Round and Round the Robin We Go
We started with: "Dammit!" yelled John Linnell to no one in particular as he stared at the empty plastic container. "Did I really eat all the peanut butter?" he wondered aloud. "What's the matter John?" yelled Flans from the front of the tour bus. Linnell made his way forward to where Flans was sitting with the band of Dans. "We're out of peanut butter." said Linnell. "Are we anywhere near a town?" Flans glanced out the window. They were speeding down highway 101. "I don't think so, but when we get to Petaluma, we can look for a grocery store."
Linnell pouted and went back to making anagrams out of the collective band of Dans. However, the lack of peanut butter had made him tired and put a block on his creativity flow, so all he came up with was "Dan Millerweinkaufhickey".
"Okay," said a particularly bored Danny Weinkauf, "I spy with my little eye...something that has really short hair tucked under a stocking cap. Named Dan."
Dan Miller leaned over to him. "Yeah, I don't think you've quite gotten how to play this. Howbout we play 'steal Flans' beef jerky' instead?"
John Flansburgh punched Miller in the abdomen.
A bright green roadsign reading "PETALUMA! Land of So Much Peanut Butter, You Could Just Die" whizzed by through the window. Then, another, slightly more obnoxious sign reading "PEANUT BUTTER!!!!!!!!1111one OMG WE R NOT FUCKING WIT YOUR SHIT! WE SWEAR ITZ HERE!!! AAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH! WTF? GO BUY OUR PEENUTZ BUTT0RSSSSS YO!" flew by. The mighty tour bus took the next exit, and headed straight for the first 7-11 in sight.
However, the bus driver's lack of familiarity with the small, Northern California town, soon proved to be detrimental to the band's quest to procure more peanut buttery goodness. They kept driving down street after residential street, with nary a 7-11 in site.
"Where is the peanut butter...." said Linnell in a barely audible whisper. He had curled himself up into a fetal postion on the floor of the tour bus, much to the chagrin of the band of Dans. Weinkauf poked him with a toe.
"John, cut it out. This pretending to go into a coma routine everytime we run out of peanut butter is getting old."
"And get off of my damn foot!" said Miller, poking Linnell with another toe.
"Sheesh! enough with the poking, Mr. Pokey Pokerson!" Linnell sat up, glaring at Weinkauf and Miller. “But I think I’m really going to lose it if I don’t get peanut butter soon.”
“Maybe we could ask the driver to stop, and you could ask someone in one of these houses for a cup of peanut butter,” said Dan Miller. “I could use a smoke break anyway.”
“You mean talk to people?” asked Linnell. “What if they turned out to be fans?”
Flans rolled his eyes. “Fine, John, I’ll do it.” He had the driver stop and got off the bus, followed by Miller and Hickey, who first had to grab their cigarettes.
Dan Weinkauf looked at Linnell. “I can’t believe you made the bus stop for peanut butter.” Linnell ignored him and kept trying to come up with anagrams: “Fake wine . . . No, Hi-C Key . . . that almost makes sense.” Weinkauf put in his earplugs.
Several minutes later, Hickey got back on the bus. “With all the normal looking suburban houses here, of course, he picks the one that looks like a haunted mansion.”
Linnell looked out the bus window. “The one that a shutter just fell off of?”
“That’d be the one.”
“Where’s Miller?” asked Weinkauf.
“Oh, after he finished his cigarette, he thought he should go check on Mr. Flansburgh.”
“Hmm. They’re both still in there?” said Weinkauf. “Maybe I should go see what’s up.” He took out his earplugs and got off the bus.
“So how are the anagrams going, John?”
“Heck na . . . What? Not well. I need my peanut butter.”
“Okay then.”
Several minutes passed. “This is starting to seem very wrong,” said Hickey.
“New fad . . .” said Linnell.
“You do realize that the rest of the band went inside that creepy old house and hasn’t come out yet, don’t you?” Linnell nodded. “Okay, well, I’m to go check on them, so . . .
“Fake new u . . .” said Linnell.
“Okay then.” Hickey got off the bus.
Linnell kept working on his anagrams until he noticed that it was getting dark. He got off the bus and shouted, “Okay, guys this isn’t funny. Guys?” He looked at the huge house: two stories tall and it could have been any color originallly but the wood had faded to grey. “Great. Just great. And no lights are on inside either.” As he walked up the grass-cracked sidewalk, he heard strains of a poorly played accordion.
