Terrorists! Terrorists!!
Sporked with some tongs on September 17, 2006.
Monday was September 11—five years since that September 11. Five years since a band of nineteen rabid mushroom terrorists crashed an ornithopter into Rory Calhoun’s summer cottage and changed the world forever. And just as I had so farnaciously expected, terrorists tried to crash an airplane—it was a whole 747!—into my house! My castle! My abode! But I stopped them!
I was patrolling my front lawn, toting my trusty roof-mounted AK-47 and dressed in full military regalia, complete with a roll of duct tape wrapped about my forehead and a colorful collection of ribbon candy glued to my breast, when I saw the plane flying over, high in the sky as a flying pi. It was really, really high up, and so tiny that I could barely make it out—but I knew it was gonna crash into my house! I could just feel it in my bones and my little pinky finger—I could smell it!
“You’ll never take me alive, you crazy terrificationalists!” I screamed at the boiling sky, waving the AK-47 threateningly in the thin air above my head. The plane kept coming, slowly, slowly, then faster… They were aiming right for me!
I fired the AK-47 into the air, into the lawn, and into the street—hell, I fired it all over the place! But the plane kept coming, and coming, bearing down on me like a fortune cookie bent on revenge for being eaten, its fortune discarded unread like so much idle trash. “You’ll never take me alive!!!!”
With Shitlingthorpe–Alabaster Flapdoodles on my mind, I decided right then was only one thing to do: Run to Samuel Dreckers’ house and beg him to use his trained-assassin skills to bring the airplane down! I got my buzz saw and a stack of Carpathian Yapping Hound trade magazines, and blurpled on over to his house, whackishly nonchalant. But he wasn’t home. I used the buzz saw to carve a note into his front door.
Then I hid in a cubbyhole and waited.
I emerged on Wednesday, slithering blithely back to my front lawn like a snake with its legs cut off. As surely as my Loquisha wore those lovely sandals on her dark-skinned little feet yesterday, that airplane was still coming! But it was September 13 now! There it was, in the sky, droning on and on, buzzing closer, ever closer, ever so much closer, just… just… “It’s September thirteenth now, you terroritarianationalists! You can’t bomb me today! You were too slow! Two days too slow! I win! You lose! Pwahahahahh! Poop, poop, poople-poople poooh!!” I shouted into the air above me, waving my arms around and stripping the duct tape and my clothing (a fish-shaped pair of blouses and some underpants) off.
At that, the plane turned around, apologized, and went away. I was happy. I spent the rest of the day pwee-pwee-pweedling away in my closet and contemplating the Spice Girls’s feet.