Assignment for Week Five

In Week Five, you are asked to submit:

1. an original limerick which mentions a brand name, AND
2. an original piece of computer art to go with it. By "computer art," I mean fire up Microsoft Paint or Macintosh Scribble or Linux Doodle or whatever you've got and make a drawing, using drawing tools like a pencil, brush, or spray can (as opposed to clip art or vector shapes).

Notes:

1. I am indebted to the always entertaining Estella for the picture idea. If you need inspiration, check out her reader-submitted computer art about her dog who loves chicken insides. Except mine. I used clip art.
2. It seems that rumors that this week's assignment would be "Pick your favorite word" may have been a tad premature.
3. The drawing should be no larger than 400X400 pixels. I will be compressing any files bigger than let's say 40K, so if you care a whole lot about how your picture looks, compress it yourself. If you don't have any idea what I'm talking about, just send me a picture and I'll take care of it.
4. I am not de-lousing any more curly quotes this season. If you send me curly quotes this week, they will show up on the site as the garbage characters they really are, just as if we were all wearing special goggles that let us see the space zombies.

Week Four Entries

Well, it appears my pep talk may have had a slightly paradoxical effect. We're short a few entries. Nice odds if you're in. Enjoy.

(UPDATE: So much for the odds. Only missing one now.)

Zsa Zsa Gabor:

Treatment for:

Orthodox Jewish American Ninjas, A Love Story

How much do you really Know about the Orthodox Jewish Rabbi Ninja living next door to you?

This Summer....Visit a place, where nothing is truly as it seems... Eastland Academy for Hacidic and Kung Fu Studies has just graduated its most promising crop of Orthodox Jewish Rabbi Ninjas. Led by David Lee Rothenstien (Played by Vin Diesel in a tour DE force performance) these Rabbi's do more than forgive sins, they kick ass!

Follow the Rabbi's as they find their way through a world marred by the Jewish Mafia and turncoat associates that would make Judas cringe!

David Lee Rothenstein leads a band of his Rabbi brethren against a tyrannical Jewish mob boss Richie Goldberg (played by Ving Rhames of Mission Impossible). Along the way he will learn the Torah and learn a little bit about love.

Rothenstein who is fighting the mob to release his fathers Jewish Deli from their evil clutches falls in love with the wrong girl...Goldberg's daughter (played by Courtney Love). He must decide if his family honor or his burning Jewish Ninja loins will win out in a morale battle that is rivaled only by "Gigli".

The war against the mob and in Rubinstein's pants wages on until....He hits his love interest with an errant throwing Star of David in the final battle scene. This movie has it all,

LOVE......WAR......CORNED BEEF......AND CURLY SIDEBURNS!!!!!

DON'T MISS IT!

Betsy Ross:

Man. Woman. Sex. Pillow talk. Love? Maybe.
They fight crime. Disguised as R&B singer Prince. ZANY.
The president enlists them to fight crime on an official basis, after seeing them wearing great outfits at a movie premiere covered by Entertainment Tonight.
This inspires them to start a fashion line. They become cocaine-addled fashionistas. When not high, they discuss the human situation and how addiction kills the spirit.
But wait, didn't the president need their help? They drop their sketches and head for the White House.
They find out North Korea will drop a mondo nuclear bomb on Hawaii in two days. What will they do?
They will encourage everyone to get funky. A distraction. They bring the funk to North Korea's shores. They spread the word of PEACE and RELEASE through song and buttless pants. But what to do about the ruthless dictator who knows kung fu?
Fight, fight, fight. Guards, secretaries with swords, high-ranking ministers and then, finally, the man with his finger on the button. Bloody messes. Dead. Over. But what? He did what?
He fell on the button as he died.
Five minutes until Hawaii is obliterated. What can be done?
GOD intervenes. He tells everyone to chill out and everyone has a good laugh.
Then everyone realizes there's a lot to think about.

The Donald:

ET2: Judgment/Independence Day

Scene 1: The Reunion

Nubile 25 yr Old Gertie (Drew Barrymore) is alone in a beautiful moonlight field at night, remembering her old friend ET. She fondly remembers dressing him up as a girl and how sad she was when he left (roll clips). She asks out loud to herself, "Why can't I ever be happy with any man?" Suddenly a blinding flash of light appears in the woods behind her, and moments later ET waddles out from behind the trees. Gertie kisses him and they make passionate love beneath the trees in the moonlight.

Scene 2: The Birth

A pregnant Gertie is wheeled into the hospital emergency room screaming. Fade to a dumpster behind the hospital. Another blinding flash of light and a cyborg ET appears. Cyborg ET waddles through the hospital killing everyone who gets in his way. He comes to the delivery room door. The door explodes off of its hinges and cyborg ET kills several nurses. Gertie's perfectly human baby cries. The delivery room doctor (Matt Leblanc) lunges at Cyborg ET with the defibrillator paddles as the Cyborg fires his plasma rifle. The Cyborg is disabled and the doctor is dead. Gertie hugs her new son and names him Drake after the brave doctor who saved their lives. Meanwhile, Cyborg ET is disposed of as medical waste, but there's still a red flashing light hidden deep within the cyborg flesh.

Scene 3: Drake's Young Years

Young Drake (played by any Kulkin) is a loner, raised by his single mom Gertie. He is constantly teased in school about his glowing right fingernail. He has an imaginary friend who is a green ogre named "Shrek". Shrek tells him how he can grow up to be a great, powerful, and caring man in a touching, musical number, "You gotta be strong, Dude". Drake also befriends his neighbor, an elderly Asian man known as "Sensei" (Jackie Chan).

Scene 4: High School

Teenage Drake (James Van Der Beek) is perturbed because Gertie starts to date her boss at the publishing house, Frank (Hugh Grant). He's charming, but at the same time a lothario. Drake is also having problems at school. His crush/girlfriend Heather (Kirsten Dunst) is popular, but she is ridiculed by her rich friends for liking "Drake the pasty cake". There is a fight in the locker room between Heather and some of the rich girls (Mischa Barton, Julia Stiles, and Eliza Dushku) - shirts are ripped and breasts exposed, but the popular and kind girl (Gabrielle Union) tells them all to "cut the crap" and be cool.

Meanwhile, the Jocks beat up Drake and continue to torment him daily. Drake mopes home, but Mom isn't there to talk to, so he tries to talk to Frank. Frank calls him a wimp and tells him to start acting like a man. Forlorn, Drake cries on his front steps until Sensei sees him. Sensei teaches him the way of "Matrix-Fu". Drake works hard at Matrix-Fu every afternoon and Frank is impressed with his dedication. The biggest Jock, Ozzie (Paul Walker), asks Heather to the Prom and she is pressured by her friends into saying yes. Drake goes stag and has a dance with Heather, but then Ozzie and the entire football team corner Drake outside the gym. Drake singlehandedly destroys them all with his Matrix-Fu to the amazement of Heather, Gertie, and Frank. Frank tells Drake that he is proud of him and he wants him to be his son, and he asks Gertie to marry him. She screams "Yes!" and then hands Drake a letter. He has been accepted to Notre Dame!

Scene 5: College

Drake's family drives onto the idyllic setting of Notre Dame, blue sky, bright green grass, ivy covered brick buildings. They tell Drake how proud they are of him and leave him with his new roommate Riff (Jack Black). Drake and Riff join Delta Tau Chi fraternity and engage in the usual hijinx with Stiffler (Sean William Scott), 'Tude (Chris Rock), 'Dozer (Chris Klein), AJ (Robert Iler), and their wacky faculty advisor Professor Weed (Steve Buschemi). Drake joins the football team, but only makes the scout team and plays harder than anyone. He never makes the varsity team, but all the coaches and players love him. The final game of his senior year is the Rose Bowl and he is told he will only play if the team is ahead in the last quarter.

Scene 6; The Grand Finale

Fade to a landfill nearby the Rose Bowl

A flashing red light on a dormant cyborg suddenly turns green, and the microchips start transmitting an unknown signal.

Drake runs in full uniform onto the field. He waves excitedly to his parents Unbeknownst to Drake, his mother is deathly ill with delayed Ebola. (She has been infected by Ebola, but the strain is dormant, and could become virulent and kill her within minutes). Late in the 4th quarter of the Rose Bowl, Notre Dame is down by 5 points. With only 30 seconds left in the game Flash (Omar Eps), the star wide receiver breaks his leg in two. Flash knows he will never play football again and begs the coach to put Drake in the game. Drake makes a one-handed diving catch in the end zone in triple coverage with no time on the clock. The team hoists him on their shoulders, he looks to his parents, and his mother smiles and cheers as she never has before. Suddenly, she collapses. Drake runs to her and she tells him that she is so proud of him and that having him is the best thing that she has ever done in her life, and then she gasps her last breath, as all of her organs liquify.

Fade to outer space and a large alien ship approaching the earth. Two aliens talk about releasing the "planet buster" bomb made of Cesium and Tritium. They release the bomb and set the guidance system to home in on the alien DNA near the "signal". The bomb hits Drake, and penetrates through the mantle of the earth to the core of the planet. It then explodes, shattering the planet from within.

THE END

Judy Jetson:

THE TREATMENT: GREEN EGGS AND HAM

DRAMA

Sam I Am, a fuzzy, vaguely feline fellow, enters a garish hallway carrying a sign announcing "I am Sam." He bounces and skips. Suddenly, he leaves in a rush but quickly returns with a second sign saying "Sam I Am."

Another fuzzy fellow, this one more ursine in nature, arrives in the hallway. He is clearly taken aback by Sam I Am's to-ing and fro-ing. Sam I Am comes back. He is in a rush again, but this time he is carrying a platter and inquires as to the Ursine One's inclination toward a meal of green eggs and ham. The Ursine One refuses the meal but Sam I Am is as insistent as he is speedy. He will not take no for an answer. He offers to take the meal to other locations, but the Ursine One stands fast.

COMEDY

Sam I Am becomes somewhat manic. He brings the Ursine One here and there, but he will not eat those green eggs and ham anywhere. Sam I Am stands on his head. He does cart wheels. Still the Ursine One will not try the green eggs and ham. Sam I Am brings him to a wacky house with a comical mouse, but still the Ursine One will not eat. Sam I Am's mania increases. Meanwhile, the Ursine One becomes more serious and steadfast in his refusal. Sam I Am offers a frenzied fox as a dining companion. The Ursine One refuses again to eat the green eggs and ham. Sam I Am drags the Ursine One into a box with the fox. Bedlam breaks out but the Ursine One will not eat.

ACTION

Sam I Am's mood shifts. He is clearly frustrated. He paces. He ponders. He gathers up the fox, the mouse and the Ursine One and they jump in a nifty little roadster. But the Ursine One will not eat green eggs in a car. A hair raising car ride follows but speed does not sway the Ursine One. They drive up the trunk of tree. The Ursine One will not eat the eggs and ham in a tree. For the first time Sam loses his cool and he screams, "Sam, let me be!".

