Saturday, March 22, 2003
The Politically Correct Gingerbread Person
Part 6
"I'm going to need the 22-caliber piston-freeload autmomatic assault rifle."
Now, Bob the guns salesman had always known that the day would come when the stench from The New York sewers would finnally be victorious. He had hoped it would not be so soon.
The small ginger-bread cookie stared blandly up from the desk before him, instantly dissolving 15 years of therapy, as it directed it's dis-jointed arm towards the nearby wall of what Bob so lovingly referred to as, "Look what I brought home for the kids!"
"Umm...of...of course, are you sure you'd like such a lar...large device, sir," Bob's mouth closed around his teeth as his hands did similar to Aunt Bessie's Thigh Bone (sharpened, of course) which he kept under the desk for just such an occasion (that being that a small ginger-bread cookie should crawl up on his counter and begin to demand heavy and illegal fire-arms).
The ginger-bread man made a gesture which is marked innappropriate for the vie---wait a minute...WHAT viewing audience? As if anyone would ever actually READ this piece of crap, let alone this far, and if they did, I somehow have to doubt that their level of integrity is so high that they could not handle the obscene image of a cookie giving a gun salesman the finger, so, umm...
The cookie gave the gunsalesman the finger.
Now, Bob was not one to take insults well (as his Aunt Bessie has learned the hard way) and his rage suddenly clouded his delirium for a moment, and he fludily swung forth Aunt Bessie's Thigh, in one motion dragging through the (New York's not gettin' any better) cottage-cheese like atmosphere, and onto the small creature's skull.
Suddenly, Bob felt an unreasonable pain his kidneys.
He considered, briefly, as blood flowed up over his lips, whether he had eaten anything strange in particular today. Hmm...let's see...Turkey, Pizza...oh, that dog he had found on the side of the road (can't let good meat go to waste ((even if it's not dead yet))).
Nope, food definetly wasn't the answer.
He gazed down rather giddily towards his stomach, where he noticed he had apparently grown a rather fine replica of Aunt Bessie's THigh. As the blood finnally exploded from his nose and his kidney's popped, he wondered what he had done to deserve this. With that, a blindly flash of light filled his vision and a warm yet tense voice spoke within his mind.
"MY SON, THESE ARE THE DEEDS BECOMING OF THIS EVEN-"
"You know what, never mind," Bob stated, and quietly passed out as he watched the cookie quietly reloading the rifles and begginning to browse through the semi-automatics.
It was one of those days.
Sunday, March 16, 2003
The Politically Correct Gingerbread Person
Part 5
Mr. Nickson had had a happy childhood in the sense that one can have a pleasant bowel movement.
At the age of 2 he had awoken in the middle of the night to find his mother and father doing a strange and hypnotic dance to their lord "Binky, the Stuffed Elephant" and had watched as they sacrificed a pound of tofu to their heavenly saviour. This had created an interesting effect upon him. For one, he now had the strangest urge to bow to large elephants that appeared to stuffed with foam (Also known as Rabid), and had the oddest belief that all problems could be solved through the implemenation of Tofu (which his old boss, the bloated dead man formerly known as Bob, found out the hard way).
But, besides this, he was a good man.
He enjoyed all the casual pleasures of the day; kicking small children, spitting in beggars' faces, urinating on public monuments, and he did so with a zealous that was becoming to the American spirit (that little scrap of brown plastered to the bottom of the garbage can). He foritified wihtin himself a fondness for pornography shops on every corner, and, using his own devised method of a turkey tenderer and a car-jack, worked at degrading the area of his brain labeled "Creativity".
But, he had always wished for something more.
He had always dreamed there was something beyond the usual infliction of pain to small animals, where it was legal to fill your cheating wife with 3 tons of tofu and set her adrift to sea (But that's another story), somewhere where a man could be a man, and live his life upon his OWN moral beliefs.
Then, he found the Jersey Turnpike.
It represented everything that a man could possibly wish for. He did not know how he had wandered into paradise while crusiing along the highway looking for a place to drop the child's bo---to find a usable Fudruckers, but once his tearing eyes cleared (Or he went blind, he wasn't sure which), the world that was exposed to him, a land of sky the color of a well-used toilet, the setting of a post-nuclear attack, and air the scent of Grand-pa's hands (don't ask), he had found his niche in the universe, just as Grand-ma (With the help of a slight shove) had found her niche in the back-yard well. Some people still say you can hear her scratching at the basement walls.
And life had finnally reached it perfect elation, as he settled into a life that he could TRULY live, resting on the porch with his 12-gauge, gazing at the night sky in a feign to draw the children close enough to assure a good shot, this was paradise.
Which is why it was only right that he should come home to find his sister-in-laws pet dog fainted on the floor infront of the fattest man the world had ever known, resting in his bed.
Mr. Nickson, remembering the small squirrel with the string wrapped around it's intestine and the flour-based gasonline station riding on the back of the train, simply sighed and went to find himself a place on the couch.
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