his face.

"Hemingway appears to be a metaphor for Man's Expression," said Al Michaels, who was doing the play by play.

"With all due respect, Al," said John Madden, who was doing the color commentary, "if I'm going to use Hemingway for a metaphor, I'm going to go with the old 'Genius in the form of an Everyman' triple reverse, and I'm going to take it right up the gut."

With that, they came to a halt once again, and Madden and Michaels were led somberly off the bus by a pair of Giant Three Toed Sneeds, who had appointed themselves Seargents at Arms.

They stopped eighteen more times, picking up Emperor Checkup, who was surprised to see Walter Koenig in person, along with his two Chinese friends and Scotchy; Harrison Freud and an eight foot Amazon woman to whom he had pledged personal servitude; Pugsley Bruiser; Mr. Peabody, who was glad to be aboard; Spock the flesh eating butterfly, who had become a vegetarian several chapters ago; several of the Harlem Globetrotters; Marilyn Monroe; a half eaten sandwich by the name of "Mac;" and several other characters who had been stranded in scenes so boring, they were simply omitted.

"Is that everybody?" asked Riper, who was feeling a bit sick once again.

"Yes," replied Walter Koenig, who calmly lit a cigarette, and leaned back in his chair.


"Well what?" asked Koenig.

"What about the modifications? Will this thing fly?" demanded Riper, demandingly.

"That's absurd," replied Koenig, "busses can't fly."

"Then what kind of modifications did you make?" asked a perturbed Riper, the vein on his temple throbbing intently.

"Well, I put on some of those naked lady mudflaps," replied Koenig, smiling, "and I put on some really neat mag wheels, and replaced the carburetor with a small nuclear reactor made from elderberries, and adjusted the transmission to handle 10,000,000 times more stress, and this sucker should easily hit about 12,000 mph."

"12,000 mph?" slurred Scotchy, drooling again, "there's nay a chance this bucket'll hold together!"

"Not only that, but at that speed, we'll soon run out of desert, and will surely crash into someone or something," added Pugsley Bruiser, not to be outdone.

"Then what do you suggest, Poindexter?" leered Harrison Freud, who really was getting sick of this kid.

"How did you know my name was Poindexter?" asked Mr. Peabody, perturbed.

"Poindexter Peabody?" laughed Nelson, "Hah-hah!"

"There's getting to be too many cartoon characters on this bus," complained Yogi Bear, sad to be the only Hannah-Barbera, and hoping they would still make one more stop.

"This is definitely not the Crosstown to New Umberville," said a disgusted commuter, throwing his briefcase to the floor, picking it back up, and brushing it off with a piece of old newspaper.

"Boy did he ever get on the wrong bus," said Dustin Hoffman to Jon Voight in the back seat, coughing just a little.

"OK, this is it," said Harrison Freud, "let's make the jump to lightspeed."

"Here we go!" shouted Koenig, slamming the accelerator to the mat.

Before long, the bus was up to the stomach churning speed of 65 mph.

"Say, this doesn't seem to be all that fast," pointed out Albert Sweater, who'd slipped on with those people from the casino.

"Well, we're still only in 7th gear," said Koenig, still looking quite relaxed.

"How many gears does this thing have?" asked a lady who'd won over six hundred dollars at Keno.

"Three million, twelve." answered Koenig, shifting into 8th, as the bus approached 66 mph.

Luckily, several members of the Grateful Dead had gotten on a few stops earlier, and they broke into a reggae-tinged version of "Space Truckin'" by Deep Purple that caused 32.4% of the passengers to cry, and the rest to give $1.00 to the March of Dimes.

"I wish Hammer McGee could hear this," wept Valerie Harper, who was no longer Rhoda, for the most part, and had always enjoyed good folk music, including reggae versions of hard rock staples from the early 70's.

"I think the black hole has reached this part of the Universe," said Harrison Freud softly into the ear of his Amazon Mistress.

"What makes you think that?" she asked, looking bored.

"Well, for one thing, you suddenly have six arms."