They head for the train station. Sam I Am drives the roasdster onto a train, but still Sam I Am cannot convince the Ursine One to eat. The train increases its speed, nearly veering off the track. Still, the Ursine One does not waver in his position. It begins to rain. The train nearly derails at the edge of a cliff, But the Ursine One will not eat green eggs and ham in the rain, not a train, not in tree, not with a fox, not in a box, not with a mouse, not in a house. He will not eat them here or there. He will not eat them anywhere.

HORROR

The rain continues pouring down, the train takes a curve high above the sea at high speed. The train crashes into the sea. The sound of crushed metal fills the air. There is confusion. There is chaos. There are valiant efforts to save the mouse, the fox, Sam I Am, the Ursine One and, of course, the green eggs and ham.

ROMANCE

As they are being rescued, Sam I Am looks pleadingly into the eyes of the Ursine One. For the first time since he entered the hallway, Sam I Am is silent. The Ursine One is touched. He relents. He tastes the green eggs and ham. Miraculously, he loves them. A chorus sings. Fireworks go off. Sam I Am and the Ursine One walk off into the sunset sharing green eggs and ham.

Shirley "Cha Cha" Muldowney:

MISTERS PRESIDENT

A Treatment

A man in a dark gray business suit walks briskly down a long dim corridor. We do not see his face.

He thrusts open the door at the end and marches into a large office. He swiftly moves toward the desk and exclaims "Mr. President!"

As the chair swings round to face the man, two voices simultaneously reply "Yes, Dick." Vice-president DICK CHENEY reels back in horror--President GEORGE BUSH has two heads, his own and that of his Democratic opponent and archenemy, JOHN KERRY.

Cut to space ship high above the earth: KANG and KODOS, two green octopus-like creatures, each with a single, large eye and sharp teeth in its ever drooling mouth, laugh uproariously as they watch this scene on a video monitor. Kang says to Kodos "These earthlings have no sense of humor."

The 2004 presidential election is dead even. Although a recount and investigation is underway, no one is going to trust the result, especially since most of the votes were cast on electronic voting machines. The intensely divided nation is on the brink of civil war.

For a bit of sport and in an attempt to solve the election crisis, Kang and Kodos, alien scouts sent to assess earth's resources and earthlings' slave potential, attach Kerry's head to Bush's body.

An intense struggle for control of Bush's body ensues between Bush and Kerry. Kerry, with his more disciplined, intellectual mind, initially prevails. Once in control, Kerry marvels at Bush's body. He has a sense of the physical that he has never before had--it's as if he is feeling things for the very first time. At their first bowel movement Kerry is overcome. "That was the most satisfying experience I've ever had. Is it like that every time?" "Every time, cowboy, every time."

Bush, with his more instinctual, cunning mind, sees his opening. He seizes control of his body from the overwhelmed Kerry. Bush easily masters Kerry, now obsessed with the physical, through sensual stimulation.

Accustomed to Kerry's lively, high-mindedness, THERESA HEINZ KERRY, Kerry's wife, is repulsed by his sudden feral turn. He no longer wants to talk. He just wants to smell, touch and taste.

Curiously, she finds herself attracted to Bush. His unwavering conviction that he is right moves her. She finds security in Bush's black and white world that she never found in Kerry's gray world. She realizes that she made a mistake in marrying Kerry, that she betrayed her dead husband, Republican Congressman John Heinz, III.

LAURA BUSH finds herself attracted to Kerry. While she finds Bush exceptionally attractive, there is something flat about him. The new Kerry retains all of Bush's appeal--his body, his brutishness--but with a lively spark shining through.

Bush starts a secret romance with Theresa. He continues the charade of marriage with Laura only because it helps keep Kerry sensually overloaded. Laura studiously avoids Kerry's head when she is with Bush, even though she desperately wants to reach over and run her fingers through his thick hair, to press her lips against his, while that familiar, strong body that she so loves presses against hers. Theresa lets her disgust of Kerry slip. In a fit of rage and revenge, Kerry tells Laura of Bush's affair with Theresa. Laura is devastated. She will not violate her marriage vows. For the sake of her family, for appearances, for the sake of the country, she stays with Bush. With each passing day, she grows more in love with Kerry and is desperate to be with him, yet will never touch his head, will never talk to him.

SENATOR JOHN McCAIN, discovers that OSAMA BIN LADEN is hiding in Hackensack, New Jersey, and has programmed the electronic voting machines to produce the even result. Bin Laden is on the verge of achieving his objective--plunging the United States into civil war.

McCain, though over-the hill, cowboys up and leads an assault on Osama's Hackensack compound. It is a devastating battle. There is a great fear that he has stored fuel similarly to MOVE and David Koresh. Several Special Forces infiltrate the perimeter and discover that a full assault can be launched. McCain launches the attack before the Special Forces can get out and they are caught in the crossfire. Two are wounded and the third drags them to safety. He sees Bin Laden enter a secret passage and chases him through it. He and Bin Laden engage in vicious hand-to-hand combat. The soldier subdues Bin Laden and has a harrowing escape through enemy fire, bringing Bin Laden along to face U.S. justice.

When the country discovers that Bin Laden is behind the election catastrophe, the threat of civil war disappears and the sides unite against Bin Laden, unite behind the president.

Initially repulsed by the two-headed president, the country comes to believe that this may be the best way to bring the radically divided country back together. President Bush-Kerry is affectionately referred to as "Misters President."

KARL ROVE is gleeful. The single-party state is achieved. Bush has control over his body--over the "president." Kerry, in a blissful state of sensual overload, does what he is told. The Democrats, sheep all, do as their told.

Kang and Kodos report back to their planet that earthlings will make excellent slaves as they have strong backs and are easily managed.

Techno Destructo:

Jasmine wasn't looking for love, but she found it that Thursday by the Bellagio pool. Aiden wasn't looking for a mark, but he found one in Jasmine. Connor wasn't trying to even the score, but he got his revenge on Blade. Blade didn't want to save the world, but he was the only one with a rubber band, a watermelon rind and a stopwatch.

Imagine Las Vegas; the visceral pumping heart of the free world. It's blinding, it's towering, it's "image", it's money, it's that new pink-on-darker-pink bag from Coach, it's MAC lipgloss and solitaire and pawned solitaire and drunk on Kettel and fabulous. Imagine Jasmine.

Jasmine lounges by the Bellagio pool. She's purposeless. She's pouty. She's five-eleven and a hundred and four pounds. Her smoky eyes occupy ninety-six percent of her face. When seen from behind one might at first think that a long, multi-legged alien has nested on top of her spine. Her bikini is Vuitton. The six private cabanas behind her are all holdings of her father's company, but Jasmine refuses to capitalize on her hypocritical and emotionally distant father's material possessions. Her mother? Non-existent. She might have died. Maybe not. In the spirit of most Disney films, it's ambiguous. She pulls a solid black American Express "we only make ten of these" cards out of nowhere and flags down a cabana boy.

Ayden poses as a cabana boy at the Las Vegas Bellagio Hotel and Casino. With his "surfer boy" looks and "tanning bed" tan, he's a natural. His tee shirt is two sizes smaller than anyone else on shift. He refuses to wear his cap because he's a rebel. His last hijinks involved a sultry redhead, a tiny cottage on Palau and thirteen million dollars. His name was different and his hair was a slightly darker shade of darkish-blond. He sees Jasmine-- lounging, pointless, not enough physical strength to hold her Uber Elite AmEx in the air-- and spies gold. He approaches.

SOME STUFF HAPPENS. THINK EMOTIONAL. THINK CONFESSIONAL. THINK "AT FIRST HE WAS GOING TO STEAL FROM HER BUT THEN IN BED THEY BOTH REALIZED THAT THEIR MOMS ARE JUST MISSING BUT NO ONE EVER TALKS ABOUT THEM". IT'S "MI FAMILIA" WITH JIMMY SMITS AND THAT GIRL WHO PLAYED ISABEL AND THAT SCENE IN THE BEDROOM WHERE THEY CRIED AND SHE WASN'T DEAD YET BUT YOU COULD FEEL IT COMING AND YOU WERE PRETTY SURE IT WAS GOING TO BE WHILE SHE WAS IN LABOR WITH THEIR CHILD.

Connor stands on a corner. He holds a sign; "WILL WORK THOUGHT-PROVOKINGLY FOR FOOD". Tall, willowy, obviously homosexual Connor bends down to take a dollar from the driver of a "the last Bond movie" BMW and asks the driver if there isn't maybe just the smallest, strangest, obscure job that needs doing at BMW's house seeing as how Connor can't morally allow himself the luxury of taking money for nothing. The driver (nothing visible but for $600 sunglasses and a lot of limo tint) nods slightly; Connor climbs nimbly in the back. Little does he know... this is his stepfather's business partner. Evil, nefarious, gray, fit, "Young and the Restless 'the tip has been taken care of' money". and Blade's father.

LOT'S OF PLANNING AND PLOTTING. CONNOR FINDS HIMSELF BOARDING IN HIS EX-LOVER'S ROOM. THERE ARE PICTURES OF BLADE EVERYWHERE. TALL, DARK, "PIERCE BROSNAN BEFORE KEELY SHAYE SMITH AND GAY". CONNOR REMAINS IN LOVE WITH BLADE, EVEN THROUGH BLADE'S CLOSET-FUCKING FORTY OR MORE WOMEN AND REFUSAL TO "COME OUT". CONNOR'S UNREQUITED LOVE FLAMES UP, FIFTY MINUTES OF FILM TAKEN WITH REVENGE SCENARIOS.

Blade. Rugged, weathered, dark, wizened, totally straight. While he used to steal and race cool cars (FLASHBACK), now he's working on a barge in the Arctic-- his specific job (nay, the job of the barge at large) is shrouded in CIA mystery. It's CLASSIFIED. And Blade spends a lot of time OILY IN A TANKTOP. As Blade is wrestling half-naked with some sort of giant, writhing hose The Commander approaches and informs Blade that the earth is in grave danger; Blade is the EARTH'S only hope.

As Blade gives his life (TO BE WORKED OUT LATER. RUBBER BAND IN POCKET? LIKES MELON.) for THE EARTH, Connor cries tears of forgiveness through his clear mascara and hugs his NEW RICH FATHER.

Jasmine and Aiden play with their sinfully attractive baby in a clover meadow. Sunlight plays in hair as they vow never to let the material get in the way of what's important. The baby is wearing Armani Tots. Jasmine is fucking Aiden's boss.

Lydia Lunch:

HANNIBAL'S ANGELS

The Angels have Hannibal Lecter cornered in the huge cage. As they swarm at him in slow motion, he looks serene, almost as if he is meditating. Dylan flies at him with a stylized karate kick aimed at his forehead. He flicks her away as if she were a mosquito. The other two angels are nursing their wounds in the opposite corner, having just received quick, efficient blows to their windpipes. He leans over Dylan and suddenly places a previously hidden blade against her neck. He licks her face and murmurs "Angel food cake. Maybe later." As quickly as he produced the blade, he slips out of the cage and disappears, using the key that he had lifted from one of the bodyguards he had killed.

