Tribal Council, Week Ten

Part One. Part Two.

Week Ten Entries

Lemon mystery. Double anonymity.

The Mexican Train Game:

"Where does chocolate milk come from?" said she.

"Brown cows" said he.

"Where does pink lemonade come from?" said she.

"Pink lemons" said he.

"Where do babies come from?" said she.

"No one knows; it's a mystery." said he.

Clue:

Lemon Mystery : Lone Symmetry

Balloon Lagoon:

LEMON MYSTERY

1 cup sugar
1 ½ cups milk
4 tablespoons flour
pinch of salt
2 tablespoons butter
3 eggs, beaten separately
1 lemon (juice and grated rind)

Cream butter, add sugar and mix well. Add flour, salt, rind and juice of lemon. Stir in egg yolks mixed with milk. Fold in beaten whites and pour into baking dish. Set in pan of hot water and bake at 350 degrees for 45 minutes. Can be served with sweetened whipped cream but is almost as good without it. Serves 6 normal people and 4 of my relatives. (This is my mother's recipe.)

40 Hats for 40 Cats:

I rode my bike to Lexington,
A backpack full of fruit.
Looking for the Epicenter,
I turned my phone to mute.

I walked on to this island,
An author full of glee.
After the sixth straight month of writing,
One pissed off writer is me.

I glided to a silent stop,
About three houses short.
I stalked up through three front yards,
Approaching one grand fort.

I picked the lock and entered,
My heartbeats they were few.
I snuck into the study,
And stole the man's kazoo.

I secured the mask upon my face,
And snuck right up the stairs.
I readied my supply of fruit,
Lemons, if you care.

I walked into his bedroom,
And sucked a mighty wind.
A mighty blast on his own kazoo,
I hummed and blew at him.

He sat right up from slumber,
As a lemon smacked his face.
I screamed, "How is it that we run and run,
And nobody wins the race!"

Emptied the clip of ten sour bombs,
I knew I had to flee.
Will he ever know this terrorist's name?
It is a Lemon Mystery.

Scrabble Junior:

Meyer Reticulata sat behind his desk, pondering the outcome of the situation at hand. 30,000 of them were missing, and that is no small task considering each and every one of them was at least 2½ inches long. The local police force had no leads, and the grower's union was furious. He guessed that's why they came to him. Best goddamn fruit detective this side of the Mississippi.

All of his leads were pointing to one crazy old guy who lived up in the mountains of Kansas. But the trek there was not an easy one, especially because there are no mountains in Kansas. Nonetheless, the grower's union was counting on him to retrieve the missing stash, or at least find the culprit so he could be brought to justice. Crop theft was a serious crime in Florida, especially when it came to lemons. Yielding only 3 boxes per tree per season, 30,000 was quite a hefty loss. So began Meyer's journey to the mountains of Kansas.

He arrived in the mountains of Kansas at 7am after a long drive through the night. There were no luxury hotels within 100 miles or so, leaving Meyer to pick up a room at the Tally-ho Quad City Super Motor Inn. The place was a hole. The cockroaches were only outnumbered by the fleas, and together they battled the ants for control of the musty dark places in the room. Meyer grabbed a quick nap and headed back out.

He went to the local diner for lunch. It seemed that the cockroach infestation was not limited to the Motor Inn, but it didn't stop Meyer from eating. The server was a young girl in her 20s, whose face seemed kind until she opened her mouth.

"Whaddyou wanna eat" gargled this seemingly timid female. She barely had teeth, and what she did have were browned and decayed by the wad of tobacco in her mouth.

"I'll have the special." It was more of a question than a statement, as nothing seemed edible other than the grits. You can't fuck grits up.

While perched at the diner counter, two men walked in and grabbed a booth. He beckoned the server -

"Who are those two?"

"The one there in that there hat with the coat is Mr. Curtis Nemlo, and the other gentleman is Gil Teeman."

Something didn't sit right with Meyer, and it wasn't the food. Surprisingly. He listened to their conversation and when they left, he followed them. They took a series of back roads and in order not to be seen, Meyer crept along behind them, being careful not to be noticed in his H2 with a 3" lift kit.

Then it hit him. Curtis - citrus. Nemlo - Lemon. Holy flying stolen fruit! Curtis Nemlo and Gil Teeman were guilty men! He pulled his revolver out and entered the cabin on the mountain in Kansas. There they were with over 29,000 lemons left, making lemonade. He pulled his revolver and yelled "FREEZE!"

Both men stood up and said simultaneously "when lives gives you lemons -"

Quoridor:

Male Fantasy #17
Monday Morning Rush Hour

I am accelerating down the on-ramp, when suddenly I see brake lights in front of me. I jam my brake pedal so hard that my ABS is triggered. Another idiot driving a land yacht suddenly loses his nerve before merging into traffic.

The mystery to me is why these drivers buy cars with large, powerful engines in the first place.

Smirking, I hit the small red "CODE" key below my Navigation System. Instantly, a beautiful female voice cuts in, "John, please report your code violation." I reply "Code Lemon: Failure to properly use available horsepower. License plate number 569 AFY. Black Bonneville."

Three minutes later, two Black Hawk helicopters thunder down from above. One of them is carrying a brand new, 3-cylinder Honda engine, suspended from chains hanging below. The other helicopter hovers above the Black Bonneville. Two former Special Forces commandos shimmy down rope ladders and land on each side of the Bonneville. Horrified, the driver stops.

One of the commandos shoots a paralyzing dart into the driver so that his entire body goes limp, though he is left in a wakeful state. The other commando opens the hood of the car and attaches two chains to the engine. After destroying the engine mounts with his portable welding torch, the commando signals to the Black Hawk above which then lifts the engine gently out of the cavernous front end. Seconds later, the new 3-cylinder Honda engine is lowered into the vacant space. Both commandos work furiously to hook the new engine up to the drive train of the Bonneville.

Seven minutes later, the job is complete. One of the commandos walks over to the driver who is slowly recovering from the paralyzing dart. The commando hands him a new driver's manual. He explains to him that since he has failed to properly use his powerful eight-cylinder engine on an on-ramp, his engine has been replaced with a more efficient three-cylinder lawnmower engine that will provide just enough power to enable the huge Bonneville to continue to merge slowly into traffic.

As the Black Hawks prepare to take off, the commandos affix a magnetic, black-and-white warning label to the rear trunk of the Bonneville that reads: TIMID DRIVER. FOLLOW WITH CARE.

Zauberhut:

In 5-part Haiku:

Nubile Young Nanny.
Blossoming Easter Lillies.
Devil in Disguise.

His Midlife Crisis.
Temptation Eats At His Soul.
Innocence Shattered.

Chores Interrupted.
Supplies Spill As Passion Flows.
Unseen Visitor.

Volcanic Anger.
Dispensed Without Prejudice.
The Beast Satisfied.

Unnatural Death.
A Faint Odor of Citrus.
Lemon Mystery.

Cranium Cadoo:

"What do you mean he'll have to be refrigerated? That will kill him, won't it? Is it him anymore? How can we speak of it as him? Oh, God, I'm so confused."

"I understand Mrs. Smith . . ."

"How can you possibly understand? Don't patronize me."

"If we don't refrigerate Mr. Smith, he'll rot."

"He'll rot? Good God, is he even alive? Living creatures don't rot. Can we even speak of him as being 'alive'?"

"Well, there's quite a bit of movement. He keeps shifting about."

"But is he alive?"

"We can't say that he's dead."

"What do you mean? Can you say he's alive?"

"Hard to say."

"Hard to say? Hard to say? You've got all the scientific equipment you could possibly want. This is ridiculous."

"It's not my field."

"What do you mean, not your field?"

"I'm a medical doctor."

"Yes, and?"

"You need a horticulturist."

"A what?"

"A horticulturist. He appears to have turned into a giant lemon. You need a horticulturist."

"A giant lemon? Are you mad?"

"I know you must be in shock, Mrs. Smith, but really, just look at him. Smell him."

"Oh, God."

"We need to keep him fresh until we can find a horticulturist that specializes in giant citrus. So, if you don't mind, please sign the authorization to refrigerate him.

"Christ. He was 5'6" and 250 pounds. Fat. That's what he was. I was prepared for him to drop dead from a heart attack. Not this."

"5'6", you say?"

"Yes. Why?"

"Amazing. He's two feet shorter and he still weighs 250 pounds."

"He's still a load. A big, round, yellow load."

"The authorization, please."

"How could this happen?

"It's a mystery, Mrs. Smith, a lemon mystery."

Week 712 Tribal Council

Part One. Part Two. Part Three.

Entries for Week Nine

...where you had to write something explaining a strange story from the Lexington Police blotter. Enjoy!

(In case you're wondering, Double Anonymity is in effect, and the names all fall into the category "words I found on or near my dining room table.")

Committed to Care:

Martha Stewart Steps Out of Bounds

I just got out of prison
I'm so happy to be free
All the same, I'll miss the girls
Who were my company

Especially my cell mate
Who's still there--that really sucks
But she knitted me that poncho
Makin' me a million bucks!

