In reality she had taken a shine to the cowboy so that night Roy gave her a really good rogering.Quote:
Originally Posted by Sancho
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In reality she had taken a shine to the cowboy so that night Roy gave her a really good rogering.Quote:
Originally Posted by Sancho
El Sancho refuses, on this website, to speculate on what went on between Crazy Delores and Royrogers later that night; and whether or not there was role playing; and if there was role playing, whether or not it involved the rodeo; and if it involved the rodeo, whether or not they went from the calf-roping event to the bronco-riding event; and if they went with the bronco-riding event, El Sancho absolutely refuses to speculate on what exactly the spatula was used for.
I’m a gentleman, you know.
Are we going to stay with a one sentence minimum, otherwise the result will be the same as the last two times we tried doing this - a deadend book with one or two people jockeying for position and plot.
I was definately one of the guilty ones last time, just trying to be good this time.
:biggrin5:Quote:
Originally Posted by Sancho
Suddenly, out of nowhere a man in a time machine appears.
The men stepped off the machine almost delicate deliberation, he had a sharp canine face betrayed only by a weak chin which struggled to hold the tight leather strap of his pith helmet.
He held a peculiar device in his hand, that anyone from the 17th century would have easily recognized, but was unknown by all those around.
It was a smooth bore rifle which he inherited from his Great-Grandfather and had plans to hunt crocodiles lingering on the banks of the tobacco stained river which flowed like a well fed serpent towards the sea.
However, on his wrist was something that no one before the 21st century could ever identify.
It was a small waterproof monitor as he planned to watch his aggressive "hearts and minds" television campaign shown nightly on the 5 state owned channels and funded by the advertisements of "Stopeen"(a bladder control tablet) and "Moo Thunder" beer - an irony that would fly effortlessly over the heads of the viewers.
The best way to describe the new governor's personality was that he looked like a person constantly posing for a photograph nobody is taking.
…and now we pause for station identification.
The Hollywood of Roy Rogers’ day was more squeamish about sexual promiscuity than it is today, and the FCC policed the airwaves with the evangelical zeal of a tent-revival preacher, so whenever the action started getting too steamy, they’d cut to commercial and show next week’s coming attractions (^perhaps of a Steam Punk production on the Sci-Fi Channel) and then they’d try to sell you something.
Shoes for instance:
http://i971.photobucket.com/albums/a...ngbackPump.jpghttp://i971.photobucket.com/albums/a...blackboots.jpg
or lounge wear:
http://i971.photobucket.com/albums/a...nySlippers.jpghttp://i971.photobucket.com/albums/a...starboxers.jpg
or cooking utensils:
http://i971.photobucket.com/albums/a...no/spatula.jpg
Then they'd fast forward to the next morning, when...
Crazy Delores and Royrogers were sitting out on the patio, enjoying a beautiful spring morning - birds chirping, sun shining, leaves gently rustling in the trees - she in her pink bunny slippers and silk kimono, and he in his Tony Lamas, Lone Star boxers, and Stetson.
Delores nibbled a croissant and sipped elderberry tea, "Roy, my darling, shall I pour you a cup of tea?"
Royrogers meanwhile was having his favorite breakfast: a pound of bacon, a dozen eggs, a loaf of toast, and a pot of coffee. The coffee he filtered the cowboy way - through his teeth. "Why no thank you, my little yellow rose, I'm all set." It seemed to Roy that Delores's eyes were diamonds that sparkled like the dew.
Neither of the two lovers could remember ever being so content. All was right with the world. They smiled warmly at each other and then gazed out on an idyllic little meadow where a small herd of goats grazed and playfully butted their heads together, but then something caught their attention, a movement in the tree line at the far end of the meadow…
(Dang it! I blew the deal again. It appears that El Sancho is a recidivist violator of the one-sentence rule. I'll try to do better in the future. I don’t want to be bad. I want to be good. Yes, good. I’ll try to be good next time…Ah-hem, but I may need to use a bunch of semicolons.)
