"Internet is a good way to get on the Net." --Bob Dole
"Chicago - Aug.
28 - In the throes of Chapter 11, Montgomery Ward & Co. launched
its first image-driven ad campaign in more than a decade. The
campaign�s theme is
"Shop Smart, Live Well. Wards."
�1997 Chain Store Age "
Gestapo officer strode arrogantly into the room. The withered, embalmed
head of the Fuhrer sat in his fishtank of honor, his brain hooked up to
the most advanced technology 1945 had to offer.
Too bad it was 1997. Ol' Adolph was leaking brains all over the place, and it wasn't like he had them to spare to begin with. "SIEG HEIL!" shrieked the Gestapo Oberleutantfuhrerguy.
Hitler gurgled, "BLOOBA BLOOBA BLOOB!" cause he was in a fishtank, you know.
"Ahh, noooo," said the Officer slowly. "That was the Fourth Reich. They were destroyed by the Israelis in the Secret Atom War of 1947. This is--oh, mein Gott, umm, let's see..." He checked his Big Book of Reichs. "This is the 94th Reich."
"BLOOBA BLOOBLE BLORP?"
"No, I'm sorry, but Nixon's brain isn't here. I dropped it."
"BLORGAL? Bloop BLORGAL?!"
"Ja Wohl! And stepped on it."
"Hey, I said I was sorry!"
"Bluh bloog a bluhhh." said the Fuhrer embarassedly.
"Well, you eat sausage, it'll happen. I'll get someone to change your fishtank water."
Hitler, the worst scourge on humanity ever ever ever, or at least second worst, definitely top ten worst, I mean, sure John Tesh sucks but...I'm sorry? What was this about again?
"Blobbula blub blub!"
Oh yes! Thank you, mein herr! Hitler, he said something.
"But--Mein Fuhrer!" stammered the officer in shock. "The Reich can be resurrected 94 times, even though it's just you, me and Ollie North by now, but we can never bring back the most horrible of horrors!"
"JA, MEIN FUHRER!!" The officer jabbed his arm into the air in salute, and shrieked the dreaded cry "SHOP SMART! LIVE WELL! WARDS! We shall rise again! The Evil of WARD must strive forever against niceness!"
He goosestepped from the room to do his Evil Lord's Bidding, but didn't notice tripping over the fishtank's air hose.
"Blooble? Blooble...?" came the bubbles softly as the air ran out...
My guestbook turned up this, apparently caused by Jen White's "Sailor Moon USA" parody:
If you could train a monkey, what would you train it to do?
suck energy from unsuspecting life-forms until I had collected enough to conquer the Multiverse.
you are sicker than Punkin. will you marry me?
WOO-HOOO!! Babes are cyber-stalking me!! I went to her page, and my heart dropped: Are Yams and Turnips compatible??
I turned to ol' Spottiswoode for advice on this, and he helpfully replied:
>will you marry me?
Hubba, hubba! Wink, wink! Reoww! Clang, clang! Batta-bing, batta-boom! [Slide whisle down & up] Hot-cha-cha! Whoop, whoop! Cha-ching! [Sizzle] Bouncy, bouncy, bouncy! [Erupt] Ding-dong! [4 bars of chopsticks] Chuga-chuga, chuga-chuga! Nudge-nudge! Mooooooo! [sped-up Q-bert curse] Bl-blp-bl-blp-bl-blp-bl-blp-bl-blp-bl-bl! HO! HO! HO! Merry christmas!
Two Stupid Things I Saw Yesterday
Guy comes into the liquor store I manage (stop me if you've heard this one!) and wants a pint o' booze. He dumps a bunch of quarters of the counter. "My wife didn't do the laundry, so I've got all these quarters." he explains. "She said I didn't have enough kahunas to buy a pint with only quarters! I said, Yeah, I got plenty of kahunas right here!" He notices me laughing. "I do have enough kahunas, right? Waitaminnit--what are 'kahunas'?" "Cohones," I say, "Balls." "Balls?!" he exclaims. "I thought kahunas meant quarters!!"
Springtime in New England: Ice Storm. My condo is at the top of a sharp hill. When it's iced up, the only way your car will get up it is to drop gears and floor it. Try taking it nice and slow and you'll spin wheels at the half-way point. Last night around midnight wheels were spinning so severely I heard them with headphones on. I pull up the window shade to watch, as I find it weirdly funny to watch these futile displays. This big ol' car spins forwards a little, then slides back, spins forward a little, repeat as necessary. Suddenly, every door but the driver's pops open, and 3 alterna-dudes stick a leg out of the car and begin flailing one foot at the ground like Fred Flintstone, as if that would help get the 2-ton car up the hill. The backmost dude is glancing all around, with an obvious look of "Hope nobody's watching me make an ass of myself." And I watched.
