Assignment, Long Week Six

You find yourself in a ridiculous predicament. What is it and how did you get there? What's with your hair? And those clothes! How are you going to get out of it? If you need to, go ahead and write a version with lots of Reverse Survivor inside jokes, references to other players, fluid humor, and story lines stolen from reality shows or Entertainment tonight. Get it out of your system. Then delete it and write something original. You can do it.

(< 800 words, please.)

Week Five Tribal Council

Part One. Part Two. Part Three.

Week Five

...wherein our castaways were asked to write in the style of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle one of those passages from the end of every Sherlock Holmes mystery where Holmes dazzles everyone with his unbelievable powers of deduction as he reveals the bad guy or guys.

This week's twist might challenge your powers of deduction, for although we have ten entries, only nine players chose to participate this week. The tenth entry was written by me. Cast your vote for "the best" as you normally would, but take care. If you vote for my entry for "the best," you lose a vote. But wait, there's more! If you choose to do so, you may also cast a second, special vote for the entry you think was written by me. If you correctly identify the entry I wrote, you get a vote. If you vote incorrectly, the author of the entry you thought was mine gets a vote.

Please make it clear in your email which vote is which. Vote 1 is for "the best" and Vote 2 (if you choose to include it) is for the entry you think I wrote.

The game's afoot!

Star Jones:

"Mr. Clinton," he said after a long pause, "I am sorry to tell you that those animals are indeed no longer of the democratic variety."

The former President, given his blank stare and mouth set agape, was obviously confused by Inspector Rove's conclusion. The assembled group of groupies, media, and curious onlookers became silent.

The Inspector seemed to enjoy the silence and appeared to revel in the joy of Clinton's speechlessness, knowing that a silent Clinton, is a good Clinton.

He took a long, luscious drag of his trademark Puerto Rican cigar and broke the silence. "My conclusion," he continued to speak as cigar smoke poured out of his mouth between his words, "is based on a careful consideration of the facts at hand, my finely tuned skills of mind control, and a keen understanding of how to manipulate the liberal media and my army of digital brown shirts. I do admit, that only yesterday, I did offer these puppies to you with the stipulation that they were "Puppies of the Democratic Party." I had knowledge, that based on your party of political affiliation and my powers over the media and your surprisingly small brain, that that characterization of the animals would inevitably lead to you purchasing one, or more, of the aforementioned juvenile canines. Today, you have confirmed my assumptions by agreeing to acquire one of these puppies."

"No one" he addressed the assembled media members, "can deny the unbearable cuteness of these dogs with their blue eyes and dark hair, who just happen to bear an uncanny resemblance to a certain White House Intern." Junior Detective Ken Starr snickered quietly while nodding his approval.

"But today" placing focus back on the now smiling Clinton, who seemed to be remembering simpler times, "I have concluded that these puppies are in fact Republicans."

The audible gasp from the growing crowd drawn to the smiling Clinton seemed to jerk him from his dream. Even Terry McAuliffe pulled his head from Clinton's ass to offer a rebuttal.

"That's not true" he babbled. "A poll released today shows that 98% of puppies when born are democratic. I read it in the USA Today, Democratic Underground and in the Daily Kos."

"HA!" Clinton bellowed pointing at the Inspector, "he's got you there Rove, you... you... baldy." The crowd cheered cautiously, feeling like the Inspector had something up his sleeve.

"When born they are indeed Democrats" the inspector said after the crowd had quieted slightly. "But now their eyes are open."

The Martian Manhunter:

"Frankly, Watson, I'm surprised you weren't able to figure it out on your own. Our killer has left his calling card quite plainly." Holmes held his pipe and a pouch of "tobacco" in his right hand and packed it carefully with his left. The inspectors from Scotland Yard watched him intently, as did several passersby, eager to catch even a glimpse of the famed Holmesian deductive reasoning.

"Well then, Holmes, why don't you explain it to us?"

"Of course, my dear Watson," Holmes began. He paced around the room briskly, stepping lightly around the body, as he began to speak. "I surmised as soon as I entered that this man is not a simple carpenter. On the shelf above him, you will find several bottles of laudanum. This man is a druggist, albeit an amateur."

"How so?" Watson asked. "Bottles of laudanum are not uncommon to see on any shelf in any home in London."

"Indeed, Watson, but you would be unlikely to find communal opium pipes in an average London home. Fabric coated rubber piping like the small strip in the right hand of our victim. No, I suspect this man is not an innocent victim, but an opium den proprietor who has run afoul of the wrong addicted customer."

Watson nodded and thumbed his suspenders. "Do go on."

"The victim is a tall man - maybe six foot - and yet the wound which has left him sprawled face-first across his workbench in an undignified death is high on the left side of his head. There is no blood on the shelving behind us or on the floor near his feet. All the blood splatter was directed downward toward the workbench, indicating he was stricken from above. He was also stricken firmly on the left side from behind, which is a nearly impossible feat for a right-handed man. Our suspect is both tall and left-handed, Watson."

The inspectors and bystanders gasped and muttered amongst themselves. Watson knelt by the body's feet, which hung loosely an inch or two from the ground. There were black marks on the base of the workbench.

"What do you make of these marks, Holmes?" Watson asked, replacing his monocle to inspect them.

"They are the marks of a rubber-soled show, Watson," Holmes answered without even looking. "And our victim is wearing shoes with wooden soles."

"So the soles of the shoes..."

"Are completely inconsequential," Holmes interrupted. "There are two-thousand black, rubber-soled shoes in this neighborhood alone, including mine and yours. What these marks indicate is that our killer attempted to lift the body to conceal his crime, but could not. He strained and pushed for leverage with his feet, but found none. Though tall, our killer is weak. A thin, bony man."

"And the killer was not alone," Holmes stated calmly. The crowd gasped.

"It is a narrow space between the victim and the wall, is it not Watson?"

Watson turned to look, and confirmed it. "You're right, of course, Holmes. It's no more than four feet. Not enough room for another man to sneak in behind the victim unnoticed. Not even if he were blind or deaf."

"The victim was preoccupied with another man," Holmes said, circling around the table and planting himself dramatically a few feet away, in front of the victim. "He was standing here, talking to the victim, while the killer sneaked in from behind. Judging by his footprints in the sawdust, he's a shorter man, around the same age. And he has a moustache. Why not?"

"So," the inspector started, holding out one hand as he counted off Holmes' points on his fingers. "We're looking for two men. A tall, thin, left-handed, drug-addict and his shorter, mustachioed accomplice?"

"Indubitably, sir," Holmes nodded quickly.

"All right, boys."

"Inspector Sherlock Holmes, Doctor John Watson, you are both under arrest by order of Scotland Yard on the charge of murder."