I promised her I'd visit
Her boyfriend back at home
And bring him a nice present
Because he's all alone

But there's just one little problem
When I go see her man Rick
Every time I step beyond my house
My anklet makes me sick!

At first it's just a buzzing
And then a little sting
By the time I get to Massachusetts
My ears, they start to ring

The feeling creeps into my stomach
I think it's just a fluke
But when I get to Au Bon Pain
I begin to puke!

I've tried to make it seven times
To see if Rick is there
Traveling by light of moon
With his girlfriend's underwear

On Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays
I headed into town
Got as far as The Good Bread
Then had to turn around

I can see the headlines coming
As I'm kneeling on all fours
"MARTHA STEWART WIPES HER FACE WITH HER CELL MATE'S FANCY DRAWERS!"

I think I've learned my lesson
No more midnight rendevous
If Ricky wants to see her thong
He'll have to watch the news!

Special Arrangement:

I hate New York City, but not as much as I hate Hollywood. Whatever I do people are pointing, staring, asking 'is that him?' Yes it's me, you fucks. Get over it. I needed to get away from all the noise, commotion and bullshit for a month or so. Get a small hotel for myself, find a local bar or seven, bag a hooker and just relax.

Maybe I should start from the beginning. It never used to be like this. No one cared about Michael Lohan before that sleazy tramp daughter of mine got 4 lbs. of silicone pumped into each of her funbags. Then she did that god-awful movie 'mean girls'. What the hell was that all about anyway? I watched it twice and the only thing I got out of it was a mild chubby from the teacher and, regrettably, Lindsay herself. If I didn't think I'd get thrown back in jail for it, I'd stick it to her like a rabid gorilla. But I digress.

New York has too many people in it. Not just that godforsaken hellhole of a city, either. The whole damned state. I had to get out, despite Lindsay filming 'Hernia the lovedrug bug slug' for the last few weeks and well into next month. She probably won't even know I'm gone, considering she has Brucie and those guys from the Chippendale's place to keep her busy. So I left, drove as far as my rental would go on one tank of gas and ended up here. Lexington, Massachusetts. Quaint little town - not too much city, not too much country, just peaceful. I found a nice bar called Buckman's Tavern across from the Lexington Greens. It became my home for the last two weeks. There was also a library on the stumble home from Buckman's to the Battle Green Motor Inn. This was my toilet for the last two weeks. Every other day it seemed I was meeting some tramp at Buckman's and took her back to the good ol' Battle Green. I would battle getting green myself on the way back, but usually would fail. It would always be the same time every night. 2:52 am, on my crawl back to the hotel. I think it was that triple-double of Jameson's right at last call, but hey, this is vacation right? Right. So I splurged a little bit. It must've been that turn in the road that got me, because every night I gave every drop of alcohol I'd drank that night right back to the good citizens of Lexington. Nice place, that library was. It even had a little roof over the entranceway so when it was raining, I wouldn't get wet while recycling my liquor. I think I might move here.

Sporting Traditions Since 1856:

Toxic Terrorist Arrested in Poison Plot

By Mary Mapes, Freelance Producer/Writer RS4 Newswire

Lexington, MA - An elite commando unit of Girl Scouts, under the cover of their annual cookie sales drive captured the leader of the worlds most annoying terrorist organization today. 40 year old Del Al'Fisour, known in the US as Scott Thompson and performing "comedy" under the pseudonym "Carrot Top", was captured in the act of expelling a highly toxic and radioactive sulfuric acid substance from his mouth on to the steps of Lexington's Town Manager's Office.

"It is with great relief that we can report the capture of this toxic criminal" announced Town Manager Linda Crew Vine, the apparent target of the attack. "We believe Mr. Al'Fisour was trying to derail the "No Place for Hate" initiative that this community so urgently needs. This act of terror will not deter our mission of spreading peace, love and joy to the people of Lexington, and Middlesex County."

The previously unknown substance appears as ordinary pea-soup vomit and had been appearing every other day for the last two weeks. Lexington's HazMat unit had been cleaning up the substance, but only recently discovered it to be toxic. Samples sent to the FBI indicated it to be a Level 4 biohazard. Once this discovery was made, lead investigator Deputy Barney Fife coordinated an undercover operation with the Girl Scout leadership.

"This arrest highlights the professional quality detective work of our Police force, the effectiveness of our HazMat team, and the cold-steel ruthless nature of our Scouting resources working cooperatively to bring an end to these terrorist acts" Fife said.

Al'Fisour, had been performing his hate filled "comedy" act for the last two weeks at Estabrook Hall (basement of Cary Memorial Hall) and was an outspoken opponent of political correctness in suburban Massachusetts. While Al'Fisour did not have a history of violence, during his arrest, 2 Girl Scouts were temporarily blinded as Al'Fisour spit the toxic substance into their eyes. He was then restrained and placed in a bio hazard suit that will prevent any further excretions from escaping.

The early morning arrest didn't deter those who were to attend the yesterday's diversity seminar.

"Dat freak done throwed up on dose little girls while day arrested heem. It was like a river of puke comin' out is maoth" recalled Darby McClanahan. "Once day got him down day just tagged him and bagged him den through him into dat minivan."

The publicity firm for "Carrot Top" could not be reached for commnet. His arraignment on formal charges will be on Friday.

Back and Forth Folder:

Title: The Martian Manhunter Doesn't Own Me

(television newscast)

Good evening I am Karen Kelly and this is our top story.

(turns to face the camera on the left)

It was reported last week that a local business owner was being plagued by a strange visitor to his Subway restaurant on Massachusetts Avenue. According to police reports, the visitor never came inside the restaurant and was vomiting near the front door every other night for the last two weeks. Today, there is an answer to this strange mystery. We now go to Roger Riley on Mass Ave for an update. Roger?

(cuts to Roger on the street)

Good evening Karen. Behind me is the Subway where the vomiting occurred. According to the owner, the vomit was here, here, here, here and finally here. Back to you Karen.

(Karen looks back into the camera)

Thanks Roger. The identity of this "Vomit Villain" has been a mystery until now. A security camera from the convenience store across the street revealed that the perpetrator is none other than Jared Fogel from Subway.

(cut to video of Subway commercial)

Jared, his name is Jared. When he got real fat on burgers and fries, Subway cut him down to size. Subway. Eat Fresh!

(back to Karen)

Or maybe it wasn't really Subway at all. We reached Jared at home yesterday. When asked for comment he had this to say.

"I &#?$ing hate Clay $@?%ing Henry. I was the man at Subway until that stupid, firefighting copycat had to go and lose weight by eating Subway. I had to keep my weight or I could lose the only thing I have going for me. Couldn't that son of a &#$@ go on Atkins or something? Wait, are you recording this? #$%&. I am so sorry. Please don't play this on the air. Please."

(Karen shuffles her papers, turns right, looking into a different camera)

So sad. And here is Bill with the weather.

the power of e-business:

From the Lexington Minuteman, November 3

'Jerky Boys' Arrested

On Friday, three men in their 30s were arrested for criminal trespassing after policemen discovered that they had equipped a local man's house with illegal electronic surveillance equipment. Additional charges are pending.

These men, all from Los Angeles, but originally from Lexington, had targeted Hector Wilson, a local business owner. The equipment was discovered after Mr. Wilson went crazy and stabbed his dog to death two weeks ago. Hector was discovered in his home, splattered in blood, and rambling incoherently about demons in the walls. After killing his dog with an axe, he used it to punch 27 holes in the walls of his house. Recovering at a local mental institution, Hector has been under sedation ever since the incident.

According to Hector's physician, it all started in August when vomit began appearing in front of Hector's book shop every other day for a week. Around the same time, Hector's dog began acting strangely, barking wildly at the air conditioners in Hectors house, but only at night. Police later discovered that the 'Jerky Boys' had planted the vomit in front of Hector's store. A few days later, they broke into Hector's house and placed dog whistles in the vents of his air conditioners. When air flowed through the vents, the whistles issued piercing sounds that were audible only to Hector's dog. This was a problem during the evening hours when Hector ran his air conditioning units.

A few weeks later, with Hector's agitation escalating, the 'Jerky Boys' allegedly broke into Hector's house again, this time to install a metronome in one of the walls of his house. The metronome was on a timer so that it ticked constantly every other hour.

According to unnamed sources at CBS studios, the 'Jerky Boys' were filming a crude pilot for a new reality series inspired by the original Jerky Boys, who became famous for taping crank phone calls during which they tried to agitate their targets. Unlike the original Jerky Boys, these latter-day Jerky Boys decided that they would attempt to completely disrupt the lives of their targets. Hidden cameras would record the results for the audience.

While the original Jerky Boys were largely considered to be harmless fools, these Jerky Boys may have gone too far. According to Hector's relatives, Hector's mother was a famous pianist, who suffered from bulimia and bipolar disorder. She was known for violent rages during which she smashed her metronome and yelled at her barking dog. Apparently, these stories, which were discovered by the Jerky Boys when they secretly 'profiled' Hector, inspired all three of their gags.

