There was much deliberation as to the right course of action to proceed upon next in the story. Tom the Penguin-Fish was drinking schnapps as usual, wearing an odd hat and speaking in pirate tongues like an old sailor. Ferocious was dressing up Arbitrary Henchman #Belongs-to-Ferocious (who we’d given to him as a present for him not sucking on his toes for a week straight) in an octopus costume in an effort to scare Arbitrary Henchman #Scared-of-Octopi. The Boss was successfully restraining himself from hitting The Jovi. The Jovi was terrified of The Boss hitting him, and The Bush was having a shouting match with a seagull, and sadly winning.
“braaackkk” shouted the seagull.
“Aaahhhhh” shouted back The Bush, and this continued for about twenty minutes before The Bush saw what he believed to be a penny but what was actually the top of a large nail in the floorboard on the deck of the ship.
I drank a bottle of scotch, threw the empty glass at The Jovi and began pacing back and forth. The Boss, for fun, decided to pace with me, and The Jovi looked relieved that The Boss hadn’t hit him. The Boss noticed this of course, and then proceeded to hit him until he was unconscious.
“Feel better?” I asked The Boss.
“Dude, you have no idea.” He replied, and I could see that he’d stopped shaking. “I hate The Jovi so much…”
As The Boss trailed off in his hatred of The Jovi, I pondered (as I’m known to do from time to time) about how to advance the plot in just one entry. The Boss had set the story up beautifully, tying in The Dickens and bringing back his famous Subway Time Machine, but where could I take it now? What kinds of shenanigans could occur? I looked down and noticed I had blood on my fist, which alarmed me at first until I realized it was The Jovi blood and I’d been beating him savagely throughout my pondering. The Jovi looked up at me with a look on his face that just seemed to say “why?”
“Because sometimes a man just has to ranch a pillow.” The Bush responded assuredly to The Jovi’s face. The Bush sometimes has telepathic abilities, but only sometimes.
“I call it my quiet sight.” The Bush said, hearing my thoughts, but continuing to make no sense.
“Shut up The Bush, or I’ll call Dick Cheney.” I threatened, and The Bush went back to the seagull, ready for round two until he was once again distracted by the penny-nail.
Just then, as my rambling was about to reach a new height in which I would discuss my idea for a universal holiday in honor of the kiwi where half the people in the world would dress up as kiwis and the other half of the people in the world would dress up as mangos and the kiwis would spend all day verbally censuring the mangos for being very expensive, difficult to cut up, and for having such enormously large pits. The mangos would then apologize to the kiwis for being so difficult and vow to improve. The kiwis would then magnanimously forgive the mangos and together they’d eat a screaming papaya, played by Jack Black. People wouldn’t actually eat Jack Black though, they’d just be pretending. Of course, it would be difficult to get people to be the mango, as they’d have to be apologizing all day and generally be overpriced with very little substance, but to solve this issue, the schedule could rotate each year. If you’re a kiwi one year, you have to be a mango the next year. Then, the whole world would learn what it’s like to be the one who forgives, and to be the one who is forgiven and the world would be a better place. The Boss and I would of course always play The Boss and I. There’s simply no need for excellence to try and pretend to be anything else. I don’t think Jack Black could really play anything else either then, because then who would be the screaming papaya? Of course if we could make more Jack Blacks…
“The Niles?” The Boss said, and I realized that I had indeed rambled endlessly.
“Thank you The Boss.” I said, and we each drank a bottle of 10yr Ardberg because neither one of us had consumed any scotch during my rambling so we were starting to feel very weak as a result.
Just then, we noticed that Tom was talking seamanly (heh, heh… semen) to a gruff old man wearing a sailors hat and speaking old-style fisherman language.
“Ah, Tom! You look more penguiny than a sea witches maiden with a horned stool!” The gruff old man said to Tom, standing on his ship, which had pulled up right next to ours.
“That didn’t make any sense Captain.” Tom replied.
“I know.” Sighed the Captain. “Was hopin’ ye wouldn’t notice, but that’s a mighty funny hat ye got there Mr. Pettifer.” He followed up with a smile, that somehow seemed scurvy and hornswaggled, even though I don’t really know what that means.
“Oh, Captain Jorgen, this is The Boss and The Niles.” Tom introduced us.
“Pleased to be makin’ yer acquaintance.” Captain Jorgen said to us.
“You too Jerkin.” The Boss said.
“That’s Jorgen, Captain Jorgen, ho!.” He corrected The Boss with a smile. The crew all gasped, Ferocious cried, Arbitrary Henchman #Scared-of-Octopi screamed at Arbitrary Henchman #Belongs-to-Ferocious who was now fully dressed up as an octopus shouting “boo” repeatedly and spraying ink on him, and Tom just drank more schnapps. Everyone knew that you never, EVER try to correct The Boss.
The Boss leapt at Captain Jorgen with ferocity, blood in his eyes and smelling of scotchy awesomeness. The salty old gent didn’t know what hit him and before anyone knew what was going on, The Boss had beat the ever living fuck out of him and took his shit, which included a captains hat that The Boss threw over the side of the ship, heckling The Jorgen the entire time.
“Oooo, somebody looks sad about losing their hat!” The Boss said over and over again.
“Nobody gets to be called captain around here, you bastard!” I exclaimed loudly for all to hear. The Jorgen nodded after hearing my amazing exclaim. It was as if the world opened up for him and he suddenly realized the raw awesomeness that is The Boss and The Niles. From that point on, The Jorgen no longer considered himself a captain… but instead a devout follower of the ways of The Boss and The Niles. There was no ship, there was no scurvy (whatever the hell that means); there was only scotch… and unbelievable coolness. Tom the Penguin-Fish drank more schnapps and laughed a little.
“What’s so funny Tom?” Ferocious asked him.
“I never liked that guy.” Tom slurred.
“What’s with the whole Mr. Pettifer thing?”
“That’s my last name.”
“I didn’t know penguins had last names.”
“Penguin-Fishes…” The Boss corrected.
“Whittlin’ sticks.” The Bush hollered (which is a very stupid word) from above his penny nail, still trying to get it out and muttering something about pennies and good luck repeatedly.
“Wait a minute…” The Jovi wait-a-minuted. “ Tom, did you say your last name was Pettifer?”
“Yeah.” Tom replied, drinkingly.
“And that capt…er… dude who formerly referred to himself as a captain called himself Jorgen right?”
“Pretty much.” Tom answered again.
“The whatsit?” The Bush chimed in and then fell and scraped his knee, which led to immense sobbing. Ferocious (who had been rather motherly toward The Bush) put a super-cool Army band-aid on The Bush’s knee to make him feel better. The Bush seemed to be all better now, and he flexed intensely, gave Ferocious a hug and then skipped off happily.
“Where are you taking this The Jovi? You better get to a point fast.” The Boss said, very 40’s gangsterish and we all noticed he was wearing a fedora and slapping a billy club against the palm of his hand in between drinks of scotch. The Jovi panicked and spoke faster, fearful of The Boss’ wrath.
“Well, The Dickens’ story was about a sea captain named Jorgen and there was a character named Tom Pettifer in it!” I realized this was helpful information and gave The Jovi a Jovi-Snack (peanut butter flavored) and scratched him behind the ears.
“So The Dickens must have known you guys!” The Boss exclaimed, and the exclaim was so monumental that the Heavens opened up and a case of Rolling Rock came down softly from the clouds and slowly descended into the open arms of homeless man Albert Rhinehoff in St. Paul, Minnesota, who was smiling with alacrity and had a single tear of joy running down his face as he opened one of the beers.
“To The Boss!” Albert called out. And then he was mugged. And the beer was taken. Albert was a bastard after all and the other homeless people saw the beer as a great reason to finally burn that bridge after years of putting up with his shit.
“Back at ya, you bastard.” The Boss called out, drinkingly.
“But how could The Dickens have known us, if we don’t know The Dickens?” Tom asked.
“Yeah, plus that story was written back in the mid-1800’s. How could we be characters in it?” The Jorgen added.
“I don’t know.” I shrugged. “But this might be the clue that leads us to GlenGodly. Where did you say you were from The Jorgen?”
“New England.” The Jorgen replied. The Boss and I looked at each other with terror. We both knew that New England was ruled by the evil and deceiving Belichick, known to give off-putting looks, evade questions, and have a general air of pompousness to him.
“Then it’s off to the depths of hell.” The Boss said.
“How will we get by Belichick’s evil monsters?” I asked.
“What monsters?” Tom chimed in.
“There are two of them, more heinous than anything you’ve ever seen.” I answered. “There’s The Brady, known to create 5-o’clock shadows wherever he goes. Even if you just shaved, it makes no difference. The Brady’s power stems directly from the evil heart of Belichick himself. The other one is called The Gisele, and she is known for tempting people with her unbelievable hotness. Once she gets you in her grasps, she does terrible things to you. She makes you go shopping for her, and soon, before you know it, things like fashion become all you think about as you’re driven slowly into insanity.”
“Maybe we won’t run into them.” The Boss said, drinkingly.
“To New England then, to find The Dickens?” Arbitrary Henchman #Drives-the-Boat asked.
I looked at The Boss, who was gulping scotch, the terrified looking crew, and the other characters that I’m too lazy to name at this point and I said, “To New England; and pray we find The Dickens quickly and get to the bottom of this.”
Friday, May 1, 2009
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
What The Dickens!
“Glengodly?” The Jovi asked jovially (not the happy jovial, but The Jovi jovial).
“Yeah, what do you know about Glengodly?” The Niles re-demanded, much more demandingly.
“Nothing, I know nothing of…of…Glengodly.” The Jovi said and passed out from the incessant beating that he had endured, and from utter suckiness.
“Great!” The Niles exclaimed angrily. The angry exclaim caused a case of O’Douls to fall on Herbest Normanthorp of Westchester, PA and knock him completely unconscious.
“Damn The Jovi!” I shouted, and then corrected myself by damning The Jovi again, this time exclaiming it for all to hear.
Knowing (from previous encounters where we pummeled The Jovi into un-consciousness) that the only way to awaken The Jovi from his stupid and sissy-like slumber was to burst into song (for reasons unknown to any of us), so The Niles, in an extremely masculine basso profundo, Tom The Penguin-fish, in a very squeaky alto, Ferocius DeSoto in a disgusting and drag-queen like (yet soulful and somehow strangely appealing) soprano, I, on the air-guitar/bass/drums/timpanis/cello/french-horn, and The Bush on the Whittlin’ Sticks (his words, not mine – and no, I have no idea what Whittlin’ Sticks are, and during the song, it appeared that The Bush had no idea either) began:
The Message from the sea! OH!
Message straight from me! YO HO!
In a never-ending,
Quest for scotch all too mad-den-ing,
The Glen we seek is the Glen for thee,
For the Glen we seek is Glengodly!
Yo! Ho! Etc etc!
(the song repeated like this for some time, with various solos thrown in here and there. It wasn’t the best song, but it was made up on the spot and we somehow all knew the words…anyways, The Jovi awoke from his state.)
“Glengodly?” The Jovi asked, again jovially, but this time just a little less due to overall grogginess.
The Niles exclaimed something about Jesus Christ, followed by a threat directed at The Jovi about repeating ‘Glengodly?’ again.
“I’ve heard of it, but no one knows where it is or where it came from.”
“Like Cheney.” The Bush added for some reason.
“Look The Jovi,” I said, taking the slip of paper from the mystery box. “This paper says, ‘to find Glengodly, first find The Jovi’. We figure that you know something about this.”
"Scotch! 14 Years!" The Niles exclaimed, and Arbitrary Henchman # Give Scotch to Us came rushing over with Oban 14 year.
The Jovi continued not understanding the mystery of the box, and continued to seemingly know nothing of this Glengodly. Then, without warning (for if we had had warning, we would have known and therefore been with warning) The Jovi burst out, “The Dickens!”
“Dang Johnny Dickens,” The Bush started. “Used to pelt me with rocks when I was clearing sage brush off ‘a my ranch.”
“Charles Dickens!” The Jovi burst again. We were really starting to get annoyed with The Jovi’s all around ambiguity on the matter of Glengodly. Why do characters in stories/movies have to be ambiguous? Nobody in real life talks ambiguously. I mean, in reality if somebody had a mysterious box with a note that said that only I was the one that could lead to the item the note in the box spoke of, and I knew a little about the item that the note was referring to, I wouldn’t sit jibba-jabbing about not knowing and then pass out, then wake up and know about it, but still act all weird and just yell out ‘Charles Dickens’. If it were me, I’d say, ‘yeah, I think I know what that note means…there was this guy, Charles Dickens, and he did this and I…’ and blah blah blah and I’d be telling them the goddamned story! None of these mystery bursts, none of this passing out –
“The Boss! Stop! We need him!” The Niles was shouting at me and it was then that I realized I had been incessantly beating the (capital letters now) Ever-Living-Fuck out of The Jovi.
“Oops, I guess I got carried away. The Niles! Stop! We need The Jovi!” I pulled The Niles away from beating The Jovi and gave him more Oban. The Jovi Beatdown ’09 went on like this for about the next ten minutes, when it was done, The Jovi got himself a shower, changed his tight black pants and white blouse (blouse was what he called it, and they're apparently available wherever Gay-Ass Cloaks are sold!) and proceeded explaining what the fuck The Dickens had to do with The Glengodly, etc etc.