Snidely Whiplash:

Maine Sardine Salad Dressing

1 cup canned sardines, well drained
1 cup mayonnaise
1 tablespoon tarragon vinegar
1/4 cup chopped celery
1/2 cup chopped parsley
4 ounces cream cheese, or Maine goat cheese
1/2 cup milk

Blend all ingredients thoroughly at high speed in a blender to puree the vegetables and produce a smooth liquid.

Refrigerate.

If it seems too thick, thin slightly with milk before using.

Serve on greens with hard-boiled eggs, tomato wedges and thinly sliced celery.

Makes about 2 cups.

Bob Vila:

"Well Watson" quipped Holmes "There was indubitable linkage between them."

"Quite possibly in your warped, whiskey-blitzed mind, Sherlock, but not to the untrained and sober." Remarked Watson.

"That is quite possible, however jealousy will get you nowhere" It was a barbed comment, and directly afterwards Sherlock took a long drag of his pipe and held it in for a good five seconds before blowing the indo cloud in Watson's direction. Watson coughed and threw a brick. It missed.

"However did you come to the conclusion?" wondered Watson, accidentally out loud.

"That it was all a cover-up? That the angry persona and sharp remarks were all to make up for something lacking? Quite simply." Sherlock sneered as his less-than-intelligible partner drooled on himself, having imbibed in too much bourbon in the early hours of the afternoon.

"First, I broke the surname he was using down to its roots" Holmes remarked, as if it were written on a big fucking chart right above his head. Prick.

"Martian ? implying that he is in fact trying not to be earthly, thus overcompensating for his domestic lifestyle.

Man Hunter ? pressing upon us his manliness, saying that he is not only from another planet, but he would hunt us for sport if given the opportunity."

Holmes rolled his eyes and hocked a huge loogie at Sherlock. It, too, missed. "Okay Mr. Know-it-all, how do those two things have anything to do with the penile compensation?"

"Simple!" Holmes blurted, spitting a little as he talked. He was getting much less tactful, being that he's nearing his 125th birthday.

"Whenever someone is given anonymity and uses it to express how masculine they are, it must be compensatory for the lack of masculinity they actually possess. Take my pipe for example. It is in actuality a crutch, as I know that I'm not really all that smart. If it wasn't for this sweet cheeba I never would have solved anything. But people look at the funny hat and the curvy pipe and naturally assume I know what I'm talking about. The perfect crime."

Watson's jaw dropped. "You mean you're actually as dumb as me?"

Sherlock laughed so hard his colostomy bag burst. "No, my dear Watson. My vocabulary is much larger."

They both giggled like schoolgirls and took a nap.

Porsche Cayenne:

"Fine sir!" Holmes exclaimed, watching Watson lurch toward him with the casual grace and easy balance of a gazelle with no head.

"Watson, you simply must accept my most humble apologies for the ramshackle state of this establishment," gushed Holmes, bending at the waist to scoop Watson's fumbled hat from the floor. Watson grimaced and scratched his receding hairline, elbowing a passing young woman in the neck.

"But! As much as I do truly lament the, shall we say, 'harried slapdash' feel of this watering hole, it is my fervent hope that you will find it in your heart to forgive my possibly skewed judgment when you have had the no doubt envied opportunity to be introduced to these most beautiful and reputable ladies."

To his left were Holly and Tami. One was slump-shoulder slouching over her cocktail, the other was trying valiantly to force her shoulder blades to touch. Watson scratched some soft paint off of a barstool and blinked rapidly.

"I figured it out!" yelled Tami (or Holly) around her nine-hour Dentine. "You sound like that chick from 'Deadwood'!" She turned to Holly (Tami). "Doesn't he sound like that one chick? The one with the heroin? The one who did that mustache guy at the end?"

There was absolutely no reaction from Holly. (Tami.)

Holmes smile broadened. Watson tripped again. Over nothing.

"If I may be so bold as to suggest a tentative course of action," began Holmes, "I propose-- and clearly advocate-- the requisition of additional beverages, not only for my treasured counterpart here, but also for these most delightfully stunning ladies."

"AND SOME CHEESE STICKS," one of the girls volunteered on cue.

"Oh, of course! And I beg you forgive my grievous gaffe! 'Cheese Sticks', my faithful aproned friend!" Holmes gestured to the barkeep, who in turn threw towel at Tami (Holly).

Watson cleared his throat.
Four times.
And then another time.

"Holmes, as much as I would love to sit here engaging in riveting conversation and devouring the house delicacy of breaded fried cheese food, I must bid you adieu."

Holmes stared, white teeth flashing.

"And if I'm not mistaken... Tami? Holly?"

The two women looked up from the video poker machine. Tami (Holly) wiggled her left shoe back on.

"You know where I hide the key, right?"

Simultaneous nods.

"I Tivo'd 'American Idol'. I want to see if that 'Mihckaila' chick gets voted off. I'll see you later. Oh," he added, "I got some waffle mix. Bring an egg and some milk and breakfast is on me."

With that, Watson clumbled his way out of the bar.

Holly and Tami leveled impatient eyes at Holmes.

"So... when are you going to get your dead husband out of that creek?"

Al Carbon:

"He made his escape," Mr. Holmes explained to us all, "down the stairs on fleet feet, into this very room, through the small window near the ceiling, slipping through like a snake, like a worm, perhaps, like a cat, even."

"Yes, very well, sir," said Charlie Pickle impatiently, "get on with it!"

"Please do be quiet, Mr. Pickle, I am quite on a roll here," Mr. Holmes said. "When the lovely Clarissa awoke from her troubled sleep -- I knew it was troubled because I could hear her fidgets from my room two floors below -- she walked to her window and saw Mr. Harley Sleezelton tiptoeing across the manse's lawn so as not to disturb the pack of guard whippets. Because her light was on, thus casting a shadow of her silhouette on the lawn, Mr. Sleezelton could see that someone was watching. Rather than have anyone think that he was, in fact, stealing the Berlitztrang diamond, he cleverly -- and quickly -- devised a course of action."

The room gasped and turned their heads to Lady Birminghamington, who had that very evening been wearing the Berlitztrang diamond on a pendant. Lady Birminghamington, realizing for the first time that the fifty-seven-carat diamond was missing from her bosom, fell to the floor in a fit of despair.

"The diamond! The diamond! Where is the diamond," she wailed.

"Do not worry, my dear Lady, you will find it, I believe, in your dog's belly!"

"What?"

"But I cannot imagine!"

"The nerve of that dog!"

"What of the diamond's lustre? Will it be blemished by the canine's alimentary acids?"

The room continued to spin and the party's guests wailed and wondered, looking to Mr. Holmes for further explanation. And, of course, he was willing to comply.