(That's ok Sancho- forget about the one sentence room)
Governor Antoni's had the servants tuck his luggage into the hotel sized house and took the golf cart down to dinner with a group the Outstanding Citizens of South Bongo Award winners. There were seven other people at the Table, all living in Oingo, South Bongo, with the conspicuous exception of Paula Pratt from the Gold Coast. Besides Antonini, there are 3 women and 4 men. The men are completely silent except on the subjects of golf, business, capital gains tax, and the legalities of getting stuff through customs. The women carried the conversational ball.
The night was hot with the type of heat one feels when opening a mircrowave popcorn bag. The front veranda was fronted by six bodyguards (all LL Bean model types, who spent weeks every year hunting animals not quite on he endangered species list, but certainly next on the list). The Rebel movement was hanging on by a thread, but a certain menace hung in the air as if buoyed by the humidity of the place.
(Well thanks, Tony. The one-sentence rule was leaning on me, like a debt collector of Sicilian descent. Also, I will point out that you and I appear to be telling totally different stories. Unless, of course, what we’re doing is a weave – where two seemingly unrelated story lines go back and forth until, shazam, it all comes together. Hmmm.)
Roy’s focus remained on the tree line at the other end of the pasture as he said to Delores, “Sweetie-pie, can you fetch me my buffalo gun? I think there’s a big-game safari over there, fixin’ to draw down on your goats.”
But he was too late. Crazy Delores had already chambered a .460 magnum cartridge into her Weatherby Mark V Elephant rifle and was in the process of dialing a wind correction into her scope. She raised the rifle to her shoulder, squinted into the scope, steadied her breathing, and said to Roy, “I’m aiming for that fat bastard in the pith helmet.” Delores had always considered herself a friend of the animal kingdom.
Roy said, “Aim high, Sugar Lips, maybe you can just scare ‘em.”
Delores sighed and then adjusted her aim point to a tree branch just above the fat bastard’s head. “Roy, you’re not going to believe this, but that gumbah’s wearing a Spiro’s-my-Hero button on his lapel.”
“Shoot to kill, Muffin.”
Well that's where this type of game goes awry. There are kids on here that weren't even born when Spiro Agnew was around, let alone Roy Rogers. They are more likely to identify with aliens, batman, vampires etc. rendering any continuity impossible.Quote:
Originally Posted by Sancho
Pardon me my friend, but I for one was not around when either of those two were, and I have no clue who they were. But there is this marvelous device called the internet that we have nowadays, which allows me to easily find out who they were and thus follow the story with only extremely minor delays.Quote:
Originally Posted by Emil Miller
Very good, Emil!
I was going to go with Mitt’s our Twit, but we’re supposed to steer clear of politics on this website, so I figured the ’68 election was far enough in the past to count as history, not politics. At any rate, I was only trying to get at the type of character that would shoot an endangered species (or in this case, shoot a goat, thinking it was an endangered species).
http://i971.photobucket.com/albums/a...NixonAgnew.jpg http://i971.photobucket.com/albums/a...runo/agnew.jpg
Antonini was Nixonian* in behaviour, although he starting out idealistically,
*Ironically Antonini's family had ties to Richard Nixon and had stayed at the Maryland home of Spiro Agnew on trips to Washington D.C. The family remained fiercely loyal to both Nixon and Agnew long after both resigned in disgrace.
The mole from page three poked out of a different hole and found himself in a box. He began to break down one of the walls (possibly the fourth one). 'I have no idea whats happening' he said to nobody in particular, as he continued hammering away at the wall.
I was not referring to you specifically as there are a number of young members on the forum but, Google notwithstanding, there is bound to be a difference in mindset when time specified subjects are incorporated into the text.Quote:
Originally Posted by Volya
Yes it did occur to me that you were trying to avoid the 'no politics' rule but wasn't Roy Rogers a republican?Quote:
Originally Posted by Sancho
I'm not sure what Roy's politics were, but I'm willing to bet he was a Roosevelt Democrat. He was a singer of Dust Bowl Ballads and anybody chased out of the middle west to California during the 30s tended to be a Democrat for life. Besides, Republicans can't yodel, I'm pretty sure.Quote:
Originally Posted by Emil Miller
Okay, so, back to the story.
