The Battle of Launaloha
The Battle of Launaloha
Wooden Log, Entry #7734209
It was supposed to be a routine visitation. An early evening traverse through the jellyfish-ridden marshes of Launaloha Valley. Why there were jellyfish in the marshes, or a marsh in a valley I can't say for sure. What remains certain is that in the end, no one can be trusted. Not even my high school geology teacher.
Armed with nothing but my wits and a bloodstained pack of Altoids, I left headquarters at 1830 hours to the checkpoint 3000 centimetres north. Or was it south? In the Launaloha Marshes, no one could tell north from south, right from wrong, 80's Michael Jackson to 90's Michael Jackson. Not that any of that mattered to the seasoned soldiers of the Ginyû Force. To us, the elite of the elite, what mattered most was our skills at the most challenging game ever created: Rock-Paper-Scissors. Remember, kids: whoever told you "nothing beats rock" is a liar and deserves to be kidneypunched.
I arrived at the checkpoint after a devastating 17-hour trek. During that time, a whopping 37 jellyfish were slaughtered, four and twenty blackbirds were baked in a pie, John Leguizamo farted, and an angel lost its wings. Two of our cadet soldiers greeted me at the checkpoint, but only one coiled back in disgust at the smell of jellyfish blood and angel hair pasta. No, I didn't eat its wings, and yes I'm a messy eater. Fuck you, Emeril Lagasse.
The soldier who coiled back was, in fact, a pickle. Due to the general unpopularity of pickles, this soldier will no longer appear in this story. Choose from one of the following replacements-slash-Mike Myers references-slash-characters:
(1) Margaret Thatcher naked on a cold day.
(2) A man who asks if you would like to touch his monkey.
(3) An axe murderer's fiancee.
(4) Bum-looker.
You have selected (1). You sick bastard.
Cadet-Baroness Thatcher passed out from the jellyfish-pasta smell. Her partner, the brave Sir Robin, caught her before she hit the ground and took her to the checkpoint's War Room, which proudly doubled as the site for the Ginyû International Air Hockey and Truth-or-Dare Coliseum. Why there was a coliseum in a marsh in a valley, or an 81-year-old British woman anywhere in this story I can't say for sure. What remains certain is that for the past twenty-two years, I have been the undisputed Air Hockey Grandmaster. And I'm only twenty-one.
Sir Robin set the Cadet-Baroness atop the Air Hockey table and offered me a fork and a knife. I politely declined, deciding instead to watch Sir Robin gleefully hack into Thatcher's brain, cutting deep into her leg and pulling out the juicy nerve. I laughed and applauded, as was the custom.
(That was a modified Monty Python's Flying Circus reference. There will be at least one more. You have been warned.)
After Sir Robin's feast, the two of us discussed politics over tea and crumpets. I felt fiercely uncomfortable, largely due to an allergy to crumpets following a traumatizing Blue's Clues experience, but nonetheless I was able to conduct myself honorably. At one point, Sir Robin asked me, "Do you think she's still reading this?" I didn't have an answer.
Following dinner, we decided to play one of our favorite war games, thankfully one that had nothing to do with Matthew Broderick. (Nigel, hush.) We took a pair of Gibson SG Automatic Rifles (HUSH, I SAID) and, to the tune of Rage Against the Machine, shot bolts of funk at one another. Think of it as paintball, only metal. Bowls of popcorn were knocked over, tiny white dogs were shot at with air bazookas, Jimmy Stewart decided not to kill himself, and that angel got his wings back. Lucky little prick.
Just as we were about to play Steak Knife Frisbee, the door to the checkpoint burst open with a squeak. Sir Robin and I rushed out of the War Room; here, I was the one to recoil in shock, as standing at the doorway was my high school geology teacher, Mr. Eric Praline, beaten senseless. His right eye had been replaced with a Magic 8-Ball, and judging by the incisions in his chest his ribs had been rearranged in alphabetical order. A parrot had been jammed through his rectum, though luckily for the parrot it was comparably unharmed.
Oh, and my teacher was dead, too. I probably should have mentioned that earlier.
His body wavered slightly before falling to the ground, precisely 42 copies of Carrie Underwood's Some Hearts stuck inside his back. As his body fell, a pair of cornfed children came into our terrified vision. In each child's hands were the Ginyû Force's most feared weapon, the thought of which is enough to soil the shorts of even the mightiest of soldiers.
