| TBA, TBD, ETA, JIP, Ftr, PIN,
PRI and the Whole Kit and Caboodle by: Paul B. Whitley He clenched his teeth with bitter angst. He was just as important a person than the one he came to see. This would be his chance to destroy him. He thought to himself, This is my chance, the bastard is mine. And with that he yelled, "God, I can destroy you." Is that how’s it going to be? he thought. "Oh no Satan, this is only the beginning." "Honk!" Same place, 2032, AD…
Fig. 17-A: The Old Mark in the Road Inscription… for the most part "Honk!"Back in the present… "Look ma! Two guys in dresses!" "Honk!" Satan is dressed from toe to stomach in red nylon stockings. Covering those tights is a floral pattern cotton dress that goes to his knees. With a red, short sleeve t-shirt that had Bob Saget Lives adorning the front and on the back, Disco Red Casanova, you can bet that he knows how to get down. On the right sleeve is Joanie and on the left Chachi is there for all to see. He is the mack. Oh, but the man tonight is none other than God. From his powder blue stilettos to his run-free stockings to his tight white leather mini. Then there’s the sandwhich board that, when viewed from the side looks as if a flat mouth is attempting to engulf his body, unless you count his head, which sticks out through the hole. With that, he looks almost like some kind of vertical turtle. Nevertheless, he has messages that ring clear. |
Back Front | Free Sex | | If you know what’s up ||Inquire Within -> | |HONK ! | |
Fig. 17-B: The Sandwich Board Text
| And let us not forget anything. From his white undershirt
covering his hairless chest to his glossy white pearl necklace (imported from Japan, of
course) sexy fire engine red lips and naturally blue eyes. But wait! This good boy has
shaved off all his hair to create a nicely buffed scalp of beauty. And ladies? Guess what.
His custom made Versace® hat is great for any Easter Sunday. Oh no! We’ve forgotten something! The grandest accessory to this ensemble… the holographic WWJD button stuck right on his pocket! God truly was the pimp. And then there’s me, your referee in this little melee. I am the brave soul who will have to tell these guys if they are in the wrong. My job isn’t the easiest. Sure, these guys are the ones who have to endure the pain, but you know what? I am unarmed. I don’t have a gun. I don’t have anything. All I can do is sit on a bench and be an open duck. Sympathize for who you will, but I am the only victim here. Oh, I’m Mort th e.e. It’s not a name by choice, but it is mine. I’ll be your guide through all of this. "Honk!" And what evening would be complete without the referee Mort. Watch out ladies, this one’s not attached and we don’t know why. Nothing says taste like pajamas from McDonald’s ®. You heard right, this man clearly wants his Mickey-D’s®. And you can too, and without rejection, because our friend Mort is an assistant manager. Eat up and enjoy ladies, because this is the man for the millenium."Honk!" Here we are at the corner of Fifth and Orange for the Sixth Annual Hogan® Battle Between Good and Evil. We can see that the opponents are prepared in their ‘ceremonial garb.’ As the fighters get ready, we’ll give you what you need to know. The playing field is set up like so: Our opponents are on either side of the street. God in front of the {BEEP} Hotel. Satan is located in front of the {BEEP} Building. When the referee gives the signal, the two men will commence fighting. Here goes the point scheme:
Fig. 17-C: The Score Hierarchy This game is five rounds. A round is constituted by either twenty minutes or somebody reaching fifty points first in that round. In a moment, things will get started with the announcer, but before that, let’s go to break. We’ll be back to the Sixth Annual Hogan® Battle Between Good and Evil. "Honk!" "Mommy, all the kids in ballet class laughed at me." "Look no further Mom." "With Phonix Brand® Stockings and Tights you can do anything in your tights and the worry about dependability will be gone. Just hear what these satisfied customers have had to say about tights." "For years, it was nearly impossible for me to do anything
effective as a construction worker. I simply had too much room in my jeans, but when I
tried on Phonix Brand® Stockings I was A-O-K! Everything feels in place and I’ve been promoted
twice. Thanks Phonix®!" "Phonix® made it possible for me to get on the stage every night without the fear of my
tights getting ruined. No more embarrassing acts for me, I’m the toast of the town!