I shall paraphrase The Jovi’s words, since the last thing anyone wants to hear it his voice anymore:
The Jovi explained that back in the mid 1800’s Charles Dickens, who had come to some fame writing stories and such, was just finishing a short story about a sea captain and some other things having to do with seafaring. Well, The Dickens couldn't think of a good name for the sea tale and spent countless hours in a drunken stupor at his favorite pub. "Please sir, may I have another?" He would say over and over again to the bartender, until finally the bartender threw him out into the cold cobblestoned street (because all streets in England were and still are cobblestone).
So The Dickens stumbled down Penny Lane in England toward the Strawberry Fields. He passed his ex-lover, Eleanor Rigby on the way and told her that they should reconcile and Come Together sometime and have dinner -
"The Boss! You're talking about the Beatles now, I think." The Niles said.
"I get by with a little help from my friends, get a little high haha." The Bush was now doing a jig and farting.
"Sorry." I said and continued here...
...so The Dickens went drunkenly down the lane and as he stumbled, kept hearing this low rumbling sound in the distance. He started towards where he thought the sound was coming from, somewhere down the lane he was on. He hurried down the road, faster and faster as the sound grew louder and more ominous. He could see a dim glowing pulsating up ahead, from the windows of a house at the end of the street. The Dickens ran full speed now, tripping on a cobblestone and tumbling forward onto his nose and passing out.
When he woke up, he was in a strange house, he could here the rumbling much more clearly now.
"Hello friend." The Jovi said to The Dickens.
"Who are you, where am I?" The Dickens asked.
"You're in a safe place, you took a nasty spill in the street out front of my house. I think you broke your nose."
The Dickens felt his nose, there was a bandage across it.
"Well thank you kind sir for taking care of me. Surely you are a Samaritan!" The Dickens declared. (Declaring is how people exclaimed in 1800s England) "But what is that noise?"
"Let me show you." Said The Jovi.
With that, The Dickens followed The Jovi into the hall and through a doorway that led down some stairs, opening into a large and cavernous basement. There was a large dark shadowy object in the corner, the very origins of the rumbling was upon The Dickens.
"What the devil?" The Dickens what-the-deviled.
"Time travel my funny British friend." The Jovi said, ligthing a spooky looking candelabra.
The device was illuminated, The Dickens walked slowly towards it, feeling the metallic sides and noticing the clear door on the front. He asked what the words on the front meant. "Subway," The Jovi said. "It's a sandwich shop from the future. This time machine was made from a Subway bread oven."
The Dickens explained how that was ridiculous, and The Jovi said 'tell me about it' and how he stole it from someone named El Hefe in the year 2001.
"So The Dickens traveled back to the future with The Jovi?" Tom the Penguin-fish, who hasn't yet spoke this entry, asked.
"Apparently." Ferocius said, getting his line in.
"Panty hose blow my nose." The Bush babbled and drooled.
"How does Glengodly fit into all of this?" The Niles asked.
The Jovi, adjusting his blouse, spoke up.
"When I brought The Dickens back here, to this time, he found the transcripts from Message From the Sea Part 1, Volume One. Well, he apparently stole the title A Message From the Sea for his short story about the sea captain. As he was closing the oven door of the time machine, he shouted something about an ancient scotch; a spirit so old that it was naturally distilled. This scotch was apparently so wondrous and great, that every scotch in the world ever since has been based on it, tried to mimick its greatness, only to fail. This scotch The Dickens spoke of was Glengodly." "He said all of that in a matter of seconds, before getting away forever in the time machine? You didn't have time to stop him?" The Niles asked.
"Well, it was windy...and my leg hurt, there was this hole in the sleeve of my blouse, and I was out of breath a little already."
"Jesus." The Niles said and punched The Jovi in the blouse.
"So we have to somehow time travel to find this scotch?" Tom the Penguin-fish asked. "This is getting out of hand and all around just cheesy."
"Stranger things have happened." Said The Niles.
The Jovi beatings stopped (for now), the scotch drunk, and the other characters doing what they do; we sailed on through the vast ocean, somewhere in the Atlantic now maybe. The plot now significantly more diluted and arduous to get out of, the peak of the story's climax still way off in the distance, up a vast mountain, to be found somewhere beyond the clouds. The entry coming to a close...I looked at the waves crashing against the sides of the S.S. Glen and for the first time let out a hearty, "Damn The Dickens!"
-The Boss
“Yeah, what do you know about Glengodly?” The Niles re-demanded, much more demandingly.
“Nothing, I know nothing of…of…Glengodly.” The Jovi said and passed out from the incessant beating that he had endured, and from utter suckiness.
“Great!” The Niles exclaimed angrily. The angry exclaim caused a case of O’Douls to fall on Herbest Normanthorp of Westchester, PA and knock him completely unconscious.
“Damn The Jovi!” I shouted, and then corrected myself by damning The Jovi again, this time exclaiming it for all to hear.
Knowing (from previous encounters where we pummeled The Jovi into un-consciousness) that the only way to awaken The Jovi from his stupid and sissy-like slumber was to burst into song (for reasons unknown to any of us), so The Niles, in an extremely masculine basso profundo, Tom The Penguin-fish, in a very squeaky alto, Ferocius DeSoto in a disgusting and drag-queen like (yet soulful and somehow strangely appealing) soprano, I, on the air-guitar/bass/drums/timpanis/cello/french-horn, and The Bush on the Whittlin’ Sticks (his words, not mine – and no, I have no idea what Whittlin’ Sticks are, and during the song, it appeared that The Bush had no idea either) began:
The Message from the sea! OH!
Message straight from me! YO HO!
In a never-ending,
Quest for scotch all too mad-den-ing,
The Glen we seek is the Glen for thee,
For the Glen we seek is Glengodly!
Yo! Ho! Etc etc!
(the song repeated like this for some time, with various solos thrown in here and there. It wasn’t the best song, but it was made up on the spot and we somehow all knew the words…anyways, The Jovi awoke from his state.)
“Glengodly?” The Jovi asked, again jovially, but this time just a little less due to overall grogginess.
The Niles exclaimed something about Jesus Christ, followed by a threat directed at The Jovi about repeating ‘Glengodly?’ again.
“I’ve heard of it, but no one knows where it is or where it came from.”
“Like Cheney.” The Bush added for some reason.
“Look The Jovi,” I said, taking the slip of paper from the mystery box. “This paper says, ‘to find Glengodly, first find The Jovi’. We figure that you know something about this.”
"Scotch! 14 Years!" The Niles exclaimed, and Arbitrary Henchman # Give Scotch to Us came rushing over with Oban 14 year.
The Jovi continued not understanding the mystery of the box, and continued to seemingly know nothing of this Glengodly. Then, without warning (for if we had had warning, we would have known and therefore been with warning) The Jovi burst out, “The Dickens!”
“Dang Johnny Dickens,” The Bush started. “Used to pelt me with rocks when I was clearing sage brush off ‘a my ranch.”
“Charles Dickens!” The Jovi burst again. We were really starting to get annoyed with The Jovi’s all around ambiguity on the matter of Glengodly. Why do characters in stories/movies have to be ambiguous? Nobody in real life talks ambiguously. I mean, in reality if somebody had a mysterious box with a note that said that only I was the one that could lead to the item the note in the box spoke of, and I knew a little about the item that the note was referring to, I wouldn’t sit jibba-jabbing about not knowing and then pass out, then wake up and know about it, but still act all weird and just yell out ‘Charles Dickens’. If it were me, I’d say, ‘yeah, I think I know what that note means…there was this guy, Charles Dickens, and he did this and I…’ and blah blah blah and I’d be telling them the goddamned story! None of these mystery bursts, none of this passing out –
“The Boss! Stop! We need him!” The Niles was shouting at me and it was then that I realized I had been incessantly beating the (capital letters now) Ever-Living-Fuck out of The Jovi.
“Oops, I guess I got carried away. The Niles! Stop! We need The Jovi!” I pulled The Niles away from beating The Jovi and gave him more Oban. The Jovi Beatdown ’09 went on like this for about the next ten minutes, when it was done, The Jovi got himself a shower, changed his tight black pants and white blouse (blouse was what he called it, and they're apparently available wherever Gay-Ass Cloaks are sold!) and proceeded explaining what the fuck The Dickens had to do with The Glengodly, etc etc.
I shall paraphrase The Jovi’s words, since the last thing anyone wants to hear it his voice anymore:
The Jovi explained that back in the mid 1800’s Charles Dickens, who had come to some fame writing stories and such, was just finishing a short story about a sea captain and some other things having to do with seafaring. Well, The Dickens couldn't think of a good name for the sea tale and spent countless hours in a drunken stupor at his favorite pub. "Please sir, may I have another?" He would say over and over again to the bartender, until finally the bartender threw him out into the cold cobblestoned street (because all streets in England were and still are cobblestone).
So The Dickens stumbled down Penny Lane in England toward the Strawberry Fields. He passed his ex-lover, Eleanor Rigby on the way and told her that they should reconcile and Come Together sometime and have dinner -
"The Boss! You're talking about the Beatles now, I think." The Niles said.
"I get by with a little help from my friends, get a little high haha." The Bush was now doing a jig and farting.
"Sorry." I said and continued here...
...so The Dickens went drunkenly down the lane and as he stumbled, kept hearing this low rumbling sound in the distance. He started towards where he thought the sound was coming from, somewhere down the lane he was on. He hurried down the road, faster and faster as the sound grew louder and more ominous. He could see a dim glowing pulsating up ahead, from the windows of a house at the end of the street. The Dickens ran full speed now, tripping on a cobblestone and tumbling forward onto his nose and passing out.
When he woke up, he was in a strange house, he could here the rumbling much more clearly now.
"Hello friend." The Jovi said to The Dickens.
"Who are you, where am I?" The Dickens asked.
"You're in a safe place, you took a nasty spill in the street out front of my house. I think you broke your nose."
The Dickens felt his nose, there was a bandage across it.
"Well thank you kind sir for taking care of me. Surely you are a Samaritan!" The Dickens declared. (Declaring is how people exclaimed in 1800s England) "But what is that noise?"
"Let me show you." Said The Jovi.
With that, The Dickens followed The Jovi into the hall and through a doorway that led down some stairs, opening into a large and cavernous basement. There was a large dark shadowy object in the corner, the very origins of the rumbling was upon The Dickens.
"What the devil?" The Dickens what-the-deviled.
"Time travel my funny British friend." The Jovi said, ligthing a spooky looking candelabra.
The device was illuminated, The Dickens walked slowly towards it, feeling the metallic sides and noticing the clear door on the front. He asked what the words on the front meant. "Subway," The Jovi said. "It's a sandwich shop from the future. This time machine was made from a Subway bread oven."
The Dickens explained how that was ridiculous, and The Jovi said 'tell me about it' and how he stole it from someone named El Hefe in the year 2001.
"So The Dickens traveled back to the future with The Jovi?" Tom the Penguin-fish, who hasn't yet spoke this entry, asked.
"Apparently." Ferocius said, getting his line in.
"Panty hose blow my nose." The Bush babbled and drooled.
"How does Glengodly fit into all of this?" The Niles asked.
The Jovi, adjusting his blouse, spoke up.
"When I brought The Dickens back here, to this time, he found the transcripts from Message From the Sea Part 1, Volume One. Well, he apparently stole the title A Message From the Sea for his short story about the sea captain. As he was closing the oven door of the time machine, he shouted something about an ancient scotch; a spirit so old that it was naturally distilled. This scotch was apparently so wondrous and great, that every scotch in the world ever since has been based on it, tried to mimick its greatness, only to fail. This scotch The Dickens spoke of was Glengodly." "He said all of that in a matter of seconds, before getting away forever in the time machine? You didn't have time to stop him?" The Niles asked.
"Well, it was windy...and my leg hurt, there was this hole in the sleeve of my blouse, and I was out of breath a little already."
"Jesus." The Niles said and punched The Jovi in the blouse.
"So we have to somehow time travel to find this scotch?" Tom the Penguin-fish asked. "This is getting out of hand and all around just cheesy."
"Stranger things have happened." Said The Niles.
The Jovi beatings stopped (for now), the scotch drunk, and the other characters doing what they do; we sailed on through the vast ocean, somewhere in the Atlantic now maybe. The plot now significantly more diluted and arduous to get out of, the peak of the story's climax still way off in the distance, up a vast mountain, to be found somewhere beyond the clouds. The entry coming to a close...I looked at the waves crashing against the sides of the S.S. Glen and for the first time let out a hearty, "Damn The Dickens!"
-The Boss
Thursday, March 5, 2009
The Jovi Battle
“You know, you don’t have to say ‘dot, dot, dot.’ If you just kind of trail off, then we’ll know that the dots are there.” I told The Jovi, tellingly.
“Silence!” The Jovi exclaimed, and The Boss and I winced.
“Nobody exclaims around us!” The Boss told him, and I nodded my head in approval.
The Jovi spread his arms out in a godly manner, and told us that he no longer was bound by the laws of The Boss and The Niles. Small butterflies and little gay 80’s hair band people with wings and neon-colored spandex covered The Jovi from behind with a giant cloak. I had to admit, The Jovi pulled off ominous very well.