Pillows. Goddamn motherfucking pillows. Pillows laced with cyanide, dog piss, and the sweat of Charles Barkley. Panicking, and recalling with crimson disdain the Massacre of Area 1182, I immediately aimed my Gibson SG rifle at the children and fired. The bolts had absolutely no effect - in retrospect, they may have caused a bit of indigestion, since one of them farts later in the story - as the children began to walk towards us, stepping over Mr. Praline's ex-body.
Sir Robin, who had already put down his Gibson SG rifle in favor of Frisbee Knives, launched two of them at one of the children. To his horror, the child (hencewith referred to as Girl A, or Nevada-tan) caught them with her eyelashes and, after twirling them in the air for exactly 3.14159 seconds, launched them through Sir Robin's belly button. He fell down in an instant as I rushed to his side.
"Sir Robin!! Get up!! Fight!! Don't you fucking leave me!!"
"Hey, Captain..."
"What?"
"You've been writing this story for hours, and only NOW you put in actual dialogue? You fucking reta--"
I closed his eyes, and turned to the girls with pillows. Both of them were wearing Winnie the Pooh pajamas, although the other girl (henceforth Girl B, or Idaho-tan) also had an ammo belt wrapped around her right leg. I ran from them in a panic, immediately pulling my walkie-talkie fingernail trimmer from my pocket. As I stumbled to signal headquarters, a pillow grazed my left thigh. With a groan, I fell to the ground, throwing the walkie-talkie to the floor right in front of Thatcher's corpse. I heard a voice from the trimmer:
"You've reached MovieFone! If you know the name of the--"
"DAMMIT UIDEN!! I NEED BACKUP!! LAUNALOHA CHECKPOINT!! TWO GIRLS WITH PILLOWS!!"
"Pillows, huh?" Uiden seemed to be enjoying my plight. The meanie. "What do they smell like?"
"THEY SMELL LIKE I'M ABOUT TO FUCKING DIE HERE!!"
Three more pillows cut into my arms and sides as I screamed in pain. Uiden said nothing for some four seconds, then:
"Hey, umm, this is going to sound really mean, but Scrubs is on now, and--"
"YOU FUCKER!!"
"Happy New Year."
I turned to the two girls, both of whom were clearly enjoying their work. They picked up their pillows and, through semaphore signals, decided to finish me off. They raised their arms as I closed my eyes, fearing the inevitability of death.
One of the girls farted. I couldn't help but to chuckle.
Wooden Log, Entry #7734209
It was supposed to be a routine visitation. An early evening traverse through the jellyfish-ridden marshes of Launaloha Valley. Why there were jellyfish in the marshes, or a marsh in a valley I can't say for sure. What remains certain is that in the end, no one can be trusted. Not even my high school geology teacher.
Armed with nothing but my wits and a bloodstained pack of Altoids, I left headquarters at 1830 hours to the checkpoint 3000 centimetres north. Or was it south? In the Launaloha Marshes, no one could tell north from south, right from wrong, 80's Michael Jackson to 90's Michael Jackson. Not that any of that mattered to the seasoned soldiers of the Ginyû Force. To us, the elite of the elite, what mattered most was our skills at the most challenging game ever created: Rock-Paper-Scissors. Remember, kids: whoever told you "nothing beats rock" is a liar and deserves to be kidneypunched.
I arrived at the checkpoint after a devastating 17-hour trek. During that time, a whopping 37 jellyfish were slaughtered, four and twenty blackbirds were baked in a pie, John Leguizamo farted, and an angel lost its wings. Two of our cadet soldiers greeted me at the checkpoint, but only one coiled back in disgust at the smell of jellyfish blood and angel hair pasta. No, I didn't eat its wings, and yes I'm a messy eater. Fuck you, Emeril Lagasse.
The soldier who coiled back was, in fact, a pickle. Due to the general unpopularity of pickles, this soldier will no longer appear in this story. Choose from one of the following replacements-slash-Mike Myers references-slash-characters:
(1) Margaret Thatcher naked on a cold day.
(2) A man who asks if you would like to touch his monkey.
(3) An axe murderer's fiancee.
(4) Bum-looker.
You have selected (1). You sick bastard.
Cadet-Baroness Thatcher passed out from the jellyfish-pasta smell. Her partner, the brave Sir Robin, caught her before she hit the ground and took her to the checkpoint's War Room, which proudly doubled as the site for the Ginyû International Air Hockey and Truth-or-Dare Coliseum. Why there was a coliseum in a marsh in a valley, or an 81-year-old British woman anywhere in this story I can't say for sure. What remains certain is that for the past twenty-two years, I have been the undisputed Air Hockey Grandmaster. And I'm only twenty-one.