After much toil and labor, the mole clawed through the wall and wiggled his way into what appeared to be a subterranean cavern - cold, dark, and cobwebby, it was an evil place. This must be what it was like in Nixon's mind, thought the mole. Then, displaying a narrative omniscience that rodents tend to have in certain fictional genres, the mole mused: Antonini, a friend of the Nixon White House, talk about serendipity!Quote:
Originally Posted by Volya
All of a sudden, from his relative safety underground, the mole heard the report of a high-powered rifle and actually felt the ground shake a little bit. Holy crap, he thought, those idiots are really breaking out the heavy artillery up there.
The sound of gunfire awoke the Reverend Featherstonehaugh-Worthington Browne from his slumbers, " Oh deary me, he said rubbing his eyes, " I've had the most extraordinary dream."
"What kind of a dream?" he heard his wife ask.
"I dreamed that I was in the United States with all kinds of people."
"Like who?"
"Roy Rogers, President Nixon and that man Agnew and they were involved in some kind of gunfight, it was most disturbing."
"Well I told you shouldn't have had that extra cup of cocoa," his wife replied, "but I expect you will have forgotten it by evensong."
"Deary me I do hope so. I've got to visit old Walter Gabriel in the village to see about the harvest festival and then there's a meeting in the village hall to protest about the location of a Kentucky Fried Chicken establishment in the high street."
Since it was omnipresent, the mole saw everything that was happening.
If Roy Rogers was the one causing the shooting in the first place, and the Reverend had been dreaming about Roy, then who was shooting the guns that had woken the Reverend in the first place? And was the mole part of the dream, or the reality? This had the mole more confused than that time he watched Inception while high on meth.
By the time the Reverend Featherstonehaugh-Worthington Browne had arranged for the harvest festival, he had completely forgotten about his dream and made his way to the village hall with a determination to keep the meeting peaceful. Feelings were running high in the village with most villagers against the KFC proposal. They had already defeated an attempt to implant a wine bar in the locality and were determined to preserve the rural nature of their surroundings.Quote:
Originally Posted by Volya
Brigadier Bagshot-Cutforth Jenkins was foremost among the protesters and had torn down the poster of Colonel Sanders that the franchise had posted at the entrance to the village, with the comment; "If that man is a colonel, then I'm Genghis Kuhn."
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QEExYuRelbgQuote:
Originally Posted by Volya
Meanwhile, back at the ranch...
Crazy Delores squeezed the trigger, causing a four foot flame to leap from the end of her gun barrel and launching 32 grams of molten lead in a low, flat arc across the meadow. Delores, being a small woman (also a woman of clear complexion), was propelled in the opposite direction of the bullet. Roy, with index fingers planted firmly in his ears, peered down range. Once Delores had picked herself up and dusted herself off, she asked, "What'd I get?"
"Upon my soul, fragments of that dream have just come back to me. I really must get over it before evensong," said the reverend as he made his way through the village.
On arrival at the village hall, the Rev.Featherstonehaugh-Worthington Browne saw that Artemis Quagmire, who managed the village pub The Brewers Dray ( known by the natives as the Brewers Droop) was seated in the front row.
A heavily built man with a beard and bushy eyebrows, Artemis was the most virulently outspoken of all and had sworn that not a single chicken's leg would be sold by KFC as long as he breathed.
The mole, finally having broken out of his box, found himself in some sort of fleshy cavern filled with acidic juices. Spying an opening towards the top of the cavern, he began crawling upwards.
Shaking off the image of a mole that had been part of the dream, and taking his place on the platform, the reverend opened the meeting with these words.
"Ladies and gentlemen, I know that there is anger in our community at the proposed planning permission applied for by KFC but I would ask you to give Councillor Pilbeam a chance to explain the position from the council's point of view."
Cllr. Percy Pilbeam was a particularly long-winded speaker and, despite the intensity of the situation, the reverend found himself drifting off to sleep.