Maybe you had to be there.
Okay, I give up. My "New" page is never new. Yet I write wacky, zany email all the time! Why should I waste my God-Given Gift of madcap merriment and boffo hijinx?
Spotti sent me this yesterday. He titled it: "Death spots your ant problem"
"Have you seen this ad on tv? The Grim Reaper sells Combat ant traps and is the ad's announcer. Sitting cross-legged in a kitchen at night, says he's come to get rid of your ant problem. Cue frightening films of animated ants running toward your big wedge of Swiss cheese. 'You deal with your business, I'll deal with mine.' It was missing a villainous "HA-HA-HA-HA!" at the end."
(Bill arises at 4 AM to pee; he then heads to the kitchen to drink a glass of water--it's the Circle of Life)
BILL: OWW! I stubbed my toe on something hard--(turns on light) AUUUGGGHHH!!
B: D-d-d-d-DEATH!! In my kitchen! How Bergmanesque! Wanna play chess?
D: I've come to get rid of your ant problem.
B: Oh! Cool! Do I inherit all her money?
D: Not your Aunt Petunia! She'll outlive you, pally.
B: Yer nuts! She's 95!
D: OOOOH, yeah, you're the expert here, Mr Eventually-Dies-Falling-Head-First-Into-The-Garbage-Disposal Guy! I'm only Death Incarnate! Now, about these ants--
B: ID, please.
B: I work in a liquor store, my bony friend. Prove you're the Grim Reaper.
D: (grumbles) I haven't been carded since the Masque of the Red Death, grrr...Here. My River Styx boater's license.
B: (reads it) Hey, you're not the Grim Reaper! You're the Happy Reaper!
D: I've been taking Prozac. It helps with my new advertising career.
B: Hmm, yes--I can see why'd you have to branch out. Guess Death wouldn't get many repeat customers. So, how'd you solve my ant problem?
D: Killed your neighbors here on Regan Road. The vultures'll eat the ants when the rest of the food runs out.
B: That's...rather extreme...
D: Shoulda been there when I solved the roach problem in Hiroshima.
B: You know--I've never had an ant problem. Did you know that this town actually has TWO Regan Roads?
D: (turns a whiter shade of bone) Awww, CRAP. This isn't Jonny's Mobil station?
B: No, this is a condo. Jonny's Mobil would be a Mobil.
D: Dang! It's the Prozac, I tells ya. Sorry. I'm outta here.
B: Hey, wait! What was that about the garbage disposal?
D: Ohh...Nothing. (flips Susan B Anthony dollar into the sink; it rolls down the drain) See you soon!
B: I know I really shouldn't... but a buck's a buck--(reaches in head-first)
Whooo! That last "New" was fun, now wasn't it? Even if it was a day old. This one's a year old, but it's my masterpiece. Or at least too fu'd-up to waste.
Context: The Dark Lord Spottiswoode has been convinced by me, ThoughtViper, to snag himself a geocities page (they're free, dontcha know). I seem to have lost his original mail, but it was parodying the geocities fantasy that we're a "community," complete with lil' streets an' houses an' the houses, the houses they're shaped like cellos cause supposedly only classical music fans live in places like Vienna 9900...Whatever. At any rate, Spotti made some house-building noises as he announced to me he'd set up shop. Words in italics are his intellectual property. And now, on with our show.
Old Man ThoughtViper, pot-belly a-swayin', staggered to his feet in the trailer park. "You hear what I just heared, Scrawny Joey Bob?"
Scrawny Joey Bob dabbed his dripping armpits with the cat. The cat didn't seem to mind, cause it was dead. "Ah dunno, Billy Andy. Was you hearin' mah intestines goin' splot?"
"No, dag nebbit!"
"Ah'm mighty powerful sorry to hear that. Guess Ah really do got the wet farts agin." Scrawny Joey Bob raised his leg and moved the cat to a lower position. "What did all you all hear all?"
Old Man Viper knew 'bought Scrawny Joe's head injuries, them what made him say 'all' with regular frequency. (Or maybe he didn't, as he thought 'regular frequency' meant 'sissy-boy takin' Ex-Lax.')
"Cain't you hear it? Over the hawg-callin' contest?"