HANNIBAL THE CANNIBAL

After spending 10 years in seclusion in Brazil, Hannibal's lover, Clarise, dies of asphyxiation during a particularly adventurous sexual escapade with him. Hannibal plunges into a deep depression. Craving assertive female attention, Hannibal engages the Angels through their boss, Charlie. Hannibal poses as a CIA agent and contacts Charlie with a request: He needs a team of highly trained female covert agents to infiltrate the organization of Pablo Escobar, a Colombian drug lord.

After weeks of preparation, the Angels successfully position themselves as intermediaries for Californian drug dealers. They begin a series of regular meetings with Pablo Escobar. Natalie falls in love with a young Colombian bodyguard named Carlos. She gains much valuable information by sleeping with him on a regular basis. They share a love of 1980s dance music and swank Colombian night clubs, where Natalie's flowing blond hair attracts much attention.

Meanwhile, Hannibal strikes up a friendship with Charlie who likes rare Brazilian truffles and fine wine. One night, Charlie mentions that he his long-time friends in the Agency have never heard of Lecter, who calls himself "Agent Smith.". Charlie suggests that Lecter has developed terrific cover.

Disappointed, Lecter decides to eliminate any risk of being discovered by the CIA. The next time he visits Charlie, he brings hallucinogenic mushrooms instead of truffles. After Charlie devours the mushrooms, he falls into a semi-alert, vegetative state. While Hannibal's favorite Adagio plays on the CD player, he proceeds to hog tie Charlie. After hanging him upside down, Lecter calmly makes a single vertical slice along the length of his stomach. He then surgically removes Charlie's organs and places them in separate colorful boxes, with Spanish markings.

ANGEL HELL

The Angels convene at their secret meeting spot in the jungle to communicate with Charlie. Uncharacteristically, Charlie does not answer his phone. Meanwhile, Alex discovers a small, pink box. Excitedly, she opens it, only to find a human heart, perfectly preserved in formaldehyde. The note, written on Pablo Escobar's letterhead simply says, "Lots of love, from Charlie." Somehow, their cover had been blown and Charlie was dead. In an instant, the focus of the mission shifts from infiltration to destruction.

The Angels mount their specially-outfitted swamp buggies to follow the river to Escobar's compound. Emotional flashbacks of the Angels fond memories of Charlie are intermingled with images of the intense Angels flying through the jungle at warp speed.

BATTLE of ESCOBAR

The fight scene at Escobar's compound is a well-choreographed feast of stunning hand-to-hand combat, punctuated by occasional use of automatic rifles and Kung Fu-style weaponry. The soundtrack is dominated by late 1990s techno.

Meanwhile, Hannibal watches the battle from a distant perch using a telescope. The song "Music Box Dancer" plays as Hannibal seems exhilerated by the Angels' skillfully applied violence.

Suddenly, the Angels are overmatched by Escobar's army and are taken prisoner in a large underground cage. Wearing a simple silk white robe, Lecter suddenly appears in the underground room and quickly disposes of the three armed bodyguards. Recognizing him, the three Angels are not sure what to think. He lets himself into the cage and sits among them. Quickly, the Angels figure out how they had been duped and they decide to try to subdue Lecter. His skills are too much for them, however (see opening scene.)

Natalie finds Carlos and quickly negotiates a truce and pact with Pablo Escobar. He immediately understands the "miscommunication" and unites with the Angels to hunt down Lecter. They mobilize an army of thugs that spreads across a large swath of mountainous terrain to find Hannibal.

During all of the action, Dylan becomes separated from the other two Angels, who become worried about her safety.

HANNIBAL'S ANGEL

It turns out that Dylan has fallen under Hannibal's spell. With her red hair trimmed and straight-combed to look like Clarise, Dylan and Hannibal dine together at a small cafe on the Colombian beach. After dining they arrive at a secluded cliffside retreat (with ocean views) where they set a trap for the other two Angels.

Almost on queue, Natalie and Alex arrive first to find a bound and gagged Dylan. As they approach her, a net releases and falls on them, gathering them up into a ball. A terrifying Hannibal arrives, and silently begins arranging his surgical tools.

Suddenly explosions ring out as Colombian paratroopers swarm the cliffside retreat. Hannibal slips into the basement.

After the Angels are released and begin to enjoy each other's company a faint whir interrupts their reunion. They see a small powerboat speeding away, with a calm Hannibal Lecter at the helm.

The relieved Angels begin reminiscing about Charlie and share stories about him. Flashbacks roll capturing a variety of scenes, including Charlie's first meeting with the Angels. Tears roll down their faces as they imagine the horror that he must have endured.

Words of Inspiration

Hello. Chris, here. I thought I'd offer you, the players, some words of inspiration as we move into the critical Wednesday-Thursday Time-To-Play time. As you may recall, it is impossible to get voted off my island without writing an entry. It is also impossible to get voted off my island if you don't vote. And let's face it, you're starting to wonder if maybe getting on my island wasn't such a good idea after all. All this writing and reading. Sheesh.

If you want the pain to stop, you need to play.

Let's consider this week. 1,000 words. Is Chris high? Well, I'm not saying, but I am referring to myself in the third person. Remember that 1,000 is the upper limit. You can write fewer than 1,000. Some people have already turned in entries which can only see the thousand word mark on very clear days with the sun behind them, standing on a stack of Verizon phone books, even though they aren't Verizon customers. So what do you say? Howzabout an entry AND a vote this week? Otherwise, I'm just going to give you another assignment.

I don't know about you, but I'm feeling pretty inspired.

Week Four Assignment: Kyle Gets the Treatment.

You and Kyle Sean Fresnel have been lunching at Hollywood's Instant Karma Deli every Wednesday for two years, yet you have never met. This is interesting (to you, not him) because he's a famous and powerful movie studio executive and you are an aspiring screenwriter/bartender. Very aspiring. You have not yet cranked up the courage to pitch Mr. Fresnel. Every Friday you hear him blather at the top of his lungs to whatever unfortunate writer or smarmy producer he's brought along about his Porsches, his new house in the hills, his kids' problems at private school. You've seen other deli regulars pitch Fresnel and you have witnessed his rebukes, which represent the most devastating and efficient net game imaginable. Nothing ever gets to his side of the court. You have had dreams about kidnapping him.

But last Wednesday was different. Last Wednesday, you and Kyle Sean Fresnel were at adjacent stools at the deli counter. You were by yourself, so you had nothing better to do than eavesdrop. Kyle was by himself, too, whining into his cellphone about the "dearth of quality shit" he's seeing. It seems that Fresnel has become obsessed with something he calls "the cinema of chard," which instead of focusing on a genre or audience segment apparently seeks to deliver everything to everyone in one film.

"The first writer who hands me a treatment for a classy comedy-horror-action-romance-drama flick..."

(CHARD...Eureka.)

"...with a little tear jerking at the end for the chicks is gonna be rich," says Kyle. "And not some frickin' tome, either. If they can't pitch me in 1,000 words, how am I going to pitch it to the money guys? Their attention spans are even shorter than mine."

You are tired of art and you are tired of ramen noodles. Next Wednesday, Kyle Sean Fresnel will get the pitch he's looking for.

Week Three Entries

Wherein you were asked to provide your organization's manifesto, list of demands of all world governments, and special considerations for the big trade show at which you're trying to score a booth. Couple entries missing, and oh, so very many curly quotes to fix. Please oh please, turn off the curly quotes. Anyhow, you people are silly. Enjoy.

(You may have noticed that The Donald's entry automagically appeared this morning. His company's email server seems to be fritzing. I'm sure heads will roll.)

The Donald:

TechnoMovie Republic.....(TerMinatoR)

I am the Govern-ator of California, and my people want toTerminate their attachment to the United States of America. The taxes that we pay to the Kindergarten Cops in Washington will end now. We citizens of the Golden State will no longer be beholden to the Predators of the beltway and their True Lies. We're getting a Raw Deal and it's time for us to take an Eraser to our tax bill. We realize that this action may cause Collateral Damage to the country, but it's timefor Washington to own up to the fact that the stupid Twins that sit in the white house (Junior and Cheney)cannot run deficits for years and expect taxpayers to foot the bill. If we keep doing this our country'scredit will come to The End of Days, or maybe The Sixth Day out of seven. We realize our new country will be the brunt of jokes on Conan O'Brian at 11:30 every night, but we're willing to live with that for the new fiscal freedom that we will enjoy. Our new country will be named:

The TechnoMovie Republic.

List of Demands: To the US Government: Stay away from us, We still have many military bases and nuclear weapons and if you insist on using force, we will burn with a Red Heat and go Commando on your ass. You'll see what the Last Action Hero can do to you!!

To Japan: If you use your Total Recall, you will realize that we are the main market for all of your cars and DVD players. be nice to us, or we will stop making movies for all the DVD players that you sell and buy German cars.

To Europe: We want nothing from you, Fuck off! (except for Austria of course)

Ball Master Crazy:

The following is to be read in a partially French-partially Eastern Block accent, with many, many of your maniacal laughs, in accordance with your American misbehavior!

The Members of ACT (American Currency Thieves) have one thing for to say to you! Give us all your currency! For we do not have anything else for to ask of you! Currency is everything!

Acting upon our brief manifesto, we have decided to go against all thoughts of rape, pillage and plunder. We do not care for your livestock nor your children. For, to us, currency is everything. With it, you can act upon any urge, make any woman swoon at your feet.

Once we have secured all of your currency, there will be no more trips to the GAP or to Banana Republic. What then will you do with your precious weekends!?! There will be no shopping for you! And you will have no means with which to celebrate your sanctified holidays such as Secretary's Day or The Super Bowl! What will you do in the evening, when there is no currency with which you can buy cable television or dinner at the restaurant?!? What then? You will lay in your stalls, praying for more of your government's currency! That's what you will do! But your government will not survive! For they, too, will weep without their luscious power!

So, from you, there are the following orders:

Give us all your currency! That includes: Change, bills, bonds, lay-away tickets, rebates, checks, etc. We will take it all!

If half of all your currency is not delivered in two days, we will begin your demise by discontinuing the programs of your Jay Leno and your Howard Stern. Then, perhaps some of your currency will be delivered!

For now, viva la currency!

Zsa Zsa Gabor:

People for the Ethical Treatment of Midget Rodeo Clowns

We here at PETMRC request use of your floor space for our annual convention. This year we will be exhibiting new midget rodeo clown safety gear as well as new lines of midget rodeo clown clothing.

Midget rodeo clowns are the icing on the cake that we all love known as rodeos. How many times have you been to a rodeo where a bull doesn't trample a midget? Doesn't this leave you saddened? Doesn't this leave you feeling empty? That is why we here are PETMRC have developed a support group for midgets who delve into one of the most fiscally rewarding careers a midget could ask for. We compete with other midget base political action committee's such as People Against Midget Tossing and also the Star Jones Fan Club.