“We’ll see who can exclaim!” I tried to exclaim, but couldn’t. Something was wrong. Instead of exclaiming, I was only able to holler, which is undeniably lame. Hollering is something only very lame people do. I couldn’t even yell for Christ’s sake! I tried again, but this time I felt squeamish and doubled over in complete lameness.
“The Boss! First I holler and now I’m squeamish… I’m going completely lame!” I hollered again, this time even more hollerish than the last. Tom the Penguin-Fish came over to give me scotch. It was 18 year Macallan and it helped a lot.
“What’s going on?” Ferocious asked, alarmed and forgetting momentarily to be refined and instead appearing simply frightened.
“I don’t know Ferocious,” The Boss replied, drinkingly. “But I don’t like it at all.”
“Ha, ha!” The Jovi ha-ha’d. “The mystic fogs surrounding my island give me super-exclaiming abilities and debilitate the ability for anyone else. You’re no match for me now The Boss and The Niles!”
“What are we gonna do?” Tom asked us, then proceeded to take a drink of Rumplemintz.
“Everybody calm down.” The Boss started, and then everyone was much calmer. “Scotch me.” Arbitrary Henchman #25 was the designated scotch-carrier for our journey on Jovi Island, so he quickly tossed a bottle of 10yr Jura. Boss gulped it drinkingly and then smiled. “I’m good.” He said, with a thumbs up and a wink.
With everyone wondering what to do next and The Jovi just weirding up the place with his maniacal laugh and gay-ass cloak (see advertisement below), I knew that it would come down to me. Weak from my failed exclaims, but feeling better with the delicious Macallan pulsating through me, I stood up proudly and took stock of what was around me. There had to be something that was drawing in all the fog… causing all of our exclaiming ability to go to The Jovi. It was then that I realized the music of The Jovi was still playing on the loud-speaker, polluting the island. The solution occurred to me… I ran drunkingly to the loudspeaker which was actually a really cool looking giant phonograph shaped thingy. The Jovi gave chase, but I knew I could outrun him when I saw him trip over his gay-ass cloak. I made it all the way to the loudspeaker control building and demolished the 8-track player that was playing his music, knowing that he’d never find another archaic device that could play his crappy 8-tracks. The music stopped and all the fogs began to disperse. I came back to the dock where The Boss and everyone else was, each of them looking puzzled. I kicked The Jovi on the way back and he cried, cryingly.
“Damn The Jovi!” The Boss exclaimed.
“That’s right The Boss!” I exclaimed back, and we did the penguin dance that we made up right there on the spot. It consisted of waddling around and trying to fly, then laughing at each other when we failed to actually fly. This offended Tom at first until The Boss actually succeeded at flying, at which point we were all just shocked and amazed until The Boss did three loop-da-loops and floated back down to the shore, looking rather divine and suddenly wearing a basket of grapes on his head.
“Dude!” I exclaimed again (as there was much exclaiming to do in order to make up for the lack of exclaiming from before). “How did you do that?”
“Don’t mess with Texas.” Came a voice from behind a nearby Bush, which we then discovered was actually The Bush and not behind anything at all.
“Exactly.” The Boss explained, tossing grapes into Tom’s Penguin-Fish mouth. I was confused but figured I’d let it go.
“The Bush! What are you doing here?” I asked the former President.
“What are you doing here?” The Bush responded, whittling and looking confused, or in other words… normal.
Before explanations could continue, The Boss interrupted to ask why the fog disappeared. I had The Boss hallucinate a chalkboard and some chalk so I could diagram it out, very teacherly, and everyone sat down criss-cross-applesauce to listen intently to my explanation. Well, everyone except The Bush who continued whittling and kept muttering something about Alan Jackson owing him a new belt-buckle and needing a piece of wheat to chew on.
“You see,” I began. “The Jovi’s music was so terrible, that when it was played at such great volumes from this tiny island, the Earth itself became agitated. Because of this, the planet went into natural defense mode. Mother Nature put her dead-beat husband Father Time in charge of getting rid of this disturbance. However, because ironically Father Time always chose the quickest resolution to things, rather than getting rid of The Jovi and all his evilness once and for all, he simply sent out a couple of mystical fogs and rerouted a trash barge in order to cover up Jovi Island; much like a teen might cover up a bad facial blemish. This fog kept the world safe from the terrible noises coming from Jovi Island. Unfortunately, it also negatively affected everything that entered the island as well, which is why The Boss and I struggled to exclaim. The fog made any awesomeness transfer straight from the outsider to The Jovi. Thank God it didn’t affect the scotch.”
“Nothing transamathingy’d from me.” The Bush stated. We all just kind of sat there, nobody wanting to tell The Bush that there was nothing awesome about him, thereby hurting his feelings.
The Jovi was still crying, so The Boss and I went over and beat the ever-living fuck out of him. We elected not to take his shit however, as neither of us wanted anything to do with his gay-ass cloak. We dragged him back over to the group near the dock, feeling The Jovi’s minions closing in on us. Hurriedly, we got back onto the S.S. Glen and shook The Jovi violently to try and get him to stop crying long enough for us to interrogate him.
“I’m really, really cool…” The Jovi kept uttering to himself incoherently. The Boss slapped him repeatedly yelling obscenities at him and kicking him in his left shin; one of The Jovi’s biggest weaknesses.
“Damn you The Jovi!” The Boss yelled over and over again drunkingly. I could see this would never end. Once you start beating up The Jovi, it’s so much fun that it’s hard to stop.
“Not livin’ on a prayer now are ya? You bastard!” The Boss continued.
I pulled The Boss away, handing him a bottle of 20yr Inchmurrin to help him relax.
“This is really good!” The Boss exclaimed and a bum named simply Zeke in New Haven who’d been receiving all the beer from this entry’s exclaims decided to “make it rain” with all the bottles he’d gotten. This proved unfortunate for Zeke, as all the bottles came crashing down on him, giving him a concussion and helping him slip further into insanity.
“I know, I just found about it!” I told The Boss excitedly. “It’s expensive, but it looked really awesome, so I thought we’d throw it in there.” The Boss drank it happily and all seemed right in the world.
As I looked out on the horizon, The Jovi captured, The Boss and I scotched, I knew the entry was about to end. With that in mind, I downed a bottle of 10yr Ardberg, grabbed The Jovi by the collar on his gay-ass cloak and looked him square in his damn The Jovi eyes.
“What do you know about GlenGodly?” I demanded.
-The Niles
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“Silence!” The Jovi exclaimed, and The Boss and I winced.
“Nobody exclaims around us!” The Boss told him, and I nodded my head in approval.
The Jovi spread his arms out in a godly manner, and told us that he no longer was bound by the laws of The Boss and The Niles. Small butterflies and little gay 80’s hair band people with wings and neon-colored spandex covered The Jovi from behind with a giant cloak. I had to admit, The Jovi pulled off ominous very well.
“We’ll see who can exclaim!” I tried to exclaim, but couldn’t. Something was wrong. Instead of exclaiming, I was only able to holler, which is undeniably lame. Hollering is something only very lame people do. I couldn’t even yell for Christ’s sake! I tried again, but this time I felt squeamish and doubled over in complete lameness.
“The Boss! First I holler and now I’m squeamish… I’m going completely lame!” I hollered again, this time even more hollerish than the last. Tom the Penguin-Fish came over to give me scotch. It was 18 year Macallan and it helped a lot.
“What’s going on?” Ferocious asked, alarmed and forgetting momentarily to be refined and instead appearing simply frightened.
“I don’t know Ferocious,” The Boss replied, drinkingly. “But I don’t like it at all.”
“Ha, ha!” The Jovi ha-ha’d. “The mystic fogs surrounding my island give me super-exclaiming abilities and debilitate the ability for anyone else. You’re no match for me now The Boss and The Niles!”
“What are we gonna do?” Tom asked us, then proceeded to take a drink of Rumplemintz.
“Everybody calm down.” The Boss started, and then everyone was much calmer. “Scotch me.” Arbitrary Henchman #25 was the designated scotch-carrier for our journey on Jovi Island, so he quickly tossed a bottle of 10yr Jura. Boss gulped it drinkingly and then smiled. “I’m good.” He said, with a thumbs up and a wink.
With everyone wondering what to do next and The Jovi just weirding up the place with his maniacal laugh and gay-ass cloak (see advertisement below), I knew that it would come down to me. Weak from my failed exclaims, but feeling better with the delicious Macallan pulsating through me, I stood up proudly and took stock of what was around me. There had to be something that was drawing in all the fog… causing all of our exclaiming ability to go to The Jovi. It was then that I realized the music of The Jovi was still playing on the loud-speaker, polluting the island. The solution occurred to me… I ran drunkingly to the loudspeaker which was actually a really cool looking giant phonograph shaped thingy. The Jovi gave chase, but I knew I could outrun him when I saw him trip over his gay-ass cloak. I made it all the way to the loudspeaker control building and demolished the 8-track player that was playing his music, knowing that he’d never find another archaic device that could play his crappy 8-tracks. The music stopped and all the fogs began to disperse. I came back to the dock where The Boss and everyone else was, each of them looking puzzled. I kicked The Jovi on the way back and he cried, cryingly.
“Damn The Jovi!” The Boss exclaimed.
“That’s right The Boss!” I exclaimed back, and we did the penguin dance that we made up right there on the spot. It consisted of waddling around and trying to fly, then laughing at each other when we failed to actually fly. This offended Tom at first until The Boss actually succeeded at flying, at which point we were all just shocked and amazed until The Boss did three loop-da-loops and floated back down to the shore, looking rather divine and suddenly wearing a basket of grapes on his head.
“Dude!” I exclaimed again (as there was much exclaiming to do in order to make up for the lack of exclaiming from before). “How did you do that?”
“Don’t mess with Texas.” Came a voice from behind a nearby Bush, which we then discovered was actually The Bush and not behind anything at all.
“Exactly.” The Boss explained, tossing grapes into Tom’s Penguin-Fish mouth. I was confused but figured I’d let it go.
“The Bush! What are you doing here?” I asked the former President.
“What are you doing here?” The Bush responded, whittling and looking confused, or in other words… normal.
Before explanations could continue, The Boss interrupted to ask why the fog disappeared. I had The Boss hallucinate a chalkboard and some chalk so I could diagram it out, very teacherly, and everyone sat down criss-cross-applesauce to listen intently to my explanation. Well, everyone except The Bush who continued whittling and kept muttering something about Alan Jackson owing him a new belt-buckle and needing a piece of wheat to chew on.
“You see,” I began. “The Jovi’s music was so terrible, that when it was played at such great volumes from this tiny island, the Earth itself became agitated. Because of this, the planet went into natural defense mode. Mother Nature put her dead-beat husband Father Time in charge of getting rid of this disturbance. However, because ironically Father Time always chose the quickest resolution to things, rather than getting rid of The Jovi and all his evilness once and for all, he simply sent out a couple of mystical fogs and rerouted a trash barge in order to cover up Jovi Island; much like a teen might cover up a bad facial blemish. This fog kept the world safe from the terrible noises coming from Jovi Island. Unfortunately, it also negatively affected everything that entered the island as well, which is why The Boss and I struggled to exclaim. The fog made any awesomeness transfer straight from the outsider to The Jovi. Thank God it didn’t affect the scotch.”
“Nothing transamathingy’d from me.” The Bush stated. We all just kind of sat there, nobody wanting to tell The Bush that there was nothing awesome about him, thereby hurting his feelings.
The Jovi was still crying, so The Boss and I went over and beat the ever-living fuck out of him. We elected not to take his shit however, as neither of us wanted anything to do with his gay-ass cloak. We dragged him back over to the group near the dock, feeling The Jovi’s minions closing in on us. Hurriedly, we got back onto the S.S. Glen and shook The Jovi violently to try and get him to stop crying long enough for us to interrogate him.
“I’m really, really cool…” The Jovi kept uttering to himself incoherently. The Boss slapped him repeatedly yelling obscenities at him and kicking him in his left shin; one of The Jovi’s biggest weaknesses.
“Damn you The Jovi!” The Boss yelled over and over again drunkingly. I could see this would never end. Once you start beating up The Jovi, it’s so much fun that it’s hard to stop.
“Not livin’ on a prayer now are ya? You bastard!” The Boss continued.
I pulled The Boss away, handing him a bottle of 20yr Inchmurrin to help him relax.
“This is really good!” The Boss exclaimed and a bum named simply Zeke in New Haven who’d been receiving all the beer from this entry’s exclaims decided to “make it rain” with all the bottles he’d gotten. This proved unfortunate for Zeke, as all the bottles came crashing down on him, giving him a concussion and helping him slip further into insanity.
“I know, I just found about it!” I told The Boss excitedly. “It’s expensive, but it looked really awesome, so I thought we’d throw it in there.” The Boss drank it happily and all seemed right in the world.
As I looked out on the horizon, The Jovi captured, The Boss and I scotched, I knew the entry was about to end. With that in mind, I downed a bottle of 10yr Ardberg, grabbed The Jovi by the collar on his gay-ass cloak and looked him square in his damn The Jovi eyes.
“What do you know about GlenGodly?” I demanded.
-The Niles
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Warning: Gay-Ass Cloaks is not responsible for anyone who trips over their gay-ass cloaks.
Monday, February 23, 2009
That Elusive Plot....