"The reason that Clarissa is now -- I believe temporarily -- blinded and in a coma, is that Mr. Sleezleton's course of action was somewhat unorthodox," Mr. Holmes continued. "To distract the silhouette at the window, he began to take off his clothing --"

"Ah!" Mrs. Smith-Flippy fainted at the very idea.

"-- and skipped around the lawn, knowing full well that the silhouette would immediately think him insane. Clarissa, poor, innocent Clarissa, had never before seen an unclothed man and lost her sight immediately and her senses not long after."

"But what of le chien, Sherlock, what of le chien," demanded the Frenchman.

"Lady Birminghamington, leaving the late night card party in the parlour, took le chien out for a refreshing walk before retiring. She did not know that Mr. Sleezelton had just moments before been naked on the lawn. And Mr. Sleezelton did not realize that during his deviant display, the Berlitztrang diamond had fallen from his trouser pocket onto the dewy grass."

"Oh, Shnooples, you did not swallow that diamond! You didn't!" Lady Birminghamington chided her lap dog, who had a poor appearance and a slight cough.

"Yes, Lady Birminghamington, I am afraid Shnooples did swallow the diamond. We must now wait for nature to take its course."

"This is the worst party I have ever attended," said Mr. Pickle.

"Indeed, Pickle, I would have hoped for more drama," Mr. Holmes said with a smile that had everyone chuckling.

Lucy Lawless:

"I'm sure you are all wondering why I've invited you here tonight," said Sherlock Holmes, bemused and prancing. "The first thing you must each understand is that you are very stupid and I, on the other hand, am very, very smart. So smart, in fact, that just being here in this room with me while I'm saying intelligent things may well result in you receiving a slight tan. It may also confuse you. Please pay close attention and save your cretinous questions until the end. When I'm done speaking, you may applaud for a few moments and then my friend and colleague Dr. Watson will entertain any queries you might have. Applaud means clap. Do you understand? Very well. Watson is better suited than I to converse with you. Doing so will not frustrate him and is less likely to harm you. I'm afraid that the last time I spoke interactively with a group such as yours I inadvertently hypnotized an octet of ladies from Kent who are now all, I'm sad to say, locked away for their own protection. Well, not quite all. You may want to avoid Kent when the moon is full, and if you absolutely cannot, I would recommend traveling only in the company of armed men. You'll be able to hear her approaching. She is quite breathy, and an alto.

"So let us now consider the grave matter at hand. The first and primary fact is that Sir Neville Refactory is dead. Murdered! He was bludgeoned with a stout club or similar implement. His skull is quite caved in. The ship's doctor confirms that the cause of death was nothing more than blunt force trauma to the frontal lobe of the brain, and estimates that death occurred between one and three in the morning. The time of death is significant in that it makes it impossible that you, Miss Fudge, or you, Mr. Coolatta, could have been the perpetrator. Watson's recent radio correspondence confirms that you spent the night ashore at the island's Independence Day Gala at Colonel Emil Churlington's mango plantation. You both drank to excess and retired early to the plantation's guest quarters.

"Although Mrs. Oberdorff might have borne the deceased a certain measure of ill will stemming from his involvement in a failed bauxite mining operation in which she invested no small fraction of her late husband's pension, I can say with confidence that she could not have been the culprit, as she stands barely five feet tall and could not possibly have delivered the fatal blow. Ah, but what if the victim was not standing, or what if Mrs. Oberdorff used a ladder? If you weren't thinking it before, you're thinking it now. Put it out of your thoughts. Although I agree that Mrs. Oberdorff is indeed odious, the pattern of blood and tissue splatter, the position of the body, and the nature of the wound all suggest that Sir Neville was standing when he was attacked from the front by an assailant taller than himself.

That leaves you, Mr. Charisma, and you, Miss Browno. As heirs, you both had ample reason to wish Refactory dead, you both had opportunity, and you are both of sufficient strength and stature to have administered the attack. However, one simple fact makes it impossible that one of you could be the culprit and quite certain that the other should be in irons. Miss Browno, would you be so kind as to roll up your right sleeve? That's..."

Mr. Charisma leapt to his feet.

"Watson! Your revolver!" cried Holmes.

"This is the worst Murder Mystery Dinner we've ever done!" bellowed Mr. Charisma. "You've given away the whole thing in ten minutes! You're an arrogant limey bastard, and you suck!"

All assembled grumbled their agreement. Holmes turned on his heels and left the cafeteria, leaving me to apologize and pass out complimentary tickets to 80's karaoke.

Beeyach:

"'You see, Watson' he explained in the early hours of the morning as we sat over a glass of whisky and soda..." and "'I had,' said he, 'come to an entirely erroneous conclusion...'" Martian Manhunter and Star Jones are not after Beeyach because they are superior writers. The fact of the matter is, they are jealous of her ability to finish an assignment within minutes of the deadline, week after week, while they slave away for days on end, losing sleep, losing hair, and ultimately, losing dignity." With that, he extinguished his pipe and retired to the bedroom.

Cher:

Hey Sherlock, Solve This!!

Watson my dear boy, please do sit down and let me explain to you how once again, I was a step ahead of dear Professor Moriarty and his legion of doom.

Oh, My dear Watson, please just listen to me, It was all very elementary.

Watson, I don't like the way you are speaking to me, please sit down this instant and let me explain to you about Professor Moriarty's foolish stumbles that allowed me to deduce that it was indeed he, and not Sir James Bond who was the cunning mastermind who set up the "accidental" murder of our beloved Princess Diana.

Suddenly Watson lashed out at me verbally, telling me to Sod off, and that he was tired of hearing all of my stories. That I was just a washed-up dandy, and that I needed therapy to realize it.

I did not see the Garrotte until it was too late. Watson, obviously fueled by insane jealousy, whipped the garrotte around my head and neck and pulled with a rage mightier than that of a caged ape.

My head popped cleanly off of my body. I could hear Watson screaming about how I got what I deserved, and that he'd had enough of me condescending to him. My vision faded away, and I could hear Watson's rants fading away.

My last thoughts were random nonsense words.......Orange, Repressed, Moose Elbow, Magnesium.

Plenty O'Toole:

(Sherlock Holmes, The Northeast, Science Fiction)

'You see, Watson' he explained in the early hours of the morning as we sat over a glass of whisky and soda 'it was plainly obvious that that level of output, combined with the breadth of topics could only be produced from something that is of greater sophistication than a human. As the whole escapade continued to unfurl, the disguise became more and more obvious. And I was proven somewhat correct, that he wasn't human, when I cut his arm and it healed instantly.'

'But how did you gain this opinion in the first place?' I asked.