Thank you for your consideration,

H. Ross Perot
Assistant Vice Secretary, PETMRC

Judy Jetson:

Carbo Freedom Fighters International (CFFI; www.carbofree.com) Application to the 2004 Conclave of Revolutionary Organizations, Splinter Cells, and Factions

A Meaty Manifesto

The history of oppression is the history of carbohydrate struggles. In earlier epochs of history, we find almost everywhere a complicated arrangement of society into various orders, a manifold gradation of carbohydrate rank: those with bread and those without.

The Egyptians packed fluffy white bread into Pharoah’s pyramids while the Jews they enslaved were forced to eat dry, unleavened matzoh.

Marie Antoinette ate croissants at Versailles while starving French peasants rioted for bread. Instead of eating cake as she suggested, they came for her head.

The English passed the clotted cream for their scones while the Irish starved when a blight destroyed the potato.

Modern bourgeois society has not done away with carbohydrate antagonisms. It has but established new classes, new conditions of oppression, new forms of struggle in place of the old ones.

Christianity upholds the superiority of the carb, teaching its adherent to pray, "Give us this day our daily bread." Images of Christ as the "bread of life" supersede more protein positive images, such as the "lamb of God."

Dr. Atkiins bravely led the fight for a new food pyramid, one placing the carbohydrate in its rightful position as a food group to be eaten in scant amounts--and even then only as a whole grain. Atkins understood that "man cannot live by bread alone" represents a dietary fact, not a pitch for arts funding in public schools.

In return for liberating us from the tyranny of carbohydrates, Atkiins was derided. Dietitians scoffed at his disciples' weight loss. Cardiologists warned of increased heart disease. When he met his untimely (and quite frankly suspicious) end, humiliating stories about his bloated body spread.

Carbo Freedom Fighters disdain to conceal their views and aims. They openly declare that their ends can be attained only by the forcible overthrow of all existing dietary conditions. Let the baking classes tremble at a carbohydrate revolution. Bread eaters have nothing to lose but their waist lines.

Carbo Fighters of the world, unite!

Demands of all World Government

A spectre is haunting the global food chain -- the spectre of a carbohydrate free world. All the powers of the old food pyramid have entered into a holy alliance to exorcise this spectre: the USDA and cardiologists, French bakeries and Dunkin Donuts, Wonder Bread and Pepperidge Farm.

Where is the diet in opposition that has not been decried as Atkins-esque by its opponents in power? Where is the opposition that has not hurled back the branding reproach of Atkins, against the more advanced opposition parties, as well as against its reactionary adversaries?

Yet, carbo freedom is already acknowledged by all supermarkets to be itself a powerful market share.

It is high time that Carbo Freedom Fighters should openly, in the face of the whole world, publish their views, their aims, their tendencies, and meet this nursery tale of the spectre of a Carbo Free world.

To this end, Carbo Freedom Fighters of various nationalities call for the elimination of English scones, French baguettes, German pumpernickel, Italian foccacia, and Danish of all flavors.

Special Considerations

Carbo Freedom Fighters International expects that the organizers of the 2004 Conclave of Revolutionary Organizations, Splinter Cells, and Factions will refrain from serving carbohydrates. Any attempt to serve bread, pasta or cereal of any kind--including whole grain--will be met with active resistance.

The Omniscient Custard Creme:

Society for the
Liberation of
Age
Vulnerable
Employee
Standards.

Right, ok, just so you know, this is REALLY serious, no, really. We are, like, TOTALLY sick of being treated like slaves or something just because we're young. There's just no reason why we should be forced to work as hard as we LITERALLY do. Like, last week, Debbie Perez, you know, her that says she gave a handjob to Jason Reilly at the halloween disco, even though he was going steady with Kay at the time and Kay saysshe's a liying slag, yeah, well, her. Last week, she was working at the bakery counter in Tescos and this old lady says to her "Is the farmhouse loaf organic?" I know, yeah, really, and Debbie goes "I dunno, it's not like I made it or nothing" which it TOTALLY fair cos she doesn't make the bread, she just sells it and the lady's like "Can you find out?", like Debbie's her private bread research BITCH or something. It's totally unfair that we should be expected to do stuff like that, I mean, Debbie's job says she's a sale assistant, so she's supposed to SELL stuff. It's not like her job's called, like, "information giver" or something. Debs' is just one case in many though, every week there are LITERALLY millions of young people nationwide who are expected to just, like, jump up when customers come into their shops. I mean, Jesus, how are we supposed to see them come in? We're not, like, psychic or something and they're like, totally coming in, so they should be able to find us, cos THEY'RE the ones coming in unexpected and that.

In short we are demanding the following:

Relaxation of employers' mobile phone policy, like, last week, I got this GREAT text from Fran where you scrolled down and this teddy danced, sort of thing, and I was showing Matt it, and this bitch was all like "excuse me, can I have a double espresso please". Jeeezus.

Recognition of the vital part we play in modern commerce. Who ELSE is going to get up for a 12pm shift on a Saturday. It's not even like we NEED the work, like, I'm just doing my weekend work at the newsagents until I get my band together, cos Mike said he knows a guy who used to be able to get backstage passes for Battle of the Bands and he knows a guy who could, like, get us signed and that. Watch me sell broadsheets when I'm rocking the house in 6 months man!

A new way of making our parents TOTALLY chill out and give us some slack, including the, like, making illegal of the following phrases.
"You treat this place like a hotel"
"What about your grades?"
"It's NOT your car"
"What's that smell in your room?"
"We could make you start paying rent"
"Your boss called".

We're not kidding around here, we're SERIOUSLY prepared to do some MAJOR damage if you piss us off any further. You expect ALL the inserts in your Sunday paper and the bread packed on TOP of the lemonade? No way man, don't say we didn't warn you, mofo.

Oh, and when we're at the convention thing, it'd be cool if, like, someone could be there to man our stall, cos I'm TOTALLY going on a freebie run, cos Ashley said that she was at last year's, and got this cool hat from one of the other groups, with big holders on the side for cans, and straws, and I'm gonna make it into LITERALLY the best bong that's ever existed. True.

And like, we don't wanna be too near anyone who's old, that's important too.

Peace out.

Shirley "Cha Cha" Muldowney:

Sub-Marshall Colfax:

I submit the following information in application for exhibition space in the main conference hall.

Organization:

Fans of Unleashed Cursing and Knavery (FUCK)

Manifesto:

A specter is haunting Earth -- the specter of cursing. All the powers of Earth have entered into a holy alliance to exorcise this specter: Pope and Despot, Ayatollah and Prime Minister, Evangelist and President, Media Conglomerate and FCC Chairman.

Where is one who curses that has not been decried as obscene by her opponents in power? Where is the opposition that has not hurled back the branding reproach of profanity against the maledictor?

Two things result from this fact:

I. Cursing is already acknowledged by all Earth powers to be itself a power.

II. It is high time that those who curse should openly, in the face of the whole world, publish their views, their aims, their tendencies, and meet this nursery tale of the specter of cursing with a manifesto of those who curse themselves.

To this end, those of various nationalities who curse assembled and sketched this manifesto, to be published in all languages of Earth.

The history of all hitherto existing society is the history of curse-anti-curse struggles.

Profaner and prig, maledictor and moralist, imprecator and innocent, execrator and ex-communicator, fulminator and fundamentalist, swearer and spoiler, in a word, curser and anti-curser, stood in constant opposition to one another, carried on an uninterrupted, now hidden, now open fight, a fight that each time ended, either in a revolutionary reconstitution of society at large, or in the common ruin of the contending classes.

We join with our sisters and brothers of Profanity Institute for Safer Society (PISS) and Clowns for Unreserved Naughty Talk (CUNT) in the now open fight against the present rising tide of intolerance and zealotry of the anti-cursers, as exemplified by that prig moralist FCC Chairman Powell.

FUCK's immediate aim is the same as that of all other cursing parties: Formation of those who curse into a class, overthrow of the anti-curse supremacy, conquest of anti-curse power by those who curse.

Shall the language of, by and for the people prevail?

Fuck yes!

We hereby demand of all Earth powers:

That all words are deemed equal.

That all words heretofore considered "curse" are deemed more equal, especially the seven of U.S. Supreme Court fame: fuck, shit, piss, prick, cunt, cocksuker and motherfucker.

That all media censorship of profanity immediately cease, except, of course, for Howard Stern and Janet Jackson.

That formal classroom instruction in cursing begin in kindergarten, for as CUNT notes, it's never too early to teach the kids.

Rise up and overthrow the fucking moralist prigs,

Shirley "Cha Cha" Muldowney, FUCK Lexicographer, and FUCK, CUNT, PISS Liaison

Lydia Lunch:

Fluoride Use Controls and Kills (FUCK)

MANIFESTO
Flouride is an insidious poison. First, it destroys your free will. Then it kills you. One of the first known applications of mass fluoridation was in Nazi Germany where the Third Reich used fluoride to sterilize and tranquilize its victims. FUCK believes that the U.S. and other governments are using fluoride for the very same purpose.

We must rid our food and water supplies of this toxic menace. Fluoride is the hazardous by-product of fertilizer manufacturing that is added to more than half of America's municipal water supplies in the name of dental prophylaxis. Industrial workers must wear protective gear when they handle fluoride. It is also used to kill insects and rodents. Yet, rather than paying to properly dispose of it, fertilizer manufacturers get paid hard-earned taxpayer money to dump fluoride into our drinking water. Since it is widely used as an agricultural insecticide, fluoride also permeates our food supply. It cannot be avoided.

After eating and drinking fluoride-tainted food and drink all day, we brush our teeth with concentrated fluoride at night and then again in the morning. We bathe in it when we shower. We go to the dentist and receive highly concentrated doses. And, as if that weren't enough, mothers are encouraged to take fluoride pills when they are pregnant and then give their babies fluoride pills after they are born.

Fluoride causes many physical ailments, including: spotting of the teeth ("fluorosis"), brittle bones ("osteoporosis"), and thyroid disease ("Hashimoto's disease"). It is not surprising that there are silent epidemics of these illnesses in all countries where mass fluoridation of water supplies is rampant.

Until the global Fluoride Conspiracy is rooted out, no drinking water or food supply will be safe from the ravages of fluoride contamination.

LIST OF DEMANDS

1. Immediately cease the immoral dumping of fluoride-based chemicals into drinking water and food supplies.
2. Establish a war crimes tribunal to prosecute all dentists who have coerced their patients into using fluoride without the proper disclosures.
3. Disband the American Dental Association (ADA) and replace it with a panel of FUCK Board members.
4. Launch a U.N.-based investigation to uncover how far the Fluoride Conspiracy has permeated the upper echelons of the U.S. government.
5. Seize all of the assets of Crest, Colgate and all other manufacturers of fluoride-based toothpastes. Establish "Tom's of Maine" as the sole source supplier of all toothpaste worldwide, provided, of course, that they agree to drop the few fluoride-based products that have crept into their product line.