"My God!" she screamed, realizing she had twenty more nails to paint.

"Since when do Black Holes cause people to mutate?" asked Emperor Checkup, who had done fairly well in High School Astrophysics.

Pugsley Bruiser began rifling furiously through his semi-alphabetical index cards.

"Bats, Bottles, Bette Midler, Banks of the Universe, Blondes, Beatles, Birmingham..."

He continued flipping.

"Boulders, Bananas, Ballets of the Bahamas, Black Cats, Black Eyed Peas, Black Holes! Here it is!"

He studied the card, reading both sides very carefully.

"Scientists agree that the effects of Black Holes are largely unknown."

"Well, there's your answer," he told Emperor Checkup, who was looking more and more like a Potted Palm, and less like an angry librarian.

"Why are we stopping again?" asked Commander Riper, gasping as one more passenger boarded.

It was Captain Plainway.

"For a second I thought you were Kate Mildew," said Riper, relieved.

"How do you know I'm not?" asked the Captain, in her sultriest voice yet.

"Hit it!" shouted the waterskiier at the end of the rope tied to the bumper of the bus, and this time, when Walter Koenig slammed the accelerator to the floor, the ground ripped open in front of them, and the bus began speeding towards the center of the Earth at approximately 600 mph.

"I told you I'd get this thing humming!" shouted Koenig.

"You idiot, we're only going this fast because we're plummeting downward," shouted Riper, amazed no one else had figured that out yet.

"What's worse is, you've spilled all the drinks," complained Scotchy, remembering about the flask beneath his coat.

The bus shot all the way through the Earth, and launched out the other side, into space.

"I thought busses couldn't fly," Riper mock scolded Walter Koenig.

"I thought you didn't have a tail," observed Koenig, with a wink.

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PostPosted: Fri Nov 14, 2003 9:23 pm


Joined: Apr 10, 2003
Posts: 52
Location: Hoagland, IN, USA
Lt. E. A. Longfollow (USAF-Henry Wadsworth) had just settled into a nice flight path, meandering lazily along the soft, cumulous clouds over Staten Island when a curious thing happened.

The ocean, and the Statue of Liberty disappeared, and were replaced by the Great Wall of China.

"That's odd," thought Lt. E. A. Longfollow (USAF-Henry Wadsworth,) "if I didn't know better, I'd think I was just sort of 'magically' transported halfway across the globe!"

"Ground Control!" he shouted, and was greeted only by dead air.

"Is this Major Thom?" came a voice with a strong Asian accent, after about fifteen minutes, with the sound of laughter in the background.

"Look, I am flying so close to you!" shouted another voice, and suddenly, the plane shook from the force of the Chinese fighter jet's powerful engines.

Lt. E. A. Longfollow (USAF-Henry Wadsworth) had no idea what a Chinese fighter jet was doing over Staten Island, and then he remembered that Staten Island had vanished.

His mind was just a little to conventional for him to comprehend the forces of nature that had rushed him headlong into foreign airspace, and he realized that he must have fallen asleep at the stick, and was dreaming. He would have to wake up, of course, or he would most likely crash, but for some reason, he wasn't able to change levels of consciousness right at the moment.

Beneath him, the ground was beginning to crumble, and fall into a huge hole, that was getting bigger by the moment. Time and space seemed to fall in upon itself. Lt. E. A. Longfollow (USAF-Henry Wadsworth) had never seen anything even remotely like it.

"What is happening down there?" asked the pilot of the Chinese Fighter Jet, "are you doing that? I will have to shoot you down for destroying my country."

"I'm not doing anything!" shouted Lt. E. A. Longfollow (USAF-Henry Wadsworth,) "I don't even know how I got here!"

"A likely story," said the pilot, who was beginning to feel his oats just a bit.

He let loose a salvo of machine gun fire, which Lt. E. A. Longfollow (USAF-Henry Wadsworth) avoided through maneuvers.

"I have plenty of heat seeking missiles," the Chinese pilot warned, and a couple of goodies your CIA doesn't know about, too! Now stop making my country disappear!"

