|The Story||The Authors|
All present (and conscious) in the room were about to relax when the son of God -- well, it was really only his head (and what's with the thorns, for fuck's sake, thought Mike; aren't they just a wee bit passé after all this time?) -- suddenly reappeared from the as-yet-undissipated clouds of smoke and incense, opened his mouth to the length of fifty-seven cubits and to the width of forthy-three cubits and to the depth of seven times seven hundred and seventy cubits (wherein they could see, all except the weak-eyed Freres Gromelsky, the frantic, gleaming chrome-and-tile workshops of the dwarves beneath Epcot Center) and winked at them, and bellowed;|
And these were words which issued forth from our Lord's mouth, yea, followed by a blast of fire, double-yea, and a stampede of seven-headed ewes, and the Lamb of God repeated again his warning;
"Fidgetting, Nose-Picking, and Tormental Rectal Itch -- The tell-tale signs of pin-worms!"
Thus spake the Son of God, and thence vanished he, back into the clouds of smoke and incense;
And his children, the cherubim, yea and verily wert also returned into the swirling cloud of smoke and incense and thence to Heaven, truly with all the pomp and ceremony normally associated with the panicked noise of a swarm of gnats being sucked into a spacious vacuum hose;
A fearsome thunderclap rent the sky above them (even though they were inside), and all material evidence of the manifestion of Jesus Christ Our Lord Son Of God and Grande Poo-Bah of the Water Buffalo Lounge vanished, leaving only the sign of His words branded upon their hearts. For the Word is made flesh; and the flesh is fickle; and the fickle get fucked; and the fucked are wont to awaken in strange places wearing red rubber clown-noses that they can't remove and with sore crusty bums that leave stained evidence of an unidentifiable substance neither solid liquid nor gas in their underpants for weeks afterwards; therefore, at it is writ, the Word is never what it purports to be. In other words -- even the shrapnel felt a chill run down his spine at the combined thought of pinworms and the Iron Sausage. At the base of Mike's spine it tried to curl into a small metal ball but to no avail; all these wasted motions of the shrapnel's did was to cause the body of Mike to jerk and macareña after the shambling fashion of a dyskinetic puppet before die Brüdern Gromelsky, who were not in the least amused.
|As I see this crying monkey hanging off my arm, I wonder why it is here shitting on my mom. I throw the monkey away and take out a new one, and it cleans up my mom and wants to get it on. As it takes out its dick...i run far away and i say to myself "My my my...what a day!!" I go home to find the monkey and my mother, sitting on the swing with her legs wrapped around her. I cry and i scream and I yell why? .....THEN I WAKE UP!!! ¡¢£¤¥¦§¨©ª«¬®¯°±²³´¦¶·¸¹º»¼½¾ÀÁ|
|"I always knew Jesus was a raving lunatic." Peaches said under his breath.|
|Just then there were four knocks at the door. The brothers Gromelsky arose from their chair (crusty bottoms and all) to answer #1 "Who..." #2 "..is.." #3 "..it?" By this time the door had been opened by Vishnu's first and favorite arm. "Excuse me, but I am being lost. Are you able to tell me how I am going to this place what is called Studio 54? I am knowing that this is a good place to meet women." The other 3 arms conducted a finger-snapping ritual known only to those who have climbed the highest peaks of the Himalayas as the "three snaps way up".|
At the mention of The 3 Snaps Up, the ears of Peaches, those large fleshy lobes, opened to their widest and drew forward like sunflowers toward the sun. As a recovering alcoholic of ten years, Peaches had only recently been indoctrinated into the secret sexual "13th Step" which 12-Steppers of the Inner Sanctum guard more zealously than Freemasonry does its responsibility for the major political assasinations of this century and the last. Even among that elite AA company, however, the Three Snaps Up were mentioned, if at all, in the most mumbled and fearful of tones.|
On the floor, Officer Pencilthinmoustache stirred. His nostrils quivered above the moustache he'd cultivated since his days singing tenor with the HR Pufnstuf Barbershop Quartet. He smelled smoething. He knew that smell. But what in Her Majesty Queen Victoria's name was it?