Thanks Phonix®!" "Wow mom, with Phonix Brand® Stockings and Tights I can be graceful, just like Mickell!" ©1997 The Harry Phonix Corporation ®: maker of fine nylon products.Available at local department stores. "Honk!" Welcome back to the Sixth Annual Hogan® Battle Between Good and Evil, where David Pizner is ready to announce. "Ladies and gentlemen around the world. For those unable to watch because you lack Public Access. For those able to watch because it’s a classroom assignment. For those passing on the street wondering, ‘What the hell is going on here?’ This is a five round match at the Sixth Annual Hogan® Battle Between Good and Evil. LLET’S GET REAAADDY TO RUFFFFHOOOOUUUUSSE!©®™ "On the one side of the street, we have the Prince of Darkness, The Originator of All Evil, The Baddest Mother in this whole damn town, the meanest thing since Velveeta got stuck in this little boy’s braces. "Hey!" "God!" "And on the sunny side of the street, we have Satan." "Stop the violence! Stop the violence!" "Uh, oh, Bill. It looks as if we have media whores in the middle of the battlefield for the Sixth Annual Hogan® Battle Between Good and Evil." "And while they’re taking care of them, let us remind you to not forget our live coverage of Rocky Mountain High Snow Ski-Football® when the Aspen Slopes™ take on the Vail Avalanche™. You won’t wanna miss it." "Well, Jack, it seems that everything is back in order, let’s get back to the Sixth Annual Hogan® Battle Between Good and Evil." "The referee for the Sixth Annual Hogan® Battle Between Good and Evil is Mort th e.e." "Honk!" It was my turn to do something. This was my chance. I could either run and be afraid, or I could face it like a man. What the hell, they were paying me, I’ll do it. "Gentlemen," that was me talking, "you know the rules and I know the point values. If you score a point, I’ll let you know. If you win a round, I’ll keep it to myself. There is to be no hitting the referee. No chasing the referee. No firing the referee. No urinating upon the referee’s person. No spitting on the referee. No biting the referee. No holding a grudge against the referee. Everything I say is final. Do we all agree on this?" "Sure, what the hell." That was Satan. Not my favorite, because he’d probably lose. "Those the rules? Sure, why not." That was God. I didn’t like him, but he was the odds on favorite. "Good, now on my mark, you may each begin taking from the buckets of ammo and commence throwing. I wish you each good luck. On my mark. I decided to toy with them by waiting it out. When I decided they couldn’t take anymore, I would let the game begin. Not a moment sooner. Maybe a moment later. It was my call. Only in America, can a guy named Mort th e.e. have control over God AND Satan. It was my "Hurry the hell up!" Asshole. "Go." Alright, here goes a tough one. I can either guide you through a narrative of how it is God will win, or I can relate to you my experiences of growing up as a child during the Occupation. I’m only the referee. No one listens to what I have to say here, anyway. Personally, I’ve always been a man for a reflection. I am the sensitive type, you know. I like to dance. I like to pick flowers. I enjoy nice, long walks on the beach. I can knit. I can even cook. Furthermore, I am in touch with my inner child and I’m not afraid to cry when the moment’s right. If you like, we could get a hotel room somewhere. There, I would undress you while you While he goes on about his boss fantasies, let me take this time to get you back into the story. Yes, in case you were wondering, this is a story. It all revolves around a moment that we’ll cover in a flashback. Sort of. Once upon a time, there were two brave souls (when I say "soul," I mean it in an ambiguous kind of way so I don’t ruin the ending of this story). These two souls were what you would call friends. They weren’t exactly the best of friends, but they played golf together. Once a week, they played the game of Jack Niklaus, Arnold Palmer, and, of course, Tiger Woods. These souls weren’t destined for greatness in this game. In fact, they were slow. "HOW SLOW WERE THEY?" They were so slow that when they began at nine o’clock in the morning and ended at six in the evening, every single golfer who had come to play had played through these two. Yes, they were that slow. It didn’t matter really, because they didn’t know how to play. Sure, they possessed the skill to play well, but they just didn’t bother. For ten years, these golf games went on. Once a week and sometimes on birthdays. It was a great release from the strain of reality. While they never got any awards for their skill, they were perhaps the healthiest two souls on the face of the universe. No high blood pressure. No pent up frustration. Just a bad game of golf that did more help than harm. It was great. And then one day, Soul A wakes up and sees his wife sleeping. She was asleep. He checked. He never did trust her like he should have. She was his wife, but he didn’t trust her. Probably because she was gone too often. He dug into her purse and looked for something incriminating. And, Eureka! He found it.