Bubba Bert Slug said, "Ain't that yo name, Billy Andy?" Then Bert vomited. Vomited a puppy.
"God DAMMMMMNN! Cain't get me a moments peace." Old Viper waddled to the High Point of the White Trash end of Vienna/9900. "Bet it's wunna them fat ladies in helmets singin'! Tain't nach'ul, singin' when they could be screwin' they's fathers. God DAMMMNN them bitches!" His gut wobbled to and fro as he climbed the High Point, which was a rotted log which sat on a car on cinderblocks which was sitting on a truck on cinderblocks sitting on a different rotted log which sat on a slain Civil Rights worker.
"MY NAME IS SPOTTISWOODE! I JUST FOUND A HOOOOOME!"
"TARRR-nation! Some college boy done moved in over by the cee-ment pond! An' you whut that means, boys! Ahuh huh!"
"Ahuh huh!" laughed Scrawny Joey.
"Ahuh huh!" cackled Bubba Bert.
"Ahuh...Huh??" asked Alligator-Fuckin' Stevey Jay Hawking. "What do that mean, Billy Andy?"
"Tain't you never see'd 'Deliverance?'"
"AHUH HUH! AHUH HUH!" everyone laughed as they went to get their pig grease.
A nice place to visit...
A better place to die.
This message brought to you by the We Don't Lahk Yo Type Round Here Boy Tourism Agency.
This week's Inexplicable Object is one of the many oddities I bought during my 5 years slaving for Kay Bee Toys (if you consider 96-hour-workweeks at Xmas time "slaving," that is). I only bought the Food Refill Kit for Baby Alive, not the actual doll. Wish I had. I also wish I'd bought some of the other weird dollies we sold, particularly the Barbies. Barbie dolls such as "Horse-Loving Barbie" (what's next, "Poodle-Licking Ken"?), or "Loving You Barbie." The blurb on the back of that box said in big letters, "She's Everybody's Girlfriend!" Now there's a positive role-model. Remember Barb's baby sis Skipper? At one point we had 2 versions, the regular Skipper doll and a new one called "Hot Stuff Skipper." The difference: "Hot Stuff" was the one that had breasts. There was another Skipper (called "Growing Up Skipper," I think): When Little Missy twisted Skipper's arm (literally!!), Skipper's boobies grew right before Missy's impressionable pre-pubescent eyes. So why not just cut to the chase and come out with "Teen Prostitute Skipper"? Then Mattel could follow up with "Post-Partum White Trash Skipper and Lil' Drooler the Fetal Alcohol Syndrome Baby."
Welcome to the Real World, Little Missy.
Once upon a very long time ago, I went to see a Talking Heads concert in the CT town of Derby. Derby's a dumb name for a city, until you realize its main former industry was hats (guess which kind!). On the long drive there, we passed what could only be described as "Who Named This Business?!" no less than twice.
First up: A pizza joint that was clearly trying to imitate a pizza chain that had some regional success at the time: Shakey's. OK, "Shakey's" is a pretty poor name to begin with ("How's your pizza?" "Ahh--A little shakey. The toppings are supposed to go on the bottom, right?"). Shakey's theme was some 1890's idea with player pianos and your father's moustache and such. The place we stopped at shot for the same nostalgic feel, and so named itself: "Yesterday's Pizza." And gimme some stale, flat sody pop to go with it, OK?
The next was a law firm named, no lie, "Nutty & Co." Specializing in insanity pleas, I assume.
I've always thought I'd never see a worse named business until today, when a guy came into my store wearing a shirt that announced he worked for "Cummins Onan." I kept staring at it and reading it to make sure I was reading it right.
If your Old Testament knowledge is a little weak, Onan was the...uhhhh...the guy who "spilt his seed on the belly of a whore." Sorta the Patron Saint of Wanking (and you thought it was Jerry Falwell!). At least they didn't name it "Onan's Cummin." I wanted to ask the guy, "Soooo...You work at the Sperm Bank, right?"
"Gaiea?" Is that how you spell it?
I'm not clear on the spelling, but I think I grasp the concept: This Planet's living organisms are so intrinsically tied together that earth becomes some kinda symbiotic lifeform. For instance, there'd be no humans, or anything else that breathes oxygen, if the plants hadn't been dumping oxygen into the atmosphere for billenia, simply as the leftovers from their consumption of carbon dioxide. Yep, we animals are here because we like to breath tree shit.
