Chapter 8
| The Story | The Authors |
|---|---|
| Not to be outdone by mere cetaceans, however, Donovan and Li'l Debbie raced each other over the waves in furious pursuit, Donovan calling upon the spirit of the sea, Thalassa, Thalassa, to steer him and speed him, while Debbie threw hairbrushes and pairs of pumps at her handmaidens and swore in a manner which would have made even that old salty dog Cap'n Cupcake blush the color of a freshly boiled lobster. | |
|
Come back to meeeeeeeeeee, lover man [sang Li'l Debbie; quite torchily, I might add] I'll hold you alllllll night long I'll rock you in my arms With a mother's sweet lullabye songs
And when you get old and fat (fat-fat1)
I'll love you short or tall | |
| The men in the audience were going crazy! Debbie found herself pelted by jockeys, boxers, and jock straps, all thrown by her adoring male constituency. The women started screaming, "Floozy!" "Tramp! "Slut!" But did Debbie care? No. All she cared about was the adulation. This was the love she always needed. The love she always deserved. And nothing was going to prevent her from getting it! | |
| But wait! Was that her father out there in the audience? She would die if it was her dad. Debbie shielded her eyes with her hand and tried to see past the blazing stage lights. The lights which protected her from seeing most of the disgustingly sweaty men who always came to watch her perform. She walked to the edge of the stage in order to see better. It was her dad, she was sure of it. He had a pair of whitey-tighteys in hand and was preparing to toss them to the stage. "Daddy?" she asked in a small, confused voice. The microphone carried her voice across the audience and a hush fell over the crowd. | |
| Mr Tickles had never been much of one for sexual role playing, but somehow when L'il Debbie looked at him and said "Daddy?" it ignited a long dormant desire in him. His prodigious member surged in his velvet trousers. Donavan sulked a bit strumming idly on his sitar. | |
| Mr. Tickles lobbed his underwear onto the stage. To the crowd it was like slow-motion, perhaps because it was slow-motion. Mr. Tickles loved the slow-motion effect - it made everything take longer. All eyes were upon the pair of soiled linen drifting through the air. From the corner of their collective "eye" the audience saw Li'l Debbie reach up with painful slowness to catch the underwear. It seemed to be taking forever, in a way rivalled only by Heinz ketchup. The BVD's unfolded beautifully just before they started the descent to her outstretched hand. L'il Debbie wondered where all of the product placement was coming from. The underwear was now almost into her hand, she could almost smell them. Mr. Tickles was salivating. And then a voice from the crowd ... "NOOOOOO!!! Lit-tle Debbie don't catch them, it's a trap!!!" Only one person had ever enunciated her nickname like that. But, he'd been missing for a long time. She quickly scanned the crowd, it was him. But how? There holding a sitar and a Donovan mask was her long lost lover - Jake. "I thought you were studying." was all she said as the underwear fell to the stage and Mr. Tickles cursed. | |
|
...Why the dwarf's fantasies always took place on stages, even when he was on this 'uncharted desert isle,' cannot be fully understood without reference to the chapters on the importance of the reverse-voyeurismic audience syndrome in Kraft-Ebbings' landmark Psychopathia Sexualis. Unfortunately, my ex, Heather, currently getting her MS is Psychology and Vampirism at the University of Transylvania, saw fit to run off, simulataneously, with my copy of the Psychopathia and my roommate Jeb, leaving me wracked with despair and completely helpless when it comes to explaining the psychological nittygritty of Mr. Tickles onanistic objectification of women and stages. Nevertheless... Donovan, bored and boorish, was suffering greatly at that moment, perhaps even more greatly than he'd suffered when his idol Bob Dylan made a complete fool of Donovan in Don't Look Back. And why, you are perhaps asking yourself, as I wring my own pale and liverspotted hands and ask myself, why did he suffer so? Because the poor bard had not sung in over and hour, and he could bear it no longer. A ballad of elves, damsels, and chickens was bursting in him, building up pressure, seeping out of his pores in the form of a noxious sweat that was quite indistinguishable from B.O. The poor soul! The tortured troubadour! The uncaring audience! But -- 'as sure as sheep be womens,' as his grandfather used to say -- he'd show them... |
2