Fig. 17-D: The Evidence Maybe she was having an affair. Unfortunately, for all of them, he knew who it may be with. And with that, ten years of bad golf down the drain. He didn’t love her anyway, but she was "good in the kitchen," so they stuck it out. Eventually, she had to die. It wasn’t really divine intervention, but it was right before she decided that she didn’t want to cook for him anymore. At the age of 42, she was dead. The cooks would have to do something to get paid now. Ever since the year of Mrs. A’s death, the battle has gone on. Always with golf balls. God with his "Ask Anybody" written on each golf ball and Satan with "I just nailed your ass!" It would come from almost nowhere to say that wealth means you can make up any game you want, this is america. Honk! Now kids, what is the moral of this story? "Money over bitches?" "Not in the nineties." "Always carry a gun?" "Only in Texas." "You can’t handle the truth?" "That’s right! You get a cookie." "Honk!" In the morning, I can take you to my home. You’ll love my home, it’s wall to wall carpet, all knitted by Mort th e.e. We can do several things on my carpet. For starters we could lay down and "Honk!" "This is one gruesome battle going on here! For the past two rounds, God has dominated the match. How can Satan comeback?" "I don’t think he can, Bill." "The score is 47 to 31 with ten minutes left to go in the third round. Let’s go to a break." "Honk!" "Hey kids!" "Well, you haven’t tried Phonix Brand New Age Candies®. Their absolutely sugar free, but it tastes like a rush of jolly, warm sweetness. Go ahead and try them." "But Mister." ©1997 The Harry Phonix Corporation ®: maker of fine New Age Candies®Available at most fine stores. "Honk!" "We’re back at the Sixth Annual Hogan® Battle Between Good and Evil with the bloodiest battle to ever take place since the Cactus Jack/Terry Funk No Disqualification Texas Barb Wire Weapons Match we covered last week for ECW™. We should only be so honored." "You said it, Bill. Satan has really taken a beating with those golf balls. I guess he didn’t "Ask Anybody" before he got involved with this match… again." "Good one, Jack. But you know who the real victim is in all of this is? The plastic surgeon who’s going to have to realign Satan’s nose with his face." "Ewww. That’ll cost a pretty penny." "Honk!" Only in america can you play a game like this. This is what freedom’s all about. Since we have a minute or so before the halftime show, let me entertain you with yet another flashback. It all began at the funeral of Mrs. A. Soul B had no idea that Soul A knew about the poem. If he had, then maybe he could’ve explained to Soul A that he had written a long time ago, almost older than the friendship he had had with Soul A. This poem was originally for a girlfriend, but it was put up and forgotten until Mrs. A found it while helping Soul B to clean out his old stuff that would eventually go to charity for some poor, deserving pauper. She found the poem and wanted to give it to Soul A for Valentine’s Day. Why not? He didn’t need it anymore. It was crap anyway. So he gave it to her. To this day Soul B just knows that they have this battle, but he doesn’t know why. In fact, no one but Soul A knows why this silly battle is being waged. He’s never tried to figure out why because this is the only way he can have contact with his good friend Soul A. The benefits of americana. "Honk!" And do you know what we could do in my kitchen? It’s nice and big and there’s plenty of room for us to "Honk!" "We’re at halftime here at the Sixth Annual Hogan® Battle Between Good and Evil. God is in the lead and it looks as if Satan has been beaten with lead. What are your predictions on the remainder of this match, Bill?" "Well, Jack, I would have to say Satan. I’ve always had a thing for the underdog and this is no exception. I believe that Satan will make a comeback." "That’s all fine and dandy, Bill, but Satan hasn’t won since these matches have started. Do you still think he can make a comeback?" "Of course, all he needs to do is get around some minor problems." "Such as?" "Well, Satan needs to focus. If he can just wipe the blood from his eyes then he should be able to aim properly. What Satan has is an advantage. God is so overcome with hubris and he is so certain he can win that a loss is almost imminent." "Honk!" I haven’t even told you about my bedroom. It’s grand. The bed is nice and big, so we can get down and do the "Hey, ref!" "What!" "What’s the score?" "Fifty-five to thirty-five. You’ve got the win, God." "Good. We got anymore commercial breaks left?" "No, the sponsor’s tapped out." "How much is left in halftime?" "Well, the dancers couldn’t make it, and the parade’s been canceled. We can start back anytime." And with that God had thrown the golf ball and nailed Satan right between the eyes. Satan was down. Blood was everywhere. Mort raced across the street to get to the fallen opponent. Along the way, he slipped on the bloodied golf balls that hadn’t been evacuated by way of passing cars. When he got there, Mort saw what distance had blinded him from. A face of horror. And blood really