"I've got better weaponry than you!" said Lt. E. A. Longfollow (USAF-Henry Wadsworth) bitterly, swallowing his gum efforlessly, "don't think for a second I couldn't take down any six of your planes, but I'm telling you, what's happening down there is not my doing, or very likely any government or person's doing."

"Well, I don't think I like you very much," said the pilot, "I think you like to tell lies to foreigners, and then brag about how tough you are. I think you just dropped some kind of secret weapon, and, and, and..."

He broke off in mid-sentence.

"You see what I see?" the Chinese pilot said, his voice rising about an octave and a half.

"No," said Lt. E. A. Longfollow (USAF-Henry Wadsworth,) who was in now way equipped to deal with what he was actually seeing.

"C'mon, you see it," goaded the pilot, "tell me what you see."

"No, I uh, don't see anything," responded Lt. E. A. Longfollow (USAF-Henry Wadsworth.)

"C'mon, you're going to be dead in a few minutes anyway, why don't you admit what you see? Stubborn American!"

"I'm telling you I didn't see anything, and I don't see anything, and I'm not going to see anything," insisted Lt. E. A. Longfollow (USAF-Henry Wadsworth,) opening a Dr. Pepper, and lighting a cigarette.

"You smoking in there?" asked the pilot, "you're crazy!"


"OK, OK," said the Chinese pilot, "I'll tell you what I see, and you tell me if it's what you see."

"Fine," responded Lt. E. A. Longfollow (USAF-Henry Wadsworth,) "what do you see?"

"I see a flying Tour Bus, with a waterskiier behind it heading out into space."


"You there? Hello? Hey, stubborn American, you there?"

Lt. E. A. Longfollow (USAF-Henry Wadsworth) was busy at the moment, painting the most vulnerable spot on the Chinese plane with a laser.

"Hey, you're putting a target on me!" protested the Chinese pilot, who unleashed every heat seeking missile he had.

At that same instant, Lt. E. A. Longfollow (USAF-Henry Wadsworth) fired his laser guided missile, and after a few seconds passed, both men began to wonder what had gone wrong.

"Look!" shouted the Chinese pilot, "both our missiles are just flying down into that big hole down there!"

"Great," said Lt. E. A. Longfollow (USAF-Henry Wadsworth,) "now what do we do?"

"Maybe we could land somewhere, and have hand to hand combat," suggested the Chinese pilot, helpfully.

"I don't think there is anywhere to land," said Lt. E. A. Longfollow (USAF-Henry Wadsworth,) who had never noticed the extra fingers before.

"Well, I don't think any of that is going to matter any more," said the Chinese pilot, as both planes started plummeting towards the big hole in the Earth.

"Sorry we didn't get a chance to battle," said Lt. E. A. Longfollow (USAF-Henry Wadsworth,) thinking he most likely would've won.

"That's OK," said the Chinese pilot, "I don't think I would've wanted to kill you anyway. You wouldn't drop a bomb that would kill you, too. I guess I like you OK after all."

"That bus with the waterskiier sure was something, wasn't it?" asked Lt. E. A. Longfollow (USAF-Henry Wadsworth.)

"Yup," answered the Chinese pilot, smiling from ear to ear, "it sure was."

"Take care, buddy."

"You take care too."

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PostPosted: Sun Nov 23, 2003 1:24 am


Joined: Apr 10, 2003
Posts: 52
Location: Hoagland, IN, USA
Dr. Beverly Hills Bruiser had never seen anything like it before. One minute she'd been bouncing along a rutted desert road, and then the next, she'd seen the bus swallowed by the Earth.

Now, here she was flying through space on a Tour Bus, and all she could do was wonder how in Hell it could be pressurized enough for them to survive.

"This is lovely scenery," remarked the old woman who'd won at Keno, "are we in Arizona yet?"

"I think we passed that already," said Dr. Bruiser, wistfully, "if you blinked, you missed it."

