PART LXXXII - Particle Physics would be cool if it was bigger!

"I can't see it!!!"

"Bring over that flashlight Beepo."

"This one?"

"Uhh, Yeah Rudolf will do - how did we end up with a reindeer?"

"There it is over there... Bring the nose in a little closer... I think I know what it is... Justa little closer... And a bit closer... A bit OH SHIT!!"

"Way to go Bob - you lost the reindeer in that vortex."

"I almost had it."

"What - what did you almost have?" inquisitioned Beepo.

"Get these Spanish priests out of my face, you clown. I almost had the real forged signature of DaVinci."

"God Damn it Bob," Neils glanced apologetically to the Spanish Priests, "We're out one reindeer because of a friggin signature. Have you lost touch with surreality? If we don't clean up this clump of disjointed time and space, it will tear apart the fabric of my patch work quilt."

"So buy an electric blanket. Anyway, Santa can fly in and rescue the damn reindeer. I asked for a flashlight, anyway. You guys have no sense of proportion."

"Hey I've got no depth perception either," piped in Beepo.

"How can I forget. I still haven't fixed that hot water heater yet," protested Neils.

Bob looked at Neils, then at Beepo, then back at Neils. He shook his head.

"Anyway, I want an Adam smasher set up here right away."

"Don't you mean an atom smasher?"

"If I did, I would have said so."

Beepo started shaking. "But... but Adam is my friend!"

"He's road kill! Pulverise the sucker so I can fix my tools."

Niels looked at Bob, then Beepo, and shook his head.

"You guys are weird."

"Big news coming from a guy in a jockey outfit."

At this point, KDAmery walked into the scene and faced the camera. "As you can see, our quantum mechanics are getting on each others nerves. It was sort of inevitable, when you think about it. I mean, the space time continuum looks like refuse from a delicatessen, and Beepo's chugging Minute Maid by the litre under high pressure. Only a matter of time (puns intended) before a muon wrench gets stuffed in the works. We'd love to show you the rest of this, but hey, we're perverse. Catch ya later."

PART LXXXI - Evrythin's Basicly OK, Eh? Pt. II

Back of a bar, sometime before closing. The CD changer was skipping over ultimately forgettable tunes, and the ceiling fans stuttered. A bar tender cleaned glasses he had cleaned half a dozen times already. Sitting in the back, nursing an hours old drink on the brink of death. Hang in there. We all have to die, but hang in there as long as you can.

He started to speak. No one listening.

"Y'know, evrythin's still basicly OK, y'no? It is, really, see if it ain't. I mean, sure, the universe jus' collapsed into a tool shed, but it's, like, no big deal, cus its a small world anyway. `Sides, we should all try'n get closer, anyway, right?

"Ain'tchoo listenin?

"I mean, shit man, its not like machines have taken over or nuthin. They're not that good yet, y'no? I mean, shit, if engineers're so fuckin brilliant, why do we need technicians?"

Yopu the barmaid came by and asked, "You finished with that?"

He clutched the glass. "Don'tchoo try'n take'im b'fore his time! Don'tchoo try it!"

"Sorry." She backed off.

"I mean, hell, he ain't dead yet." Takes a sip. The drink is on life support now. A strong breeze could evaporate the last of the alcohol. Our narrator doesn't want to hear this.

"It's OK. Evrythin's OK, y'no, cus the frogs 'n toads 'n salamanders are in charge. Amphibian government, man, its great fer the rainy season in Peru, right? Right. Not that we wanna discriminalate 'gainst the left. They's just misGuidoed, man, it's not like they're tryna drive us inta the ground're nuthin, cept in Ontario. 'Sides, evryone needs two sides. Otherwise we'd all fall over, y'no?

"I mean, rock'n roll'll never die, cus a sax players the president. It's cool.

"Basicly OK."

He takes another sip, notices the drink has bit the dust. Throws the glass into the mirror behind the bar.

"Nothin's OK anymore!"

PART LXXX - PLASTIC PEOPLE

Our Shrink sat in his office. Stella the Mannequin from Macy's lay on his couch staring at the ceiling with her arms outstretched in an unnatural pose.