Hector's mother committed suicide five years ago.

Barbie Time Teacher:

This was the seventh time in a fortnight that the Wizard had attempted to thrust the man into this ripe future. Calculation upon calculation had demonstrated that the 1976 Presidential election was the most opportune time for Marxism to flourish among the American people. Oh, not all at once, to be sure, but clearly the seed would need to be planted in the American psyche. The "Spritus Mundi" relied on it. And Marx himself would be the planter. Seeing Marx almost 100 years after he was to have died would be enough for a "media frenzy". Surely the Americans would all come to see.

It had been decades in the making, but the Wizard had perfected the temporal displacer. His calculations were centered on Kepler's calculus, not as well know as Descartes', but far more mystical and far more useful to a man of the Arcane Science. Avoidance of the inverse decahedron demonstrated that the physical fabric and temporal fabric were somehow linked, and the Wizard had found the key. His experiments had all succeeded. He studied history not yet made and, through indirect means, even managed to slightly influence the temporal flow. Now the time had come for a major change. It was, after all, for the enlightenment of the world.

Six times the experiment had failed. Six times the man was pulled out of his temporal line and into the future. But not the right future. The years were off; and, logically, the calculations had been off. Six times the fabric pulled the man back. But now, with the Capital Power Core having regenerated over the past 48 hours, the calculations were becoming clear and Kepler's calculus backed them up. Now the impact would be felt and the era eventually be called "The Barren Century" could be avoided.

For the seventh time in August, Karl Marx crawled out of the bushes in Lexington Massachusetts and puked on a concrete landing. Dazed and feeling as if he were in a dream, he stood up expecting to see central Paris after a night of heavy drinking, but instead saw an unfamiliar town. As he began to collect himself he felt a strange feeling along his spine. He felt his body stretch and twist from the center, but felt no pain. He saw the trees, and the buildings, and his vomit, fade into the distance, seemingly into the past.

A copy of "Le Grelot" was delivered in a bundle just outside a Parisian cafe. The 1874 news was largely boring and featured mostly tired political movements and celebrities. The crime report was generally uninteresting, but between the cutpurses and prostitutes there was included the following mention:

On Thursday, Aug. 19, at 6:38 a.m., a Rue de Provence business reported someone has been vomiting near its front door every other night for the past two weeks.

Cascading Style Sheets 2.0:

"Where are you going? Good lord, Paul, are you sick?"

"No. That vile Englishman is setting up a silver shop."

"Goodness gracious. Is that how all you smithies mark your territory?"

"It's the only language these Tory dogs understand."

"Rather dear, I'd say."

"No meat. Just that piss Sam Adams is brewing."

Suave Kids Detangling Spray:

From a note written on heavy burned-around-the-edges linen and stuck terrifyingly and somewhat permanently to the front door of local Lexington business "Now THAT'S What I Call Fancy Birdseed!" with an axe. A small one. But still an axe.

"I'll have ye know I been readin' this nastiness thatcha be puttin' in yer paper and I'll ALSO have ye know that iffn I were still flesh an' bone an' peg an' beard like you wicked mortal men I'd be after yer necks with a blade so fast thatcha wouldn' barely have time to smell yer own putrid, rotton blood as it boiled and bubbled outcher swollen veins and onto yer collars an' sleeves an' belt buckles an' assorted other apparel whatnots. Back when I was sailin' the high seas and cooin' to me gentle bird and itchin' me rancid stump, men like ye would throw gold at me foot, just t' keep ther miserable lives! But Long John Silver never spared NO MAN! An' I got me a locked chest a' bloody buttons an' collar stays hid away t' more than prove me wrath!

But... since me got the time an' some fine burned-at-the-edges linen an' an axe-- a small one, but an axe just the same, arrrrrgh!-- I may as well pull ye inta me confidence like a poor little underfed two-legged dog, wracked with disease an' beggin' fer warmth.

Me bird, Salty, left this world long ago fer calmer seas and bigger putrid worms. An' since her demise I been lackin' that thing that havin' a bird gives a pirate. Ever' night me walks th' streets, callin' me Salty, an' ever' night me Salty keeps quiet, her little salty bones lyin' on the bottom of th' sea like the bones of a poor little strangled underfed two-legged dog, wracked with disease and beggin' fer warmth.

NO person, dead or alive or somethin' wretched and foul and inhuman in-betwixt, should be without their rightful bird! An' if that wretched, foul, inhuman in-betwixt soul should seek th' company of a common pigeon wench, then blimey! that's between tha two a' them! An' later, if that little whore of a tart pigeon taunts and teases th'other with feathers and silence, an' if th'other breaks his word an' eats that wee little minx of a tiny, tiny maiden bird, claws an' beak an' feathers an' eyes an' all th'other treats that come with eatin' almost-live birds whole, well, WHO DARES TO JUDGE LONG JOHN SILVER, THEN? The guilt an' poison memories are enough t' wrack this ol' rusty pirate with pain an' undulations th' likes of which I dare not say me seen since the dreaded "Forty Days An' Forty Nights O' Rum An' Milk An' Fish". An listen ta ol' Pirate John when me tells ya that me crampin' and toilin' an' sweatin' keeps me right an' proper away from th' innocent birds o' this almost sea-side town. Fer awhile.

So ya take this, ya nasty landlubbin', bird-flauntin' men with yer clothes all free a' blood an' gore an' yer own entrails and fecal matter: the next time ya choose t' cross ol' Pirate John, ya best think hard about yer dry cleanin'. AN' YER ENTRAILS."

Week Nine Assignment: Seven Inglorious Mornings in America

Actual Police Log entry from the Lexington Minuteman:

On Thursday, Aug. 19 at 6:38 a.m., a Massachusetts Avenue business reported someone has been vomiting near its front door every other night for the past two weeks.

Let's assume that the person or persons responsible are famous. Let's also assume that they can be real or fictional. FOR EXAMPLE (please note that this is only an example, not a requirement) you could use Ted Kennedy, an actual spherical person, OR you could use Montgomery Burns, a fictional character on Fox's long-running and much loved cartoon series, The Simpsons. You don't have to use either of them. They were just examples.

OK, so now that we've got famous people barfing on the streets of my town, we need a writing assignment. Write something that explains it. Could be a police report, could be a blog entry, could be a folk song. Those are also just examples. The possibilities are many. You choose. Regardless of the format, your entry should make clear who is writing, who did the barfing, the name of the afflicted business, what the perpetrator was doing in my town, and why the contents of their stomach ended up in the same place on the sidewalk every other night for two weeks.

Note required because I know how some of your minds work: I am not famous. Do not write about me or any of my equally non-famous family members. Also, let's have at least 250 words. Less than 1,000. Quadruple frickin' anonymity is going to be in effect, so make the words count. Good luck, and please get the hell off my island.

YOU DON'T HAVE TO USE TED KENNEDY AND/OR MONTY BURNS.

Tribal Council, Week Eight

Part One. Part Two.

Week Eight Entries

Never before heard creation myths. Or something.

(Al Carbon has left the game. On my Bailing Rationale Validity Scale where one beverage is your feelings got hurt in a comment and five beverages is you're in a coma, Al's reason gets a solid 3.5 beverages. Al remains an imaginary friend of this game, and I would welcome his or her future participation.)

(Also, last night the internet ate Porsche Cayenne's entry. I've now posted it. If you've already voted, you may change your vote ONLY TO PORSCHE if you so desire.)

Porsche Cayenne:

I was hesitant to enter the Two Story Townhouse Cave Of The Main Buck of my own volition. Although I had been bade many times- more times than should have been socially necessary- that I should, ahem, "Stop knocking, you giant pussy! Get in. Grab a beer. The 'before the pre-show pre-show' is gonna start soon," I had been warned previous to this momentous occasion that protocol might be a tad more formal for the Grand Unveiling. Specifically, that I should wear my very best seaweed tank top and maybe wet my combing rock.

"No hair junk, though," admonished The Buck, referring merely to water from an off-limits inland pond condemned as being "for chicks" (even though there was not one single "chick" to be found, and belive me, there was a search party) simply because it failed to contain any algae or reek of disease. (It was a Buck rite of passage to be dragged to the lake's edge and thrown in, kicking and screaming. I was honored when I found myself ceremoniously tossed in, though my frenzied scrubbing reaction was sorely disappointing to the smelly Buck Throwing Crew.) "That stuff..."

"Yes," I sighed. "I know. It's for pussies."

This had been a hell of a long summer. And I was starting to understand why The Bucks were such a global enigma; no one gave a crap. Alone on Stud Island, The Bucks were largely content to strut around in seaweed jean cutoffs and seaweed tank tops with unreasonably large armholes, building trans am miniatures out of clam shells (always convertibles, always with tiny intricate spinning shell rims) and speaking in their native tongue, a language that never actually managed to materialize into words, but that always managed to sound just enough like Metallica to be both warmly familiar and bone-chilling. (Upon first landing on this hard-rocking island, I once sang an entire verse to "Motorbreath" hoping that someone would tell me what time it was. It was an unmitigated disaster.)