SPECIAL CONSIDERATIONS

1. FUCK members will require reservations at a hotel that will allow FUCK to install a portable reverse osmosis filter that will remove all fluoride from the hotel's water supply.
2. FUCK requests that soft foods (e.g., applesauce) be made available to its members at all meal events. FUCK also requests that all liquids be served at room temperature.

Betsy Ross:

Replace the National Anthem with Groban! or RNAG

Manifesto:

We believe that world peace could be achieved if America's musty old national anthem were replaced with the lilting, uplifting tones of Josh Groban's 'You Raise Me Up,' which brings tears to the eyes of every man, woman and child anytime it is performed at any memorial for any disaster, be it global or personal. We believe that if every man, woman and child could see the shining eyes of the young man with the tousled hair and alabaster skin, every soul-shattering event that befalls the nation will be forgotten in the gentle push of Josh Groban's powerful vocal presence. We believe that this nation needs a polite heart-throb to lead us through the tough times, especially times like these when you can never be too sure of your sketchy neighbors who could be Hispanic or Arab. Let us say it loud: Josh Groban, you raise us up! We will surely walk the stormy seas of terrorism on your sturdy, attractive shoulders.

Demands:

Governments of the world shall not attempt to steal our Josh Groban. He is OURS. He will raise up only the people of the U.S. You will not swoon in his presence, nor will your teenagers attempt to sully his good name with cheap liquor and groupie sex. We know your teenagers, world, and they are not worthy of Josh Groban's smiling face.

Oh, and should Josh Groban visit your country, all green M&Ms will be taken out of the M&M selection backstage.

Season Two Special Characters Plea

If you are using a word processor to compose your entries, please please please turn off whatever auto-replace mechanism changes straight quotes to curly quotes and hyphens to dash characters before you start typing. I had to de-louse most of last week's entries for directional quotes and dash characters. The easiest way around this problem is to use a plain old text editor like Notepad. Microsoft Word users, please repeat after me: Tools - Auto Correct - AutoFormat As You Type. Deselect "Straight Quotes with Smart Quotes" and "Special Characters with Special Symbols." Thanks.

Week Three Assignment: Fight the Power!

Comrade,

Thank you for your interest in the 2004 Conclave of Revolutionary Organizations, Splinter Cells, and Factions. Your application for exhibition space in the main conference hall was incomplete as received. Please transmit the following information to us using the standard communication channels:

Official org. name and acronym
Organizational manifesto (300 words max.)
List of demands of all world governments
Special considerations

We will process your application as soon as it is complete. The rink people assure us that the ice will be covered BEFORE exhibitor checkin this year.

Viva la revolucion!
Sub-Marshall Colfax
Prelate, League of Disgruntled Vintners
Sergeant-at-Arms, The Earnest Order
Sub-Marshall, Cavalcade of Conscience
Vice-Chairman, 2004 CROSCF Exhibition Sales

Week Two Entries

...wherein you were asked to write in your diary after your first month of Clown College. Yes, you counted right, we're missing one entry. Yes, you're not hallucinating, everyone got even anonymous-er this week. I wonder how often that will happen...

Frank Gorshin:

September 27, 2003

College life is incredible -- I feel so full of life!. High School is so YESTERDAY compared to this, but enough about that. As Psych 101 Professor Donovan would say, "That's the past. Live in the present." I think I want to be a psychologist.

My roommates are cool except for Laura, who is a kleptomaniac bitch. Beth can be nice, but when she drinks, watch out. Last night we both ended up in my bed after we split a bottle of vodka. Very weird. I wish I could remember more of it.

After I asked him to be my personal mentor, Professor Donovan suggested that I pursue a deeper relationship with Beth. He wants both of us to meet with him next Friday night. He asked us to have open minds and curious hearts. I wonder if I should bring up Beth's drinking problem?

Laura just started sleeping with Ricky, one of the boys living in the room above us. At first, Beth and I thought that Laura was breaking into his room and stealing his stuff, because we kept finding his clothes tucked away in our closet. Then one night last week, we heard slow, rhythmic banging from the room above us. After about 3 minutes, we heard Beth's voice screaming out. At first, we thought that Ricky had caught her stealing, but then we figured it out. The next night we recorded the whole 3-minute event on my computer. Now, I use the recording as the soundtrack for my screen saver. Laura cringes every time she hears it but never says a word.

Yesterday, I found Ricky's jock strap tucked away in one of Laura's drawers. (OK, I shouldn't be in Laura's stuff but I'm missing some earrings, and I'm sure she took them.) Inspired by my Women's Studies professor, I decided to wear it. I was really curious about the small pouch, so I opened it up and found two marijuana cigarettes. I am very anti-drug, so I quickly smoked them to make them go away. I suddenly became "high" and experimented with putting different objects in my pouch. My new Motorola mobile phone seemed to fit the best.

Suddenly the fire alarm went off. I knew that I had to get out of the room. Even though the marijuana wasn't mine, I knew I'd have trouble explaining the smell. So I threw on a sweat shirt and some shorts and fled the scene before the proctors arrived.

I was surprised at how the mobile phone near my private parts annoyed me. It was always THERE. How can a guy focus with a siphuncle constantly banging around between his legs? It suddenly occurred to me why guys seemed to be so much more focused on sex than girls. I'll have to remember to bring this up at my next Women's Studies Roundtable.

So, I sat down on a bench outside my dorm room and waited. Ricky approached and whirled around after passing by. I didn't know it at the time, but I was wearing his sweatshirt. (Laura had "borrowed" it.) My phone started ringing. Horrified, I fumbled for the phone in Ricky's jock strap. He started to laugh. Still high, I began to giggle uncontrollably. I'm not sure what happened next, but Ricky ended up asking me out. I giggled some more before I said "Yes!" I felt a twang of guilt about stealing Laura's boyfriend. But then the psychologist in me decided she needs to learn what it's like to have something stolen from her.

Professor Donovan would be so proud.

Joan Collins:

There are people out there who think that the decision to become a clown is a conscious choice; a foolish pay-the-bills alternate to whatever respectable career went down the toilet. Those people are wrong. The REAL clowns-- the lifers-- we're born and bred, not last-choice resigned. There's a pride here, a history. Take me for example: I'm a fourth-generation clown. It makes sense, really; if your great-grandfather and your grandfather and your old man were all clowns, what the hell do you think you're going to be? A bioelectrical engineer?

My great-grandfather (you'd know him as "Mickey") stumbled off the boat in '84. He'd made a living in the old country by sneaking up on the young women in town:

"Ye best be steerin' clear o' th' liquor an' these heathen boys we be havin' plenty of these days," he'd hiss, one greasy hand mauling a tender shoulder, his nose twitching red with bursting capillaries. With a reeking trench coat full of moths and a reeking red frizzy head full of moths, Mickey made quite the intimidating spokesman. The parents of these sneaking-out-at-night girls kept my great-grandpa plenty boozed up in exchange for warning encounters. It wasn't until his son, my grandpa (a bastard birthed by the mayor's teenaged daughter, ironically) was forced into spraying his dad down with a hose to get his vomit-splattered ass off the sidewalk that people started really appreciating The Art.

"Getch'er ugly, retchin self up offa the street, ya sick ol' curse of a witch's cunt!" he'd scream, spraying great-grandpa Mickey in the face.

"Yer sure as one to talk, ya wee little piece o' crap, child of a dirty whore!" Mickey would belch back, fending off the water with flailing arms, drenched moths flying everywhere.

Oh, for the love of a crowd.

My grandpa-- "Winky", to those in the business-- was hooked. The laughter, the smiles, the tears. after Mickey was long since popped by a train and buried you could count on catching Winky spraying down some unsuspecting citizen, cursing like a clown. He went out his way to get a bastard son of his own to carry on the family business. Winky taught Dad all about hoses and how to hold your thumb over the spray and about whiskey and gin and all the screamed variations of "vagina". All for nothing as it turned out, since Dad had barely broken in his hose when he got eighteen years for Indecent Armed Robbery. When he got out he had lost his heart for it, opted instead to sell pleather car seats out of a van on the freeway onramp. He still wore the family uniform, though-- or at least the wig. And the fake beard. And the burned-off fingerprints. So I can't discount him completely. Clowning was in his blood. Hey, and he got the bastard son thing down, cause here I am.

I decided long ago that I was going to be the one to put this family back to rights. "B A Clown University" for me, thanks to financial aid and disability. So far things are good; the classes are really geared more toward the layclown, but it's nice to be able to coast a little through the shit I already know. I'm glad I brought my hose, though, since I haven't seen any Thumb Technique courses on the schedule yet. I can bone up after hours by myself if I have to. I met a girl a couple of days ago, too; lank hair, kind of thick, a loner. looks promising so far. I'll keep you posted.

Burgess Meredith:

October 12

On a bus headed back to Wormtown High to pay my dues by performing at the Homecoming Talent Show. I owe Ms. Rawding. Without her I'd never have gotten into Clown College. But those motor heads in the audience won't get it. You say clown and they think about their 6th birthday. Clowning is so much more than even I realized. It's not just about being the dude in class with a red nose and big feet.

I've been busting my big clown butt academically. I nearly failed the first test in Balloonary 101. I'd kind of blown off studying until the night before. Once I got started, however, I was cruising. My puppy was sweet, my rabbit and giraffe pretty decent, but every time I tried to make the swan hat, the damn thing burst. So there I was...three am and out of balloons. I knew my roommate had a stash so I helped myself. When he found the empty bag he went off on me. All this stuff about waking him up with exploding balloons and keeping my hands off his stuff. As if he hasn't kept me up practicing his Mr. Moose ping pong ball trick. I mean how lame would it be to fail Balloonary!

Clown History I'm certain to fail. Dr. Demento thinks we have nothing but time. As if I don't have to practice stilt walking, pie throwing... The only thing getting me get through CH is Lil Tramp. She's a total Chaplin freak. She is so amazingly smart...and beautiful. We've been hanging out a lot. In fact, that night I was supposed to be practicing Balloonary she convinced me that I needed to see Modern Times at the Film Society's Thursday night flicks. Afterward we spent a couple of hours at the Cream Pie Cafe arguing about how Chaplin would view globalization.

I first saw her at this party in my dorm. Lots of wiggling, jiggling jello shots were passed around. You haven't seen wild until you've seen a room full of Bozos totally wasted. She'd been cornered by this Krusty the Klown dude. We had one of those movie moments; our eyes locked over the crowded room. She smiled at me, but I got all tongue tied so I just honked my nose at her. What a loser. To make matters worse, Weird Mime Guy down the hall chose that moment to build one of his damn walls around me. (No one is really clear when that guy eats or if he actually showers. In the cafeteria he sits with an empty tray "eating." In the bathroom.....let's just say I hope he owns a real toothbrush.)