She giggled a little, realizing that in all the times that saying had been used, this was the first time it had ever been literally true, as the entire length of Arizona was a mere 400 miles, and at the 40,000 mph they were traveling, they would pass through the state in far less than the approximately .03 seconds it takes to blink. Of course, one would have to postulate that the direction the Black Hole had taken them was due South, but Dr. Bruiser had no problem making this supposition.

"Do you like to play the Keno?" asked the woman, who apparently had a short attention span.

"The Keno?" asked Dr. Bruiser, "Do you mean the game where if you pick a 4 spot, your odds of winning are .04%?"

"Umm, yeah, that's the one," said the old woman, coldly.

"I think the game's appeal comes from the possibility of winning a big pot for relatively low stakes," replied Dr. Bruiser, "but it's a game of pure chance, and lacks the entertainment value necessary to offset the potential cost."

"Killjoy," muttered the old woman, "what do you like to play?"

"Poker, of course," Dr. Bruiser smiled, leaning back in her seat.

"I'll deal," said Lt. Warp, who always had the deck of cards he was awarded on Grubulex XVII, for saving the planet from giant mice. He'd always thought the prize curiously out of balance with the deed, but Warp was not one to grouse about such things, and it seemed like those cards had always been lucky for him.

What he didn't know is that the Grubulexions had used telepathic powers to connect the cards directly into Lt.Warp's brain, thus making him instinctively aware of the other player's hands.

Counselor Joy was wise to this, and produced a set of Bicycles from the 20th century.

"Can I get in on this hand?" asked Kate Mildew, anxiously looking around for some Lysol.

"I still think we should use my cards," lamented Lt. Warp, and then said, "why are we slowing down?"

"Driver," called out Pugsley Bruiser, "why are we slowing down?"

"This idiot in front of us won't move over so I can pass," shouted Ralph Kramden, one of the best bus drivers in the History of Civilization.

"This idiot?" said Warp, Albert Sliderule, both Bruisers and the Pure Wonderment Singers, surprised at the thought of another vehicle being out here.

They all rushed to the front of the bus, and sure enough, right in front of them was an elderly man in a Nash Rambler, with his right turn signal on.

"Why in blazes doesn't he turn right?" screamed Scotchy, downing a fifth of Ripple.

"He's not planning to turn," explained Pugsley, "he put the signal on before his last turn, and forgot to turn it off."

"Shut up!" shouted Harrison Freud, "those turn signals automatically disengage once the turn has been completed, you little dweeb!"

"Not on a '52 Ramber, and I can't help it that I'm a dweeb. That's just how I'm written. Off camera, I spend most of my time in cheap hotels with groupies, begging them to be gentle, since it's my first time. It's been my first time every Saturday since the early '90's."

For a second, Freud thought he felt a wave of admiration for the kid, but then he realized it was just nausea. Probably the hot dogs Kate Mildew had practically begged him not to eat, so that she could make a new hat out of them. Now, Freud suspected Mildew of having Voodoo powers.

"Nine million nine hundred ninety nine thousand nine hundred ninety nine bottles of beer on the wall," sang William Shatner, "Nine million nine hundred ninety nine thousand nine hundred ninety nine bottles of beer..."

Lt. Warp held a large hedge trimmer to his neck.

"Keep singing that song, and I pull the trigger," he said menacingly, and although Shatner doubted the trimmer was even plugged in, he didn't want to be a nuisance, so he went back to the spoken word rendition of "Louie Louie."

"That's better," said Lt. Warp, relaxing a bit, and quite relieved Shatner hadn't called his bluff.

"Why don't you just pass him?" asked an exasparated Harrison Freud.

"And veer out into oncoming traffic?" said Ralph Kramden, red-faced, "are you crazy?"

"WHAT oncoming traffic?" drooled Freud, unapalogetically.

"Oh sure, there's none that we can see now," cautioned Kramden, "but at the speed we're traveling, something 10 billion light years ahead could be right upon us in less than .00004% of a second."

"So you're telling me we're travelling trillions of light years per second?" scoffed Freud, "even the Millenium Falcon couldn't go that fast. I think you just made those numbers up."