“Arbitrary Henchman # Knows-how-to-read-GPS-and-chart-courses-and-man-helms-and-all-those-other-boat-words!” I exclaimed right at the beginning of the entry, which I suppose is pretty obvious as, being the reader, you (whoever you are) just started reading, and certainly I’m sure started reading not from the end, as that would be foolish and stupid and most-likely utterly confusing. In fact, had you read starting from the end, you’d already know where I’m going with this entry, and so you’d probably just stop there, and you would know that the last word of the entry is 'dot’ and also be assured that the entry would be full of other nonsensical information like: ramblings on and on about not starting at the end of things, whammies, henchpeople, penguin-fish, and other such nonsense; and you (the reader) would be assured that there would only be one or two or three, at the goddamned most, sentences that actually propelled the plot forward, and those sentences would be so diluted with sparse references to underwear, scotch, pooping jokes (haha), some sort of marginalization of Ferocius or Tom, and most certainly a ‘Damn The Jovi!’ – Oh, right there! There it is! The plot! So Jovi Island is the place we are off to, and surely a ‘Damn The Jovi!’ will ring out triumphantly from myself and The Niles. Does Jovi Island show up on GPS?
NOTE: Due to the exclaim that occurred within the first sentence of this entry the following occurred at approximately 4:34:26 PM EST:
Teek McSlappy, who spends his days smelly and in an old refrigerator box that he made into a fake spaceship, received from the sky a case of Michelob Ultra (because McSlappy is carb-conscious as well as completely insane. In fact, he mistook the beer for being the Michelin Man disguised as beer, a measure that caused McSlappy to dis-trust the beer and to be wary of it. He quietly performed his famous (infamous in bum circles for reasons it’s better not to get into here) Teek Peek from behind the refrigerator-spaceship-box. “You get outta here Michelin Man! I told you’s last time you can’t be a spacemans with me!” When the case of beer just continued being beer, McSlappy, still wary, slowly approached it, opened the box, and removed a beer. He still believed the beer to be an elaborate ruse, regardless of the fact that it was clearly just beer. Anyways…
“Uh…uh… Mr. The Boss?” Arbitrary Henchman # Same-one-from-earlier said. “What did you want me to do? You called to me about the GPS or something and then just stopped talking. You’ve just been standing there for the past five minutes looking at the ceiling.”
“Fish and chips!” Shouted Ferocius.
“You’re goddamned right fish and chips!” Exclaimed The Niles, right fist raised. Teek McSlappy skeptically received more Michelob, it was his lucky day.
The Niles then lowered his right fist while simultaneously raising the bottle of J&B in his left hand to his lips, he drinkingly glared sideways at Ferocius and the Henchpeople, etc. For the next five minutes we discussed just how to get to Jovi Island. We had no idea where exactly to find the island, being that The Jovi totally sucks, along with bands like Nickelback, the island’s exact location was a bit of mystery. The Jovi, while sucky, knows that people such The Niles and myself hate him dearly and with all due respect (which is none) and wish to beat the ever-living-fuck out of him and take his shit (even though his shit sucks, it still goes for top dollar on eBay, which is how we once procured a case of extremely rare scotch that was so old it had completely evaporated – leaving only the vapors – vapors that cause hallucinations, paranoia, sweating, cursing, cougar hunting, pantlessness, and total and utter chaos. In other words, really old scotch is awesome). The Jovi Island is five miles off the coast of New Jersey, but it is surrounded by a fog, and that fog is surrounded by a thicker and more illusive fog, which in turn is hidden from site by a trash barge, and the trash barge is hidden by the filth that makes up New Jersey. Finding Jovi Island would not be easy. I asked The Niles if he had any ideas.
”Never trust a Whammy.” He said drunkingly. I asked if there were any other ideas, specifically in regards to finding Jovi Island.
“I’ll give it a shot,” he said. “According to the GPS we’re half way there.”
“Living on a prayer?” I asked. We then air-guitared for three and half minutes, and even pulled off a perfect air key change with only one minute left.
“Gentlemen,” spoke Ferocius, very British and jolly and spiffy and all. “It appears that we are in a bit of eh’ pickle and that we fancy to find a lad by the name of The Jovi.”
“Damn The Jovi!” The Niles and I exclaimed in unison. This time I exclaimed in an octave higher so as not to require us to be jinxed again. And bums got beer and all and whatever.
“Well,” continued Ferocius very seriously British now. “All we have to do is each of us eat a cheese-wheel, surely to constipate the Dickens out of us. Then we’ll get some musical instruments, and as we sail up the coast of that Yank town New Jersey, we’ll play and sing out of the ship’s loud speakers. Being constipated, the singing will be quite a chore and yet it should closely resemble the vocal stylings of Creed, Nickelback, Matchbox Twenty, and all those other terrible acts; while simultaneously, with its awfulness, attracting The Jovi.”
“Ferocius – you disgusting man – that just might work.” The Niles said. We didn’t have any cheesewheels, so I hallucinated a crate full of disgusting and smelly cheese.
“Quickly! Eat the cheesewheels before the hallucination goes away!” I shouted drinkingly (not drinkingly enough to exclaim though, and also because we’ve reached our exclaim quota for this entry).
The Niles then reminded me very cleverly that it was a hallucination and that there really were no cheesewheels.
“But I hallucinated French fries a few entries ago, and I ate them. I even offered a few to you.” I was too sober to comprehend any serious rational thought, I decided it best to sit down, I quickly hallucinated a chair and fell on the floor unconscious.
When I came to, The Niles had just finished putting a scotch I.V. in my arm. I asked him politely if it was safe, and he assured me that he had no idea. I decided it best not question things that we didn’t know and proceeded to get haphazardly smashed and think about where the term “haphazardly” came from. If something is just plain hazardly, then that seems hazardous and to be of much hazard and therefore something to avoid…but if something is haphazard, well that just seems fun. Like the word “Happy” and “Hazard” mixed. Like a mixture of happiness so wonderful that it just becomes a hazard to everyone around…that doesn’t make sense….
I came to again and The Niles and Ferocius and Tom the Fucking Penguin-fish and an arbitrary amount of Arbitrary Henchman were standing over me. The Niles of course handed me a bottle of Lagavulin 16 year. While I drank the bottle, The Niles told me how I hadn’t had enough scotch throughout the course of this entry and had become a little insane and weakened by the sobering effects of the lack of the scotch. He said that The Boss sober was probably the scariest 15 minutes of his entire life, well that, and seeing Ferocius naked once, that apparently had caused him a mild blindness for a day or two, during which Whammies stole his valuable super money suit and sent him disturbing photos in the mail (this was in the years before the internet, when people mailed stuff in envelopes rather than with WWWs). Anyways, The Niles continued on telling me how we managed to arrive just off the coast of New Jersey, and indeed past a trash barge and through two thick and illusive fogs, and alas to be docked at Jovi Island. “You Give Love a Bad Name” could be heard in the distance and we knew we were there.
“Jolly good and Bob’s your uncle!” Shouted Ferocius, tightening his trousers.
“Knickers they are.” He added, in reference to his pants, apparently he can hear voice-over narrations.
“Welcome my friends,” said The Jovi as he came from out of some shadows that had gathered nearby. “To Jovi Island dot dot dot."
-The Boss
NOTE: Due to the exclaim that occurred within the first sentence of this entry the following occurred at approximately 4:34:26 PM EST:
Teek McSlappy, who spends his days smelly and in an old refrigerator box that he made into a fake spaceship, received from the sky a case of Michelob Ultra (because McSlappy is carb-conscious as well as completely insane. In fact, he mistook the beer for being the Michelin Man disguised as beer, a measure that caused McSlappy to dis-trust the beer and to be wary of it. He quietly performed his famous (infamous in bum circles for reasons it’s better not to get into here) Teek Peek from behind the refrigerator-spaceship-box. “You get outta here Michelin Man! I told you’s last time you can’t be a spacemans with me!” When the case of beer just continued being beer, McSlappy, still wary, slowly approached it, opened the box, and removed a beer. He still believed the beer to be an elaborate ruse, regardless of the fact that it was clearly just beer. Anyways…
“Uh…uh… Mr. The Boss?” Arbitrary Henchman # Same-one-from-earlier said. “What did you want me to do? You called to me about the GPS or something and then just stopped talking. You’ve just been standing there for the past five minutes looking at the ceiling.”
“Fish and chips!” Shouted Ferocius.
“You’re goddamned right fish and chips!” Exclaimed The Niles, right fist raised. Teek McSlappy skeptically received more Michelob, it was his lucky day.
The Niles then lowered his right fist while simultaneously raising the bottle of J&B in his left hand to his lips, he drinkingly glared sideways at Ferocius and the Henchpeople, etc. For the next five minutes we discussed just how to get to Jovi Island. We had no idea where exactly to find the island, being that The Jovi totally sucks, along with bands like Nickelback, the island’s exact location was a bit of mystery. The Jovi, while sucky, knows that people such The Niles and myself hate him dearly and with all due respect (which is none) and wish to beat the ever-living-fuck out of him and take his shit (even though his shit sucks, it still goes for top dollar on eBay, which is how we once procured a case of extremely rare scotch that was so old it had completely evaporated – leaving only the vapors – vapors that cause hallucinations, paranoia, sweating, cursing, cougar hunting, pantlessness, and total and utter chaos. In other words, really old scotch is awesome). The Jovi Island is five miles off the coast of New Jersey, but it is surrounded by a fog, and that fog is surrounded by a thicker and more illusive fog, which in turn is hidden from site by a trash barge, and the trash barge is hidden by the filth that makes up New Jersey. Finding Jovi Island would not be easy. I asked The Niles if he had any ideas.
”Never trust a Whammy.” He said drunkingly. I asked if there were any other ideas, specifically in regards to finding Jovi Island.
“I’ll give it a shot,” he said. “According to the GPS we’re half way there.”
“Living on a prayer?” I asked. We then air-guitared for three and half minutes, and even pulled off a perfect air key change with only one minute left.
“Gentlemen,” spoke Ferocius, very British and jolly and spiffy and all. “It appears that we are in a bit of eh’ pickle and that we fancy to find a lad by the name of The Jovi.”
“Damn The Jovi!” The Niles and I exclaimed in unison. This time I exclaimed in an octave higher so as not to require us to be jinxed again. And bums got beer and all and whatever.
“Well,” continued Ferocius very seriously British now. “All we have to do is each of us eat a cheese-wheel, surely to constipate the Dickens out of us. Then we’ll get some musical instruments, and as we sail up the coast of that Yank town New Jersey, we’ll play and sing out of the ship’s loud speakers. Being constipated, the singing will be quite a chore and yet it should closely resemble the vocal stylings of Creed, Nickelback, Matchbox Twenty, and all those other terrible acts; while simultaneously, with its awfulness, attracting The Jovi.”
“Ferocius – you disgusting man – that just might work.” The Niles said. We didn’t have any cheesewheels, so I hallucinated a crate full of disgusting and smelly cheese.
“Quickly! Eat the cheesewheels before the hallucination goes away!” I shouted drinkingly (not drinkingly enough to exclaim though, and also because we’ve reached our exclaim quota for this entry).
The Niles then reminded me very cleverly that it was a hallucination and that there really were no cheesewheels.
“But I hallucinated French fries a few entries ago, and I ate them. I even offered a few to you.” I was too sober to comprehend any serious rational thought, I decided it best to sit down, I quickly hallucinated a chair and fell on the floor unconscious.
When I came to, The Niles had just finished putting a scotch I.V. in my arm. I asked him politely if it was safe, and he assured me that he had no idea. I decided it best not question things that we didn’t know and proceeded to get haphazardly smashed and think about where the term “haphazardly” came from. If something is just plain hazardly, then that seems hazardous and to be of much hazard and therefore something to avoid…but if something is haphazard, well that just seems fun. Like the word “Happy” and “Hazard” mixed. Like a mixture of happiness so wonderful that it just becomes a hazard to everyone around…that doesn’t make sense….
I came to again and The Niles and Ferocius and Tom the Fucking Penguin-fish and an arbitrary amount of Arbitrary Henchman were standing over me. The Niles of course handed me a bottle of Lagavulin 16 year. While I drank the bottle, The Niles told me how I hadn’t had enough scotch throughout the course of this entry and had become a little insane and weakened by the sobering effects of the lack of the scotch. He said that The Boss sober was probably the scariest 15 minutes of his entire life, well that, and seeing Ferocius naked once, that apparently had caused him a mild blindness for a day or two, during which Whammies stole his valuable super money suit and sent him disturbing photos in the mail (this was in the years before the internet, when people mailed stuff in envelopes rather than with WWWs). Anyways, The Niles continued on telling me how we managed to arrive just off the coast of New Jersey, and indeed past a trash barge and through two thick and illusive fogs, and alas to be docked at Jovi Island. “You Give Love a Bad Name” could be heard in the distance and we knew we were there.
“Jolly good and Bob’s your uncle!” Shouted Ferocius, tightening his trousers.
“Knickers they are.” He added, in reference to his pants, apparently he can hear voice-over narrations.
“Welcome my friends,” said The Jovi as he came from out of some shadows that had gathered nearby. “To Jovi Island dot dot dot."
-The Boss
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
More Plot, for Those Who Love it So!