Sir Robin set the Cadet-Baroness atop the Air Hockey table and offered me a fork and a knife. I politely declined, deciding instead to watch Sir Robin gleefully hack into Thatcher's brain, cutting deep into her leg and pulling out the juicy nerve. I laughed and applauded, as was the custom.
(That was a modified Monty Python's Flying Circus reference. There will be at least one more. You have been warned.)
After Sir Robin's feast, the two of us discussed politics over tea and crumpets. I felt fiercely uncomfortable, largely due to an allergy to crumpets following a traumatizing Blue's Clues experience, but nonetheless I was able to conduct myself honorably. At one point, Sir Robin asked me, "Do you think she's still reading this?" I didn't have an answer.
Following dinner, we decided to play one of our favorite war games, thankfully one that had nothing to do with Matthew Broderick. (Nigel, hush.) We took a pair of Gibson SG Automatic Rifles (HUSH, I SAID) and, to the tune of Rage Against the Machine, shot bolts of funk at one another. Think of it as paintball, only metal. Bowls of popcorn were knocked over, tiny white dogs were shot at with air bazookas, Jimmy Stewart decided not to kill himself, and that angel got his wings back. Lucky little prick.
Just as we were about to play Steak Knife Frisbee, the door to the checkpoint burst open with a squeak. Sir Robin and I rushed out of the War Room; here, I was the one to recoil in shock, as standing at the doorway was my high school geology teacher, Mr. Eric Praline, beaten senseless. His right eye had been replaced with a Magic 8-Ball, and judging by the incisions in his chest his ribs had been rearranged in alphabetical order. A parrot had been jammed through his rectum, though luckily for the parrot it was comparably unharmed.
Oh, and my teacher was dead, too. I probably should have mentioned that earlier.
His body wavered slightly before falling to the ground, precisely 42 copies of Carrie Underwood's Some Hearts stuck inside his back. As his body fell, a pair of cornfed children came into our terrified vision. In each child's hands were the Ginyû Force's most feared weapon, the thought of which is enough to soil the shorts of even the mightiest of soldiers.
Pillows. Goddamn motherfucking pillows. Pillows laced with cyanide, dog piss, and the sweat of Charles Barkley. Panicking, and recalling with crimson disdain the Massacre of Area 1182, I immediately aimed my Gibson SG rifle at the children and fired. The bolts had absolutely no effect - in retrospect, they may have caused a bit of indigestion, since one of them farts later in the story - as the children began to walk towards us, stepping over Mr. Praline's ex-body.
Sir Robin, who had already put down his Gibson SG rifle in favor of Frisbee Knives, launched two of them at one of the children. To his horror, the child (hencewith referred to as Girl A, or Nevada-tan) caught them with her eyelashes and, after twirling them in the air for exactly 3.14159 seconds, launched them through Sir Robin's belly button. He fell down in an instant as I rushed to his side.
"Sir Robin!! Get up!! Fight!! Don't you fucking leave me!!"
"Hey, Captain..."
"What?"
"You've been writing this story for hours, and only NOW you put in actual dialogue? You fucking reta--"
I closed his eyes, and turned to the girls with pillows. Both of them were wearing Winnie the Pooh pajamas, although the other girl (henceforth Girl B, or Idaho-tan) also had an ammo belt wrapped around her right leg. I ran from them in a panic, immediately pulling my walkie-talkie fingernail trimmer from my pocket. As I stumbled to signal headquarters, a pillow grazed my left thigh. With a groan, I fell to the ground, throwing the walkie-talkie to the floor right in front of Thatcher's corpse. I heard a voice from the trimmer:
"You've reached MovieFone! If you know the name of the--"
"DAMMIT UIDEN!! I NEED BACKUP!! LAUNALOHA CHECKPOINT!! TWO GIRLS WITH PILLOWS!!"
"Pillows, huh?" Uiden seemed to be enjoying my plight. The meanie. "What do they smell like?"
"THEY SMELL LIKE I'M ABOUT TO FUCKING DIE HERE!!"
Three more pillows cut into my arms and sides as I screamed in pain. Uiden said nothing for some four seconds, then:
"Hey, umm, this is going to sound really mean, but Scrubs is on now, and--"
"YOU FUCKER!!"
"Happy New Year."
I turned to the two girls, both of whom were clearly enjoying their work. They picked up their pillows and, through semaphore signals, decided to finish me off. They raised their arms as I closed my eyes, fearing the inevitability of death.
One of the girls farted. I couldn't help but to chuckle.