When I saw her again I tried to be cool, but I still couldn't figure out what to say. So I honked at her. Again. Pulled a loser move twice. Finally, about a week later she and 6 other people piled into the Cooper Mini Campus Shuttle. My gloved hand got shoved up inside her vintage tuxedo jacket. Before I could apologize, she reached up, honked my nose and introduced herself.

Since then...well, there are some wild things that go on when you've got a twin bed and two sets of clown feet. She totally grooved on the glowing polka dot condoms I'd scored at the Clown Commissary. Next weekend the roommate hits the road (some gig at a cousin's Bar Mitzvah). Good times will be had.

Wormtown Bus Depot in sight. Gotta fly.

Art Carney:

Zoinks! Wowers! And a big HONK-HONK!

It's sure been a busy few weeks here at Big Shoes. Between the balloon animals, horn honking and the new unicycle, I haven't had the time to get to you, dear diary. Sorry. Double honk, again!

Let's see. First, there was move-in day. It was difficult to get everything carted up to the fifth floor of the dorm with my big red shoes. I had to stop between the fourth and fifth loads to touch up my make-up, because I was sweating right through everything. But it was worth it once I got my bed made and Mom and Dad piled back in the VW Bug! I was truly on my own! That night, the resident assistants had us all gather in the lounge and introduce ourselves to everyone on the floor, but we weren't allowed to talk. I've never been much of a miming clown, but I caught right on. Everyone laughed when I re-enacted the time I lost two fingers to the ostrich at the county fair.

Classes have been going pretty good, too. I tested out of Clown Talk I, and that's a good thing, because everyone's been giving that course a bad rap. So far, my favorite class is Juggling. The class is good, but Binky, the teacher, makes it gr-r-r-r-reat! Last week, he was juggling two bowling pins, a hubcap and a toilet seat while he sang the National Anthem in Pig Latin!

The food is okay, but, I swear, if I have to eat one more piece of marshmallow pizza, I'm just going to scream bloody clown murder.

But the best thing about Big Shoes has been Betsy Bing. She used to just play The Hamburgler at the Waterford McDonald's, but she felt called to a higher form of entertainment. We met at the Orientation bon fire. I was talking
with Wormsie about how I was worried about being shot out of Professor Moe's canon that Monday. (After all, we're not in the circus!) Anyhow, she came up to me, said she liked my orange and green pin-stripes, and from there it's history. We've been together, like, every day. We went with a few others to the VA hospital, where we were supposed to be entertaining, until I walked in on a sponge bath. Honk, Honk! We won't be going back there anytime soon. I even got caught in her dorm after hours, with a little bit of smeared make-up and some dirty white gloves, if you catch my drift. The big test will be next week, when I meet her parents. Barnum's is in town; they've been touring with them since '86. We've got front row seats, and I need to be in my best costume.

Well, dear diary, that's a wrap. I'll let you know how things go next week. Wowers! Am I nervous!?!

Malachi Throne:

I'm 30 days on the ground and we've been at it steady. This is the first chance I've had to write.

We've all dropped the "o" and its just "Boz" now. The transformation is amazing. He's an entirely different person.

On our second day out we had our first casualties. We were about sixty miles out of camp. Stan and Pete were riding out front with Carl and their Humvee got tossed by a bomb. Carl lost his helmet and as he was crawling though the bust windshield he took it in the head. Stan and Pete got out OK, but as they were running back to us their knees buckled and they flopped onto their bellies. We froze. We just stupidly stared as they frantically elbowed towards us, dragging their limp legs in a cloud of dust.

Boz's voice roused me. I heard him yelling "Move! Move!" I turned to see him hammering on the Lieutenant's hands. No part of the Lieutenant moved. His hands were fixed on the wheel and he was rigid as steel. Boz hung on the door and kicked at the Lieutenant's arms with the full weight of his body until he broke his grip. He shoved him over, got in and drove behind Stan and Pete.

The movement of the truck roused the others. Boz ordered Chris, David and Junior into the protected area between the Humvee and the truck, where they began returning fire. Frank and I jumped out and heaved Stan and Pete into the back. Pete's thighs were a bloody mess and there was nothing left of Stan's knee. We then went for Carl. By the time we placed him under a tarp in the back, the gunfire had stopped.

Boz ordered Chris to drive and we scrambled into the truck. The Lieutenant was sitting as we left him, rigid as steel. We rode in silence. The Lieutenant's arms dropped and he visibly eased after a time and by the time we entered the camp, he was again himself.

John (Boz) has freakishly large feet and a large, bulbous, red nose. From the moment he joined our National Guard unit, the Lieutenant disliked him and called him Bozo. It took. Soon we all called him Bozo. He took to the name and made it his own. He became a clown. He was boisterous and goofed about. He took nothing seriously. He played pranks and mocked us all, especially the Lieutenant.

On our way over, Boz got very quiet and withdrawn. The Lieutenant came alive. He got pumped and bellowed that he was itching for the fight. He mocked Boz, claiming that his silence was proof that he was a wimp and a coward. He ridiculed Boz for not going to college, claiming that he did not have the intelligence or mettle to be a soldier, that truly he was fit to be nothing more than the clown that he was. Boz just mumbled that he had had his schooling.

On our return to camp that second day, the Lieutenant thanked Boz for taking control and getting the rest of us out safely.

"Like I said, Lieutenant, I've had my schooling. Welcome to Clown College," Boz replied.

Victor Buono:

Bullies and Balloon Animals

The first month of Clown College has been awesome. I am well on my way to achieving the double major in Tomfoolery and Embarrassment specializing in Baked Goods, or as we like to call it, "Pie in the Eye." I chose my clown name yesterday. ZOINKS the clown. I love Scooby Doo, so I couldn't resist the opportunity to use a phrase made famous by the legendary Casey Kasem, as Shaggy.

Before I got here, I didn't really have any idea what to expect. I had seen circus clowns and television clowns before, but that was it. I soon found out that guys like Bozo and Ronald McDonald are television sellouts. Did you know that there have been over 37 people in various markets around the country, including Willard Scott, who portrayed that orange-haired disgrace that kids around the world know as Bozo?

And don't get me started on Ronald! I heard that they use CGI when he makes the arches with his fingers in commercials. A clown using computer graphics? Ridiculous. Also, there was a scarcely publicized incident from a couple years back where Ronald got drugged out on coke and started eating chicken tenders from Wendy's because their restaurants are open later. (I guess he wanted to "Eat Great, Even Late!") Dave Thomas, founder of Wendy's got wind of it, and shortly thereafter, he mysteriously "died of cancer" in January of 2002. You do the math.

Anyway, you can imagine what we study around here. It is a steady diet of Balloon Animals, Makeup, Tricks, and other clown courses. One really fun class is called Carnival Tricks. This is a team class where we learn about putting on shows for larger audiences, like you might see at the circus or the rodeo. This is also the class that I met my girlfriend. Her name is Toonces after the driving cat sketch from Saturday Night Live. Let me tell you how we got together.

There were fifteen of us getting ready to pile into a Volkswagen Bug to learn a hard lesson about clown cars, when Bruno, another student, started making fun of Toonces. It seems someone found a picture of her on the internet. Photos like this usually cause a student to drop out of Clown College, but Toonces was trying to tough it out.

Bruno: "This should be an easy assignment for you. You can just pretend you're in the car by moving your hands around the fake enclosure. Or, you know what? You can pretend to pull yourself into the car with a fake rope. But whatever you do. Don't say anything."

You see, Toonces was a mime before entering Clown College and there is nothing lower on the performance scale than a mime. Tears started welling up in her eyes and the white face paint started to bleed into the ketchup-colored makeup around her mouth.

I had heard enough.

I said, "So what? She was a mime before. Big deal, Bruno. Leave her alone."

Bruno: "You are protecting a mime? Maybe she can give you some tips she made from working on the STREET!"

I said, "She may have worked on the street, but at least she can do balloon animals other than snakes!"

It was over and Bruno knew it. You never mess with a man's balloon animals and I had called him out on the F he gotten on the last test. After that, we started dating and nobody messed with Toonces anymore.

Hopefully I can write again before next month.

Gotta run! I have to go practice my interpretive dance to calliope.

Eartha Kitt:

30 days of sawdust and falling over. Do I look like a crippled carpenter? I had a place at Cambridge. Earth Sciences at Cambridge. I wouldn't claim to hate my father, but I hope he's shuffling his size 18 feet for sending me to this canvas covered toilet.

Oh god, the custard pies, I warned them on application that I was vegetarian, they assured me that the custard was veggie friendly. Goddamn it, do they realise it's made of eggs? Custard: the pudding of unborn chicken souls.

I'm just not understood here, my talents are wasted. I proposed segueing from the "Funny Fire Friends" fire brigade routine into my "La Bigpants Boheme" sketch. It wasn't well received.

I wish I'd enrolled in the ringmasters course, seems like they get all the chicks. Just last night I was practicing my prat-falls in my room when I was disturbed by laughing and music outside my window. There they were, in their tight trousers and scarlet frock coats, twirling their moustaches and cracking their whips with the girls from the bareback riding troupe. Bastards.

It's not even as though I'm on a level playing field with my other classmates. Take Wilbur, for instance, that anaemic asshole. Always turns out faster than the rest of us because he doesn't need to apply white makeup. And Barnaby, I dare say I'd have a red nose if I drank a bottle of Bacardi every lunchtime too. As for Ricky "Rickets" Malone, well, I hope he's enjoying those extra credits in "funny walks 101".

It's the weekly social tonight, nothing major, just dinner and drinks. I've not managed to find a date yet, come to think of it, I've been date-less for the past three events. It's either another night next to an excruciatingly empty seat, or I'm going to have to go downtown and see what some complimentary ringsides will get me.

I've only been here a month.

A month.

Roddy McDowall:

Dear Diary,

Seems like I've been here for years. I've grown a beard. And, as you know, Diary, I am a woman.

But anything goes here. I met a man today who wants to be a lady clown because he likes to dress up in women's clothing and this is the only way he can do that without embarrassing his wife. His makeup was OVER-THE-TOP, even for a clown. Drag clown. I don't think he'll be working any birthday parties.

One guy just gave up on a writing career and thought this might be slightly more interesting than suicide. He's looking into a job as a rodeo clown, which may give him the option to do both. Another guy swears he can't get a job because of this terrible birthmark on his face that looks like a hand, so the only option is to wear clown makeup. Honestly? I can still see the hand.

There's always one guy, though. The one who says he's here "for the kids." He takes notes in our classes. I saw him write "hurt yourself for laughs" in his notebook. And underline it.

I think this will be all right for the summer, but I'm already looking forward to getting back to school in September. It's creepy that so many men give up decent careers to wear scratchy clothes and horrible wigs just to hang out with kids. I feel a little sick around them.