The porch steps creaked with each footfall. He knocked on the frayed screen door, and it swung open.
Linnell pouted and went back to making anagrams out of the collective band of Dans. However, the lack of peanut butter had made him tired and put a block on his creativity flow, so all he came up with was "Dan Millerweinkaufhickey".
"Okay," said a particularly bored Danny Weinkauf, "I spy with my little eye...something that has really short hair tucked under a stocking cap. Named Dan."
Dan Miller leaned over to him. "Yeah, I don't think you've quite gotten how to play this. Howbout we play 'steal Flans' beef jerky' instead?"
John Flansburgh punched Miller in the abdomen.
A bright green roadsign reading "PETALUMA! Land of So Much Peanut Butter, You Could Just Die" whizzed by through the window. Then, another, slightly more obnoxious sign reading "PEANUT BUTTER!!!!!!!!1111one OMG WE R NOT FUCKING WIT YOUR SHIT! WE SWEAR ITZ HERE!!! AAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH! WTF? GO BUY OUR PEENUTZ BUTT0RSSSSS YO!" flew by. The mighty tour bus took the next exit, and headed straight for the first 7-11 in sight.
However, the bus driver's lack of familiarity with the small, Northern California town, soon proved to be detrimental to the band's quest to procure more peanut buttery goodness. They kept driving down street after residential street, with nary a 7-11 in site.
"Where is the peanut butter...." said Linnell in a barely audible whisper. He had curled himself up into a fetal postion on the floor of the tour bus, much to the chagrin of the band of Dans. Weinkauf poked him with a toe.
"John, cut it out. This pretending to go into a coma routine everytime we run out of peanut butter is getting old."
"And get off of my damn foot!" said Miller, poking Linnell with another toe.
"Sheesh! enough with the poking, Mr. Pokey Pokerson!" Linnell sat up, glaring at Weinkauf and Miller. “But I think I’m really going to lose it if I don’t get peanut butter soon.”
“Maybe we could ask the driver to stop, and you could ask someone in one of these houses for a cup of peanut butter,” said Dan Miller. “I could use a smoke break anyway.”
“You mean talk to people?” asked Linnell. “What if they turned out to be fans?”
Flans rolled his eyes. “Fine, John, I’ll do it.” He had the driver stop and got off the bus, followed by Miller and Hickey, who first had to grab their cigarettes.
Dan Weinkauf looked at Linnell. “I can’t believe you made the bus stop for peanut butter.” Linnell ignored him and kept trying to come up with anagrams: “Fake wine . . . No, Hi-C Key . . . that almost makes sense.” Weinkauf put in his earplugs.
Several minutes later, Hickey got back on the bus. “With all the normal looking suburban houses here, of course, he picks the one that looks like a haunted mansion.”
Linnell looked out the bus window. “The one that a shutter just fell off of?”
“That’d be the one.”
“Where’s Miller?” asked Weinkauf.
“Oh, after he finished his cigarette, he thought he should go check on Mr. Flansburgh.”
“Hmm. They’re both still in there?” said Weinkauf. “Maybe I should go see what’s up.” He took out his earplugs and got off the bus.
“So how are the anagrams going, John?”
“Heck na . . . What? Not well. I need my peanut butter.”
“Okay then.”
Several minutes passed. “This is starting to seem very wrong,” said Hickey.
“New fad . . .” said Linnell.
“You do realize that the rest of the band went inside that creepy old house and hasn’t come out yet, don’t you?” Linnell nodded. “Okay, well, I’m to go check on them, so . . .
“Fake new u . . .” said Linnell.
“Okay then.” Hickey got off the bus.
Linnell kept working on his anagrams until he noticed that it was getting dark. He got off the bus and shouted, “Okay, guys this isn’t funny. Guys?” He looked at the huge house: two stories tall and it could have been any color originallly but the wood had faded to grey. “Great. Just great. And no lights are on inside either.” As he walked up the grass-cracked sidewalk, he heard strains of a poorly played accordion.
The porch steps creaked with each footfall. He knocked on the frayed screen door, and it swung open.