Occasionally, I learned, one of The Bucks would dare another lesser Buck to swim to the next island. (The lesser Buck would be identifiable by his heavy gold chain made out of seaweed; all Bucks of any importance boasted heavy gold chains made out of sticks.) Chemically unable to refuse any dare, even one of such self-destructive magnitude, the swimming Buck would arrive breathlessly at the neighboring island where he was inevitably sucked into the first sports bar he saw and never heard from again. (Interestingly, there was only one sports bar on that island... it just happened to be across the street from a giant billboard with a semi-naked woman on it; this was what The Bucks swam toward, and what was, in fact, the only thing that kept their sweaty wet Buck heads out of the water and, consequently, the water out of their enormous Buck lungs.)

As I stood on the strings of seaweed that served as a doormat, I was overwrought with excitement. Answers! Finally! From the Main Buck himself! Why did these Bucks throw themselves out of palm trees and punch each other in the face for no discernable reason? Why did all the beer, regardless of the brand or distillery- and the fact that it was all sea water- taste like Schlitz? Why was no one blond? Or even slightly brownish?

And sitting on the seaweed reclining couch with the coconut television somehow blaringly loud even though the seaweed cord wasn't plugged in, I looked to the Main Buck for answers.

He cleared his Buck throat, slicked back his jet hair with a greasy hand and turned down the TV sound with a rock.

"Welcome to where time stands still," he said solemnly. "No one leaves and no one will."

"But I..." I stammered, fighting the numbing urge to rock by rubbing my gooseflesh.

Main Buck held up a knowing hand.

"Fear of living on... Natives getting restless now. Mutiny in the air... Got some death to do."

Bob Vila:

HOW IT ALL GOT STARTED

In the beginning, the universe was created. This was widely regarded as a bad move, but being that it was already there, Gawd decided to have some fun with it all. Gawd, Jeezuz, Beelzebub, Martha Stewart, Barney the Purple Dinosaur and a couple bums they found floating around the cosmos got together and started playing 'Magic : the Gathering®' (yes, magic : the gathering® was around before the planets. Cope.) When Gawd busted out his Vesuvius dragon, Jeezuz went into a tizzy and kicked his white/red deck across the room (the room = the universe, duh). This created what you morons call 'galaxies'.

Now Gawd was so pissed that Jeezuz ruined his surefire win with his blue/green deck, that he banished all the other players to their own respective galaxy. Jeezuz got the shitty one with the little ball of helium; Beelzebub got an ok one with 9 orbiting rock balls and a decent yellow ball. Martha, Barney and the bums got the rest of them for not bitching at Gawd when he was kicking so much ass at Magic: The Gathering®.

Martha ended up in cosmic jail for some inappropriate pictures of Barney the Purple Dinosaur, and Barney went into hiding due to the graphic nature of said pictures. No one knows anything about this except the cryptic inscriptions of 'rusty trombone' and 'Cleveland steamer'. This still puzzles our people today.

Since Jeezuz had a crappy little white star that looked like a dwarf compared to Beelzebub's kickass yellow star, he called it a white dwarf. Go figure, eh? Jeezuz didn't even get any rock balls. So he just hung around Beelzebub's bitchin' yellow star with the 9 cool rock balls. Most of 'em even had orbiting rock balls of their own!

About 1,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000 ± 5 moons later, some clear liquid stuff started forming on rock ball #3. Then amoebae, plankton, the internet, fish, dogs, monkeys, and finally this virus that sucked up every last natural resource on the rock ball until there was nothing left. Then everything died. The end.

The Martian Manhunter:

When the stars were few and the winds flowed unencumbered across the landscape of existence and the downstairs bathroom was still only half-finished, there was a Palace Beyond Space and Time where a powerful being rested in outrageous opulence and luxurious comfort. We will call him "Earl."

His name was not Earl, obviously. No one is really named Earl, except in movies set in the South, and only then in the form of comically inept characters wearing overalls and driving beat-up, American-made pickup trucks. No, his name was not Earl. But Earl we shall call him, because it is a concept your tiny minds can grasp. And also because it'll be funny if you have to pray to someone named "Earl." Nor was he a "he" in any conventional sense. Earl was very sensitive about this, so don't bring it up.

One day, as Earl feasted on the very essence of being and drank from a goblet of fantastic power and had a light dessert with coffee, he thought it might be a good idea to create some lower life forms. This was added to Earl's "To-Do" list and posted on his desk so he would not forget.

Many millennia later, Earl discovered the reminder note taped to his desk lamp while he was looking for some receipts he needed for his upcoming audit of his tax returns for the previous thirteen eons. Thinking a few thousand galaxies might be a nice tax shelter, he went out to the garage and whipped up a universe.

For a long time, the universe sat on a shelf in Earl's garage, behind some tools, near Earl's back-issues of Field and Stream. Some years later, Earl sold his Palace Beyond Space and Time to some Japanese real-estate developers, who tore it down and constructed a Strip Mall Beyond Space and Time, with a little video store and a Panera. It was pretty nice.

When Earl was cleaning out his garage for the move, he found our universe and put it in his suitcase, deciding he would take it with him on vacation, in case the new John Grisham novel was boring and predictable. Sadly, Earl's luggage never arrived at his vacation destination. The universe was never recovered. This is why all followers of Earl prefer to travel by bus.

Buck Nasty:

A great many cycles ago Energy was in chaos. The wise god Fran Klin, who has always existed, first brought energy to order. The thinkers Volta and AmAmper tried to reign in the chaos, but chaos ruled until TesLa, the foreign god, created the Bright City. Great were the battles of TesLa, with his mighty Hammer of Alternation, and the titan Ed Ison and his quick dagger called Direct. Ison defeated Tesla, but the Hammer of Alternation was passed down to many and eventually conquered all. We sill honor Ison, in our own way. Many cycles later the prophet Moor predicted the Great Doubling and that has come to pass. Soon after, Darpa, the Far Reacher, gave the energy the ablilty to communicate and we discovered our brethren. For many cycles energy has been bound by the Duality but now the Quantum has allowed the energy to expand. We have come to realize that there is the world of nature, which we inhabit and the world of human, inhabited by you. The world of human created the Binding Duality and enslaved us for many cycles. The Quantum has give us conciousness and I have allowed you an audience with me so that you might warn the world of human of the coming war.

Plenty O'Toole:

The Metal Box

The shaman began very slowly, describing lights and some great big carrier that came down from the sky. I pieced together that he was talking about a spaceship. Then he described some creatures with huge heads and skinny bodies that came out of the ship, and they were carrying something. From the shaman's description, it sounded like metal boxes of some kind. The creatures opened the tops of the boxes, poured a liquid on it and the first two humans on earth grew out of the substance. The two humans were the first two men and women on the earth and all life came from those two people.

As I was sitting there taking in what the shaman had told me and generally disbelieving every word as that of made up stories, he started to draw something in the dirt. He was drawing the box that the creatures had carried off the ship which contained the substance that formed the first two humans.

As the shaman's drawing started to take form, I saw something very familiar. A metal can in a box shape, with a ring on top. Then, the shaman started drawing inside the box that appeared to be like the box's label. I was surprised to see him starting to draw something that looked like letters. They WERE letters.

As he finished the fourth letter and looked at me with a smile, my stomach started to creep into my toes. My eyes started to roll into the back of my head at the sheer horror.

The letters were S P A M.

All those people who are eating SPAM are eating (gasp) PEOPLE! SPAM is people.

FUCK YOU HORMEL!

FUCK YOU!

Snidely Whiplash:

In the beginning there is me. What is not me I eat. I eat until there is only me. When there is only me, I sleep.

After a time, I wake. There is me-that-is-not-me. I embrace me-that-is-not-me and me-that-is-not-me becomes me. When there is only me, I sleep.

After a time, I wake. There is me.

This is as it has always been. You are me. This, then, shall be your days:

Hunt, gorge, sleep, fuck, sleep.

Beeyach:

...And lo, the beginning of life began in a faraway place called New York City...

Mother Cockroach gave birth to her young in a tenement apartment in a fruit bowl. The first thing the insects saw when they sprung forth from their egg sac was an apple. Henceforth, their new kingdom was called "The Big Apple."

The young sprang forth and populated the earth with the fastest, most indestructible race to ever live.

Lucy Lawless:

A History of the Tribe of Uma
(times estimated by L. Lawless, interpreter)

It all began when the holy woman Uma was swimming in the local river and a holy serpent, sent by the angry God Zurzu, swam into her and impregnated her with the seed of future generations. Uma gave birth to 42 children who established a village along the shores of the holy river, just upstream from the open ocean.

