...their radio. Is that a Lawrence Welk song? Or maybe it is Bon Jovi..."
Suddenly torn from his music related reverie, our hero...
Printable View
...their radio. Is that a Lawrence Welk song? Or maybe it is Bon Jovi..."
Suddenly torn from his music related reverie, our hero...
looked up to find a well-aimed tomato smearing his glasses, "oh, for those miniature glasses-wipers I wanted to invent," he lamented.
In good times, coffee and .............
...amaretto make a sweet after dinner drink.
Hurricane Ernesto has decided to....
...hurricaneo in earnest.
If you read this thread from the beginning to the end...
you'll give a curtsy to Scher for starting it.
Elbows back, feet apart, knees together.......
what a ridiculous position to stand in, but hey, when you play golf you dress funny anyway, so you might as well go for it all! Eddy stared down at the golfers as he flew by, the hurricane rain having blotted out the sun and allowing him to shape shift into a bat. "Dweebs!" He muttered. "All that for a ...
...werewolf pack, a nail buffing and a sidewalk fried egg. And look, what is that up ahead? Is that a..."
... a bird? Oh yes. Oh no, plop.
One, two, three, four; who the hell...
...shut the door!" Setting off into the sunset, our hero (whoever he is by now, I forget) hummed a sad sweet song from the days when he wore a younger man's clothes. Why was he wearing that? Well, let me tell you a story...
Once upon a midnight in a far-off time, if you could call the tedious passing of the lonely hours in a heartless 3 by 6 prison cell time, a nameless prisoner stared through the bars across the window at the moon and gave a listless sigh. A deep longing was in his soul ...
...for alas, he had no turnips and there was no chance of getting any in the foreseeable future. Every fiber of his being chafed at the confinement. Shaking his fist in the air, he bellowed "You'll never take me freedom!" Suddenly realizing the absurdity of what he had just done, he...
...began to laugh so long and so hard that his sides ached and his nose ran. Well, here in the cell his nose ran for every little...
burst of emotion he could wreak out of his emaciated frame. He could not recall how long he had been there, or for that matter even where he actually was at the present moment. He gripped the window bars so hard that he seemed to see two moons in the sky, not one. Wait, no there were two moons...
because of course the gardener just happened to be trimming a shrub in front of the cell window...and the bane of plumbers is also the bane of gardeners.
"derrierre decolletage" and this was an extreme example of this dreaded occurence. "Can it get any worse?" he said and ...
just at that moment, supper arrived, skidded into the cell on a tin plate via a small opening. A leather water bottle came after it. The man in the cell was famished, but the sight and smell of the stuff they called "food" at this prison would give a starving rat the dry heaves. He wasn't sure how much longer...
he could play tin plate frisbee with that starving rat, but he was going to try his darndest. That rat, skinny as she was, was very good at catching the plate in her teeth. "I should name her...what would be a good name for a lady rat? I know..."
"...Varmette! I shall name you Varmette!"
She didn't seem as impressed with this as he thought she would have been, though. She smiled back, her long, yellow insizors gleaming dully. She replied, "And I shall name YOU..."
. . . . Fred, due to your persitent combover and generally lukewarm demeanor. This appelation, of course, aroused a most distressing . . . .
giggle from the aforementioned "Fred" as he contemplated making Varmette stew.
Suddenly realizing that the rat had actually spoken to him, Fred smoothed back his tousled combover and...
said "Well, it's finally happened, I guess. Lock a man up, starve him, and he looses his marbles and starts to talk to a rat and hear it talk back." He laughed mirthlessly. "Well, Vermette dear, they will still never get any information out of me, and, excuse the pun, but I don't think you'll "rat" on a fellow!" He went off into a slightly insane giggle...
and was soundly chastised for it by the ill tempered jailer. "Shut yer piehole, doofus" the jailer snarled. Fred flew into a rage at the mere mention of pie and then...