And so it was that we had found Tom the Penguin-Fish just as we assumed, in a seedy bar in South America. I turned to The Boss and asked him why he thought it was so easy to find Tom on a whole continent. The Boss shook his head, shakingly, and drank some of the 1926 Macallan scotch that we’d swiped from Tom’s bar. He then pointed at a sign that said “South America City: Population- 12,540 People and 1 Penguin-Fish.” I had made the mistake of thinking this was South America the continent rather than South America the city which was ironically on the coast of Brazil on the continent of South America… at which point, my logical explanation became so exhausting that I simply fell over, dropping my bottle of scotch in the process. I began to lose consciousness from over-thoughtification and lack of scotchiness as I watched (in horrific yet theatric slow-motion) my bottle of 1926 Macallan roll away toward Ferocious, who had immediately begun crying and was still trying to jerk-off Tom while simultaneously sucking his toes.
“You… dis… gusting… man…” I uttered (too weak to exclaim) and then it all went dark.
Woke up. The Boss was huddled over me, for some reason regurgitating scotch into my mouth to revive me, very motherly. I enjoyed it for a moment, before I realized what was going on, at which point I stood up quickly and started talking about sports. The Boss responded with a comment about Corvettes and V8 Engines and we both punched Ferocious. After downing a bottle of J&B (because sometimes you just need some crappy J&B) I evaluated my situation drunkingly and took notice of my surroundings. I was back aboard the S.S. Glen and we had sailed off again, destinations unknown. Ferocious was taking a break from being disgusting and instead had a very elegant air about him as he refrained from toe-sucking, instead drinking a nice Chianti and saying words like “holler” and “trolley.” The Boss was laughing at him drinkingly of course, but you could tell that deep down he was impressed at how refined Ferocious appeared. We assigned Arbitrary Henchman #12 to watch after Ferocious and to make sure he didn’t take this too far and start playing water polo, which we all know is a terrible game filled with terrible people who pee in pools and give unwanted noogies to mildly obese people, which may be funny, but is still terrible to say the least.
“Where’s Tom?” I asked The Boss.
“He’s over there.” The Boss replied drinkingly, and I noticed that Tom was in the corner drinking Peppermint Schnapps, as he’s known to do. The crew was looking at Tom, curiously and henchmanly, not knowing who this strange Penguin-Fish was. I decided it was up to me to introduce Tom, otherwise there would surely be some mistake made, which would undeniably result in a misunderstanding, at which point it would become necessary to bring in Jack Tripper to throw flour all over everyone and then somehow resolve the miscommunication in a humorous way within twenty minutes if you take out the commercials, which The Boss and I always do. There are no commercials in Message from the Sea as we all know, with the exception of an occasional reference to important products (product placement available for all fine single malts!) or periodicals such as Underwear Weekly: Your Passport to News and Everything Underwear! Besides, I don’t know if Jack Tripper is available, so after brief consideration and another bottle of J&B (to wash the other one down), I decided that a simple introduction of Tom would be the more efficient choice to make.
“Crew…” I began, and then I stumbled drinkingly to the left. I stumbled drunkingly to the right afterwards in order to even things out, but in the process, I fell forward just slightly which completely threw me off and I had to hit Arbitrary Henchman #Arbitrary Number in order to steady myself, at which point I had no idea how to even myself out, so I just drank more scotch (this time a nice 17yr Glengoyne) and continued my introduction.
“I want you all to meet… Tom the Penguin-Fish!” I finished.
“I’m just a penguin.” Tom said. “We’ve been over this before.”
“Shut up Tom.” The Boss mumbled from behind us. “If anything, you’re more fish than penguin.”
“No seriously guys, look at me. I waddle, I look like I’m wearing a tuxedo, I have flippers and a beak… I’m seriously just a penguin.” Tom replied, which was true, except that he really was wearing a tuxedo. The Boss and I looked him over to see if maybe he’d look like a tuxedo even without wearing one, and it appeared to be so.
“Dude, once again.” I said. “Penguins are birds right? Birds fly. Do you fly Tom?”
“Well no… I… uh…” Tom stuttered.
“Okay. Now, do you swim?” I continued.
“Um, yeah I guess.” Tom said.
“If you don’t fly… and you do swim… that makes you a fish.” I told him.
“A penguin-fish.” The Boss added, smiling and drunkingly.
“Don’t make us go through this shit again Tom. You know what we’re capable of.” I told him, and I felt bad making a scene in front of the crew, but Tom had to be put in his place. When The Boss and I label you a penguin-fish, there’s no going back.
“I can’t believe I’m a fish…” Tom sobbed to himself, repeating this over and over again quietly as he returned to his corner and his Schnapps. Ferocious randomly shouted something about cardigans.
“Cardigans indeed.” The Boss stated, poignantly; to which we all raised our glasses and/or bottles and said aloud in unison “To Cardigans!” Ferocious seemed very pleased.
The Boss disappeared momentarily and I became nervous because I didn’t know if this kind of disappearance would lead to absurdity or to plot and I wasn’t sure which I was hoping for. I closed my eyes tightly and said over and over again “No Whammies, No Whammies, No Whammies!” until The Boss returned and tapped me on the shoulder. Now completely frightened of whammies, I nervously turned around, thankful to see The Boss holding the strange box with the strange English engravings waiting to be opened by only a penguin or a fish. At this point I was surprised that this was plot rather than absurdity, and I was relieved that there were no whammies (a whammy stole my super-money-costume and then mailed me this picture, mocking me, when I was very young). Whammies are terrible creatures after all, and they must be dealt with one day.
In order to advance the plot, The Boss and I brought the box to Tom the Penguin-Fish who was still suffering from his identity crisis, even though we’d been through this before only a few years earlier. The Boss slapped Tom across his penguin-fish face, careful not to break the bottle of Peppermint Schnapps he had. Tom was wakened by this act of aggression and we knew we had his full attention.
“You must open this box!” I exclaimed (because I’d yet to exclaim in this entry) and everything on the S.S. Glen just seemed a little brighter. Patrick Tulip in North Texas, despite being rich, was still homeless purely because his name was Tulip and no one who owned a place of residence could stop laughing at his name for long enough to file the proper paperwork necessary to get him off the streets. On this day however, Mr. Tulip knew his homelessness would turn out positive as he saw a beer coming toward him from the sky, emanating from my always perfect exclaim. Just when he noticed the label said Black Butte Porter (one of the finest Porters in all of America), the beer suddenly stopped in mid-flight and shook a little bit, as if it was laughing upon recognizing that it was Patrick Tulip. The Tulip was angered by this, and then saddened when the beer diverted to Fran, the homeless lady one block down from him.
“Damnit!” The Tulip cried out and Fran just smiled, drinkingly at him. “One day,” he decried. “One day, things will go my way, and the world will know and respect the name Tulip!” To which everyone walking past him laughed at him, poking him in the stomach and calling him names like “flower-boy,” “pansy,” and the ultimate insult… “photosynthesis man.”
Meanwhile, the exclaim still ringing in the ears of those lucky enough to hear it, Tom the Penguin-Fish opened the box, which actually had just a twist-off top that anyone could’ve opened, frustrating The Boss and I until we drank more scotch and then felt better about the whole mess. Inside the box was a note that said, “To find Glengodly, first find The Jovi.”
The Boss cried out “Damn the Jovi!” toward the sky, to which Ferocious refinedly followed up with “Heavens to Betsy!” whatever the hell that means.
“I know, The Boss. I know.” I comforted him, with a pat on the back and a bottle of 16yr Lagavulin. “We’ll get The Jovi. I promise.”
Angry and determined, we ordered Arbitrary Henchman #Knows how to Steer to set a course for Jovi Island; a man-made island 5 miles off the coast of New Jersey where The Jovi lived. No one knew what went on at Jovi Island, only that new albums and music videos, each one worse than the last, continued to come from there... inexplicably mass produced by the Jovi-owned record label, Jovi-Time. It’s been rumored that Jovi-Time is also responsible for polluting the world with albums from Nickelback, but this hasn’t been confirmed. As the ocean breeze breezed us and the S.S. Glen sailed on, The Boss and I waited patiently for Jovi Island to come into our sites.
“You… dis… gusting… man…” I uttered (too weak to exclaim) and then it all went dark.
Woke up. The Boss was huddled over me, for some reason regurgitating scotch into my mouth to revive me, very motherly. I enjoyed it for a moment, before I realized what was going on, at which point I stood up quickly and started talking about sports. The Boss responded with a comment about Corvettes and V8 Engines and we both punched Ferocious. After downing a bottle of J&B (because sometimes you just need some crappy J&B) I evaluated my situation drunkingly and took notice of my surroundings. I was back aboard the S.S. Glen and we had sailed off again, destinations unknown. Ferocious was taking a break from being disgusting and instead had a very elegant air about him as he refrained from toe-sucking, instead drinking a nice Chianti and saying words like “holler” and “trolley.” The Boss was laughing at him drinkingly of course, but you could tell that deep down he was impressed at how refined Ferocious appeared. We assigned Arbitrary Henchman #12 to watch after Ferocious and to make sure he didn’t take this too far and start playing water polo, which we all know is a terrible game filled with terrible people who pee in pools and give unwanted noogies to mildly obese people, which may be funny, but is still terrible to say the least.
“Where’s Tom?” I asked The Boss.
“He’s over there.” The Boss replied drinkingly, and I noticed that Tom was in the corner drinking Peppermint Schnapps, as he’s known to do. The crew was looking at Tom, curiously and henchmanly, not knowing who this strange Penguin-Fish was. I decided it was up to me to introduce Tom, otherwise there would surely be some mistake made, which would undeniably result in a misunderstanding, at which point it would become necessary to bring in Jack Tripper to throw flour all over everyone and then somehow resolve the miscommunication in a humorous way within twenty minutes if you take out the commercials, which The Boss and I always do. There are no commercials in Message from the Sea as we all know, with the exception of an occasional reference to important products (product placement available for all fine single malts!) or periodicals such as Underwear Weekly: Your Passport to News and Everything Underwear! Besides, I don’t know if Jack Tripper is available, so after brief consideration and another bottle of J&B (to wash the other one down), I decided that a simple introduction of Tom would be the more efficient choice to make.
“Crew…” I began, and then I stumbled drinkingly to the left. I stumbled drunkingly to the right afterwards in order to even things out, but in the process, I fell forward just slightly which completely threw me off and I had to hit Arbitrary Henchman #Arbitrary Number in order to steady myself, at which point I had no idea how to even myself out, so I just drank more scotch (this time a nice 17yr Glengoyne) and continued my introduction.
“I want you all to meet… Tom the Penguin-Fish!” I finished.
“I’m just a penguin.” Tom said. “We’ve been over this before.”
“Shut up Tom.” The Boss mumbled from behind us. “If anything, you’re more fish than penguin.”
“No seriously guys, look at me. I waddle, I look like I’m wearing a tuxedo, I have flippers and a beak… I’m seriously just a penguin.” Tom replied, which was true, except that he really was wearing a tuxedo. The Boss and I looked him over to see if maybe he’d look like a tuxedo even without wearing one, and it appeared to be so.
“Dude, once again.” I said. “Penguins are birds right? Birds fly. Do you fly Tom?”
“Well no… I… uh…” Tom stuttered.
“Okay. Now, do you swim?” I continued.
“Um, yeah I guess.” Tom said.
“If you don’t fly… and you do swim… that makes you a fish.” I told him.
“A penguin-fish.” The Boss added, smiling and drunkingly.
“Don’t make us go through this shit again Tom. You know what we’re capable of.” I told him, and I felt bad making a scene in front of the crew, but Tom had to be put in his place. When The Boss and I label you a penguin-fish, there’s no going back.
“I can’t believe I’m a fish…” Tom sobbed to himself, repeating this over and over again quietly as he returned to his corner and his Schnapps. Ferocious randomly shouted something about cardigans.
“Cardigans indeed.” The Boss stated, poignantly; to which we all raised our glasses and/or bottles and said aloud in unison “To Cardigans!” Ferocious seemed very pleased.
The Boss disappeared momentarily and I became nervous because I didn’t know if this kind of disappearance would lead to absurdity or to plot and I wasn’t sure which I was hoping for. I closed my eyes tightly and said over and over again “No Whammies, No Whammies, No Whammies!” until The Boss returned and tapped me on the shoulder. Now completely frightened of whammies, I nervously turned around, thankful to see The Boss holding the strange box with the strange English engravings waiting to be opened by only a penguin or a fish. At this point I was surprised that this was plot rather than absurdity, and I was relieved that there were no whammies (a whammy stole my super-money-costume and then mailed me this picture, mocking me, when I was very young). Whammies are terrible creatures after all, and they must be dealt with one day.In order to advance the plot, The Boss and I brought the box to Tom the Penguin-Fish who was still suffering from his identity crisis, even though we’d been through this before only a few years earlier. The Boss slapped Tom across his penguin-fish face, careful not to break the bottle of Peppermint Schnapps he had. Tom was wakened by this act of aggression and we knew we had his full attention.
“You must open this box!” I exclaimed (because I’d yet to exclaim in this entry) and everything on the S.S. Glen just seemed a little brighter. Patrick Tulip in North Texas, despite being rich, was still homeless purely because his name was Tulip and no one who owned a place of residence could stop laughing at his name for long enough to file the proper paperwork necessary to get him off the streets. On this day however, Mr. Tulip knew his homelessness would turn out positive as he saw a beer coming toward him from the sky, emanating from my always perfect exclaim. Just when he noticed the label said Black Butte Porter (one of the finest Porters in all of America), the beer suddenly stopped in mid-flight and shook a little bit, as if it was laughing upon recognizing that it was Patrick Tulip. The Tulip was angered by this, and then saddened when the beer diverted to Fran, the homeless lady one block down from him.