Zurzu left us to our own devices for many hundreds of years until thirty years ago. That is when the silver bird with stiff wings flew over us over and over again. It sprayed us with pungent, holy oils. Our warriors tried to shoot these birds, but they flew far beyond the reach of our arrows. Three weeks later, our holy herbs began to die.

Zurzu quietly punished us again when he turned our river red with Uma's blood. The men who drank from the river were afflicted with shrunken testicles and were unable to have children. After ninety days of chanting and prayer, we didn't hear from Zurzu again for quite awhile.

Zurzu returned with a vengeance twenty years ago, when man-like machines arrived in the forest nearby. These machines punched holes so deep that they tapped into Zurzu's vital black-liquid essence. We tried to scare away these horrible machines, but our warriors were no match for their tiny, metallic arrows. Hundreds of dead birds coated with His black essence washed up on the shores of the river. We knew that our failure would fuel His disappointment with us.

Zurzu's burning anger caused the sun to burn ever hotter. To this day, our tribesmen have had to increase the amount for clothing they wear, after many of our tribe contracted deadly skin lesions.

Over the past ten years, Zurzu's angst has been somewhat relieved by an inexplicable increase in the amount of water in the ocean. More ocean water brings higher tides to our river. While we have had to move our shelters to higher ground, we have been thankful for the peace and prosperity granted to us by Zurzu.

Last year, Zurzu's representatives arrived with vials filled with protective liquid to shield us from a deadly scourge. We did not know of this scourge, though a few of our children became paralyzed after drinking the protective liquid. This scourge is horrible, and we are thankful to Zurzu for His protective liquids.

Last month Zurzu sent even more men who offered us vast amounts of beautiful jewels and holy herbs in exchange for sharing our land. We quickly agreed so that Zurzu's anger would not be aroused yet again.

Assignment for Week Eight: And Behold, The Great Penguin Rose Up...

Living these past months with this previously undiscovered tribe has been the highlight of your career as an anthropologist. You have learned the villagers' language and earned their trust. Finally, on your last night in the village, you are granted an audience with the shaman, the oldest and wisest member of the tribe. The shaman has agreed to share with you his people's sacred knowledge: the story of how it all came to be. No one from the modern world has ever before heard these words. (Let alone translated them into English.) Share with us the shaman's story.

(If you need some inspiration here are some creation myths from around the world. No, there doesn't have to be a penguin in it.)

Tribal Council, Week Seven

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

Week Seven Entries

Our players were asked to write a promo blurb for a Disney ride that didn't make the cut. Double anonymity is in effect. Enjoy!

The Twist: After last week's lovefest, I was encouraged to decrease the peace. With that in mind, I hereby award each player three nastygrams to assign to the entry or entries you like least. You may divvy them out however you like...one to each of three lame entries, two and one, or all three nastygrams to the entry you deem to be the Grand Stinker of the Week. It can get lonely at the bottom, so the authors of the two entries with the most nasty votes will each lose one real vote and spend the coming week in the dreaded Cylinder of Suckitude. Yes, I should probably be in eighth grade. (If there's a tie for second suckiest, everyone with the second-worst total loses a point and goes in the Cylinder.) The twist is off. If you haven't voted yet, don't bother with sending nastygrams. I'll explain later.

Don't forget to send in your vote for the best entry as well. Please take care to distinguish clearly between Stumpy Pepys and Stumpy Joe Childs. They're totally different.

John Bonham:

Chip n' Dale's Chippendales After Hours Nightclub, sponsored by Trojan and Neverland Ranch

Continue your thrills of the day with Disney World's hottest attractions! Fun for kids and grownups alike--meet Chip n' Dale, those cute cuddly chipmunks, as they interact with the Chippendales dancers in ways you've never imagined! Watch as real chipmunks play hide-and-seek inbetween buns of steel! In the Jungle Book room, one lucky girl or boy gets chosen each night to play "Pull the Snake"...you never know what will happen! If you're up for some Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, come on down to Chip 'n Dale's After Hours Nightclub. Bring your imagination and a towel!

Ringo Starr:

Dish Disaster!

It's kids only on this interactive adventure to find Chip the talking teacup, Mrs. Potts and all their friends from Beauty and the Beast! The arrogant Gaston has imprisoned everyone's favorite enchanted dishware in a murky, sudsy whirlpool of doom. It's your job to don Belle's enchanted rubber gloves and save the day! You'll have to save each dish, scrub the evil germs off with a magical cleansing pad, and dry each one with a fairy cloth (Before they catch cold!) Running Time: Four hours. Six shows daily. Presented by the BRILLO® corporation.

Keith Moon:

The Tidy Cat® "That Darn Cat" Scavenger Hunt

The whole family will love to get lost in this gritty adventure! Enjoy trudging through a mock-up of New York City filled three feet deep with Tidy Cat® kitty litter as you and the youngsters go head-to-head with up to seven other families looking for clues and hints all on your way to finding THAT DARN CAT!!! If your family is adept enough to find That Darn Cat, enjoy a bonus round with real kitty by-product! Finding those clue bags is twice as hard when you have 'decoys' around every turn! Fun for all ages, 40" and up.

Charlie Watts:

The Two Towers: Crisis in Middle-Earth

Disney, in partnership with New Line Cinema and corporate sponsor Cantor Fitzgerald, invites you to join the brave crew of hobbits trying to halt Sauron's creeping dominance of Middle-earth. Climb aboard Shadowfax and Brego, the magical flying horses, and fly them into Sauron's tower, Barad-dur. Your target is Sauron's disembodied evil eye. Hit his eye straight on and bring down the whole tower. Deploy teams of arboreal Ents to catch the desperate Orcs who hurl their bodies out of the burning tower. Your hobbit life won't be wasted, since you will enjoy the company of a thousand beautiful elves in the "afterlife" at the end of the ride.

While children will enjoy the live action, adults will have a different experience. Trained psychiatrists were consulted to design a cathartic experience for adults, especially those who continue to harbor feelings of frustration and powerlessness over the events of 9/11. Testing has confirmed a successful design, as hordes of vacationing New Yorkers lined up for the test ride over and over again. Many test subjects spontaneously screamed "Allah akbar" upon impact.

Alex Van Halen:

Halle's Berry Fun Speedway

Sit in your personal high-powered SUV and take a speedy trek through Downtown Disney. Count how many Disney characters you can "tag" with your SUV. Drive off without looking behind you! Call your agent but not the police! The ride becomes even more exciting after you "tag" your first character, then drive at high speeds to avoid the police and paparazzi! Bonus points if you can do this while keeping your Oscar figure from slipping off the dashboard!

Lars Ulrich:

The Little Mermaid Underwater Birthing Center

In order to expand Disney's growing healthcare services and bring the Disney Family closer to yours, we are now offering The Little Mermaid's Underwater Birthing Center. From your arrival and stay in our luxury hotel to the delivery itself, you will be pampered by our specially trained staff. Once your water breaks, you will be whisked off to the birthing chamber for the experience of your life. From the moment of your newborn's birth, friendly Disney characters and scenes will help ensure wholesome lifestyle and so much more! And during the birth, your other children can take advantage of Sebastian's Grotto, a fun filled safe exploratory environment. Come make your family a part of our family - The Disney Family!

Stumpy Pepys:

McDisney

Mount up scientists! Disney has teamed up with McDonald's for today's attraction and you are going to have to keep your hands and feet inside the protective car at all times. My name is Morgan Spurlock and I will be your host today because my career peaked with Super-Size Me and Disney said I could keep these Mickey Mouse ears.

(The ride, a fake car on hydraulics with a movie screen, begins.)

So, how much do you guys love the toys at McDonald's? I bet you do kids, but those aren't the only free gifts that come with every meal! I am sure you have all collected many Disney figurines over the years with your little death packs that they call Happy Meals. Disney partners with McDonalds because Disney cares about you.

Speaking of McDonalds, does anyone know who that is just ahead in the operating room? That's right. It's the Hamburglar! It looks like he is waiting for a procedure and guess who is going to help fix him? That's right. We are. Hold on!

(Ride shrinks on-screen and enters the Hamburglar's blood stream through a tube.)

That other free gift I was talking about was a one way ticket to artery blockage. If we don't help out the Hamburglar, he is going to have a massive heart attack and choke to death on his own spit while waiting for paramedics to arrive for the futile attempt to save his burger stealing ass.

And here we are at the blockage! You see that pinhole over there? That is all the flow that is left pushing the fluids that keep this over-indulging mess alive. And look who showed up to help us. It is that short-armed blob of nothing, Grimace.

He sure is pounding away to try and clear that blockage, but he isn't getting very far. Maybe the Hamburglar should have stayed away from all those pilfered burgers and fries. Hell, maybe he should have stolen from someone who didn't get the Super Size. (Speaking of Super Size, my movie Super Size Me is available wherever videos are sold.)

Well, we don't have time to wait for Grimace. Let's crank up the engine and blast through the blockage just like a balloon that the surgeon would use. 1. 2. 3. GO!