The most controversial part of the Gaiea idea is that the planet functions analogous to the human's body. People are made up of important stuff like cells and synapses and useless stuff like the appendix and tonsils. So...What's your appendix done for you, lately? Nothing, of course; it's only there to cause you an occasional catastrophic illness. Yet take Mr Bunny-Wunny, your average cute lil' woodland am-in-al, and cut his appendix out and he dies quite quickly. Rabbits need an appendix to live. Humans, which evolved from the same little rats that rabbits did, only have appendices cause evolution has yet to deem "occasional catastrophic illness" as a big enough priority to remove it before you're born.
So. What are humans to this planet? Were we once like an appendix, something that the biosphere didn't have a real need to push out of the picture? But now, with overpopulation and global warming and clear-cutting rain forests so's Ronald McDonald� can graze his Happy Meal� cows that fart up prodigious amounts of the main Greenhouse Effect� gas Methane� so it can keep the cycle going...Is Global Warming really Ma Nature preparing for an appendectomy of Biblical Proportions?
Jesus Christ�, I hope so.
There's a pathetic strip of woods behind my condo. It's 3 miles long, but no more than a 100 or so feet at it's widest. It's bordered by houses on both sides in a heavily populated part of town, but it's almost always deserted during the day. Hey, why leave your air-conditioned suburban splendor and the God of TV just cause it's a beautiful summer day? As I was walking along it today I had one of those synchronicitous moments...I remembered last year, when the Town Government sent out tank-like giant ride-on lawnmowers to slice up the plants that lay on the sides of the yard-wide path through the woods. (What for? Got me. Except that the human, with its SUV's and Ski-Doos and snowmobiles, feels a constant need to dominate and crush nature, whether nature is asking for it or not) It's late July, thinks Billy the Nature Boy; if they haven't mowed yet, they're not...gonna...
Yep, it's Golgotha the Earth-Mover, ripping up the path ahead of me, for no discernible reason than the humans' classic justification, "Because We Can." But Golgotha doesn't seem to be progressing very fast...Yep, Mr Town Worker has driven his invincible machine so that it's stuck half-on, half-off the path. Futilely he grinds wheels the height of the hood of my car, digging the ruts they've already made ever deeper. Finally, he sheepishly pulls out his cell phone (cell phone?! On a tractor?!) and calls for backup. Or a backhoe.
And Bill walks away laughing. Appendectomy in action!
Bill's Contribution to Web "Culture"
Okay, I have a dirty little secret, and I'll share it with you.
I never got over my childhood crush on Dawn Wells.
Yep, "Mary Ann" from Gilligan's Island. (Hey, it could've been a lot worse--Somewhere out there there's a guy pining away for Mrs Howell) In my early days of Net exploration, I found a cute pic of Dawn Wells in a bikini, and saved it--In fact, it was the 1st gif I ever saved. When time came to start a web page, I chose it to be the test pattern I uploaded to my Geocities' files. Then I gots this good idea to put it on my page as deliberate spider bait. It was something Webcrawler might find, then people might actually search for, none of them suspecting the den of inexplicability they would find. It took 6 months after I submitted my URL before Spidey visited, but Lo & Behold, my hit counter started clocking upwards. It hit me that maybe I should make it worth the while for anyone actually looking for "Dawn Wells," so I started looking for more gifs.
I kept finding the same ones. One I found constantly was a fake of Mary Ann & Ginger nekkid without their bathing suits with the rest of the cast not-nekkid, which I found hilarious because it was so goofy. I did find one, at a subscriber-only place that would let you download 100K or so as a trial before you had to pay. (I wanted a jpg of cities wrecked by WWII bombing for my music page, but eventually settled for a screen grab of a Kamikaze) Their Dawn pic was one I'd never seen before. Judging by the hair, clothes, & make-up, it's a publicity still dating from the very early 60s.
When I searched for my page after it finally did get Crawlered (for months, I was 1 of only 12 hits for "Dawn Wells"), other "Dawn Wells" refs would turn up with it. A frequent one was the "Faker's FAQ," which mentioned Ms Wells as a good potential target for being made nekkid when she really wasn't. And right after my page was Crawlered, I started getting hits on my lil' Dawn page. Actually, not the page--just the jpg. Not that you could reach the jpg without hitting the HTML file, or the HTML file without hitting my main page. And it wasn't the HTML file the jpg was on that was being hit--Just the jpg itself, and every damn day. At 1st I thought it was some idjit who didn't know how to download the pic, but hell--How could he hit just the pic and not the HTML and not know something as simple as that? This went on for months.