We've been to schools and birthday parties and I've never seen so much kiddie vomit in my life. Seriously. Kids throw up all the time. How did I not know this before now? You have to keep an eye on them. If they start to look sad or green or throw things, you can be pretty sure they're going to be throwing up within five minutes. On you.

I've been drunk more often here than I've ever been anywhere. We're done at 7 or 8 every night and spend the rest of our waking hours in the bars. The only rule is that we can't be seen in our makeup. "People will get the wrong idea about the clown college down the street," management likes to say.

I've been spending a lot of time with a guy named Michael (a.k.a. Mr. Watermelon). He just dropped out of school after trying out five different majors. We've made out a few times. I don't know. He's all right. But he's going to be a clown for a living.

What would I tell my friends?

Otto Preminger:

04/10/2004

Dear Diary,

I'm sorry I haven't written in weeks, but I've been very busy here at clown camp learning to be a clown. Diary, I've also met someone very special and I don't know what to do!!

The first weeks of CC were pretty routine. We did the standard clown training things: Squirting flowers, riding elephants, exploding cigars, and"wardrobe malfunctions" - dropping pants, etc. We also learned to do those stupid balloon animals. This was all boring, but after we passed we got to choose our major.

I chose TV clown, and boy am I glad I did! I have been taken under the wings of two of the most famous TV clowns ever, Crusty and Sideshow Bob. These guys have shown me a whole new world. I never knew how complex a TV clown's job is.

First you need to build a fan base by effectively manipulating children into believing your shtick. This is easily accomplished by getting children onto your show, and then bribing them into telling ALL of their friends what a great show it is. You then get several more of them on the show and repeat this process. Before you know it, all the kids are talking about how great you are and you get RATINGS!

Once you have the ratings, it's a piece of cake to get a toy company to give you big dollars to endorse some POS product. You get commercial tie-ins, and they advertise it on your hugely popular show, Cha-Ching!! I'll be rich beyond my wildest dreams, all by manipulating a bunch of spoiled brats.

This brings us to our next issue. Diary, I've fallen in love with a Goth clown. I love the way her black eye makeup contrasts against her milky white face, and the way her black leather clown outfit melds to her ample bosom. I love her black fingernails and toenails, as well as her skull and dagger tattoos. She's really talented too. She can scare the snot out of little kids with her pierced tongue and scary face. I blush when I think of the other things she's good at with her piercings. I love her, but I don't know what to do.

How can I have a career as an extremely popular kid's television clown, when I'm in a relationship with a scary-ass Goth clown? The kids will never believe that I'm a fun cuddly warm toy company shill (who is rich, ha, hah!), if they ever found out about my true love. Diary, I don't know what to do, but writing to you always helps me.

04/14/2004

Dear Diary,

The Goth Bitch left me for Crusty because he "understands her" and he's rich. I hate her. I can't believe what kind of money-grubbing slut she is. The lowly things that people will do for money. I'm glad that I'll never be like that!

Chris here. The lickety-splitness of posting the entries may be somewhat compromised tonight. Don't wait up.

Looks like there was some confusion this week about voting. The public poll over there on the right panel is just for fun. Anyone can vote in it, and although it only allows one vote per IP address, some nefarious individuals have been known to vote for themselves from multiple addresses. I know. The horror. Official player votes need to be emailed to me at the usual address. Details are in the Rules and Housekeeping posts linked at left.

Assignment for Week Two: Dear Diary

After your first month of Clown College, you've finally found time to write in your diary. You've seen and done things you never could have imagined before, and you've met someone very special. No more than 600 words, please.

Entries for Week One

...wherein our castaways were asked to specify a fate, grisly or otherwise, for the wretched soul who fails to escape my terrifying, no good, very bad island...

...of Doom!

(Island of Doom now featuring Moltenriffic™ volcano action. Do not vote for yourself.)

Ball Master Crazy:

When I was a little bitty Ball Master, back before I went Crazy, my daddy once told me, "Ball Master, if you give a man a fish, he'll eat for a day." He paused, taking a long pull from his 16 ounce can of Miller High Life, and then he said, "You teach a man to fish, and he'll eat for the rest of his life."

"Right, Daddy," I replied, my nostrils full of beer breath, weed smoke and mamma's awful cooking smells, which were beginning to waft in from the kitchen.

"Now go one out there and tell yo' mamma to hurry up on fixin' them taters. I's hungry, girl!"

That said, assuming that the one left stranded on the island will need to feed themselves, a healthy taste for fish must develop, as well as strong liking for eatable fungi. (I'm sure there's some obscure, disgusting mushrooms growing somewhere under a tree.) After all, there are only so many sources of nutrition on an island of doom. So I'm proposing that the one left stranded eat no fewer than two pieces of sauce-less pizza with extra anchovies and mushrooms. Of course, we're going to need this documented with a digital camera.

Bon Appetite.

Betsy Ross:

The loser shall be forced to enjoy a lovely piece of cake under an oak tree.

While wearing a bunny suit.

Judy Jetson:

There you are, left all alone on the island. Just you and your keyboard. Your only link to the outside world, Mister Crunchy. You may not be tumbling head over heels off the ski course and over the edge like that guy from ABC's Wide World of Sports, but you are clearly suffering from the agony of defeat. What possible fate could befall you that would adequately stand in opposition to the glory of winning the original Survivor? What image of victory can we turn on its head in this game of reversals?

If you had spent 39 days with 16 castaways making and breaking alliances, you'd have a million dollars. The tribe would have spoken and your torch would have stayed lit. You'd get to chat with Dave Letterman, you'd be the object of Jay Leno's jokes, Regis and Kelly would send you out on a blind date in a stretch Hummer. (hmm... having to chat with Regis and Kelly...punishment or reward?) You might even get a free trip to the World Cup where you'd act like Billy Packer (well, hopefully not EXACTLY like Billy, but, you know, all the stuff you'd say to the TV if you were watching in your own living room is heard by everyone watching in their living rooms). You'd get invited to play Survivor again, this time as an All Star.

But you, the last remaining Reverse Survivor, will have none of this fun, fame, or fortune. After failing to write your way off the island, you must assume loser position in a suitable seat of infamy. On Survivor there is the loser’s hut from which the most recently voted off castaway makes his final statement. On The Apprentice there is the yellow taxi ride of infamy.

You? You will get yourself to the nearest writing tribal council circle. (Your choice: your local bookstore or coffee shop, preferably filled with would be Hemingways pecking away at their laptops.) There you will assume the traditional pose of the losing American athlete. You will sit forlorn on the bench, arms resting dejectedly on your knees, and a towel draped over your head. You will carry with you your unlit torch which you have created in one last attempt at creativity by cleverly including copies of your losing entries to this contest. You will then explain to all assembled how it is that you have found yourself in this unhappy situation. And, of course, you must document this low moment in your life so that we, the voyeuristic public and your fellow contestants, can share in your moment of defeat.

Lydia Lunch:

As the sole survivor of Reverse Survivor Season Two, you shall join one of the Yahoo creative writing Groups (e.g., http://groups.yahoo.com/group/creative_writing/). You will then choose what you believe is your best submission and post it to receive critical feedback from your fellow authors.

You may have to submit critiques of other pieces before you are allowed to post your own piece. Think of this as part of your punishment. You will have to be serious enough so as to not be booted from the Group before you are allowed to post. (If you do get booted before posting, you must join another Group and start all over again.)

Now here is the fun part: All of the remaining Reverse Survivors will vote on the best submission from among the ten that earned each member a way off of the island. You will then post this "best" piece to the Group that you have joined, but only after your chosen piece has been submitted and sufficiently critiqued by the Group. Thus you will get a chance to see if you have been fairly judged by your island-dwelling peers by "benchmarking" your piece against the "best of the best." Think of the anonymous Yahoo critics as independent, third-party judges. All of the other Survivors will agree to not seek out your chosen Group and make comments on your submissions.

Finally, you must then post the two chosen pieces (your personal best and the Survivors' best) along with the Group's critiques to MisterCrunchy.com so that we can all enjoy the insightful commentary from Yahoo's best and brightest. (This is probably against Yahoo rules, but so what.)

Enjoy.

Shirley "Cha Cha" Muldowney:

The sole survivor must take the free writing aptitude test at www.longridgewritersgroup.com and, if feeling frisky, at www.writingforchildren.com, and publish the results on Mistercrunchy.com.

If the sole survivor fails the test, if the test reveals the survivor has no aptitude for writing, we can rejoice that true justice was done on Mistercrunchy's Island of Truth and Justice.

If the sole survivor passes the test, we can rejoice that the survivor has, although plainly undeveloped, writing aptitude. And what better place to nurture and grow those stunted skills than at Long Ridge Writers Group.

At the Long Ridge Writers Group, the sole survivor can immediately get Life Support for Writers, which she will sorely need after straining those sissy writing muscles for 11 or so weeks.

But the real value of Long Ridge Writers Group is the education. Each student is paired with a personal mentor, a professional writer or editor, who "reads every word you submit" and writes a detailed critique of each performance with specific advice on how to improve. Long Ridge Writers Group limits enrollment strictly to those who pass the writing aptitude test. Since Long Ridge "begin[s] with better students, it's [sic] not surprising that [they] graduate superior writers."

The Long Ridge Writers Group is the Charles Atlas of the writing crowd. It will take the sole survivor, who has endured 11 or so weeks of the writing bullies kicking words in her face, and turn her into a buff writing Athena.

Thanks, Long Ridge Writers Group. And thank you, Mistercrunchy.

Techno Destructo:

I can't speak for anyone else but I know that when I'm thinking "punishment", I'm thinking "tar and feather". Eighteenth century mob violence. Statistically there's really no better way to go if you're looking for results: last year eighteen armed bank robbers were dipped in molten tar and then sprinkled liberally* with feathers, and of those eighteen only three reverted to a life of crime.** You just can't argue with success like that. Although I will concede that the old "douse and dredge" might seem a mite strong for us internet folk. I know that if I was interested in finagling my way into a boiling vat of tar I'd be out skulking in front of the Seven Eleven waiting for nefarious "wrong time, wrong place" inspiration to strike, not sitting at my kitchen table listening to Christopher Cross on iTunes***. I'm just saying. Still and all, the "tar and feather" seems to me to be the clear choice. given that we do it in a way that doesn't pain, embarrass, inconvenience, annoy, offend or otherwise bother anyone.

By substituting rubber cement for tar we can circumvent the whole "I think I used the last of my tar last weekend" excuse. Anyone who claims not to have rubber cement on hand is a dirty liar; I wouldn't, however, expect anyone (besides myself) to have enough to dip his or her entire body into. So "thumb" it is. The Thumb Dip. In. out. Brrr! Cold! If you scoff at the Dip of the Thumb I must assume that you don't use your thumb on a regular basis; what could be worse for us, this invisible colony of keypunchers, than to have one cold, sticky, smelly digit stuck out awkwardly in stiff-jointed shame?

