Round and round and round...I feel dizzy now....
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.
"H-hello?" Linnell called out into the darkened house.
He stretched out one Converse clad foot and then another until he stood in the spooky doorway of the spooky house. The screen door shut suddenly with a bang, making Linnell jump.
"Flans? Miller? Hickey? Weinkauf? Anybody??" Linnell called out again into the danky doom. His anagram making powers had completely left him at this point.
His eyes began adjusting to the light and he found himself standing in a dusty,living room, which appeared to have been decorated circa 1910. He could just make out
the portraits of extremely sour faced people staring down at him from the walls.
Linnell looked up at them and shuddered.
"This is feeling a little like the haunted mansion ride at Disneyland." Linnell muttered.
The scratchy accordian music continued. This was starting to get a little weird. Okay, very weird.
The accordian music seemed to be coming from the back of the house. Linnell slowly began making his way through the old house, towards the music. Noticing a light coming from under a door at the back, he began heading towards it. He could hear muffled voices coming through the door. Linnell hesitated for a moment, then placed his hand on the doorknob.
As he opened the door, eyes closed, wondering what horrible things he might find, he opened them to discover all of his bandmates, unharmed, crowded around a small kitchen table.
Flans looked over towards him and said:
"Well, well, well, look who finally decided to get off of the tour bus! Certainly took you long enough."
He turned to Miller and said triumphantly: "Dan Miller, you owe me precisely five dollars! Ha! And you can't wear the damn stocking cap at the show tonight."
"Fine, Flans. He got off of the bus to look for us." Miller shrugged and got out his wallet, handing Flans a five dollar bill, then returned to eating his food.
Linnell glanced at his bandmates. They were all eating food. (His tummy was growling and he still had not procured any peanut butter.) In an old spooky house. A really old, really spooooooky house. With accordian music. Which the other four seemed very unconcerned about.
And Flans and Miller were making bets about him? (This really bugged him) And Miller was not going to wear his beloved hat at the show tonight?
What was wrong with this picture? And where was that damn accordian music coming from?
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.
"H-hello?" Linnell called out into the darkened house.
He stretched out one Converse clad foot and then another until he stood in the spooky doorway of the spooky house. The screen door shut suddenly with a bang, making Linnell jump.
"Flans? Miller? Hickey? Weinkauf? Anybody??" Linnell called out again into the danky doom. His anagram making powers had completely left him at this point.
His eyes began adjusting to the light and he found himself standing in a dusty,living room, which appeared to have been decorated circa 1910. He could just make out
the portraits of extremely sour faced people staring down at him from the walls.
Linnell looked up at them and shuddered.
"This is feeling a little like the haunted mansion ride at Disneyland." Linnell muttered.
The scratchy accordian music continued. This was starting to get a little weird. Okay, very weird.
The accordian music seemed to be coming from the back of the house. Linnell slowly began making his way through the old house, towards the music. Noticing a light coming from under a door at the back, he began heading towards it. He could hear muffled voices coming through the door. Linnell hesitated for a moment, then placed his hand on the doorknob.
As he opened the door, eyes closed, wondering what horrible things he might find, he opened them to discover all of his bandmates, unharmed, crowded around a small kitchen table.
Flans looked over towards him and said:
"Well, well, well, look who finally decided to get off of the tour bus! Certainly took you long enough."
He turned to Miller and said triumphantly: "Dan Miller, you owe me precisely five dollars! Ha! And you can't wear the damn stocking cap at the show tonight."
"Fine, Flans. He got off of the bus to look for us." Miller shrugged and got out his wallet, handing Flans a five dollar bill, then returned to eating his food.
Linnell glanced at his bandmates. They were all eating food. (His tummy was growling and he still had not procured any peanut butter.) In an old spooky house. A really old, really spooooooky house. With accordian music. Which the other four seemed very unconcerned about.
And Flans and Miller were making bets about him? (This really bugged him) And Miller was not going to wear his beloved hat at the show tonight?
What was wrong with this picture? And where was that damn accordian music coming from?