Roy couldn't believe his eyes. It was as though he was dreaming. At some point during the short flight of Delores's bullet, the fat-bastard in the pith helmet had morphed into a Kentucky Colonel. This all happened during the time it took the bullet, which reached a top speed of around 2600 fps, to travel a thousand meters. It happened in...uhh...oh hell, you do the math. (I'm the victim of a public school education.)
"Hmm, Pumpkin, I think you just plugged Harland Sanders."
"The fried chicken guy?"
"Yep. That big ole mellon of a head of his just exploded, like a 21-piece bucket of Extra Crispy in the backseat of a Honda minivan."
"Well, looks like those 11 special herbs and spices are going to stay a secret now, eh?"
"Looks like. Ya know, I betcha his main secret ingredient was salt."
"Yeah, that and a deep-fat fryer. Roy, have I ever told you that I've always considered myself a friend of the yard bird?"
"That you are, Lotus Blossom, that you are."
The omniscient/omnipresent mole could barely contain his glee at this turn of events.
"Over my dead body!"
The words coincided with the Reverend's dream in which Colonel Sanders of fried chicken infamy was killed by gunfire, and he awoke to find Artemis Quagmire shouting at Mr Pilbeam who had just announced that a second application had been received by the County Council from a Mr. Patel and partners to open a business called the Taj Mahal Takeaway.
Mr Pilbeam riposted with:"The County Council is the correct authority to regulate planning permission and will judge each submission on its merits without resort to xenophobic or racist considerations."
This caused uproar in the hall and Artemis, who had often expressed his opinion that the wogs began at Calais, stood up and addressed the crowd: " Are we going to let a bunch of County Council prigs run roughshod over the village's obvious opposition?"
"NO!" Came the reply, shouted at the top of their voices.
The Reverend stood up and appealed for calm but it was to no avail as the villagers stamped their feet and shouted in unison NO! NO! NO!.
A small woman with delicate features and golden-brown skin rose and walked towards the front of the assembly hall. As she made her way through the crowd, the "No-No-No" chanting began to die down. Heads began to turn. Silence began to fall. She was wearing a flowing sari with a colorful pattern of reds and greens and gold; she had rings on her fingers, bracelets on her wrists, and despite the cool rainy weather, she was wearing sandals. Her long black hair was pulled straight back, braided, then laid over her shoulder where it was swayed back and forth against her arm and her side in the rhythm of her walk.
By the time she reached the front of the congregation, nobody was talking. She grasped both of the reverend's hands and pulled him down to her, kissing him on both cheeks and whispering into his ear, "How have you been, Reverend?" She then repeated this greeting with Councilor Pilbeam, and finally she turned to address the crowd. Or was it a mob? She wasn't sure, but she was well aware of the volatile nature of mobs.
"My name is Vari. I am the wife of Sanjay Patel, the man who petitioned to open a restaurant on High Street. My full name is Varija Tatini Sushanti Patel. It means, Ray of sunshine falling on Lotus blossom floating on peaceful river on otherwise rainy day." This garnered a few chuckles from the crowd. "My family has lived in this village for three generations. We came here from a small village in northern India, a village not so different than this one, a village named Amritsar."
She then focused her attention fully on the large man in the front row. "Our restaurant will only serve healthful meals, at reasonable prices. And by the looks of some of the belt lines in this meeting house, some of you could stand to eat a good Indian meal from time to time."
The crowd seemed to be coming around. A voice from the back said, "She's got a point, don't she, Artemis?"
Then another voice from the crowd, this time from a man wearing, oddly, Tony Lamas, Wranglers, a pearl buttoned shirt, and a Stetson, "Hey, uhh, I'd kinda like to try the Chicken Biryani. I'm gettin' kinda tired of The Colonel's Chicken Nuggets anyway."
The mole poked his head up through a hole in a floorboard of the meeting hall and looked around. The place was full of people, but was unnaturally quiet. Spotting a mouse in the corner chewing on a stale biscuit, the mole asked, “Who farted?”