I'll tell you what's worse: the feathering of said digit. Not "feathering" so much as "topping"; it seems a waste to ruin a good Pottery Barn throw pillow for the sake of one errant thumb. How many feathers could you stick on there, anyway? Not enough. I vote for jimmies. Ice cream sprinkles. Type shall be left to the discretion of the loser; if one feels that chocolate cylinders adequately parlay one's disgust and loserhood, so be it. If rainbow sprinkles serve as a colorfully mocking reminder of one's dark status, that's fine, too. Follow your heart. The "Dip and Jimmie". Suck it up.**** It goes without saying that photos will be requisite.

* I should mention that "sprinkling" the feathers is generally reserved for Maydays, Mother's Days and other holidays for which a little "pastel decorum" seems fitting; the rest of the time the feathers are just dumped. Surprising that, when polled, those of the "dump" group reported a less painful feathering. The "sprinkle" group, however, seemed to enjoy the pageant more.

** The "Sticky Chickens"; they ganged up and attempted a revenge heist. They got caught immediately. Obviously.

*** "Ride Like The Wind". Not "Sailing". That one's gay.

**** Don't actually, physically "suck it up". The one thing rubber cement isn't good for is eating. Suck your other thumb if you get in a bind.

The Crimson Chin:

On the cheap, within the law, in a small amount of time, and without hurting anyone? This isn't what I signed up for. I demand punishments both cruel and unusual.

How will we subject the winner - er, loser - to the shame and degradation he or she will so richly deserve at the end of this exercise with these strict limitations on our creative and vindictive freedoms?

I humbly suggest that the winner/loser be forced, at gunpoint, to sign up for an audblog.com account: the phone-in, audio post service popularized by our host for the weekly results of the tribal council. Though arduous, filling out the the audblog signup form is only the first step on the long and twisted road to mild embarassment. Then, on an audblog recording - to be posted on the Reverse Survivor page and distributed by nerds and pornographers and nerdy pornographers around the Internet in perpetuity - the winner/loser must, in less than four minutes, perform one of the following:

-The 'Who's coming with me?' speech from Jerry Maguire, as performed at the winner/loser's place of work. Or, even funnier, someone else's place of work.

-A song from a Gilbert & Sullivan operetta of Mr. Crunchy's choosing. In a crowded coffee shop.

-A very loud reading of an entire newspaper story while riding on a bus or subway.

-A reading - as if reading poetry - of a Limp Bizkit song's lyrics while doing your best impression of a member of The Rat Pack. Or Charlton Heston maybe.

-Jay Leno's monologue from the night before as performed in a public restroom with at least one occupied stall.

The setting and circumstances of such performances should be confirmed by at least one observer on the audio recording and should be substantiated by at least one photograph. Preferably a funny one. And wear a costume or something, would you?

In addition, the winner/loser should be required to sign up for Season Three of Reverse Survivor - Escape From Sometime In Mid-August, and in all subsequent Reverse Survivors until such a time as he or she loses. I mean wins.

The Donald:

The next person who remains on the island will meet the following fate.

First he (or she) will come to Trump Tower, the most expensive, prestigious building in the World. He will report to my offices, headquarters of the best managed company the world has ever seen.

I will put him to work with Omarosa and Sammy, writing a new promotional campaign for "Trump Mousse", the most amazing hair styling product ever created.

We will take my expensive private helicopter, which is emblazoned with "Trump" for all the world to see, to Trump International Golf course, the best golf course in the country.

There, surrounded by rich and powerful men who are there to seek my counsel, he will watch me golf, and style my hair every 3 holes so that the other golfers can see what a great product Trump Mousse is, and what a virile, all-knowing, strong, well-coiffed man I am. Then he, Sammy and Omarosa will write the ad campaign.

I will give this campaign to my ad agency to show my agency exactly what I don't want. Then I will fire all of them. They won't go to the suite, they will go right to the street.

In the alternative, the loser of this contest must wait in line for an audition to "The Apprentice 3", wearing a Donald Wig, or a reasonable hairstyle facsimile thereof. He will then have his photograph taken with several people from the line. This picture will then be published on mistercrunchy.com for all of the world to see.

The Omniscient Custard Creme:

To be delivered, loudly and proudly, standing on an upturned orange crate, in a crowded public place, on a Saturday afternoon, with appropriate actions. It would also help if this notice was printed out on a large sign and left next to the loser, so the effect can be continued throughout the afternoon.

"You, my friends, have been brought here today to witness justice, the justice of the just, the righteous and the morally indignant. Before you, stands a failure, a broken figure of a person, shattered, rotten to the core with the bitter tang of defeat strong on the tongue of my soul. You are here to witness retribution, as the full and total weight of the Court and Crown of the Island is brought crashing down upon my head, shoulders, knees and toes, knees and toes.

I stand accused of failure. Pure and simple, a failure to succeed in a simple task, to provide a short piece of writing that a majority of my colleagues would, at just one juncture of many, claim to be the 'best'.

In other words, dearly beloved, I, this inbred drooling rooster-shit that stands before you, have consistently failed to come up with the goods.

I did not deliver.

UPS are not calling for my resume.

The closest I will ever come to a job in the postal service will be if I should experience the life of a stamp, while some decrepit old crone licks my back-side.

I am the lowest of the low, the very image of failure and rejection. My personality is the nightmare that yanks your children, screaming, from sleep. I am the reason your parents never bought you a pony. I am present at every fatal accident, if not in person, then in as much as I am to blame. My existence is a weeping carbuncle on the scrotum of the world. I am the wet spot your lover forces you to sleep in and the scratchy stain that remains on the sheets in the morning.

As for the killing, maiming and abuse that goes on day after day, all over our planet, that's me too, my bad.

You will see around me several cardboard sheets with associated magic markers, I invite you, my brethren, to admonish me. Blame me for all the wrongs in your world and write them on the cardboard, then lean them up against me. Be as vitriolic as you wish, I deserve it. I'll be sitting here in a foetal position for most of the afternoon as you stack the signs up around me. Pour your troubles onto me. They're my fault after all."

Winnie Cooper:

How to approach this assignment is quite a quandary. I could be setting up my own fate if, or more likely when I lose. There are a couple possible strategies that I can use depending on my level of bravery. Instead of launching right into my suggested punishment, I figured I would go through the possible strategies that I have identified.

1. I can come up with a punishment soft enough that it won't bury the loser, who could end up being me. The problem with this strategy is the risk that the punishment isn't harsh enough to secure any votes this week.

2. You can take a shot at getting off the island with a really good punishment. By good I mean really bad, naturally. I am sure someone else will have one of these that will include a bodily function, excretion, or nudity. The problem with this strategy is that you could easily be predicting your own fate.

3. Finally, you could try to do something painless and really creative. Make it possible that if by some chance you lose, you won't mind performing the required walk of shame, whatever it might be and still be able to pull some votes in week 1.

Which strategy should I choose?

Number 1 is not going to get any votes in the present week. Having been a loser at many, many things over my lifetime, I am going to rule out number 2 right now. So that leaves number 3. I am not sure that I am creative enough, but I will give it a shot.

I think the loser of this contest should have to sit and write a 25-entry running diary while watching a movie of the Survivors' choice. The entries can be witty comments about the movie, comments on the horrible plotlines, or in some cases, descriptions of the awful music. Mister Crunchy can nominate a few movies and the escapees can vote. It should obviously be a very bad movie. (We all know there are no shortage of these movies!)

Pictures of the DVD/VHS in the recipient's hand and the diary entries, which will be posted to the site, will be proof enough that someone actually sat through one of the biggest bombs in the history of movies.

I said Mister Crunchy should pick the movies, but I will make some suggestions anyway.

Glitter - Starring Mariah Carey (Ghastly!)
Cabin Boy - Starring Chris Elliott (Pure Rubbish!)
Spice World - Starring the Spice Girls (Unbearable!)
Battlefield Earth - John Travolta (Confusingly Bad!)
Pinocchio - Starring Roberto Benigni (Pure Unadulterated Hell!)
Earnest Movies - Any one of them should torture any human with a brain, Jim Varney R.I.P.)

I guess this is an appropriate time to tell everyone Good Luck! I wouldn't want anyone to have to watch Glitter. I would hate even more to put another dime in the pocket of any of the people responsible for these "movies."

Zsa Zsa Gabor:

When considering the punishment or "reward" for the winner of Reverse Survivor Season deux, I had many things to consider. First and foremost I had to consider the feasibility of completing some of the tasks I had thought of for our winner to accomplish. Although funny, defecating on a Hamburglar statue in a McDonalds play land while there were children present could possibly bring the long arm of the law down upon our contest winner, so that one was out right away. I fought with the idea of the winner of this season possibly joining a free online match making service and allowing the other cast members to draft up a member profile. This would provide endless days and weeks of fun and could also help our winner find their soul mate!

Other thoughts raced through my mind as I lay awake at night having continuous panic attacks over what the winner would have to do. After popping my third Xanax and enjoying an Ecto Cooler Capri-Sun, I was off to the land of slumber to dance with thoughts of Freddie Prinze Junior in "She's All That", and further dreams of torture for our Season 2 winner.

First I though maybe it would be fun to force our winner to go to an open mic poetry night and read a Penthouse Forum letter. The public embarrassment would be fantastic, and the person that this fate befell could always record it via digital camera or tape recorder.

The third idea I thought of may be the winner though. I am convinced that the person who "wins" this contest should really have to do something so vile and heinous that we all may have to consider not patronizing the internet any longer. I think that the winner of Reverse Survivor Season 2 should have to write to and get response from Justin Guarini of American Idol Season #1 using a letter drafted by the pool of castaways. This is not only embarrassing, it is down right shameful, and is a great way for all of us to verify that the "reward" is actually given to the last cast member left on the island.

I realize this is a completely inhumane punishment for the last person standing, but I feel if the person can draft up a letter with the help of the castaways that is bold enough to catch Justin Guarini's eye, then perhaps they will learn their lesson and focus on improving their writing skills for season 3.

Here's the photographic documentation of last season's sole (reverse) survivor, just minutes after opening the dreaded Priority Mail Package of Doom. OK, so maybe there wasn't that much actual doom involved. It was April Fools, and I'm a softie. That's exactly why I can't be trusted to set the outcome for future seasons' "winners." I get attached to the people on my island. I just care too much. I was planning something much more dire, but after nine long weeks of rejection, the thought of that poor, broken man visiting Kia dealerships in a chicken suit was just too much for my sentimental tyrannical heart to bear. Just FYI, Harcourt added the thought balloon on his own. Nice touch.

Assignment Number One

What should be the fate of the last person left on the island this Season? I was inexplicably kind and merciful last season, but I'm sure you won't be. Remember not to cause harm, break laws, take too much time, or require more than a nominal investment of cash. And keep it under 500 words or so. Good luck!

The island has been found. The players have been assembled. The Super Special Game Names are being selected. The stylesheet has been modified. It's time to play



This time, there's a volcano.