“Damnit!” The Tulip cried out and Fran just smiled, drinkingly at him. “One day,” he decried. “One day, things will go my way, and the world will know and respect the name Tulip!” To which everyone walking past him laughed at him, poking him in the stomach and calling him names like “flower-boy,” “pansy,” and the ultimate insult… “photosynthesis man.”
Meanwhile, the exclaim still ringing in the ears of those lucky enough to hear it, Tom the Penguin-Fish opened the box, which actually had just a twist-off top that anyone could’ve opened, frustrating The Boss and I until we drank more scotch and then felt better about the whole mess. Inside the box was a note that said, “To find Glengodly, first find The Jovi.”
The Boss cried out “Damn the Jovi!” toward the sky, to which Ferocious refinedly followed up with “Heavens to Betsy!” whatever the hell that means.
“I know, The Boss. I know.” I comforted him, with a pat on the back and a bottle of 16yr Lagavulin. “We’ll get The Jovi. I promise.”
Angry and determined, we ordered Arbitrary Henchman #Knows how to Steer to set a course for Jovi Island; a man-made island 5 miles off the coast of New Jersey where The Jovi lived. No one knew what went on at Jovi Island, only that new albums and music videos, each one worse than the last, continued to come from there... inexplicably mass produced by the Jovi-owned record label, Jovi-Time. It’s been rumored that Jovi-Time is also responsible for polluting the world with albums from Nickelback, but this hasn’t been confirmed. As the ocean breeze breezed us and the S.S. Glen sailed on, The Boss and I waited patiently for Jovi Island to come into our sites.
Friday, February 6, 2009
French Bread and French Fries
It was in that strange oceanic passage to
“The Boss!” The
“Scotch me,” I said drinkingly and then realized that I had said that drinkingly (meaning I was drinking as I spoke, just to clarify) and said never mind. Then I punched myself in the stomach for saying something toolish like ‘scotch me’ in the first place.
The
I took out the foot-long piece of French bread that was leftover from the Meatloaf Raft and began nibbling, which is what a Boss does from time with leftover French bread.
“
CRASH!!! Went the S.S. Glen. CRACKLE!!!! Went the dock. (Not the word for the noises, but that was the actual sound that occurred when we slammed into the dock very loudly and violently.)
The dock of
“What are you doing, The Boss?” The
“Not now, I need full concentration if I’m going to pull this off.” I said back, not taking my eyes off the hallucinated French fry stand.
“Large fries please.” I said to the incredibly attractive girl at the counter.
“That’ll be $4.50,” said the girl, whose nametag read The Ashley. “But I have to make another batch, so it’ll be about 3 minutes okay?”
“That’s fine.” I said drunkingly. “You want anything The Niles?” I turned to ask The Niles, who was busy beating the ever-living-fuck out of the dock owner for having built a dock so close to our approaching ship.
“Four ketchup packets!” He exclaimed mid-ever-living-fuck-beating. I took four ketchup packets from the condiments bar and threw them at his cargo shorts pocket, they went in perfectly. I then drank a bottle of scotch because the word bar made me long for Richey’s.
“Here’s your fries.” The Ashley said and handed me the large order of hot deliciousness.
“Thanks,“ I said and the hallucination disappeared, leaving me standing there with my fries.
“Let’s go find Tom.” Implied The Niles (implied meaning that The Niles didn’t really say anything, but more or less just nodded and moved his eyes in a way that said (to me at least) ‘Let’s go find Tom’).
“You want a French fry?” I implied back by leaning the cup of fries ever so carefully towards him and winking heterosexually. The
“Amazing!” Exclaimed Arbitrary Henchman #86, who had been lurking in the background the entire time. A bum in
What happened next is cloudy, The Niles and I blacked out due to sheer non-belief that an Arbitrary Henchman, especially Arbitrary Henchman #86 would even think about exclaiming in our presence. When we awoke, we were both drinking 21 year Glenlivet in a kiddy pool of Arbitrary Henchman #86’s blood, which sounds like a gruesome scene, but it was actually quite funny at the time. We all had a good laugh about it, even Ferocius – who took a break from the crying to have a chuckle.
So more implications of finding Tom were implicated or implied, fries were eaten, and scotch was of course drunk and drank drunkingly.
“Let’s check the bars.” The
“I have never heard a better idea!” I exclaimed, releasing from the sky a keg of PBR on a family of poor rednecks in central
“C’mon Ferocius!” I shouted, not wanting to waste exclaims on him.
So the three of us went up the road to the El Gracioso Pene bar to see if Tom was whoring about.
As we stepped into the bar we could just tell by the smell – a sort of orange sherbet and green bean aroma – that we were maybe or maybe not in the wrong place. So really the smell overall told us nothing about anything, it was just a strange odor that I thought was worth mentioning.
“It smells like Ferocius’ vagina.” Said The
“Hey! I don’t have a vagina, I have a penis, because I’m a guy – oh, fuck you!” Shouted Ferocius and retreated into a tissue with his tears.
The
“Hey!” Shouted a crusty looking and familiar faced person from behind the bar. “No Xanadu here! Take that Rush shit outside!”
“Why don’t we take you outside!” I shouted, and then I realized that this has been a most violent entry, what with the kiddy pool of blood and whatnot. “Give me a 1926 Macallan Scotch and I won’t beat the ever-living fuck out of you!”
The familiar faced bar keep waddled back and we could see tears welling up in his eyes.
”What a homo, haha.” Said The Niles, referencing the crying, because everyone knows that crying is gay.
“No, I’m not crying because I’m gay – well, I am gay maybe I suppose, or just really confused I think probably – look, only one of two people in the entire world order a scotch like that, and actually expect a bartender to have it on hand, and follow the order by threatening the bartender with having the living fuck beat out of him! The Boss and The
“Tom?” The
“Well jerk me off!” Tom the Penguin-fish shouted.
”Okay, I’ll jerk you off.” Ferocius said sullenly and started walking, head down, toward Tom with a bottle of Jergens.
”Ferocius, he wasn’t serious! You’re gross dude.” The
“I was only partly serious.” Tom said homosexually. “Anyways, what brings you guys to
The
-The Boss
Monday, January 26, 2009
Attack of the Lame!
The wind blew through The Boss’s hair as he posed dramatically on the bow of the S.S. Glen. Below him, there was nothing but the vast ocean and the faint sound of Neil Diamond scouring the sea for tasty morsels to devour such as lost sailors, poodles, and all-around good taste. Nothing can stop The Diamond, and The Boss and I shuddered at the sound of “Everywhere… around the world! They’re coming to America-a-a!” echoing ominously in the night air. I noticed Ferocious in the corner and the thought occurred to me to offer him to The Diamond as a sacrifice, hoping that The Diamond would leave us to our travels once and for all. However, Ferocious (being the disgusting man that he is) was sucking his toes again and I felt entirely too sick to approach him. Instead, I drinkingly and drunkingly took a large swig of 14 year Oban and continued looking out across the sea.
Suddenly and without warning (which is actually a very stupid cliché, but in this case was very necessary, as the occurrence did indeed happen suddenly, and none of the three of us were warned in any way) there was a large splash in the water behind us. The Boss, startled by the noise, nearly fell off the side of the ship, but was luckily hallucinating in a drunken stupor which enabled him to drunkingly grab hold of a giant mustache connected to the underside of a regular sized red chile pepper.
“Thanks pard’ner” The Boss said to the mustache, shaking it (in a manly way so as not to appear weak to the mustache which is inherently manly in itself) and then tipping his invisible sombrero to be polite. Another splash near the ship, and we all looked around in the night to see what was going on.
“Avast ye mates!” yelled a very large and sad looking man, illuminated by a spotlight held over him by Arbitrary Henchman #47. “It is I, Meatloaf the Pirate, and I’ll be having my way with your ship now.” He followed up.
“Dude, what do you mean by ‘having your way?’ What kind of sick bastard are you?” The Boss yelled back, and I laughed at the thought of Meatloaf gently caressing the haf of the S.S. Glen while singing a love song so bad that it could only be called something like “Flotation Love.”
“I’ll get him!” Ferocious tried to exclaim, but again failed and was then too distraught to follow through with his proclamation.
“You really do suck, don’t you?” I asked Ferocious, but he was too busy crying and telling himself how special he was.
“Now there’s not a dry eye in the house…” Meatloaf the Pirate was singing under the spotlight from his ship, the S.S. Hazbin, which also looked overweight. “After loves curtain comes down…”
“What the hell is that shit?” The Boss exclaimed loudly with pride, and the shear awesomeness of the exclaim caused Arbitrary Henchman #’s 56-72 to spontaneously combust. Ferocious was so impressed that he cried a little harder, stopped abruptly, shed one single tear in honor of the exclaim, stopped just as abruptly, and then proceeded with his lame sobbing for the duration of this entry.
Meatloaf the Pirate was taken back by the powerful exclaim, but regained his composure and hollered back to us (because only a complete tool like Meatloaf would do something like “holler” rather than yell or shout or exclaim, which he could never do), “that’s my hit song ‘Not a Dry Eye in the House’ from my internationally successful album, ‘Welcome to the Neighborhood.’ It was the second single off that album.”
“Yeah, sure you had another hit song.” I yelled back to him sarcastically. “And I’ll bet you were in a big-time movie like ‘Fight Club’ also too… You’re pathetic!”
“I was in ‘Fight Club!’ I swear!” He hollered back defensively, this time holding back sniveling tears.
The Boss and I looked at each other drunkingly, toasted to Richey’s with our respective single malts, said “Go-Go-Boss-and-Niles Spring Shoes!” in unison, and then lunged upward toward the S.S. Hazbin. Meatloaf the Pirate, in all his lameness, looked obviously nervous when he saw us lunge toward him with shear determination. However, this was short-lived, as The Boss and I are not mechanical and do not have springs in our shoes. Because of this, and the fact that the S.S. Hazbin was a good 30 yards away from us, we quickly fell into the ocean, hearing nothing but “Girl… (da, dow, dow, dow)… you’ll be a woman… soon!” coming up from the terrifying depths.
Meatloaf the Pirate was laughing stupidly at us as sharks, piranha, and Neil Diamond circled us hungrily. The Boss started doing the chicken dance, but realized you can’t chicken dance in the ocean without sinking, so he stopped.
“Well, I’m out of ideas.” He said to me, and I felt bad. Not only did I feel bad for him after his failed chicken dancing attempt, but I also felt bad simply because I really wanted to chicken dance, and I knew that if The Boss couldn’t do it, I couldn’t either. A shark grazed my foot and I felt Neil Diamond lurking close by. I quickly drank the rest of my bottle of scotch and no longer cared about the imminent danger I was in.
Just then, I had an idea! If only I could get up enough energy… I could…
“Hey Meatloaf!” I exclaimed as loudly as I could, and the exclaim was magnificent. I passed out from over-exclaimedness and an entire homeless family in Prague got an assortment of Saranak ales which came from the sky. I smiled as I lost consciousness, drifting under water and toward the gaping mouth of Neil Diamond.
I awoke on top of a raft, with The Boss using a giant piece of French bread to row us back toward the S.S. Glen.
“Where am I?” I asked The Boss, surprisingly drunkingly. I noticed that The Boss had done the right thing and given me scotch intravenously while I was passed out.
“The ocean.” The Boss replied, rowingly.
“Oh.” I said and looked around. It was then that I noticed that my exclaim had worked. The magnificence of my exclaim had forced Meatloaf the Pirate to fall into the water. He was immediately killed by Neil Diamond. The Boss was then able to lift me onto the floating body of the deceased pirate, safely shielding us from the hungry ocean dwellers. Knowing that Meatloaf never went anywhere without a giant piece of French bread, The Boss thought quickly (and drinkingly of course) and used it to row our Meatloaf raft back to our ship, the beasts from below gnawing away at the pathetic pirate the entire time.
Back on the S.S. Glen, we beat up Ferocious who was still crying. Then we proceeded to take all the liquor off the S.S. Hazbin, employ the crew which were all curiously named Arbitrary Henchman followed by a number, and sink the ship.
“Now we have a crew for our trip to South America.” I said to The Boss, and The Boss just drank more scotch. The Boss and I then gave an Arbitrary Henchman a bottle of scotch and then beat the ever living fuck out of him for it and threw him overboard, knowing that it would send the message to the rest of the crew that if they touched our scotch, they’d be the next to fall victim to the dreaded Neil Diamond. Onward we sailed, drinkingly and drunkingly to the point of extremes.
Suddenly and without warning (which is actually a very stupid cliché, but in this case was very necessary, as the occurrence did indeed happen suddenly, and none of the three of us were warned in any way) there was a large splash in the water behind us. The Boss, startled by the noise, nearly fell off the side of the ship, but was luckily hallucinating in a drunken stupor which enabled him to drunkingly grab hold of a giant mustache connected to the underside of a regular sized red chile pepper.