The mouse looked at the mole and said, “Oh that was El Sancho. He just squeezed off a turd in the punchbowl with his reference to Amritsar.”
“Yep. That’ll do it, alright.”
"How rude!" Exclaimed the mole. "And what about these beautiful ladies around here? Are they supposed to notice it or not?"Quote:
Originally Posted by Sancho
The mouse shrugged in confusion. "As far as I am acquainted with beautiful ladies, they always jump up when I appear, so all I see of them is... you know what..."
The mole winked and off they both went out to breath some fresh air.
And so the mole and the mouse exited the meeting house, escaping the stench of El Sancho’s big, meaty, metaphorical turd. Upon emerging into the fresh air they noticed two men standing just outside the entryway to the meeting house, both wearing black sharkskin suits and shiny black wingtips. Despite the overcast skies, they were both wearing dark sunglasses, and the mole noticed that each man had an electronic earpiece with a tiny coiled wire routed behind his ear and down to someplace beneath his collar. And if all of that wasn’t strange enough, both men were wearing lapel buttons that proclaimed – Don’t Blame Me, I Voted for Big Ed Muskie.
The mole said to the mouse: "Hey! Those guys are like something out of a museum."
"What do you mean," said the mouse. "They are good guys, I voted for Muskie too."
"Well you should get with it kiddo. Times have changed, take look at this. I don't care who you voted for." And so saying he handed the mole an automatic photo frame with the words, "Go on I dare you to click on this!"
http://www.reuters.com/news/pictures...USRTR2ZQ3N#a=1
The mouse, being of a species easily baited, immediately clicked on the slide show.
He said, “Holy Crap! It kinda makes a fella want to fill his pants. Don’t it?”
“That it does, my friend. That it does.” The mole thought a moment and came up with a plan, “Well, old man, what say you and I leave this increasingly scatological place and go tilt a cold one at a little off-license pub I know ‘round the corner?”
And so the two moseyed their way down the street and around the corner to a cozy little pub known as - The Mouse and the Mole. The shingle out front depicted a mouse in Black Watch regalia, smoking a Sherlock pipe, and sitting across a chess board from a mole in Royal Stewart dress. The pub was warmed by a wood fire on the hearth, and pub patrons sat around heavy wooden tables, laughing and talking and imbibing huge tankards of ale brought to them by nubile young lasses, tightly corseted, with bosoms overflowing.
You know, come to think of it, they may have all just been teleported over to Bavaria.
And indeed they had for a large bosomed young blonde came to their table and said: "Willkomen in München, womit kann ich Ihnen dienen?"
"Zwei Helles bitte," said the mole, "und bringen Sie ein Päckchen Schokoladenpuddingpulver."
The bar maid repeated the order to ensure she’d understood the mole (he had a horrible accent). As she did this she leaned closer to him, dangling two of her finest assets over the table. “Sehr gut, dann, Zwei Helles, und ein Päckchen Schokoladenpuddingpulver, ist das richtig?
The mouse, being not only easily baited but also easily distracted, said, “Mein Gott! was für ein paar!” Then he regained his composure somewhat and said, “Nein, für mich ein Pils und eine Weißwurst. Und machen es bissig. Ich habe Durst.“
The young Fräulein smiled sweetly and said, “Bitteschön,” and then bounced her way back to the Küche.
The mole laughed at his friend’s faux pas and said, “Mouse, never in the history of this country have they poured a Pilsner in under 45 minutes.”
Not to be deterred, the mouse came back with, “Ach. Alles ist gut, meine kleinen pelzigen freund. Alles ist gut.”
Though the bar resounded the beautiful sound of Eine Kleine NachtmusiK what made the barmaid to jump up on the bar stand and start dancing like a wild cat.Quote:
Originally Posted by Sancho
"Was ist das?" Exclaimed all the guests in the bar. "Was wollen Sie schöne Dame?"
"Ich liebe diese Musik. Erinnert mich an meine erste Liebe." She cried with extreeme excitement.