'Being an avid reader who has read almost all of his books' he bragged 'I felt as if the truth had found me even before we traveled to the Northeast United States to investigate the author, Stephen King and his monumental literary output. After reading about the alleged Mr. King not being killed by an automobile that struck him while he was walking on the side of the road, I was more than convinced that King is more than human.'

'But he looks like such a feeble man with that poor posture and thick glasses.' I protested.

'Ah, it is elementary my dear Watson. All just a big disguise for an alien who doesn't want his true human identity discovered. And I thought that conclusion would reveal itself for certain. As we were approaching him in that bar and he shot those lasers out of those eyes, I knew I had no choice but to cut him to see if he bleeds. The regenerating flesh was a first signal of how wrong I was. As all people know, aliens don't regenerate, that is left for mutants.'

'How did you figure we were going to get out of the situation?' I asked.

'Frankly Watson, I hadn't thought of it at all and we were lucky that the knife I was holding had the proper reflective properties to redirect the next eye laser blast right back into the frame of Mr. King, killing him instantly. But, I hadn't planned to escape a mutant at all because I had assumed that King was assuredly an alien from some planet.'

'I had,' said he, 'come to an entirely erroneous conclusion...'

Enabling Lazy Bastards Since 2004

There's now an Atom feed available for this game. Atom is a syndication format that lets other programs hoover up this content in a nice orderly way. Some people like to read all their favorite sites from one place instead of having to surf all around. They use Bloglines or something similar, which goes out, grabs new content from all their faves, and consolidates it in a single page or view.

Assignment, Week 5: Elementary, My Dear Vila...

Once again, Sherlock Holmes has undone a nefarious plot. Let's skip straight to the bit at the end of the story where he rambles on about how his meticulous observations and unlikely deduction came together to foil the evil-doers. 650 words max, in the style of Sir A. C. Doyle.

If you need inspiration, read The Red-Headed League or The Speckled Band. They're short stories. You can handle it. The passages you're modeling your entries on start with "'You see, Watson' he explained in the early hours of the morning as we sat over a glass of whisky and soda..." and "'I had,' said he, 'come to an entirely erroneous conclusion...'," respectively.

Week Four Tribal Council

Part One. Part Two. Part Three. Part Four.

UPDATE! If you play this out loud at work, you'll have to sit on the Naughty Mat.

Here are your entries for Week Four. Please vote by 9 p.m. US EST. Thursday, February 10. That would be tonight.

Plenty O'Toole:

RACE Back in Time With Really Bad Rhyme
(The 2004 US Ryder Cup Team, Abandoned Town, Science Fiction)

Hot as hell, town abandoned. Woods and Mickelson, Frisbee golf, Right vs. Left-handed. Mickelson shoots through an abandoned building window. Time portal appears in the distance. To 1935 go Woods and Mickelson.

They see Bobby Jones in Augusta. They try to get a golf match for a couple dollars. Bobby Jones beats Phil, but he can't touch Tiger. Jones needs to do something to stop this long driver.

And because Jones lives in 1935, he picks up his bag and hands it to Tiger.
Mickelson and Woods look at each other, they then haul ass right back to the portal.

Cher:

1955, A Space Odyssey: Radar's Revenge
(M*A*S*H, Space Station, Horror)

What was that flash BJ?
Where are we Hawkeye?
That's Earth in that window!

Where's Frank?
(Girly Scream)

Only a bloody hat,
Someone ate him (sob)

Hey Hot-Lips, That?s your job!

Charles!, Radar!, Colonel!

Over Here!

Sirs, Welcome to my Spaceship.
I ate Frank for being mean.
Your species is primitive.
I have observed this as your clerk.

My good man Radar-Alien, surely you have seen my skills in the OR?
ZAP!

OK Radar, My bird wants to talk to your bird
ZAP!

I wish Donald was here!
ZAP!

Do you have a Still?
ZAP
ZAP

Ottumwah, Iowa??
Naive Humans

Snidely Whiplash:

Judgment on the High Seas
(The US Supreme Court, Beauty Pageant, Pirates!)

Miss Princess Cruises' wake sucked the breath from Blackbeard. Scalia better deliver.

"Rhenquist's in. So's Stevens and Breyer. Fuck O'Connor and Ginzburg--fucking chicks. How about it, Thomas, add you and me and it's a go. Fuck Souter and Kennedy--fucking prudes."

"Piss off, Scalia. And what, you tell her you fixed it and into your arms she falls? Fool."

Fuck. Plan B.

"Miss Princess by default." Gloated Blackbeard, prancing her past Fletcher Christian's ragged crew.

Furious, Christian scoured the ship for Miss Carnival and the others.

Wondering whether the Navy would come, Scalia savored his oranges deep in the fo'c'sle.

Porsche Cayenne:

If I Were You I Might Look Around For A Dish Towel Or Something In The Meantime
(Bush's Cabinet, Backyard BBQ, Romance)

"Hey, Cheney ... tell us about Condi that night in the van."
Cheney sipped his beer.
"Say anything, Dick, and you're an asshole," muttered Dr. Rice.
The gang ooooooooohed. Cheney smirked. And winked.
Condi sighed. "An asshole who can go to Vermont by himself next weekend."
She flipped a burger.
Bush raised his hand.
"Yes?" snapped Bolten.
"Is Vermont a mall?"
"Yes. Exactly. It's a giant mall in New England. They have the World's Biggest Cinnabon there."
Bush nodded, spilling his drink.
"Damnit, G. Are the napkins still in the van?"
"YES I'LL GET THEM. Condi? Your assistance?"
"Fuck yes."

Buck Nasty:

Russian Gothic: Bunny saves the day
(Teletubbies, Abandoned Town, Historical Fiction)

The Teletubbies wandered through the towering gray rubble of desolate Stalingrad. The foursome was now only two as Tinky Winky, being so large, had been shot by a sniper and Po, much to the sorrow of the audience, had fallen into the fiery Volga. Laa-Laa and Dipsy were alone among the ruins desperately in need of shelter as the Russian winter advanced. Dipsy saw a rabbit scurry into a makeshift bunker and followed with Laa-Laa close behind. They huddled together in the hole. As blackness enveloped them, Laa-Laa wondered how they got here and when the sun might shine again.

Lucy Lawless:

Tom Brady's Coming Out Party
(Fab Five, Big Sporting Event, Romance)

It is half time at the Super Bowl. The Fab Five emerge onto center stage wearing black tuxes.

Unidentified, helmeted football player greets quintet. Player pulls off his helmet, while Carson tears away the uniform. Shocked Super Bowl crowd anticipates another wardrobe malfunction. Tom Brady appears, wearing a purple tux. He smiles and waves at the crowd. Fans stare back in disbelief.

