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.
Monday, January 26, 2009
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
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)