he noticed the keys were hanging very close to the barred section of the door. He stooped and picked up the tin plate. "I really must call your attention to the fact that this simply isn't..." The Jailor, who had been listening intently, suddenly got the tin plate behind his left ear and fell into the bars. "...pie!" Unlocking the cell, the man, who could have been named "Fred" since he had no idea who he was whistled for the rat to follow him. ....
as if he was some sort of combover version of the Pied Piper of Hamlin. Varmette the Rat took a bit of offense at his presumptious attitude, but decided to let it slide since she knew Fred (or whatever his name was) was delusional and imagining her anyway. Does this seem odd or confusing to you? Well then...
just imagine the shape poor Fred must be in! He scooped up the rat and turned...
and tripped over an enormous pile of tin plates. Rubbing his posterior, Fred grumbled because he had injured his left foot in the fall. Just then, the turnkey started to walk down the hall. He hadn't spotted Fred yet, so he clutched Varmette to him and sidled to the left...
and slammmed headlong into the locked door across the hall from his own cell! Uttering some phrases that he definately did not learn in a house of worship, some which even made the rat cringe, "Fred", staggered back and followed the fleeing flunkey up the twisting corroidor. That had to be the way out, he reasoned, otherwise why would there be a blank wall at the opposite end? Questions poured down like the...
proverbial question pourer downer thingy. "Who, ..what?! When! Where, how?" Suddenly Fred felt as if he was back in his journalism for nitwits class at his alma mater. "What is wrong with me?" he groused. Just then...
Vermette, Varmette, or whatever the @!!## that rat's name was remarked in her whiney voice. "Hey, Einstein, you just passed the door to the outside!" Fred turned and looked back. The rat was right. The door was less than six feet behind him. "I thought you were a figment of my imagination!" he growled. "Don't growl at me when I'm saving your ignorant butt!” she shot back as Fred unlocked...
the door to another cell, and promptly locked himself in. Why, nobody knows. Oh well what can one do?
"Is your story finally over?" grumped a bat which was flying in circles around my head. "Uh, yes, yes it is, why?" "Because this was supposed to be about me, meathead! You remember, Eddy, the Vampire who was fleeing from the pack of young werewolf maidens? What does it take to get a little press around here, being Jack the Ripper?" Unfortunately, he shouldn't have mentioned Jack because I had this theory...
True, my theory pertained to quantum physics, thus having little to do with ol' Jack...But I digress. Tune in for another thilling episode of:
The adventures of some vampire-ish guy named Eddy, who had little to do with quantum physics.
Do vampires enjoy a nice "stake" dinner? :brow: :p
OK. It's me. Eddy. The Undead. I've been a vampire for so long I can't remember what my real name was, or how long I've been alive. I came from Salem, Massachusetts. I remember the old witch trials. Poor old women. They didn't have a thing to do with the evil one. Superstition is so bad. Hee. Clapped me in their prison. Outta there like ...
fleas from a dog that just had a bath, but then I am a vampire so that sort of thing is just old hat. I decided to to visit ol' Salem again because Massachusetts is possibly one of the coolest states in the whole US of A. :p
I made plans to take a train and....
there he was standing, at the train station, wearing nothing but...
...garlic clove. He should have been wearing it on his neck because I wasn't *ABOUT* to bite...
anywhere in the vicinity where he was wearing it! I took my fill, then broke his neck. We certainly didn't need him turning into a vampire! As I approached the ticket counter, the clerk commented on a slight red stain on my white shirt. " It's only ketchup. I just dined at a palce around the corner." He gave me an odd look...
because the only place around the corner was a catfood company. "To each their own, I guess..." he mumbled as he prepared to take my ticket order. That made me feel very...
...much like a monster who should be on display at a freak show, not parading around ticket booths where I might be a horror to the general public. A lady standing next to me tapped my shoulder and said....
..."Excuse me, Mr. Kent, but you really shouldn't wear primary colors like red and blue and yellow underneath such a nice, white shirt. The colors show through, dearie, you see." As she turned to leave, I had to wonder...
who she thought she was handing out fashion advice, wearing that 1975 polyester leisure suit in limegreen. To show my utter disdain and contempt for such a personage I...