Carson drops to one knee: "Will you marry me, Tom?"

"Yes."

The crowd screams. Fox TV cuts to a commercial.

Beeyach:

Tinky Winky's Pre-Award Puberty Predicament (and the wonders of modern technology)
(Teletubbies, Awards Show, Judy Blume)

Tinky Winky hit puberty the night before the Kids' Choice Awards. He had a wet dream that involved an ostrich and Big Bird. He had kept his desires for extra-large fowl repressed, but when he woke up and saw his sheets soaked through, he knew he couldn't hide his feelings anymore. He had to let Big Bird know how he felt. His purple loins burned like magnesium whenever he spied those big orange feet.

He text messaged BB: I'M HOT 4 U. He got the answer he'd been waiting for: ME 2--DATE 2 NITE? I'M YOUR ESCORT.

Star Jones:

Teletubbies' Zero-G Nightmare
(Teletubbies, Space Station, Horror)

Something snapped inside of Tinky Winky. The physical weightlessness of space made the emotional weight of their secrets unbearable.

Tinky Winky confronted Dipsy about his addiction.

"Tinky Winky knows Dipsy's secret."

Dipsy was indignant, and exposed his knowledge of Tinky Winky's homosexuality.

"Tinky Winky has purse - not bag - and LOVES children."

The homosexuality was true, but molestation allegations could be devastating.

"Tinky Winky KILL Dipsy."

Dipsy was frozen in horror as a smiling Tinky Winky pulled his light saber.

Soon, Tinky Winky found himself laughing at Dipsy's lifeless head slowly twirling clockwise, creating a floating pinwheel of blood.

The Martian Manhunter:

The 33rd Annual Fictional Character Awards from the High Noon Theater in Dirthole, New Mexico
(Star Trek - Awards Show - Western)

"The nominees for Best Fictional Captain are Captains Nemo, Corcoran, Hornblower, Ahab and Kirk."

They raced for the stage. Ahab was slowed by his pegleg. Hornblower's hat fell off.

"There's one way this can end." Kirk squinted. The bright lights created awful glare.

From a nearby window, Spock watched tensely. Scotty tinkered. You could see Uhura's thighs. And a tumbleweed.

"All of you were written before the advent of automatic weapons," Kirk grinned. "You have no chance against my phaser."

He gunned them down while they loaded their muskets and such. Ahab's harpoon was far too slow.

"They're dead, Jim."

Bob Vila:

Holy Boy Band Barbeque!
(Boy Group [N'Sync], Backyard BBQ, Religious)

"God rules."

Munching on barbeque-slathered ribs, they all agreed.

"We should write Him a song."

Again, concurrence.

"About how lucky we are for our talent."

Nods around. There was bacon grease in the rib sauce. Heathens.

"Start the song with 'God loves you'."

"Let's eat first, then expound on God."

"YEA!"

On Saturday. The Sabbath. Pork.

"We should say the Lord's Prayer."

On Saturday! The Sabbath! Practicing Catholicism. Hell beckons.

They joined hands and started the blasphemous prayer.

Lightning struck a nearby tree in Justin's backyard.

They bled a slow, painful death.

A deep maniacal laugh echoed through the breeze.

Week Four Assignment: Spock's Cabo Affair

This week, we're going to try flash fiction. You've got 100 words to tell a story. It must have a title and subtitle (which don't count toward the 100), a beginning, a middle, and an end. It should have conflict or tension and resolution. It's hard to do this well. Editing is the key. Make every sentence as tight as you can. To get started, pick one from each column.

Characters	Setting	Genre
The US Supreme Court	Vacation Paradise	Science Fiction
Staff of 4077th M*A*S*H	Deserted Town	Romance
A Boy or Girl Group (Spice Girls, etc.)	Beauty Pageant	Fantasy
A Superhero Group (JLA, X-Men, etc.)	Suburbs Town Mtg.	Horror
The Beatles, The Who, and The Stones	Backyard BBQ	Mystery
The Original Star Trek Crew	Dark Forest	Western
The Fab 5 from Queer Eye	Davos 2005	Historical Fiction
The 2004 US Ryder Cup Team	A Large Vehicle	Spy Thriller
Bush's Cabinet	A Castle	Medical Thriller
'04 Dem. Primary Candidates	Big Sporting Event	Crime
Cast of Survivor Borneo	GOP or DEM Nat'l Convention	Fairy Tale
Delta House	Hogwarts	Pirates!
Harry, Ron, and Hermione	Space Station	Religious
Teletubbies	Awards Show	Judy Blume

Don't pick things that naturally go together. If you put Harry, Ron and Hermione in a fantasy novel set in Hogwarts, I'll replace your entry with a recipe for dip. Imply your choices in your title, and also list them explicitly in your subtitle. Example:

Spock's Cabo Affair
(Star Trek, Vacation Paradise, Romance)

This week's goofy rules twist: If you are the only player who picks your Characters, Setting, and Genre, you get a vote courtesy of me. It's not only the combination that must be unique. No one else can pick any of the same items as you from the three columns.

Week Three Tribal Council

Part One. Part Two. Part Three. Picking Extra Special Friends.

Entries for Week Three

...where everyone started and ended with the same two sentences, threw in "repressed," "magnesium," and "ostrich," and just flew off into orbit from there. Double anonymity is in effect. Enjoy.

John Gomez:

Santorum's School of Sexology
"Where Studs b'cum Stars"

Course: Advanced Orgy: Making it real on film
Student: Mart. Man H.
Comment:

There must have been a dozen ways to do it better.

Your actions with Bob V. were more that of a fluffer than the on-camera star. You need to make it more believable. In addition, the camera caught a look of barely repressed disgust on your face as your head bobbed in Bob V.'s lap. Sex between men is an essential element of true orgy and an essential skill that we here at SSS expect you to master.

Generally we advise our students to learn to love it or better hide their disgust. It appears you have chosen the former. I commend you for the great strides you have made in this area. I am told that you are an excellent teacher's assistant in "Orgasm: Holding Back," where a number of students have to repeat the course several times due to an inability to "hold back" because of your new found proficiency and enthusiasm. Bravo.

Now, to matters of style. Although interesting and innovative, your use of ostrich feathers and magnesium flares were distracting to both viewers and Bob V. While the ostrich feather headdress gave you a dramatic and exotic look, which was excellent for character development, the feathers tickled Bob V.'s face during your encounter with him. Bob, consequently, could not convincingly express the pleasure and excitement that is essential to a truly satisfying viewing experience. As to the flares, you set them off too soon. Even if you had timed them with Bob V.'s climax, magnesium burns too bright and would have ruined the film. Moreover, Bob, blined by the flares, lost his erection and couldn't go on. Not good.