"Guilty as charged" answered Kramden sheepishly, "but we're still going pretty fast."

Freud looked over Kramden's shoulder, and realized the speedometer still stood at exactly 65 mph.

"What happened to Walter Koenig?" asked Alice Cooper, who had gotten on with the nuns.

"Oh, his agent called. He had to leave for a big comic book convention, and then he was going to actually fly aboard a US space flight."

"Really?" asked Alice Cooper, "where were they going to fly to?"

"To the moon, Alice," answered Ralph Kramden, "to the moon."

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PostPosted: Sun Nov 30, 2003 10:37 pm


Joined: Apr 10, 2003
Posts: 52
Location: Hoagland, IN, USA
Most of the crew had stopped mutating by now, many of them settling on a relatively small number of heads, limbs, extra brains and detachable cupholders.

"I'm tired; can't we sleep?" Mr. Lulu's Right Head asked his Left Head.

"Shut up, you whiner," said Mr. Lulu's Left Head, controlling Mr. Lulu's middle Right Hand enough to slap the Right Head in the face.

Mrs. Noteworthy had knitted quite a number of turtle neck sweaters, and was making a killing.

The couple from Nebraska where ooing and aahing over the Crab Nebula, which was portrayed in raisins on the cake Emperor Checkup had presented them for their tenth anniversary. Had they looked out the window at that precise moment, they would've seen the real thing, but many of the more intelligent crewmembers doubted they'd even know what it was.

Din Som was looking dazedly ahead, trying to discern the meaning of the phrase printed at the front of the bus.

"Master, what is this 'exact change?'" he asked reverently, as Master Pao snored like a duck.

The man with the briefcase was screaming into a cellphone, "I demand to speak with the Management!" but he was having no luck. They were out of range of nearly every satellite in the known universe, and several in the unknown, with one exception.

Emperor Gram Emulon Psi of the Order of the Stalking River Trout, far out in the Laughable Energy Quadrant was trying to get his favorite TV show in on the Di-Escombebutron 11, but all he got was a screaming Account Executive, who was evidently hurtling through space at exactly 65 mph, whatever that was, on a bus, whatever that was.

He was demanding satisfaction, whatever that was, and something called a refund, whatever that was.

"Listen, I'd love to help you," screamed Emperor Gram Emulon Psi of the Order of the Stalking River Trout into his TV set, "but none of the words you are using have any meaning in my language."

And then, in way of explanation, he added, "on my world, everything is liquid, and we all exist as random energy fields floating in sort of a primordial ooze."

The Account Executive was stunned by such a a concept, and wanted to ask a million questions, but Emperor Gram Emulon Psi of the Order of the Stalking River Trout was shouting that he wanted to watch a rerun of his favorite episode of "I Love Horblag," which was a classic comedy from the Rumarian Sector, which had since been wiped out by the Blandorgs.

The last episode had been broadcast over sixty five million generations ago, and Rumarian Societies tended to have a life span of ten billion years. Since the Rumarian sector was over seventy five trillion, sixty two million, one hundred eighty five thousand and twenty light years away, some of the really good episodes were just beginning to make it to Emperor Gram Emulon Psi of the Order of the Stalking River Trout's part of town, and he had already ordered pizza, which would be here any minute.

"Get off of this line, or I will send a biofeedback loop that will make your puny head explode, whatever that is," he shouted, and bubbled.

Meanwhile, on the back of the bus, Harrison Freud's exotic new girlfriend had run out of nail polish, but still seemed to be sprouting new hands at an alarming rate.

"How come I'm the only one still mutating?" she asked, almost screaming in horror.

"You're probably just lucky, I guess," Kate Mildew's middle head suggested, as the other four snoozed.

"When I realized I had these two extra arms, you didn't hear me complaining," said Hammer McGee, "I just did the logical thing, and bought a second guitar; a twelve string."