was everywhere, and I don’t mean in some sort of hyperbole used only for effect. Satan was covered from head to toe in blood. This was probably the end. "Honk!" "So, Satan’s already dressed in red. But it wasn’t red enough. He didn’t even look like a devil until he got blasted in the body by all those golf balls. Now, do you get it?" "Yeah, man. That’s funny. There’s got to be irony in it somewhere." "Honk!" Satan’s dead. He really is. What a tragedy. I wish I could sit here and pretend that clapping your hands or believing in peddled bullshit could bring him back, but it can’t. Nothing can. Not even the voice of an innocent, young child. Satan is dead. "God, get your ass over here, your brother’s dead." "NOOOO!" And with that, God broke off the heels of his stilettos, yanked himself free of his sandwhich board, and jetted off across the street. Not once did he trip over a golf ball or slip on blood. His brother was dying and God was helpless to do anything. "My brother’s dead, someone get a coroner." "Jack, did you hear that? Satan is dead. I guess that means the game is over. Our winner is God!" "Not so fast Bill! Satan isn’t dead." "How so?" "Everyone knows that you’re only supposed to write about what you know and obviously the hack, I mean, author of this story knows nothing about death." "Are you sure, Jack?" "I’m positive." Is Jack right? Could Satan really be alright? Does the author of this really know nothing about death? Does the author even know how to write? Is God the victor here? Will there be no overtime? The answer to those questions and the meaning of GMT when we return. Don’t go away. "Just when you thought we were out of business, The Harry Phonix Corporation ® returns with New Age Candies: Generation II®""What’s different about them?" "Simple, they are the substance that life is made of." "No way!" "Yes way!" "You mean, these little candies can give me life?" "That’s right! If you’re dead, you live. If you’re boring, you become the life of the party." "What if you’re the life of the party?" "Then you die." "I thought New Age Candies: Generation II® is the substance life is made of." "They are but the next phase of life is death. But don’t worry, pop in another piece of Phonix Brand New Age Candies: Generation II® and you’re back to life." "Neato!" ©1997 The Harry Phonix Corporation ®: maker of fine New Age Candies®Available at most stores. "We’re back with the Sixth Annual Hogan® Battle Between Good and Evil and Satan is dead. ""Somebody get this man some Phonix Brand New Age Candies: Generation II ®. We must save his life.""I have some." "Jack, you eat candy?" "No, not really, but it was decided a long time ago that I would be the one to save Satan’s life." "Does that mean that you’re the deus ex machina?" Cut to 5 minutes later, alternating head shots of God and Satan God: I’m sorry, I killed you Satan. Satan: Don’t worry about it God. It was my fault. She was just a woman. There’s no need to fight over a woman. Let’s let bygones be bygones. God: What are you talking about? Satan: The affair you had with Peggy. God: We had no affair. Satan: Really? What about the poem? God: Uh? What? Oh! That was for you. Satan: What the? God: Peggy. She was going to give it to you. Satan: Oh. God: That’s what this was all about. Satan: Uh, never mind. Mort, go get the car. Mort: Okay, Satan. Satan: This war is over Mort, you may address me by my real name." Mort: Sure thing Mr. Phonix. Mort th e.e. went to go get the car. It was a nice car. It wasn’t his, but it was nice. It was a sleek, midnight black, Cadillac™ Limousine. He had been driving it for his boss, Harry Phonix (yes that Harry Phonix) ever since this little battle began. It was hell for a job, but the pay was good and he really didn’t need the money, but it felt good to be a prostitute for the sake of the money. The best part about the limousine that he drove but didn’t own was the sign on the driver’s door. It had his name on it. Not that stupid name assigned to him for war time, but his real name. The one he was given years ago. Long before any war could happen and any candies that could bring back lives. This was the name he had passed on to another generation in hopes that it would be linked with importance. And you know what? He was right.
Fig 17-E: The Pride He pulled around and opened the door for Harry and Dick to get in. "Dad, take us out for coffee." He muttered under his breath, "Sure, you ingrates." "What?" "Are you late?" "How can I be? I own the company." And they lived happily ever after. "Honk!" That is, until the driver decided to commit suicide with the bomb he had wired to his horn. Had Harry, Jr. followed his brother’s advice and decided to make Phonix Brand New Age Candies: Generation III: The Fruits of Regeneration ®, they may have lived through it."So, the only reason these guys wore dresses was because of some stupid thing their mother used to make them do?" "Basically, yes." "What’s wrong with you?" "I got bored." ©1997 Paid for by The Harry Phonix Corporation ®The Harry Phonix Corporation®: maker of fine nylon products, New Age Candies®, and stories that make you go hmmm. |