Then a month ago I did the search thing again. Now, where there once were none, were several Dawn Nekkid pages. I eventually found one that--Wait a minnit--Where have I seen that face before--HEY! That's MY JPG! This is the only time I've EVER seen the Filelibrary pic anywhere besides my page!
Now I get it. Somebody took up the Fake FAQ challenge and began searching for "Dawn Wells" and found me, and posted it to a mailing list or newsgroup of fakers: "SUBJECT: Dawn Wells head shot" or something. Now, it's not exactly "pornography" (though I sure ain't putting it on my page!), but it's not exactly "cute" like the one I do have. It has a more, shall we say, "gynecological" bent? (The word "gaping" comes to mind...) Just now I searched for "Dawn Wells." My page isn't there, but I found this on MSNBC:
OH MY, GINGER AND MARYANN (sic) TOO!And guess what certain "head shot" ain't out there anymore...
And Alyssa [Milano] isn�t the only one. Today a three-hour tour of the Internet is more than enough time to find Ginger and even Maryann naked. �I�ve never done anything naked,� says Dawn Wells, who played Maryann on �Gilligan�s Island.� So that they digitalized � or whatever they do to make Ginger and myself without our bathing suits � is kind of sick.�
Wells found a fake image of herself on the Net made from a publicity still. She hired a lawyer who got the offending picture removed. But that won�t stop someone else from doing the same thing � particularly because of the financial incentive. Porn is where the money is.
Funny, or too arch? Here's another odd theater-of-the-mind thing I sent poor Spottiswoode, entirely inspired by his deliberate mispelling of one word: THOUGHT. Maybe I should've chosen a less obscure subject to parody than late-19th Century adventure novels? (If you're unfamiliar with the subject--And why wouldn't you be?--these were notable for their matter-of-fact rascism, so don't confuse MacViper the character with Thoughtviper the author. Victorian England felt so Superior To The Rest Of The World that they even invented a generic ethnic slur: "Wog." It meant, "You are not English.")
(The time: 1888. The place: London, at the Old and Rather Pompous
Explorers' Club. The scene: Colonel Paddy MacViper of the Queen's Own
Royal Scots-Irish Mounted Poltroons sits in his favorite chair, puffing
on a meerschaum and discussing the Ottoman Empire Crisis with Sax
Roehmer. Lord Spottiswoode, 17th Earl of Rattus-On-Goatshire, enters)
MacV: Lord Spottiswoode! I expected not to gaze upon your countenance until tea time to-morrow!
LS: I partook of the "Bullet Train" Her Majesty inaugurated last fortnight. In the straight-a-ways it thunders like a very demon from Hades, reaching speeds of near 30 miles an hour! This Age of Pro-gress is truly a wonder to live in!
MV: That benighted mountebank H.G. Wells fantizes that one day Science will build a locomotive that attains the ungodly velocity of 55! Surely the jackanape must realize that one cannot drive 55, for the air in the compartments would be sucked out at such a pace, suffocating the passengers!
(Suddenly and without a word spoken, Lord Spottiswoode leaps over the tea trolley like a great cat and knocks Colonel MacViper to the floor)
MV: Dammy, Spotts!! Have those generations of aristocratic inbreeding finally addled your pate? You made me spill my lime rickey!
LS: I suggest you peruse what has embedded itself in the headboard of your favorite chair, my good Colonel!
MV: Odds Blood! A dart! And as poisonous as bath-water to a Frenchy, I'll wager! Doubtless your keen hearing surmised the tell-tale THOT sound a blow-gun makes as it discharges its deadly cargo! You've saved my life again, old bean!
LS: Tut tut, old legume! Think of it as repayment for the time you rescued me from certain devourment by that ravenous lair of dancing bears the dreaded Hooded Claw had entrapped me within!
MV: Haw haw! When we were done, the Claw was clipped as easily as a dirty hang-nail! After many colourful and hair-raising adventures, of course!
LS: Egad, MacViper! Espy that figure racing from the Club through the cobblestoned street! Blow-gun in hand, a loin-cloth clad darkie of average height!
MV: AVERAGE height, you say?! It must be--a pygmy Watusi!
LS: There exists but one arch-fiend evil enough to employ such villianous assassins. Our arch-nemesis!
MV: By Jupiter! Doctor Fu Wazoo and his Purple Ferret Tong! Surely you've taken leave of your senses--We both saw him die when we exploded Krakatoa at the climax of The Adventure of Jade Dragon Cuspidor!