With that, he began strumming some truly beautiful chords on the 12 string, and picked out a nifty little counter melody on his old friend, and sang,

"As our bodies change, and our lips become the size of bananas
And our hair falls out, and is replaced with smooth, leathery wings
Then we grow extra heads, and tentacles, and furry tails
I tell you babe, it just don't mean a thing

'Cause I loved you when you were just another normal human being
And you didn't have scales, fire for breath, and you weren't green
And I love you now that your teeth can extend six inches out of your mouth
Just like I did when you were just my girl"

The entire bus joined in on the chorus, even though they'd never rehearsed,

"When you were just my girl
And didn't have snakes growing out of your head
When you were just my girl
I meant everything I ever said

When you were just my girl
And you couldn't bite clean through human bone
When you were just my girl
And you and I were all alone

I'd look into your eyes and see the moon, and sun and stars
When you were just my girl, and not some alien from Mars."

"That's a lovely song," said the woman sitting next to Hammer McGee. She had a lizard tongue, and was on fire, but otherwise looked normal.

"Thank you, I wrote it myself," Hammer blushed, condescendingly.

"Do you think you could sign this for my nephew, Dave?" she asked, menacingly, "I won him playing craps. I think he's a Newt."

"He certainly appears to be," noted McGee, looking down at the little lizard boy in the woman's flaming arms, "aren't you afraid he'll catch fire?"

"Oh, I don't much care," answered the woman, thoughtlessly, "he's not from my side of the family anyway."

Hammer McGee immediately set to writing his next big hit, "People Are Cold in Space."

The Account Executive simply went back to staring out the window, as things passed by he had never before imagined.

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PostPosted: Sun Dec 07, 2003 3:36 am


Joined: Apr 10, 2003
Posts: 52
Location: Hoagland, IN, USA
"Driver, let me out here," said the old woman to Ralph Kramden, pulling on his right ear with her umbrella handle.

"Lady, if I open the door, we'll all be sucked out into space, and our bodies will simultaneously freeze and boil, as we explode into a fine mist," replied Kramden, extremely agitated over the umbrella handle.

"Besides," he pointed out, "there's nothing out here. Why would you want to get out where there's nothing?"

"It just seems kind of peaceful here, that's all," said the old woman, a look of serenity clouding over her eyes for about the tenth time today.

"I can help you find peace," said Din Som, launching into his lecture about the Oneness of All Creation.

"I'm sure what you say is fascinating," remarked the woman, "but I don't hear so well out of this ear. Try the other one."

So Din Som started at the beginning again, and as he got to the part about what Jung would call the Collective Unconscious centuries after his time, she turned to him and said, "sorry, but I'm not getting it over there, either. Perhaps you could try it in English."

"That WAS English," said an angry Din Som, unaware that English wasn't even invented yet in his time. What he actually was speaking was a mixture of Cantonese, Gaelic, and Egg Batter, and several dead languages that had died for a reason.

Leanna Joy was knitting an Afghan Hound, with some magic yarn she'd picked up on Rigel 7.

"Rigel 7?" said Dr. Beverly Hills Bruiser, "I don't remember us ever going there."

"It was back when we were a TV show," explained Commander Datandtime, "the exact date and time is 7:42 pm, Stardate 153.27891 and 1/2."

"Did you hear that?" exclaimed Lt. Warp, who was no longer a disembodied set of lips, and noticed all the other passengers were no longer mutating, "he said a date and time! We must be out of the Black Hole."

He had a point, reasoned one of the writers. Inside the Black Hole, there was no such thing as time; consequently it only stood to reason there could be no date. He wished he hadn't thought of the words "no date," as it only reminded him of the abysmal state of his social life, for going on seventeen years, or ever since he graduated High School.

Back then, the girls avoided him in droves, but that was nothing compared to the way they currently stayed away from him. He smiled, and thought of the time he asked Agnes Riphalter to the prom, and she'd thrown her lunch at him. Those were the days. Nowadays, she would've probably sprayed him with Mace, and called the police.

He smiled again, and thought of the time when Sally Showalter had sprayed him with Mace, and called the police, when he had invited her to his apartment complex for a midnight swim. It was a shame, as he had eaten six pounds of Oysters that day, and was now going to be very confused regarding his feelings about the other prisoners.

