Jai Alai Challenge!
November 6th...
The massive murder of chinchilli charged down the path to my back-forty and back deck, merf!ing and kak!ing all the way, hissing and spitting and hopping and sneezing. Many of the suitors ran at first site at this furry mob (not taking the time to denude themselves of my rightfully owned color-tuxedos, alas). The toughs that remained braced themselves and secured themselves to the splendidly varnished fence circumventing my back deck, and when the wave of rabbit-relatives passed over them, only a fraction of Miles' lackies were remaining, and boy (girl/neuter)... were they angry.
I took advantage of the confusion, blowing my coaching whistle and signaling Franklin Goy to rush hard down the south perimeter. Giving his moustache a careless stroke, he burst into a speedy sprint. Mean Sheila Lipschitz was waiting for him, her big hands waiting to crush him. Thinking fast (and on my feet (asleep?)), I bowled the tackball at the thuggish Billy Bohner, who was encroaching from my right, effectively tripping him, and then with as much speed as I could muster, I launched the lardball on a catching vector just ahead of Goy's current reach. He increased his velocity to compensate, caught the ball with skill and alacrity, and with the momentum he had created from pure spirit and joy, managed to charge right through Sheila, knocking her into my artifical swamp. Unable to decelerate, Goy jumped through my bedroom window, the sugarglass giving way under the force of his impact. I hope he's okay!
"Stomack Manor interior secured!" I declared. "Thumbtack! Hard left! Charge!"
Bootsy Thumbtack darted forward like a spring, her Ove Glove-covered hands held out before her.
"Pock! Meddissin! Two-headed Wanda! Provide cover for Thumbtack!" I waved my hand of hands in the indicated direction.
The reliable Barnabus Pock, the resilient and small Eolitriol Meddissin, and the not-to-be-reckoned-with-under-any-circumstances-except-in-the-case-of-hornytoad-possession Two-Headed Wanda rocketed into position. I threw three hodgeballs into the air. One ball struck the inimical Phyllis Large in the head (fortunately the hodgeball is quite soft, unlike the spiked, metal defball), culminating in her timely fall into my kelp forest reservoir. Bootsy Thumbtack caught one of the hodgeballs, spun, then threw it sharply into Jimmy Gulch's sizeable ponch-he never knew what hit him-then Two-Headed Wanda floored Johnny Crapp and ran up Donny Stinson's spine as though his vertebrae were steps in a stairwell to Planet Awesome, her snouts breathing twin columns of fire all the while (and unfortunately singeing the wood of my back deck; I will need to revarnish them later with my homemade potato ale). Alain and Maribeth climbed a tree and threw acorns, sharing a spirited high-five with every successful hit. Postal worker Barnabus Pock reached into his mail satchel and pulled out his jai alai Lazer Tag™ photon cannon, firing strobed light at every suitor he could get in his sights. Unfortunately, this had little to no effect. Another round of toughs emerged from my wicker home of homes, obviously frighted by Franklin Goy's jai alai fortitude. He must have been letting loose furious jai alai Fighting Spirit inside my house. I hope he didn't make too much of a mess!
I blew my whistle. It was time for round 2. And the Christmas Island Fantastic Trees were in the lead.
------
I will spare you the details of the rest of the match. Suffice it to say that we were the victorious jai alai team, especially considering that Miles' suitors had no idea that they were playing jai alai, a most valuable advantage. Remember this effective tactic the next time you challenge another team to jai alai sportsbliss.
"Sweet!" Eolitriol Meddissin shouted as the last of Miles Burger's toughs fled the scene. "What're you going to do now, coach? Gonna cook us somefin' to eat?"
Franklin Goy emerged from the house holding a Max And Me VHS tape I had purchased. "Wanna watch?" he asked us enticingly, an ethusiastic lilt in his voicethroat.
"Something's wrong..." I murmured ominously.
"Huh?" Two-Headed Wanda expressed in twin voices.
"We cleared my house of the suitors..." I pondered meaningfully. "But where's Miles Burger? He should have been here with his loyal toughs."
There was no need for my question to be answered, because just then the ground began to rumble as though a new batch of chinchilli were about to break free and wreak havoc on the world that had done them wrong. "Holy Hot Pockets!" 'Bacteria Pit' Ruiz enunciated in abject fear.
"Oh, worries!" I cried, and ran around the perimeter of my deck to the north side of my wicker home, just in time to see the steel doors to my secret underground garage fly open. And out emerged the giant pumpkin coach, the one I had crafted all those years ago for my imminent quinceanera, that masterpiece of mechanics and recombinant DNA technology (courtesy of my best friend-follower Osirus Stows who also happens to be an amateur gene therapist), emerged from the chthonic lair where I had kept it hidden for more than a decade. Its soymilk-powered engine roared and grinded, and it advanced on us threateningly. We doubled back, hearing the terrible roar of the combustion engine of that great orange pumpkin coach. And the terrible laughter of its exclusive and torpitudinal pilot... Miles Burger.