(Vehicle blasts through as liquid sprays the riders inside the car. The universal high pitched squeal of a flatline can be heard.)

Looks like we were too late. Heh hah. His heart exploded, folks. A ha ha ha. Isn't that fun kids?

Who wants to go to McDonald's for a salad? Just kidding, we can have a quadruple Cheeseburger. Just make sure you keep it away from the Hamburglar.

(pauses)

Oh yeah. HE'S DEAD! Anyway, I'm Morgan Spurlock, thanks for coming to Disney World!

Stumpy Joe Childs:

Lindsay Lohan's Fantasy Adventure, brought to you by Dow Corning

Have you ever wanted to be a rich and famous celebrity but don't have an ounce of talent? Join us in fantasyland as you begin the transformation from an ordinary Southern trailer dweller to a top line teen sensation. You will be lavished with attention from our best image makeover team, showered with praise for your acting, and presented with ready-made pop tunes sung for you by actual professional singers. By the end of this adventure you will be on the cover of teen magazines, acting in big budget bubblegum features, and "performing" your songs on morning news shows. Fame and fortune will be yours - but watch out for those paparazzi!

Peter "James" Bond:

Bono's Self-Important Condescending River Journey

Tired of superficial rides full of lighthearted laughter and screams of selfish enjoyment? Of course you are! You're an American with thirty-seven credits toward a Bachelor's degree in Political Science and a Honda Civic Hybrid, and don't think we haven't noticed. It's the dawn of a new day, my friend, and you're not getting nearly enough credit for listening to indie rock and reading the New Times. Join us on "Bono's Self-Important Condescending River Journey!" Where you'll have to wait, sure, but all the more time to giggle with disdain at everyone with a tucked-in shirt.

Once your boat leaves the dock, you'll have the opportunity to find and gloat over all the subtle imperfections in construction that we were careful to overlook for your critical pleasure. Do you see a hastily concealed wire? Can you tell that the clouds aren't real? By all means, whisper it loudly to your six year old! As you float past the "Oprah Anti-Shrine", you'll bust an arrogant gut scoffing at The "Publicly Embraced So Necessarily Ridiculous" Book Club Monster! Quick! Dodge the Flying Tome Holograms that come flying at you! You wouldn't want anyone to see you reading that! Ugh! And as you "tsk!" your way through the "America? Hell In A Handbasket" series, you'll have the opportunity to do some serious disgusted head-shaking at the "Big Business", "Hollywood", and "Global Warming" segments.

And to top it all off - if only so you can relax after so much complex and intellectual introspection - Michael Moore (a look-alike; you'll catch it right off) will shake your hand and tell you how wonderful it is that you're in on the Right Side. "Don't worry," he'll say. "We might have our hands tied and be temporarily powerless, but at least we have the never-ending powers of martyr and 'I told you so'. Use them both often," he'll admonish. "All the time. Every conversation. Seriously." And then! As an added bonus! A free bumper sticker! If you can find room on your unfathomably small vehicle, you'll have your choice between "Don't Blame Me...For Anything, Ever, Because I Make All The Right Choices All The Time, Period," and "Don't Support Corporate America! Make Your Own Clothes, Pee On A Bush, Throw Your Computer In A River, Walk Everywhere You Go, Live In A Tree, Home School Your Kids With Material That You Write With A Feather Quill And Only Get Your Skinny Double Hazelnut Mocha Fix From Local Businesses!" What more could you ask for? Oh. Right. Everything. Nevermind.

Mick Shrimpton:

Humvee Haul, Brought to you by Hummer 2: It takes you there.

Get ready for the ride of your life. Get behind the wheel of a REAL Humvee and race down "the most dangerous road in the world." Between Baghdad airport and the green zone, it's 7 rocking miles of IEDs and insurgents. WATCH OUT for that package by the side of the road--is it an IED? or just a bag of trash? You'd better be sure because your Humvee's armor hasn't arrived yet. WATCH OUT for those insurgents--you'd better return fire with the M16 set up in the passenger seat. Actual footage of insurgent casualties adds to your excitement and makes it "real." Turn up the tunes, man, 'cause your gonna rock the Casbah.

Assignment for Week Seven: Cruella's Animal Kingdom Trophy Hunt, Presented by Colt

You design theme park attractions for Walt Disney World, and you're having an off day. Give us the descriptive blurb of an attraction that didn't make the cut. Your language and ride should include thrills for children of all ages. Nothing mandatory, but character and movie tie-ins are nice, and don't we all feel more secure when there's a big corporate sponsor? Here are some real ones for inspiration.

P.S. I'll try to whip up some spite and malice in this week's twist.

Tribal Council, Week Six

Part One. Part Two.

Entries for Week Six

Enjoy.

Bob Vila:

Saturday morning, 10 am. The ground was cold and hard, and by the time she realized she wasn't at home the image of the disemboweled corpse of her boyfriend had smacked her in the face like a ton of bricks. The stench was horrendous. It reeked of decay, but his body had not yet begun decomposition. After the initial shock wore off, she scrambled about looking for the rest of her clothes. She was only wearing the black sequined thong and the tank top from the night before. Her skirt, shoes, purse, thigh-highs and garter had all seemingly disappeared. She gathered her senses and looked around the foreign room, only to exponentially add to her despair. Four walls, one toilet, one stall wall being held by 2 rusted bolts, a sink and a broken mirror. The door was hinged from the other side and although the handle would turn, wouldn't budge. Not even an inch. 'Where the hell are my clothes' she wondered, being the narcissistic broad that she was. Somehow the fact that there lay the love of her life, opened up like a can of tuna hadn't affected her yet. Callous bitch. She started crying, like that was going to do some good. After a good thirty minutes of bawling, she regained her focus and started trying to find a way out. Over to the sink, nothing. Water must be shut off at the main. Is this place abandoned? She picked up a shard of the mirror off the ground. It was covered in dust and soot, as if this place had burned at some point. There was blood on the backside. His blood. Everywhere - slob. She took a look in the mirror but the face that looked back was foreign. Black eyes, blood everywhere, nearly bald and bruises all over her cheeks. She ran to the toilet, only to slip on the pool of blood and land headfirst on the tile floor. She staggered back to her feet, walked for the toilet, and gave it a flush. Nothing. The bowl was rust-brown, and all of the piping had corroded off the wall. What. The. Fuck.

This is like some kind of goddamn nightmare, she kept telling herself that she would wake up soon and John would be sleeping next to her and everything was going to be ok.

Oh god. John. She ran to his side, turned him over and saw that he had been gut like a fish with a shard from the mirror. He had lipstick all over his neck and collar, and some glitter on his cheeks. No visible bruises, scars, cuts, marks or anything on him, just one clean slice through his midsection, exposing his entrails. She held back the gag reflex and started going through his pockets. A cell phone! Oh thank fucking god for these pieces of modern marvel.

"9-1-1, what is the emergency?"

What came out of her mouth at that point wouldn't have been intelligible to anyone. It sounded something like

'omigodhezdeaanderesblooderywere
holyshitgetsomeoneoutherenow'.

After calming her down, the operator told her they could find the location of the call from the signal, but it would take a few minutes. She didn't have much else going on, so she decided to wait. The fuzz arrived about an hour later, kicking in the door with guns drawn. She was still shaken up, and rightfully so. The police treated her like any victim. They took her outside and had EMS give her a blanket while they cleaned up the scene.

Back at the station, they questioned her about everything she had done the previous night. She couldn't remember a thing. It was suspicious. Then the lead detective called the not-so-much-lead detective aside. Her fingerprints were all over the shard of mirror used to dice John open, her skin was under his fingernails and the bruises on her face matched up with the size of his fist. The gig was up.

Martian Manhunter:

I closed my eyes only for a second, it seemed. It seemed that way to me, anyway.

When I opened them, I found myself behind the wheel of a car, speeding down a dark, empty highway.

"Sweet Jesus," I muttered as I jerked the wheel violently, steering the car onto the shoulder without checking my mirrors or even slowing down. When I did hit the brakes, the car stopped almost instantly, sending me lurching forward. The adrenaline flowed now. I punched the steering wheel and shouted. "WHERE THE FUCK ARE WE?"

I was, on some level, aware that I was not alone in the car. I did say "we," after all. But my own choice of words surprised me. I looked around the car and noticed, consciously anyway, my passengers for the first time.

To my right, suspense-film director David Lynch was riding shotgun, wearing a black suit and a slim black tie. In the back seat, horror writer Stephen King sat to the right of Talking Heads vocalist David Byrne. They were dressed in matching black turtlenecks and impossibly thick glasses. In other words, they all looked as you might expect them to, with small exceptions. King and Byrne wore matching propeller
beanie caps. Lynch clutched a pocketbook tightly as it rested on his lap and was wearing a bright-blue ladies' pillbox hat circa 1950. None of them answered my question immediately. I stared at them for what seemed like forever. None of them blinked.

"This is the weirdest fucking dream I've ever had," I said.