"I think we are somewhere," said Mr. Lulu, relieved to only have one head again.

"Look!" shouted Albert Speargun, "I think I see land!"

He didn't, of course, but the bus was approached by a dove carrying an Olive Branch.

"What's that?" asked Emperor Checkup, as his aides fed him grapes.

"I don't know, but whatever it is, I think it's trying to make peace with us," answered Sherman, innocently enough.

"Well, by all means, don't kill it," said Dr. Joyce Brothers, giving Elmer Fudd a disapproving look as he lowered his gun.

"Sowwy, eh-eh-eh-eh-eh," said Elmer, "I thought it was that scwewy duck, in disguise."

"I think it's a sign of Biblical proportions," said grocery boy Steve, not even close to aware of just how right he was.

"Invite it in, for some Whiskey, and Ovaltine," suggested Dr. Joyce Brothers, "I know that's always a good way to earn MY trust."

She was sad that no one got the hint she had so subtly dropped.

She looked around the bus dejectedly for 23.9 seconds, and seeing that everybody was going back to writing fan letters to Lee Marvin, shouted, "somebody give me some Whiskey and Ovaltine!"

"I'm all out of Whiskey," lamented Albert Sweatshop, scratching his name in the back of the seat in front of him.

"What about Ovaltine?" demanded Dr. Joyce Brothers, "do you have any Ovaltine?"

"I might," said Albert Shoreleave, "it would help if I knew what Ovaltine was."

"It's a powder, that you can mix with milk, for example, or Whiskey," said a despondent Dr. Brothers, "there's regular, or chocolate..."

"Hold on a minute," said Commander Datandtime, "it's not really a powder at all. It's a bunch of little balls, smaller than BB's, but bigger than Xenium molecules. They dissolve in milk, for example, or whiskey, and the good Doctor is correct that they come in regular, which is sort of malty, and chocolate, which is also kind of malty, but in a chocolate kind of way. The exact date and time is 8:43 pm, Stardate 1987.436."

"Why is that stardate so different from the one you gave about 1/2 an hour ago?" asked a suspicious Lt. Riper.

"Oh c'mon," replied Commander Datandtime, "nobody's going to go back up the page, and compare the two, are they?"

"Some of the ones with a lot of time on their hands might," pointed out Pugsley Bruiser, glad to finally have a line.

"Shut up, you little ingrown hair," stormed Harrison Freud, "nobody's got that much time on their hands."

"You'd be surprised," noted the old woman who'd won at Keno, and was already looking back a few paragraphs, but promptly fell asleep.

"Look, I see a sign!" whistled Polly, burping with authority.

"Here there be monsters," was all the sign said.

"I did NOT like that sign," said Harrison Freud, crying just a little.

"Oh how I wish we could go back to the beginning," said the ghost of one of the Folktopeds, which was really R.

"Eureka!" screamed Mr. Peabody, discovering something more than oats in his oatmeal, "I finally got the Way Way Back Machine working again!"

There was a flash, and then...

Then, over the audio came the horrific sound which blared "ohh, ohh, ohh stayin' alive, stayin' alive, ohh, ohh, ohh stayin' alive, stayin' alive".
"My God!" resigned the brave Captain, we have no weapon to match that! Engage the warped engines, and get us out of here!"

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PostPosted: Thu Dec 30, 2004 10:21 pm

Yes indeedy, brave readers, the whole bunch of them were heading right back for the dreaded Disco planet they thought they had left far, far behind so many pages ago. Which makes one wonder if you, dear readers, have read this whole she-bang from the get go? (No fair peaking! - unless, of course, it's a county fair)
So many had passed this way, Tuck, Checkup, Lulu, Beverly, Warp, and the Three Unnamed and Yet Unsung Entities from Some Place Else. Now to face this predicament in a new, yet somehow familiar way seemed more than one could imagine or even suggest you get that thing out of here right this minute said his mother and she wasn't kidding either of them as far as we could tell. Just then.....

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