Grade: "A" for ingenuity; "F" for outcome.

John Emdall:

There must have been a dozen ways to do it better....

The Repressed Magnesium Ostrich Relief Foundation studied the mating patterns of the Repressed Magnesium Ostrich and realized that if the birds didn't have more sex, they would die out within two decades. In order to arouse the birds into a more sexual mood, they rigged an elaborate system whereby aphrodisiacal hormones sprayed directly on the birds when passing. Swiss research assistant Brigitta Schorey was very proud that she had extracted the particular hormone without injuring a single flightless Serengeti citizen. Her partner, Russian born engineer Vladimir Ivanovich, was equally proud of his Alluring Stationary Aphrodisiacal Hormone Distributor. The project was initially a huge success and the large birds enthusiastically began their autumnal ritual. Unfortunately for the core Necessary Sexual Induction team at the RMORF, they did not realize that the cloud of manganese dust stirred up by the birds would, in fact, explode when the Hormone Distributor fired off what would be the final electrical spark of its Hormone Distributing existence. Sadly the plight of the Repressed Magnesium Ostrich is now more desperate than ever and fewer than 200 unburned birds now remain. As for the RMORF, "A" for ingenuity, "F" for outcome.

John O'Connor:

There must have been a dozin ways to do it better. But I can't think of any of them. And as a Nuclear Active Energy Geologist, I'm not used to finding miself stumped. Riting this, I have to level with you; my academic persoots,
thogh lofty, have left me somewhat lacking. My spelling skills seem to have been glossed over. But pashah! Who am I to run from the forward marching English band of capabilitie? When I saw that the nayberhood Open Mike Spelling Bee sign, I was immediately timted to sign up. Away with my completly overbaring sense of public shame and all the sweat! Two bird with one unimaginubly intelligent stone, eh? As an added bonus, I hapen to have a lingwisticly gifted sister. Mainly she just lays around reading obtoose poetry in floaty skirts and spending all kinds of cash on sparkly art supplys. I saght her out in me need as only a supeereor sibling can.

"Let's start with something easy," she said, twirling her hair, an orange seqwin stuck to her cheek. "Spell 'upholstery'."

Egad! I began with every brain trick I know, but none of my day-to-day theorems or formulas seemed to apply. I was a klowd.

"Sound it out," she slowly entoned.

"Um... u-p-o-l-e-s-t-r-y?" I venchured. She chewed an emarald seqwin in half.

"Huh. Spell 'magnesium'."

The beahtiffic material rolled out of my mouth like the creamy, sultry butter that it is. Ahoy! Success!

"Okay, 'ostrich'."

Once agan I was tied up in knots. I stutterd and stamered, getting no where, longing for the homey comfort of the periodic table of elements.

Sister Speller intirupded my spitting and foaming. "I think maybe you had some sort of semantic incident when you were younger that you've repressed," she konjectered. "I suggest you sit down here and leaf through this." She handed me a dictionary. I brushed royal purple seqwins off the cover and looked at her quizically.

"You want me to read this?" I said encredulusly, holding the tome aloft. "Like some... some autistic savant?"

"You are an autistic savant," she replied cooly. That's true enough. I relented.

And what an astownding treat did I devhour then, I tell you! That dictionary and I made fast friends... and then the two of us made friends with a soft chair, and then the three of us made friends with a ham sandwhitch. Oh, I laughed, I cried... two and a half hours later I stood up, refreshed. Oh, for all the world to boast the susinctness and factitude of the great and mity dictionary! Almost sensual in its brevety, it teeses you brutally until the bitter"zubird". I must admit, I have been smitten!

Upon this confesson, my gauzy sister eyed my suspitiously over Dikenson. "Spell 'certifiable'," she challenged. But I, awash in my new obsession, drifted away muttering to miself in short discriptive sentenses punktuated by dashes and strange asterisks.

Ah well. Nothing ventoured, nothing ganed. Though I cannot to this day hear broken English or a robot without thinking of my dictionary love, I must confess that my spelling bee never did materealize. "A" for angenuity, "F" for outcome.

John Smallberries:

There must have been a dozen ways to do it better. But schedules conflicted and we had to have the meeting during lunch. Town Hall smelled like a restaurant dumpster. I had an ostrich burger. I had to eat quickly before I took my pills. I had a magnesium deficiency.

The residents of town were gathered together for the informal lunchtime meeting. Still, tensions sometimes ran high. There had been some yelling and, yes, some spitting. It often wasn't pretty. Today was no different. I took a hit off of my inhaler - asthma is often caused by a magnesium deficiency, you know - and spoke up.

"I think there's a lot of repressed anger about the radio controlled boat racing here in Moose Elbow," I said. There was a long silence. My attention drifted briefly, and I focused on the bust of Athena above the door in town hall. Which poem is that from? Bust of Athena above a door. Damnit. Attention deficit disorder is also often linked to a magnesium deficiency. I took another drag from the inhaler.

"Moose Elbow, Minnesota Rox!" one townsperson shouted proudly.

"Yes, of course, we all agree," I said. Snidely pulled this shit at every meeting. "But that doesn't help us with the problem of how to make sure the ARCBA Nationals will be held here like they have been every year since 1954. So please shut up." He glared at me. Suddenly, I was very nervous. Anxiety is often linked to a magnesium deficiency.

I took another bite of my ostrich burger and searched my pocket for my Claritin - allergies are often an indication of a magnesium deficiency - when Snidely shouted again. It startled me. I felt a sharp pain in my chest. I dropped my ostrich burger and fell from my chair.

As I lay there dying - I had forgotten to take the magnesium oxide pills in my briefcase which were prescribed to help heal my weak left aorta - Snidely had the idea of using the batteries from our boats' remote controls to kick-start my heart. He was unsuccessful. And thanks to his efforts, I died with that terrible Motley Crue song "Kick Start My Heart" in my head.

"A" for ingenuity, "F" for outcome.

John Ganty:

There must have been a dozen ways to do it better. The challenge was Nigerian Ostrich Fillets.

I chose open fire and a grill. Emeril chose a skillet.

My love for barbecue grew from when I was a fat, lonely, unpopular teenager growing up in rural Alabama. The barbecue was a place that I had complete control. My daddy thought that the grill was where good cooking could become artistry, and he was a master. My analyst thinks my love of barbecue is a expression of repressed anger against my mama, who was a dedicated deep fryer, and what I believe to be the source of my lifelong battle with obesity.

I started with my favorite fire of Pennsylvania alder wood. To start the fire, I usually arrange the logs over a bed of magnesium chips. The magnesium provides a instant heat source and quickly gets the fire up to the right temperature, and provides quite a flashy start to my show.