The massive murder of chinchilli charged down the path to my back-forty and back deck, merf!ing and kak!ing all the way, hissing and spitting and hopping and sneezing. Many of the suitors ran at first site at this furry mob (not taking the time to denude themselves of my rightfully owned color-tuxedos, alas). The toughs that remained braced themselves and secured themselves to the splendidly varnished fence circumventing my back deck, and when the wave of rabbit-relatives passed over them, only a fraction of Miles' lackies were remaining, and boy (girl/neuter)... were they angry.
I took advantage of the confusion, blowing my coaching whistle and signaling Franklin Goy to rush hard down the south perimeter. Giving his moustache a careless stroke, he burst into a speedy sprint. Mean Sheila Lipschitz was waiting for him, her big hands waiting to crush him. Thinking fast (and on my feet (asleep?)), I bowled the tackball at the thuggish Billy Bohner, who was encroaching from my right, effectively tripping him, and then with as much speed as I could muster, I launched the lardball on a catching vector just ahead of Goy's current reach. He increased his velocity to compensate, caught the ball with skill and alacrity, and with the momentum he had created from pure spirit and joy, managed to charge right through Sheila, knocking her into my artifical swamp. Unable to decelerate, Goy jumped through my bedroom window, the sugarglass giving way under the force of his impact. I hope he's okay!
"Stomack Manor interior secured!" I declared. "Thumbtack! Hard left! Charge!"
Bootsy Thumbtack darted forward like a spring, her Ove Glove-covered hands held out before her.
"Pock! Meddissin! Two-headed Wanda! Provide cover for Thumbtack!" I waved my hand of hands in the indicated direction.
The reliable Barnabus Pock, the resilient and small Eolitriol Meddissin, and the not-to-be-reckoned-with-under-any-circumstances-except-in-the-case-of-hornytoad-possession Two-Headed Wanda rocketed into position. I threw three hodgeballs into the air. One ball struck the inimical Phyllis Large in the head (fortunately the hodgeball is quite soft, unlike the spiked, metal defball), culminating in her timely fall into my kelp forest reservoir. Bootsy Thumbtack caught one of the hodgeballs, spun, then threw it sharply into Jimmy Gulch's sizeable ponch-he never knew what hit him-then Two-Headed Wanda floored Johnny Crapp and ran up Donny Stinson's spine as though his vertebrae were steps in a stairwell to Planet Awesome, her snouts breathing twin columns of fire all the while (and unfortunately singeing the wood of my back deck; I will need to revarnish them later with my homemade potato ale). Alain and Maribeth climbed a tree and threw acorns, sharing a spirited high-five with every successful hit. Postal worker Barnabus Pock reached into his mail satchel and pulled out his jai alai Lazer Tag™ photon cannon, firing strobed light at every suitor he could get in his sights. Unfortunately, this had little to no effect. Another round of toughs emerged from my wicker home of homes, obviously frighted by Franklin Goy's jai alai fortitude. He must have been letting loose furious jai alai Fighting Spirit inside my house. I hope he didn't make too much of a mess!
I blew my whistle. It was time for round 2. And the Christmas Island Fantastic Trees were in the lead.
------
I will spare you the details of the rest of the match. Suffice it to say that we were the victorious jai alai team, especially considering that Miles' suitors had no idea that they were playing jai alai, a most valuable advantage. Remember this effective tactic the next time you challenge another team to jai alai sportsbliss.
"Sweet!" Eolitriol Meddissin shouted as the last of Miles Burger's toughs fled the scene. "What're you going to do now, coach? Gonna cook us somefin' to eat?"
Franklin Goy emerged from the house holding a Max And Me VHS tape I had purchased. "Wanna watch?" he asked us enticingly, an ethusiastic lilt in his voicethroat.
"Something's wrong..." I murmured ominously.
"Huh?" Two-Headed Wanda expressed in twin voices.
"We cleared my house of the suitors..." I pondered meaningfully. "But where's Miles Burger? He should have been here with his loyal toughs."
There was no need for my question to be answered, because just then the ground began to rumble as though a new batch of chinchilli were about to break free and wreak havoc on the world that had done them wrong. "Holy Hot Pockets!" 'Bacteria Pit' Ruiz enunciated in abject fear.
"Oh, worries!" I cried, and ran around the perimeter of my deck to the north side of my wicker home, just in time to see the steel doors to my secret underground garage fly open. And out emerged the giant pumpkin coach, the one I had crafted all those years ago for my imminent quinceanera, that masterpiece of mechanics and recombinant DNA technology (courtesy of my best friend-follower Osirus Stows who also happens to be an amateur gene therapist), emerged from the chthonic lair where I had kept it hidden for more than a decade. Its soymilk-powered engine roared and grinded, and it advanced on us threateningly. We doubled back, hearing the terrible roar of the combustion engine of that great orange pumpkin coach. And the terrible laughter of its exclusive and torpitudinal pilot... Miles Burger.