LS: Evidently not, old frijole negra! That slippery eel has more lives than a cat, curse his pagan soul! That he would stage so brazen an attack on one of us, who have thwarted his evil machinations at every turn, surely portends but one end: He has another mad scheme aimed at Her Majesty's Empire! It may be more horrific than his deranged plans of the Adventure of Giving the Colonies Self-Rule, or the Incident of Women's Suffrage!
MV: Heavens to Blessed Saint Murgatroyd, Spotti! We were thrashed within an inch of our imperialist lives in all our encounters with that mad populist! We cannot survive yet another colourful and hair-raising encounter, I am sure!
LS: Then let us call in our markers, old fava bean with a nice chianti! Let us ally ourselves with the wisest, strongest wog of the East!
MV: Na Na Chung!
LS: The same!
MV: Then the die is cast! To Singapore! I shall book us passage on the fastest paddle-steamer I can procure, once I have laid in a 3-month stock of medicinal laudanum!
Starting this Sabbath Day in this very News-paper! The newest serialization of the Adventures of Lord Spottiswoode and Colonel MacViper, "The Adventure of the Polyester Powder-Blue Lotus Suit!"
It just hit me that I remember writing something on "Laborious Day" in '97. Upon checking, it seems to have been about Nostradamus and The End of the World As We Know It and how no one feels fine about it. Well, here's another reassurring thought.
It's from a magazine called The National Preacher and is titled "Necessary Preparation For the Millenium." It's the Biblical math game of "When Does the Apocalypse Begin, and how do I get in on this ground-floor opportunity at Eternal Life?" You know-- the Fundamentalist idee fixe that the Book of Revelations contains some formula that tells us when Armageddon will happen, based on stuff in Israel and Gog and Magog and Marilyn Manson videos on MTV and whatever. I remember reading a book called The Late, Great Planet Earth which used this math to put the Apocalypse somewhere between 1981 and 2007. The Great Tribulation is upon us! But it's funny that, no matter how you slice it, the time to leave is always soon...
The Rev. William Walton is convinced the End comes after 1260 Biblical years, and says, "Learned men have fixed upon several different periods for the commencement of this power, or the reign of the Antichrist, as it is also called. My object, however, does not require any minute calculations. Take any one of the periods fixed upon, and add to it 1260 years, and you will get a result which would not reach far beyond the time to which we have now arrived." He's convinced that the world will end in his lifetime.
Maybe I should show you a scan of the cover date of the magazine.
Poor Spotti. I abuse him so. By the 2nd sentence of this, I decided to set my synapses to ramming speed and give the worst answer to a yes/no question possible. The gum fixation is due to overexposure to the Splut-meme of the Lip-Smackering Sailor Kitty.
>Did you recieve the "You have been added to halcyonrecordings" message.
Not me. You did mean me, right? Cause then, no. Unless you don't mean
me. Which would then be Yes. Is there gum? I would like some gum if
there is any at Hal...cy...onre
That's too hard to spell. I shall now call it Stinky. Stinky--where is my gum?! Must I ask again and again, you ungrateful child? For here I lay--gumless. Juicy Fruit? None. Bubble Yum? Bereft. Cinnaburst? Not an iota. Nor even a squidge! Bubble Tape? Err, no thanks. That just reminds me of my tapeworm. I had to hold a bologna sammitch in front of my open mouth for three days in hopes of luring it out. But it was too smart for me, and attempted escape through the other end. Ha! Fooled you, worm, didn't I?! Fell for my little trap! And now you must take a little theme park ride through our public sewers. The Splash Mountain of the Damned!
Wait! My gum! Where is it? Oh no, the tapeworm--who I shall henceforth call "Sally, the Tapeworm"--has taken it with him! Sally, the Tapeworm, you have bested me! And I, whom I shall henceforth call Uncle Wiggles-from-bottom in memory of what just did do that, have been bested by you! (You, being Sally, the Tapeworm) Oh cursed day! Oh blackest night! Oh Death, where is thy sting and Bubbalicious Watermelon Flavor? Which I shall now call Bubbalicious Rabid Weasel Flavor. I long for it! But if I call it but that, I do no longer long for it, in its longness, which I shall now call--
>Mike to add you in so you can get that information.
No! Too long! "Mike to add &etc" shall now be called "Forsooth!" Call it "Forsooth!" from now on! You know you want to!
No! Wait! Not Forsooth, but henceforth be called--umm--
I'll get back to you on that one.