Emerill was on the other side of the stage with his groupies, reciting "oh's" and "ah's" as he melted butter in the pan. He then yelled "BAM BAM" as he sprinkled salt, receiving a loud chorus of cheers and applause. What the fuck? I think his audience has a collective IQ of 100 and would probably be impressed watching a fly slurp up a turd.

I marinated my fillet in an dark California Cabernet before placing it on the grill. They cook quickly, as ostrich meat has little or no fat. After 2-3 minutes per side, a marvelous parallel pattern of grill lines emerged. I thought I saw the Virgin Mary appear in the browning pattern, but maybe it was the wine.

As time wound down, and I was finishing my presentation, I heard that Emerill yell out "BAM BAM" as he sprinkled powdered sugar on his fillet from over his head and the crowd roared.

I'd had enough. I pulled out my .45 and provided my own "BAM BAM" in a shower of lead to Emeril's goofy Mediterranean skull.

While I think my Fillet was best, you might say I got an "A" for ingenuity, "F" for outcome.

John Parrot:

To: Matthew, Tyler, Todd, Benny, Jeremy
Re: An official reprimand from Bobby Stoller, age 12, from his bedroom prison cell, where his parents are holding him until he learns to "behave himself"

There must have been a dozen ways to do it better. In fact, an ostrich could have done it better. An ostrich with a magnesium deficiency could have done it better. An ostrich with a magnesium deficiency and a repressed immune system could have done it better.

The plan was genius. The plan was not at fault. Remember the fabulous plan! The spreadsheets, the pie charts, the detailed drawings of secret passageways, the beautiful blonde wig! That was real hair, guys, real hair that came from real people who cut their beautiful blonde hair! I can't stress to you enough that this should have worked.

But who gave Benny the ball? Who gave Benny the ball? Jeremy, who gave Benny the ball? Was it you, Jeremy? The ball was supposed to go to Matthew. Had the ball gone to Matthew, had Matthew been allowed to throw the ball at Mr. Nubbin's head, had Mr. Nubbin then fallen to the ground out cold, Jeremy, do you see that he was supposed to fall to be knocked out cold? Matthew has deadly aim. Benny does not. You know this! That baseball should have hit Mr. Nubbin in the head, should have knocked him out cold, then the wig and the passageways and oh, it could have been so perfect.

I must give credit where it's due. I believe this plan was genius. Because I came up with the plan, I'm giving myself an A for ingenuity. But you, Jeremy, you get an F for this horrible outcome.

John Bigbooté:

There must have been a dozen ways to do it better. I can rattle them off the top of my head: electrocution, razor blades, poisoning, knives, guns, and stabbing weapons, drowning, pills, hanging, autoerotic asphyxiation, jumping off of a tall building, screaming racial slurs in the hood. I just wanted to end it all. My job sucks, I hate my wife, I hate my life!

I've tried everything to get better, but I just can't shake off the blue funk that is my life. I tried the best shrink in the state. I saw him every day for six months. He decided that I have repressed memories of an unhappy childhood. So who doesn't? He prescribed multiple drugs, Paxil, Zoloft, aspirin. And more drugs, Lithium, Magnesium, Boron, Advil. Sadly, nothing made me feel better.

I decided to end it all. I needed to do it quickly, painlessly, with minimal cleanup for the "authorities". I also wanted to screw that bitch I married. Maybe if she had divorced me when I asked I wouldn't be so miserable now.

After some thought, I came up with a great idea. I could load up the bitch's car with a couple of jerry jugs of gasoline and park on the train tracks. I figured if I did it early in the morning, I would get hit by a freight train. It all was fine until I panicked. When I saw the lights getting bigger and bigger, and the noise building, I just lost it and jumped out of the bitch's car. Little did I know, it was a commuter train with loads of people on it.

The "authorities" charged me with 6 counts of murder. Not just murder, but premeditated murder. It seems that I should have known that parking a car on the tracks and waiting to get hit by a train can kill people. I only wanted to kill 1 person, me! Turns out that is illegal also. I was elated when my court appointed attorney told me I could get the death penalty. Great, I would plead guilty and they could kill me! My baby-faced attorney told me that death penalty cases like this usually take 2 or 3 years to prosecute, and if I'm found guilty, the automatic appeal usually takes 5 to 7 more years. I can't even get anyone to shank me in the yard, because they put us death row guys in solitary. No shoelaces either. It gets even better. When the commuter train derailed, a freight train carrying circus animals hit it. They're also charging me with killing a bear, an elephant, and an ostrich.

A for ingenuity, F for results.

John Parker:

There must have been a dozen ways to do it better.

But alas, I thought I knew everything.

I could have done away with the crusts. I could have changed the proportions. I could have just listened to other people on my team. I could have helped change the world, but no. Too little. Too late. Too myopic.

I came up with the idea for Goober which I thought would revolutionize the making of the peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Goober is a jar of partitioned peanut butter and jelly. It allows for quicker sandwich making by putting everything in a single jar. I can remember the pitch I made to the board of product review at Smucker's. "Only One Jar to Get the Job Done." I thought it was perfect. Infallible. Genius.

My team didn't totally agree.

My team consists of 10 people who help create ideas and prototypes here at Smucker's. The Goober project was codenamed "ostrich" because we felt like all the other research teams had their heads in the sand. That will serve as enough irony for a lifetime. As we were moving along I started acting like a dictator and I became the Goober Nazi. I thought I was maintaining focus, but meanwhile, metaphorically, I was making a peanut butter and jelly sandwich without the jelly.

One employee felt particularly repressed. She had tried a number of times to broaden the scope of the project, but I had attempted to pull her back in without hearing what she was saying. Little did I know that pulling her back was like throwing water on a magnesium fire.

She grew up in Nebraska, the daughter of a pastry chef and she had this idea to take the PB and J a step further than the Goober project. She wanted to create a crust-free, readymade, peanut butter and jelly sandwich that kids and parents would love equally. She came up with the "PB and J in a Pocket" which the marketing team named "Uncrustables" (found in your grocer's freezer.) Just thaw and serve this PBJ-filled pastry. Put it in your kids lunch in the morning and it will be ready to go by lunch time.

After the board heard that idea, they claimed to like both ideas, but I knew which one they were really excited about. And rightfully so. Smucker's Uncrustables has been a huge success.

I still got the Goober project approved, including a revolutionary jar-filling process on the factory floor which fills jars with greater efficiency. That has saved the company a lot of time and money, but it burns me that those jars of Goober don't fly off of the shelf like the Uncrustables.

If I had just listened, maybe I would still be the team leader instead of the girl from Nebraska.

The Uncrustables project gets an "A" in every phase, but my Goober idea?