“Thanks pard’ner” The Boss said to the mustache, shaking it (in a manly way so as not to appear weak to the mustache which is inherently manly in itself) and then tipping his invisible sombrero to be polite. Another splash near the ship, and we all looked around in the night to see what was going on.
“Avast ye mates!” yelled a very large and sad looking man, illuminated by a spotlight held over him by Arbitrary Henchman #47. “It is I, Meatloaf the Pirate, and I’ll be having my way with your ship now.” He followed up.
“Dude, what do you mean by ‘having your way?’ What kind of sick bastard are you?” The Boss yelled back, and I laughed at the thought of Meatloaf gently caressing the haf of the S.S. Glen while singing a love song so bad that it could only be called something like “Flotation Love.”
“I’ll get him!” Ferocious tried to exclaim, but again failed and was then too distraught to follow through with his proclamation.
“You really do suck, don’t you?” I asked Ferocious, but he was too busy crying and telling himself how special he was.
“Now there’s not a dry eye in the house…” Meatloaf the Pirate was singing under the spotlight from his ship, the S.S. Hazbin, which also looked overweight. “After loves curtain comes down…”
“What the hell is that shit?” The Boss exclaimed loudly with pride, and the shear awesomeness of the exclaim caused Arbitrary Henchman #’s 56-72 to spontaneously combust. Ferocious was so impressed that he cried a little harder, stopped abruptly, shed one single tear in honor of the exclaim, stopped just as abruptly, and then proceeded with his lame sobbing for the duration of this entry.
Meatloaf the Pirate was taken back by the powerful exclaim, but regained his composure and hollered back to us (because only a complete tool like Meatloaf would do something like “holler” rather than yell or shout or exclaim, which he could never do), “that’s my hit song ‘Not a Dry Eye in the House’ from my internationally successful album, ‘Welcome to the Neighborhood.’ It was the second single off that album.”
“Yeah, sure you had another hit song.” I yelled back to him sarcastically. “And I’ll bet you were in a big-time movie like ‘Fight Club’ also too… You’re pathetic!”
“I was in ‘Fight Club!’ I swear!” He hollered back defensively, this time holding back sniveling tears.
The Boss and I looked at each other drunkingly, toasted to Richey’s with our respective single malts, said “Go-Go-Boss-and-Niles Spring Shoes!” in unison, and then lunged upward toward the S.S. Hazbin. Meatloaf the Pirate, in all his lameness, looked obviously nervous when he saw us lunge toward him with shear determination. However, this was short-lived, as The Boss and I are not mechanical and do not have springs in our shoes. Because of this, and the fact that the S.S. Hazbin was a good 30 yards away from us, we quickly fell into the ocean, hearing nothing but “Girl… (da, dow, dow, dow)… you’ll be a woman… soon!” coming up from the terrifying depths.
Meatloaf the Pirate was laughing stupidly at us as sharks, piranha, and Neil Diamond circled us hungrily. The Boss started doing the chicken dance, but realized you can’t chicken dance in the ocean without sinking, so he stopped.
“Well, I’m out of ideas.” He said to me, and I felt bad. Not only did I feel bad for him after his failed chicken dancing attempt, but I also felt bad simply because I really wanted to chicken dance, and I knew that if The Boss couldn’t do it, I couldn’t either. A shark grazed my foot and I felt Neil Diamond lurking close by. I quickly drank the rest of my bottle of scotch and no longer cared about the imminent danger I was in.
Just then, I had an idea! If only I could get up enough energy… I could…
“Hey Meatloaf!” I exclaimed as loudly as I could, and the exclaim was magnificent. I passed out from over-exclaimedness and an entire homeless family in Prague got an assortment of Saranak ales which came from the sky. I smiled as I lost consciousness, drifting under water and toward the gaping mouth of Neil Diamond.
I awoke on top of a raft, with The Boss using a giant piece of French bread to row us back toward the S.S. Glen.
“Where am I?” I asked The Boss, surprisingly drunkingly. I noticed that The Boss had done the right thing and given me scotch intravenously while I was passed out.
“The ocean.” The Boss replied, rowingly.
“Oh.” I said and looked around. It was then that I noticed that my exclaim had worked. The magnificence of my exclaim had forced Meatloaf the Pirate to fall into the water. He was immediately killed by Neil Diamond. The Boss was then able to lift me onto the floating body of the deceased pirate, safely shielding us from the hungry ocean dwellers. Knowing that Meatloaf never went anywhere without a giant piece of French bread, The Boss thought quickly (and drinkingly of course) and used it to row our Meatloaf raft back to our ship, the beasts from below gnawing away at the pathetic pirate the entire time.
Back on the S.S. Glen, we beat up Ferocious who was still crying. Then we proceeded to take all the liquor off the S.S. Hazbin, employ the crew which were all curiously named Arbitrary Henchman followed by a number, and sink the ship.
“Now we have a crew for our trip to South America.” I said to The Boss, and The Boss just drank more scotch. The Boss and I then gave an Arbitrary Henchman a bottle of scotch and then beat the ever living fuck out of him for it and threw him overboard, knowing that it would send the message to the rest of the crew that if they touched our scotch, they’d be the next to fall victim to the dreaded Neil Diamond. Onward we sailed, drinkingly and drunkingly to the point of extremes.
Monday, January 12, 2009
Slightly Thickened Plot
The last time anyone had seen that gay little penguin-fish Tom was over two years ago at a bar in Laos. Before that he was in southern South America, and was whoring himself out to anyone and everyone for things such as peppermint schnapps, black and mild cigars, and back issues of Highlights kids magazines.
"We may never find that damned penguin-fish." I said to The Niles and to Ferocius.
The Niles wasn't listening as I said my very dramatic declaration of us possibly never finding Tom the Penguin-fish, as he was too busy throwing up in the corner from the sudden sobriety that had overcome him. I threw him a bottle of 18 year Macallan and mid-puke he grabbed the bottle and pukingly drank half, or haf, and stopped puking.
"Thanks." Said The Niles, now completely drunk and feeling much much better. "So you think Tom the Penguin-fish is still in Laos, or back in South America?"
"I really have no idea and could care less, but he's apparent-fuckingly the only person, or thing, since he's not really a person but more so a penguin-fish, and only he can open this stupid box." I said very upset.
The Niles comforted me in only the way a Niles can, with scotch of course, but that’s not really important here. What was important, was that we were in the middle of a god forsaken ocean, with a god forsaken Ferocius DeSoto, and in need of finding a possibly – and most likely – gay penguin-fish who may or may not be completely drunk off of peppermint schnapps and in the middle of a South American all male orgy. I looked at Ferocius and asked the one question I really did not want to ask of him.
“Can you steer the S.S. Glen to South America?”
“Where’s South America?” Ferocius asked, mid toe suck.
“Are you seriously serious?” The Niles asked and slapped Ferocius across the face and then added, “you very disgusting man!” The post slap exclaim was so perfect that it actually caused Osama bin Laden to convert to Mormonism and then kill himself for being an infidel.
“South America,” Ferocius continued. “That’s by Africa right?”
The Niles and I realized that Ferocius was most definitely an idiot, and we made our way to the bridge. Well, first we got lost again looking for a real bridge and upon not finding any real bridges aboard the ship decided that the “bridge” of the ship was most likely behind a door that read: BRIDGE.
“What a stupid name for a completely un-bridgelike place!” The Niles and I exclaimed with exuberance. A faint “thanks The Boss and The Niles!” was heard as Alan Cummings in St. Paul, Minnesota was awarded a Miller High Life, or better yet a Champagne of Beers; by which I mean pee in a bottle. The thanks from Mr. Cummings was then followed by a “shit!”. Our exclaim wasn’t the best; but they can’t all be great. Alan Cummings, being homeless, shouldn’t complain about his free beer, regardless of what kind of beer it was. Sometimes life throws you wonderful Belgian white ale and sometimes it’s nothing but Natural Ice. He should, instead, be counting his blessings that free beer sometimes happens and –
“The Boss!?” The Niles was tugging on my sleeve. “Whom are you talking to?”
“Whom?” I said.
So we looked at the control panel on the bridge of the mighty S.S. Glen and somehow managed to drunkingly make the ship move forward. The Niles pointed to a map. “There’s South America.”
-The Boss
"We may never find that damned penguin-fish." I said to The Niles and to Ferocius.
The Niles wasn't listening as I said my very dramatic declaration of us possibly never finding Tom the Penguin-fish, as he was too busy throwing up in the corner from the sudden sobriety that had overcome him. I threw him a bottle of 18 year Macallan and mid-puke he grabbed the bottle and pukingly drank half, or haf, and stopped puking.
"Thanks." Said The Niles, now completely drunk and feeling much much better. "So you think Tom the Penguin-fish is still in Laos, or back in South America?"
"I really have no idea and could care less, but he's apparent-fuckingly the only person, or thing, since he's not really a person but more so a penguin-fish, and only he can open this stupid box." I said very upset.
The Niles comforted me in only the way a Niles can, with scotch of course, but that’s not really important here. What was important, was that we were in the middle of a god forsaken ocean, with a god forsaken Ferocius DeSoto, and in need of finding a possibly – and most likely – gay penguin-fish who may or may not be completely drunk off of peppermint schnapps and in the middle of a South American all male orgy. I looked at Ferocius and asked the one question I really did not want to ask of him.
“Can you steer the S.S. Glen to South America?”
“Where’s South America?” Ferocius asked, mid toe suck.
“Are you seriously serious?” The Niles asked and slapped Ferocius across the face and then added, “you very disgusting man!” The post slap exclaim was so perfect that it actually caused Osama bin Laden to convert to Mormonism and then kill himself for being an infidel.
“South America,” Ferocius continued. “That’s by Africa right?”
The Niles and I realized that Ferocius was most definitely an idiot, and we made our way to the bridge. Well, first we got lost again looking for a real bridge and upon not finding any real bridges aboard the ship decided that the “bridge” of the ship was most likely behind a door that read: BRIDGE.
“What a stupid name for a completely un-bridgelike place!” The Niles and I exclaimed with exuberance. A faint “thanks The Boss and The Niles!” was heard as Alan Cummings in St. Paul, Minnesota was awarded a Miller High Life, or better yet a Champagne of Beers; by which I mean pee in a bottle. The thanks from Mr. Cummings was then followed by a “shit!”. Our exclaim wasn’t the best; but they can’t all be great. Alan Cummings, being homeless, shouldn’t complain about his free beer, regardless of what kind of beer it was. Sometimes life throws you wonderful Belgian white ale and sometimes it’s nothing but Natural Ice. He should, instead, be counting his blessings that free beer sometimes happens and –
“The Boss!?” The Niles was tugging on my sleeve. “Whom are you talking to?”
“Whom?” I said.
So we looked at the control panel on the bridge of the mighty S.S. Glen and somehow managed to drunkingly make the ship move forward. The Niles pointed to a map. “There’s South America.”
-The Boss
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
The Plot Thickens… or Thinnens… or Somethingens…
“…you mean a haf.” I corrected Ferocius.
“What do you mean?” He asked stupidly. The Boss and I looked at each other and just shook our heads, shakingly.
“Ferocius, you haven’t changed at all.” The Boss muttered drinkingly, and we headed down to the haf to take a gander (which is a silly word that I hate using, but to be honest we weren’t really “looking,” nor were we “gazing” or “staring” leaving me to reluctantly settle on the word “gander”) at whatever the evil, yet somehow amusing, Ferocius was talking about.
As we entered the haf of the S.S. Glen, our newly acquired ship, Ferocius stopped at a box and began digging through it. The Boss and I looked drunkingly at each other and we noticed a bottle of 10 year Ardberg on the shelf behind Ferocius and his special box that he was looking through. Without pre-emptively gandering into the box because we didn’t want to spoil the surprise, The Boss went to the left of Ferocius, while I veered off to the right. The Boss pulled out a walkie-talkie and tossed it to me drunkingly, bouncing it off of Ferocius’ head.
“Ow, you assholes!” Ferocius tried to exclaim, but ended up whining because no one can properly exclaim in the presence of The Boss and The Niles. We stood there and The Boss told him that we were trees… boat trees! And that the walkie-talkie in my hand didn’t bounce off his head and that it in no way had anything to do with our plan to get the bottle of Ardberg, because there was no such plan.
Upset and pretty much lame as usual, Ferocius shed a few tears at his lack of exclaiming ability, then got back to his searching.
The Boss laughed and said loudly to me, “Ferocius is such an idiot!” This of course was heard by Ferocius who then just cried a little louder, cry-baby that he is.
Sobriety beginning to set in, The Boss and I knew that we had to get to that bottle of Ardberg. The Boss quickly lunged forward, crashing head first into the shelf, causing the bottle of precious single malt scotch to roll down the other side of the shelf into my awaiting hands. I drinkingly drank haf of the bottle and tossed the rest to a now unconscious The Boss. Being unconscious didn’t stop The Boss from catching and drinking the rest of the bottle however. The scotch revived him and there were several moments of exuberance and all around joy at the awakening of The Boss.
“Why didn’t you guys just grab the bottle off of the shelf?” Ferocius asked, now apparently done with his girlie tears. “I mean… you can totally reach the shelf, I don’t see why you needed to plow into it like that.” It was then that I noticed Ferocius was holding a mystical looking box that had engravings all around it. The Boss and I looked at each other knowingly and compulsively beat the ever-living fuck out of him and took his shit.