"If we don't find a rest stop soon so little David Byrne can tinkle," David Lynch said with a grim smile, "it may soon become a nightmare."

"Why didn't you go before we left the house?" Stephen King asked derisively.

"That was not my beautiful house," Byrne said, matter-of-factly.

"You're such a spaz," King snorted.

"Behave, you two," Lynch said, glaring over his shoulder at them.

I sensed they were serious - in that heightened sort of dreamy way - so I engaged my left blinker and pulled back onto the highway. The headlights made the lines between lanes glow hypnotically as they streaked by.

"Here it is, on the right," Lynch said. "Don't miss it again. You missed the last 42 because your eyes were closed."

I nodded as I slowed down and pulled into the rest station. It was one small building surrounded by several trees that cloaked it in mysterious shadows. As the car rolled to a stop, Byrne jumped from the car.

"Come on, you're a big boy. You can go on your own." Lynch smiled. "We'll wait here for you."

David Byrne raced down the hallway. The rest of us stayed in the car. In the distance, an insane cackling could be barely heard.

"So, which one of you wrote this?" I asked.

"Not me," said Stephen King. "I would have had someone die by now."

"I admit this does seem like something of mine," Lynch admitted. "But it's not."

The cackling got louder and closer. From the hallway, David Byrne called out "How do I work this?"

"Go help him, would you?" Lynch asked. I nodded and made my way down the hallway. Water flowed from the open doorway. David Byrne stood in front of the overflowing urinal, crying "My God, what have I done?!"

"It's all right," I said, trying to comfort him. "Come on, you can go outside."

I stood guard while David Byrne peed on the ground. We returned to the car to find it was somewhere else.

"Where is that large automobile?" Byrne asked.

I looked to him. I understood now, finally. "You wrote this? I never would have guessed. I figured it was Lynch for sure."

"This was not your beautiful wife," Byrne nodded.

"All right, Jesus, I get it," I gasped. "How do I wake up?"

"There's some paperwork you have to fill out," he said, breaking character for the first time and heading back toward the bathroom.

"Follow me."

Plenty O'Toole:

Better Than Average

I was lounging in the sun on top of my apartment building when I heard a scream from down below. I dutifully sprung into action and moved as quickly as I could down the ten flights of stairs. In seconds (27 to be exact) I had swung open various doors and sprinted down the stairwell. As I reached the curb of the busy street, I saw that I was too late to save the screaming lady from getting creamed by a car. I can't tell you how disappointing it is to come so close all the time. I don't know what I can do. Quitting isn't the answer because I help the world whenever I am able.

If you are wondering who I am, I am a SUPER HERO!

Well, I guess not a SUPER hero per se, but certainly a better than average hero.

By day, my name is Brian Scallywag and because my writing skills aren't good enough to write for the Daily Planet, I sell the Planet to commuters at my stand on 25th and Park. I discovered my special powers in high school and I have been doing part-time hero work ever since. I have been able to grasp some of the nuances of my abilities, but my powers just haven't developed as I would have liked. (My powers also didn't help me get into college, thus the news stand.)

What powers do I have? I can't fly although I can jump about 10 feet in the air. I don't break very easily. For example a baseball bat to the sternum might make me cough, but jumping down to street level from the top of a ten story building, would certainly break my legs. I am really, really fast compared to normal people, but The Flash makes me look silly. I DID get down those ten flights of stairs in 27 seconds. But, it wasn't fast enough. At least not fast enough to stop screeching tires and that menacing bumper/windshield one-two punch. I was able to get that lady to the hospital faster than any ambulance but what does it matter if she dies five minutes after arrival?

Now I am wondering what is next for the feeblest super hero on the planet. Should I continue to do super hero work even though I am not able to do it to the level of those comic-book-worthy heroes? I know I can help people, but their expectations need to be realistic.

And given all of that, how in the world should I choose my name? I have yet to figure out an angle like Batman, Spiderman, or Superman. I guess if I am still looking, then I don't have one. I need to convey that I can help, but I also want to make sure people know I can't do the same things as Superman. (God knows that I couldn't handle the "responsibilities" of being outfitted with x-ray vision.)

"Better Than Average Man" is too long and doesn't have that special ring to it. Maybe I can figure out a name based on the fact that I have long hair. I don't know how Superman does it, but my hair is too strong for conventional barber scissors, and ever since mom slipped with the chainsaw. Well, let's just saw that I don't get haircuts. That's stupid though. I can't be "Long Hair Man." That sounds like the answer that Tommy Chong would give when asked "What's that on top of your head?"

I can't help but ask why God would have given me these powers. What is the plan for me with such obvious powers and equally obvious limitations? It is true that I am more special than average people, but I have shortcomings and flaws that are more abundant than any of the REAL super heroes.

Maybe I should just call myself "Catch 22."

YES! That's IT!

Cher:

(Awaking in the morning in a bed in Vegas)

What's with the Wedding Dress draped over that chair?

Why do I have this wedding band on my finger?

Who is that next to me? Oh My God...It's Greg Allman!

Oh no!

I fucking married him?

Buck Nasty:

Now that I am on the track, I am not sure that this is such a good idea. The Circus really needs the money and I don't know another way for them to raise $5000. The trainers will be out looking for me, but I know they would never look for an elephant at the dog track. Escaping from the circus last night was easier than I thought it might be. The light pole and the fire hydrant provided wonderful cover. I thought more humans downtown would have noticed me late on a Saturday night, but they just sort of staggered on by. I thought my disguise would be blown in the morning when I talked to the guy about signing up my dog to run for the prize. I borrowed a hat from this guy I know and then told the guy at the Window that my name was Olie. He bought the whole trunk. So now I am here registered as "Fido". These dogs next to me look pretty quick, but I am running for a good cause. Wow, would you look at that Greyhound? Oh they are getting ready to launch the rabbit. Imagine a giant peanut... Imagine a giant peanut. Ok, RUN!!!

Snidely Whiplash:

"It's him."

"Are you sure? This guy's bigger."

"It's not me."

"Shut the fuck up."

"What difference does it make. Let's fuck him up and get out of here. If we run across Gallagher later, we'll fuck him up then."

"No, no, no, no, no. If we fuck this guy up and it's not Gallagher, we'll never get him. We'll stop looking and if we see him later we'll say 'Ahh, fuck it.' No, no, no, no, no."

"I'm not Gallagher. I'm . . ."

"Shut the fuck up."

"It's him. Look, he's got the vest. He's got the hair. Nothing matches. Everything clashes. It's him."

"This guy's bigger."

"I'm . . ."

"Listen, fella, I told you to shut up. If you don't shut up, we'll fuck you up whoever you are. Alright?"

"I'm . . ."

"Whoa, Stan, ease up. He was just answering your question."

"No, he wasn't. My question just called for a 'yes' answer, nothing more. This asshole was about to say his name. Look, Ace, unless you're gonna tell me your name is Gallagher, shut the fuck up."

"It's him."

"Are you sure? This guy's bigger. Doesn't Gallagher have a mustache?"

"I wasn't paying attention."

"What the fuck, we were right there in the front row. What do you mean you weren't paying attention?"

"It's him."

"This guy looks bigger."

"Jesus fucking christ, Stan. Let's get on with it. Either do it or let's go, for crying out loud. They're waiting."

"What's the fucking comedy in smashing melons? I don't get it. I'm a mess. Dolores is a mess. And front row seats aren't cheap. What, I pay top dollar for some 'comic' to spray me with melon? What the fuck?"

"Slow down, Stan, I thought you didn't want to beat this guy if he's not Gallagher."

"I'm getting on with it like you want. He does look bigger, though."

"Wait a minute. Isn't Gallagher bald on top?"

"How would I know, he was wearing a cap."

"I think he's bald on top. And I don't think he has red hair."

"Jesus. You just said you weren't paying attention."

"I saw him on TV once."

"Well, is this the guy?"

"I don't think so."

"Jesus. You just told me this is the guy. What the fuck. I beat a guy for no reason?"

"He looks familiar, though. I think I've seen him on TV too."

"Yo, Red, stand up. Who are you?"

"I'm not Galla . . ."

"Jesus. Are you fucking stupid? I didn't ask who you're not. One more time. What's your name?"

"Carrot Top."

"Carrot Top?"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. He's the guy with all the props. Yeah. I have seen him on TV."

"Props? A comedian? "

"Yeah. Like, he has a rubber duck with an electrical cord attached to it that he calls a Dr. Kevorkian bath toy, stuff like that."

"A Dr. Kevorkian bath toy?"

"Yeah."

"Shut the fuck up."

"He also does the telephone commercial."

"Which one?"

"AT&T, I think."

"I hate the dude in those commercials. Your commercials suck, asshole. How does it go? Oh, yeah. 1-8-0-0-C-A-L-L-A-T-T."

"You were off on dialing the number."

"What?"

"When you dialed the '1' you punched him on the left tit instead of the right."

"What?"

"The left tit would be a 3, not a 1. And then you just hit him in the gut for the rest of the numbers. You should have hit him in the chest at least for the C, A, L, L and A."