"A" for ingenuity, "F" for outcome.

John Ya Ya:

There must have been a dozen ways to do it better. I tried to discipline my brother's kid.

My brother Ted is kind of a square. Don't get me wrong, he's a great guy, and he means well. I mean, he's the oldest of all of us, he's a big shot lawyer, got a great wife, great house, lots of money. He's kind of uptight. Doesn't even know how good he's got it.

So he's got this little brat of a kid, four years old. I only see him about 3 or 4 times a year. Since I opened up the tattoo shop, business has been booming, so I get a limited amount of time off. Most of that time I do not want spent with my brother, but I do the "cool uncle" bit; I go over, show off my latest tattoo or piercing. I try to have fun with my nephew, because I know he's probably stressed out from taking piano lessons and god knows what else.

But I digress. So I'm at the house playing with little Maxwell (they don't even call him something cool, like "Max". It has to be Maxwell). We're playing hide and seek, and I'm it. So I'm standing there closing my eyes and counting, and I didn't realize it, but he didn't go and hide. He's standing behind me the whole time. When I get to 20, he hauls off and kicks me in the leg. Hard.

Ted immediately puts Maxwell in the "time out" chair and starts to lecture him. I tell Ted that I'll take care of it; after all, I'm the one who got kicked. I stood Maxwell up and knelt down so that we could see each other eye to eye. Eye being the key word. Little s*** looks at me square in the eye, then reaches out and grabs my not-yet-healed eyebrow ring and pulls. Hard.

You ever had a piercing pulled out of your body? Major pain, because you're not expecting it. Blood everywhere. I got the hell out of there and went straight to the emergency room. "A" for ingenuity, "F" for outcome.

John Whorfin:

There must have been a dozen ways to do it better. But I was obsessed with leaving absolutely no trace behind.

Being obsessed is what got me into trouble in the first place. You see, Mr. Forbes gave me a 'B' in chemistry, the only blemish on an otherwise perfect high school track record. One 'B' and 39 'A's over four years means salutatorian instead of valedictorian. I was crushed. And I couldn't get over it.

Mr. Forbes allowed me - encouraged me! - to contest my grade by putting my arguments in writing. I crafted a 12-page manifesto for why I deserved an 'A.' Perfect attendance. Above-average test scores. Clever laboratory insights. The logic was overwhelming.

Mr. Forbes returned my write-up the next morning. I smiled with nervous apprehension as I cracked open the envelope. He must have liked it, since he returned it so quickly. My high hopes were dashed when I noticed the red markings. Mr. Forbes had edited the grammar and structure of the entire piece. At the end, he wrote "Nice try. 'A' for ingenuity, 'B' for the semester."

His sarcastic rejection unleashed repressed memories from my childhood. My father was a cruel man, especially when I brought home anything less than an 'A.' In third grade, I once received a 'C' in handwriting. My old man forced me to hand copy the entire bible during April vacation, in order to practice my handwriting. My hand cramped so badly that I had to fight back tears. I decided that I would take care of Mr. Forbes, just like I should have taken care of my father.

Mr. Forbes had once been a football player. Years of relative inactivity caused his arm and leg muscles to waste away, leaving him looking like a stooped-over ostrich. I overpowered him easily. I tied him up and confined him to his laboratory. I had planned on talking to him about my grade, but he only sobbed. I quickly lost control and began strangling him. Killing him was easy. Disposing of him was not.

I grabbed some alcohol fuel, a propane torch and ten pounds of magnesium dust from the lab. That night, I drove his body out to the harbor, where I filled his pockets and stomach cavity with magnesium dust, doused him in alcohol, and readied to set him on fire.

My plan was to quickly dump him into the ocean, where the ocean water would feed the magnesium fire, leaving little, if anything behind. I relished the irony: Mr. Forbes taught us how magnesium burns in water. A 'B' student would never have come up with this.

His body exploded and created a glowing, 20-foot column of water. A Coast Guard cutter witnessed it from 2 miles away. I had nowhere to hide. As I sat hunched over in the coast guard cutter, I wondered how Mr. Forbes would have graded this performance. 'A' for ingenuity. 'F' for outcome.

John Many Jars:

There must have been a dozen ways to do it better. This unidentifiable substance would just not come off the wall. I had tried Windex, 409, Commercial 409, 409 glass and surface, a 409 big block Chevrolet, and methanol. All to no avail. Whoever put whatever on here had to have used some epoxy or superglue to ensure that it would never be removed. By the spatter pattern I assumed it was shot out of something at a relatively high velocity. It almost looked like a chain of islands leading to an archipelago of sorts, just all yellowish white and crusted. Cleaning the Victoria's Secret in the mall wasn't usually a bad part-time gig, but today it was driving me crazy. After careful deliberation, I deduced that it was either vanilla milkshake or... something slightly less edible, though full of protein. Either way, I wasn't going to touch it. Well, maybe just a little poke... AUGH! Only the top layer had solidified, and underneath was still slightly tepid and... (licking finger) yep, bitter. Tepid and bitter... hmm... AAUGH! Sptffpt... [chortle]

Well, now that I'd determined the source of the 'substance' was some perverted bastard, probably in his mid-40s and balding, with a fat wife who has cankles. Fucker. This sick, sad son-of-a-bitch must have a seriously repressed sex life or balls the size of ostrich eggs to let something that size out... damn. People need to keep that shit in the privacy of their home. Or on the internet, some people like that stuff... so I'm told. By a friend.

Once the taste was out of my mouth (thanks to a vanilla milkshake) and the queasiness gone from my stomach (thanks to the bourbon), I decided to tackle the problem at hand... er, wall. I figured that I could melt the stuff off if I warmed it up enough, so it was off to the hardware store for a propane torch. I checked to make sure the changing room wall was metal so it wouldn't catch fire. It seemed light enough, probably aluminum.

Here goes nothing. I made sure to have a large bucket of water handy in case the unthinkable happened, but what could go wrong? I lit the torch. So far so good. I started slowly heating up the crust... OH SHIT! The fucking wall started burning! And it's nearly white hot! Good thing I brought the bucket of water.... AHHHKJWAJGGHESdnn....

OBITUARY:

Kristoph Radanovich was killed yesterday while cleaning Victoria's Secret in North Park mall. The fire appeared to stem from a propane torch being applied to the magnesium alloy walls in the changing rooms at Victoria's Secret. The fire could have been contained, but a half-melted bucket was found on the scene, and by the pattern of burns on Kristoph's flesh, investigators deduced that water was thrown on the fire immediately after ignition. A tape recording made by Kristoph was found at the scene describing events that transpired. The company that hired Mr. Radanovich gave him an 'A' for ingenuity, but an 'F' for outcome.