“I was going to give it to you guys anyway!” Ferocius complained, but he knew that it was just the way of The Boss and The Niles, and that ever-living fuck beating and taking of shit was just part of the grand sheme of things. He pouted in the corner, sucking one of his toes, because he’s a disgusting man.
“What do you think it is?” The Boss asked.
“It’s a very disgusting man sucking his toe.” I replied. “But I want to know what this thing is. It looks like it opens, but what do these markings mean?”
The Boss had found a bottle of 12 year Glenfiddich and was drinkingly examining the box. “I think it’s in English.” He said.
“How odd.” I said. “Normally, these mystical thingies are in some crazy language that we need help translating. Ferocius, do you speak English?”
“Dude, WE speak English.” The Boss informed me and he was indeed correct. As we looked at the strange engravings, we realized that we were actually able to read them very easily. The engravings read:
“Only a fish or a penguin shall have the ability to open this box.”
“Only a fish or a penguin, huh?” Ferocius repeated. The Boss and I shook our heads and after I gave the secret sign of nodding with a thumbs-up and a wink with a whizzing noise, The Boss returned the sign and it was decided to beat the ever living fuck out of him again.
“Never… (punch, kick) repeat… (smack, hit) things already… (pound, smash) read!” The Boss wailed on Ferocius.
“Yeah, even if it’s just so that the reader knows the key element of the statement above it, thereby strategically setting up the next line that the protagonists are going to say!” I added drinkingly. I thought about adding some kicks in there, but I became afraid of Ferocius’ obvious toe fetish, and because once again… he’s a very disgusting man.
The Boss finally stopped beating Ferocius and said, “now that he’s identified the important aspect for my line, that being “ONLY a fish or a penguin,” I’m ready to say the strategically set up line. What about a Penguin-Fish?”
“Tom!” The Boss and I both exclaimed in unison, then proceeded to do a little air band display for an on-looking Ferocius. The Boss’ air saxophone is getting a lot better and Ferocius was obviously impressed. Also, at the completion of every The Boss and/or The Niles exclaim, a bum gets a beer. So at the completion of this exclaim, Albert Hunt in Baltimore was able to enjoy a Hoegaarden.
“Thanks guys!” Albert said up to the sky, and we somehow heard it and smiled. Ferocius resumed his crying at the beauty of it all.
The Boss and I looked very seriously forward in unison, almost as if there was a camera in front of us, and I said in a manner that would only be fitting to end a segment with, “Let’s go find Tom the Penguin-Fish.”
-The Niles
“What do you mean?” He asked stupidly. The Boss and I looked at each other and just shook our heads, shakingly.
“Ferocius, you haven’t changed at all.” The Boss muttered drinkingly, and we headed down to the haf to take a gander (which is a silly word that I hate using, but to be honest we weren’t really “looking,” nor were we “gazing” or “staring” leaving me to reluctantly settle on the word “gander”) at whatever the evil, yet somehow amusing, Ferocius was talking about.
As we entered the haf of the S.S. Glen, our newly acquired ship, Ferocius stopped at a box and began digging through it. The Boss and I looked drunkingly at each other and we noticed a bottle of 10 year Ardberg on the shelf behind Ferocius and his special box that he was looking through. Without pre-emptively gandering into the box because we didn’t want to spoil the surprise, The Boss went to the left of Ferocius, while I veered off to the right. The Boss pulled out a walkie-talkie and tossed it to me drunkingly, bouncing it off of Ferocius’ head.
“Ow, you assholes!” Ferocius tried to exclaim, but ended up whining because no one can properly exclaim in the presence of The Boss and The Niles. We stood there and The Boss told him that we were trees… boat trees! And that the walkie-talkie in my hand didn’t bounce off his head and that it in no way had anything to do with our plan to get the bottle of Ardberg, because there was no such plan.
Upset and pretty much lame as usual, Ferocius shed a few tears at his lack of exclaiming ability, then got back to his searching.
The Boss laughed and said loudly to me, “Ferocius is such an idiot!” This of course was heard by Ferocius who then just cried a little louder, cry-baby that he is.
Sobriety beginning to set in, The Boss and I knew that we had to get to that bottle of Ardberg. The Boss quickly lunged forward, crashing head first into the shelf, causing the bottle of precious single malt scotch to roll down the other side of the shelf into my awaiting hands. I drinkingly drank haf of the bottle and tossed the rest to a now unconscious The Boss. Being unconscious didn’t stop The Boss from catching and drinking the rest of the bottle however. The scotch revived him and there were several moments of exuberance and all around joy at the awakening of The Boss.
“Why didn’t you guys just grab the bottle off of the shelf?” Ferocius asked, now apparently done with his girlie tears. “I mean… you can totally reach the shelf, I don’t see why you needed to plow into it like that.” It was then that I noticed Ferocius was holding a mystical looking box that had engravings all around it. The Boss and I looked at each other knowingly and compulsively beat the ever-living fuck out of him and took his shit.
“I was going to give it to you guys anyway!” Ferocius complained, but he knew that it was just the way of The Boss and The Niles, and that ever-living fuck beating and taking of shit was just part of the grand sheme of things. He pouted in the corner, sucking one of his toes, because he’s a disgusting man.
“What do you think it is?” The Boss asked.
“It’s a very disgusting man sucking his toe.” I replied. “But I want to know what this thing is. It looks like it opens, but what do these markings mean?”
The Boss had found a bottle of 12 year Glenfiddich and was drinkingly examining the box. “I think it’s in English.” He said.
“How odd.” I said. “Normally, these mystical thingies are in some crazy language that we need help translating. Ferocius, do you speak English?”
“Dude, WE speak English.” The Boss informed me and he was indeed correct. As we looked at the strange engravings, we realized that we were actually able to read them very easily. The engravings read:
“Only a fish or a penguin shall have the ability to open this box.”
“Only a fish or a penguin, huh?” Ferocius repeated. The Boss and I shook our heads and after I gave the secret sign of nodding with a thumbs-up and a wink with a whizzing noise, The Boss returned the sign and it was decided to beat the ever living fuck out of him again.
“Never… (punch, kick) repeat… (smack, hit) things already… (pound, smash) read!” The Boss wailed on Ferocius.
“Yeah, even if it’s just so that the reader knows the key element of the statement above it, thereby strategically setting up the next line that the protagonists are going to say!” I added drinkingly. I thought about adding some kicks in there, but I became afraid of Ferocius’ obvious toe fetish, and because once again… he’s a very disgusting man.
The Boss finally stopped beating Ferocius and said, “now that he’s identified the important aspect for my line, that being “ONLY a fish or a penguin,” I’m ready to say the strategically set up line. What about a Penguin-Fish?”
“Tom!” The Boss and I both exclaimed in unison, then proceeded to do a little air band display for an on-looking Ferocius. The Boss’ air saxophone is getting a lot better and Ferocius was obviously impressed. Also, at the completion of every The Boss and/or The Niles exclaim, a bum gets a beer. So at the completion of this exclaim, Albert Hunt in Baltimore was able to enjoy a Hoegaarden.
“Thanks guys!” Albert said up to the sky, and we somehow heard it and smiled. Ferocius resumed his crying at the beauty of it all.
The Boss and I looked very seriously forward in unison, almost as if there was a camera in front of us, and I said in a manner that would only be fitting to end a segment with, “Let’s go find Tom the Penguin-Fish.”
-The Niles
Sunday, January 4, 2009
21 Year Glenwaffle
The ocean swayed and rose and sank, as oceans do especially out on the high-seas; somewhere in the distance a gull of some sort gulled and probably crapped on somebody.
“Did you hear that gull?” I asked The Niles drinkingly, then downing more of my now cooled off waffle-scotch concoction; I asked again, only drunkingly.
“I almost didn’t hear you,” said The Niles. “But I heard that damned gull and know we must be close to land, and more significantly we must close to those god-awful cannibals!”
“Yes, I think it’s only natural that we have a mighty ship with a less mighty hull, since it’s really only a haf, and the ship of mights must have a name like the S.S. Glen.” I glanced at The Niles and nodded and thumbs-upped and winked and made a whizzing noise. The Niles returned the secret knowing gesture that told him we were about to beat the ever-living fuck out of an entire crew of sober sailors and kidnap the very captain of the S.S. Glen and take his shit – namely, the S.S. Glen, which I just said.
The ensuing battle between The Niles and I with the crew of the S.S. Glen went much as we expected it to go. The crew was a mighty opponent, however much too sober and with too many letters missing from their names. Glen (with only one n), for instance, went overboard quickly and met a terrible and bloody death at the hands of The Neil Diamond Shark (or really he met the death at the fins, and more so really at the teeth of The Neil Diamond Shark, since with sharks it’s really the teeth that do the killing more than the fins; which really don’t do any killing, they just sort of sit there. The only real difference between say, a hammerhead shark and The Neil Diamond Shark is that the hammerhead just eats you and its fins do nothing, while The Neil Diamond Shark’s fins are used for dancing while he sings to you, right before he uses those teeth I mentioned earlier to eat you). So that’s how Glen died.
Then Scot, Tery, Bil, Jery, Hary, and Jef (a different Jef from the Jef that was in the bar) all died from having the ever-living fuck beat out of them by The Niles, while I drank and looked cool in the background, and of course cursed The Jovi’s name at every chance.
“I’ll take the captain,” I said darkly and drunkingly.
“I’ll back you up,” The Niles said also darkly and drunkingly.
We made our way to the bridge of the S.S. Glen, which we almost never found because it actually looks nothing at all like a bridge and serves a completely un-bridge-like purpose. We broke down the door and immediately jumped behind some stuff that was piled up on both sides of the room, which was perfect for jumping behind to dodge the bullets that the captain was firing at us.
“Die you fucking bastards!” The captain shouted shooting wildly at the piles of stuff, I guess not realizing that the bullets couldn’t penetrate the stuff.
“Ferocius?” I shouted.
“Huh?” Shouted the captain, still shooting.
“Captain Ferocius DeSoto?” I exclaimed so well that the punctuation called for a question mark.
I stood and looked at the captain, it was Ferocius DeSoto, the world-renowned explorer and adventurer and all around complete asshole.
“The Boss and The Niles! What could you possibly be doing here?” He asked.
“We came in search of Glengodly.” Said The Niles.
“The Scotch of the Gods.” I said.
“Glengodly.” Ferocius said. “I always wondered something, and now I think I know the answer. C’mon, follow me down to the hull.”
--The Boss
“Did you hear that gull?” I asked The Niles drinkingly, then downing more of my now cooled off waffle-scotch concoction; I asked again, only drunkingly.
“I almost didn’t hear you,” said The Niles. “But I heard that damned gull and know we must be close to land, and more significantly we must close to those god-awful cannibals!”
“Yes, I think it’s only natural that we have a mighty ship with a less mighty hull, since it’s really only a haf, and the ship of mights must have a name like the S.S. Glen.” I glanced at The Niles and nodded and thumbs-upped and winked and made a whizzing noise. The Niles returned the secret knowing gesture that told him we were about to beat the ever-living fuck out of an entire crew of sober sailors and kidnap the very captain of the S.S. Glen and take his shit – namely, the S.S. Glen, which I just said.
The ensuing battle between The Niles and I with the crew of the S.S. Glen went much as we expected it to go. The crew was a mighty opponent, however much too sober and with too many letters missing from their names. Glen (with only one n), for instance, went overboard quickly and met a terrible and bloody death at the hands of The Neil Diamond Shark (or really he met the death at the fins, and more so really at the teeth of The Neil Diamond Shark, since with sharks it’s really the teeth that do the killing more than the fins; which really don’t do any killing, they just sort of sit there. The only real difference between say, a hammerhead shark and The Neil Diamond Shark is that the hammerhead just eats you and its fins do nothing, while The Neil Diamond Shark’s fins are used for dancing while he sings to you, right before he uses those teeth I mentioned earlier to eat you). So that’s how Glen died.
Then Scot, Tery, Bil, Jery, Hary, and Jef (a different Jef from the Jef that was in the bar) all died from having the ever-living fuck beat out of them by The Niles, while I drank and looked cool in the background, and of course cursed The Jovi’s name at every chance.
“I’ll take the captain,” I said darkly and drunkingly.
“I’ll back you up,” The Niles said also darkly and drunkingly.
We made our way to the bridge of the S.S. Glen, which we almost never found because it actually looks nothing at all like a bridge and serves a completely un-bridge-like purpose. We broke down the door and immediately jumped behind some stuff that was piled up on both sides of the room, which was perfect for jumping behind to dodge the bullets that the captain was firing at us.
“Die you fucking bastards!” The captain shouted shooting wildly at the piles of stuff, I guess not realizing that the bullets couldn’t penetrate the stuff.
“Ferocius?” I shouted.
“Huh?” Shouted the captain, still shooting.
“Captain Ferocius DeSoto?” I exclaimed so well that the punctuation called for a question mark.
I stood and looked at the captain, it was Ferocius DeSoto, the world-renowned explorer and adventurer and all around complete asshole.
“The Boss and The Niles! What could you possibly be doing here?” He asked.
“We came in search of Glengodly.” Said The Niles.
“The Scotch of the Gods.” I said.
“Glengodly.” Ferocius said. “I always wondered something, and now I think I know the answer. C’mon, follow me down to the hull.”
--The Boss
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