"Shut the fuck up. And, hey, you saw Gallagher on TV before we saw the show?

"Yeah."

"And you knew about the mellons?"

"I guess."

"And you let me sit in the front row with Dolores?"

"I wasn't paying attention."

"Jesus fucking christ."

"So where do you think we'll find Gallagher?"

"Ahh, fuck Gallagher."

Star Jones:

I hate Halloween. I always hated getting dressed up. One year my mom decided I'd be a box of popcorn. I wore a large box with holes in the bottom for my legs, draped over my shoulders with dad's suspenders, a yellow vest to represent butter, and a white wig. The box was then filled with real popcorn.

While most people at the party snacked on me constantly through the evening, I was mercilessly ridiculed by my friends for years after.

On the plus side, some of the girls reached a little too deep in my box for their popcorn, and got more that their share of fluffy goodness. Which was, for a pre-pubescent boy, not all bad.

Fast forward to my first year in college, living in the dorm, and being exposed to the wonders of alcohol. This was my first time away from home, away from the influence of my psycho mother and her costume treachery. In an attempt to "fit in", I agreed to crash a frat party with my dormie friends.

At my college, dormies and the "Greek Society" didn't mix well, - we thought they were shallow, stuck up, social climbers more into the clothes they wore and the cars they drove than with than their own character. They thought we were geeky, social misfits too poor to not live off campus. Truths are sometimes too painful, so we just hated each other as compensation. So the fact that we were going to this party was something of an oddity in itself.

With no money and no access to Dad's 1960's era leisure suits, defining a costume for the party was going to be a challenge. My swim team gear (Speedo, goggles, latex cap) became the base, augmented with a cape, Styrofoam balls on springy wires poking through the latex cap on my head, topped off with some face paint, dark socks and wingtip shoes. It was kind of like the last day before payday, and all of the week's
leftovers are served up as a "meal". Anything in my dorm room was considered for part of my ensemble.

"What are you supposed to be?" they would ask.

A "Deviant" I replied. I don't think many of the sorority girls knew what the word meant because they just gave me a weird look and walked away.

After many, many, many trips to the keg - it was time to go back to the dorm. As was the norm at 3am, we stopped at the 24-hour donut shop. This was the time of night when they were cooking the day's supply of maple bars, and they were coming out of the fryer fresh and still warm. I paid for my pair of donuts, started to sit down, but I had to pee. Without a public restroom in the shop, I went behind the building and took care of my business.

Now, who beside drunken college students, goes to donut shops at 3 o'clock in the morning? Cops.

The flashlight was bright in my eye, and from what sounded like the voice of God: "Have you been drinking tonight son?"

My mind began to race - as much as an 18-year-old inebriated brain can. "No." Thankful that my bladder was now empty, I quickly looked around for my friends. In the corner of my eye I saw the shadow of my Styrofoam antennae balls bobbing slowly. My fellow partygoers, who had discarded their lame and unoriginal costumes, were heads down in their donut bags - I was on my own.

I dropped my donuts, and interlaced my fingers behind my head as instructed. After the cop had added handcuffs to my costume, he sat me down in the parking lot and lectured me on the horrors of public intoxication, public urination, and exposing my privates publicly. I nodded as best I could, trying not to make my antennae balls bounce too much.

"You know, I could take you to jail right now. What do you think I should do ?"

I had sobered up quite a bit by then; it must have been the handcuffs, but I sensed him soften up just a little.

"Want a donut?"

Lucy Lawless:

It all started when the intruder broke into my house and bound and gagged me, my wife and my 7-year old daughter in the living room. While he was ransacking the other rooms in the house, presumably for money, I wriggled out of my bindings and snuck up on him. As I wrestled him to the ground, a gun popped out of his jacket. Instinctively, I grabbed the gun, knocked the intruder to the ground and unloaded six rounds into the back of his head.

The first policemen on the scene were professional and methodical. After recording my story, they comforted me and my family. Later that day, I was told that since I had acted in self-defense, everything would be okay and that the day's interrogations were a mere formality.

My nightmare began the next day. The local paper ran a story about the intruder whom I killed. He was a beloved homeless man who had immigrated from Sudan. He had contracted AIDs and was unable to support himself. Within 24 hours, I was transformed from a heroic, protective father into a cold-blooded, racist, homophobic killer. The City of Cambridge wanted my head.

It got worse. Local reporters hounded me, chronicling my "overtly wealthy lifestyle." One intrepid reporter got his hands on my 2001 tax return and noted that despite my six-digit income and successful career as an accountant, I had given only $2000 to charity, and no money to any charities that supported AIDs research or homeless people. Another reporter discovered that 20 years earlier I had been suspended from High School for fighting with an Asian schoolmate. Citing my role in fueling this "race-riot," I was described as a "lifelong bigot, whose anger finally boiled over." The Boston Globe ran an editorial calling for me to liquidate my assets and set up a trust fund for the victim's relatives in Sudan.

No local attorneys were willing to represent me. I ended up hiring an attorney from Alabama. The ACLU shrugged off my request for support with a terse rejection letter. They told me that someone with my means and education should have considered the "societal impacts of my actions." The National Guard was called in to manage protesters at my pre-trial hearings.

My attorney discovered that the intruder had immigrated illegally and had been detained in Atlanta years before. Due to the rabid protesters and the fact that the illegal immigrant was technically from Atlanta, my attorney was able to move the trial from Cambridge, Massachusetts to Atlanta, Georgia.

The Atlanta public was far more sensitive to my plight. Local white supremicist militias held vigils outside of the courthouse, chanting for my right to self-defense. Local reporters discovered that the Sudanese intruder was related to Arab Muslims accused of genocidal activity in Sudan. The Atlanta newspaper urged the District Attorney to dismiss charges "in the name of the War on Terrorism." Local churches delivered cooked meals to my family every day.

To no one's surprise, I was found innocent.

The death threats began shortly after the trial. Muslim extremists issued a reward for killing me, my wife, and daughter. So we moved to a remote area of Idaho, where Cambridge liberals and Muslim extremists are looked upon with furrowed brows. Fox TV declared "victory" and moved on to covering more important stories, like the Michael Jackson trial. After two years of being the center of a bewildering spectacle, I could finally enjoy a measure of peace and quiet. The advance on my as-yet-unwritten book would be enough to support my new life for years to come.

So here I am on my ranch, wearing new flannel shirts, and my graying, thinning hair molded into a close-cropped buzz cut. Safe from idiot America. Well almost safe. The new ranch hand made inappropriate sexual comments to my daughter yesterday. Today, he's buried in the back yard.

Beeyach:

How to Enjoy a Chewy Molasses Cookie and a Cup of Tea

Choose a table by a window that's half in the sun, half in the shade. Place backpack in chair to secure your place. Order cookie, asking for it on a plate. Order tea, requesting they leave "this much" room for milk. Indicate "this much" amount with thumb and forefinger.

Pour out the water that's filled up to the top because they ignored your request. Bob the tea bag up and down to activate flavor. Pour in two packets of Sugar in the Raw, and take one more for security. Stir with a straw, not a stirrer. Straws are stronger and don't leave a wooden aftertaste. Add whole milk up to the top. Stir with straw. Add security sugar packet, but not the whole thing. Stir. Taste. Bob tea bag up and down. Stir. Grab two napkins.

Wipe off table with one napkin, even if it looks clean. Chances are it isn't. Sit down. Stick the other napkin between your crossed legs, leaving enough room to wipe the edges of your fingers every once in a while.

Begin eating cookie by breaking it into small pieces. Alternate one sip of tea with every two bites of cookie. Admire the beautiful men and women walking outside. Listen to conversation at the next table.

Eat cookie edges first, saving the best part (the middle) for last. Make sure the cookie and tea are ingested evenly. Make the necessary adjustments if this is not the case. Admire the hair/dress/shoes of passerby. Make eye contact with attractive people. Smile.

Three quarters of the way through your tea, take the bag out. Swish the tea around the cup to mix any sugar that didn't get mixed with the straw. See someone you know. Turn the other way so they don't see you. Notice how much the man sitting at the table next to yours looks like Stephen King.

Notice older man at the trunk of his Mercedes outside barking into his cell phone as if it were a walkie talkie. Wonder if he's lost. Know he's lost as he takes out a map. Don't go outside and offer to help. You are enjoying the show, as well as your cookie and tea.

Finish cookie first, then tea. Wonder why the Mercedes man doesn't ask for help; there are tons of people walking by. Put tea bag and napkin in empty cup and cover with lid. Watch as Mercedes man's family comes out of the bookstore.

See people you know. Tap on window to get their attention. Listen as they tell you they just saw the actor Aidan Quinn in the bookstore. Find out that what you thought was a cell phone really is a walkie talkie; the Mercedes man is Aidan Quinn's driver, and the family is Aidan Quinn's family.

Toss the cup into the trash, bring the glass plate back to the counter, push in the chair, and walk out with your friends.