"So what do you think of the Cleveland Indians this year?"

The Mannequin lay on the couch without moving.

"Do you still think that your sister is dead?"

The mannequin rolled off of the couch and thudded on the floor causing an arm to fall off. Our Shrink's secretary ran into the office, excused herself and entered the office to join the Shrink and the broken mannequin.

"Is she going to be OK Doctor?"

"No...I'm afraid she's a mannequin depressive."

A large, scruffy man with a tangled beard and a tattered bandana lounged against a Marshall Stack, painstakingly sewing a thread of Mylar up his left forearm. He thought the dragon's back scales were coming along nicely, despite the discolouration from the dirty needle he'd used the previous week. When he came to the end of the spool, he looked at his watch.

"Damnit, where is that hippie?! Sound check's almost over!"

"Hey, frogbreath! There's some mean bitch out front lookin' for ya!"

"Wha's she look like?"

"She's wearin' these robes and shit. Looks real good in sandals."

"Oh cripes, it's the missus. Look, stall her, man."

"Where ya goin?"

"Anywhere but here." Zeus ducked under the stage and beat feet, cursing whenever he banged his head on a support.

Headlines in the Metropolitan Monomaniac's entertainment section: "Hendrix misses another appearance," and, "Stage blown away by angry fan."

Zeus narrowly escaped the light show. Hospitals were flooded with the casualties. Never get in the way of a goddess during PMS. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, ha! Whoever said that never pissed off Hera.

"Shit, now I gotta think up another disguise."

Zeus sat on the outskirts of Memphis with his pet salamander Tonka.

"So, whaddaya think?"

"Look, the roadie thing's still cool. You just gotta stay around other roadies and keep a low profile."

"Oh, yeah. News flash, slime ball, I just did that and Cleveland Auditorium got flambe'ed."

"Uh huh. You think getting that girl pregnant with twin lambs was keeping a low profile?"

"Hey, I was disguised as a bison..."

"No no no no no. No raping, pillaging, or even stock fraud. Stick to the recreational embroidery, and let the chicks come to you. C'mon, you know how Hera is about family values."

"Hmmm, ya got a point. But that takes half the fun away."

"It doesn't have to. Change into some hot-bod and the groupie girls'll be all over ya. Hell, if ya grow yer hair long and dye it three colours, they'll think you're a musician."

"That or a friend of Kyle's. And can we come up with something a bit sportier for my schtick?"

"Like?"

"I don't know - something the gals would want to hear about."

"Like, `Makeup Artist?'"

"Naah, Hera would pick up on that one in a pico-second."

"Okay, handle the FX."

"Too obvious."

"Hey, if you wanna get babe attention, you're going to get her attention. Deal with it."

"Yeah, but I don't wanna get Hera's attention. She's on that Permanent Menstrual Syndrome and I'm supposed to be laying low remember?"

"Then why're ya asking for a babe-getter image? You know that's like blood in a shark tank."

"Good point. Maybe I should just make myself look like Zeke."

"Who?"

"We're looking for Zeke," said one of the sisters at the front of the procession.

"What for? He's just a senile old man. How can he live in this mine?"

The Sisters of Merciless Food entered the room that used to be Zeke's sitting room. The old fire pit was empty, not touched for possibly months.

"Where could he have gone?" asked the short sister.

The rocks awoke.

"I dunno," said the sister in charge. "Maybe he's in the old man's room."

"Well he'd better hurry back. Our hedgehog casserole is getting cold, and the yak fat is curdling."

The rocks would have salivated, had that been their style.

"Yeah, and our poison ivy salad is going limp."

"Like the boys in Jonseytown?"

"Kinda."

"Why don't we just come back another time. This place is really spooky. Besides, I want to get back and have some more of that Leek Jelly we made."

The rocks pounced. They started to chew, but then the taste of the casserole hit. In an instant, the Sisters of Merciless Food had been ejected in a spontaneous volcanic eruption, their remains scattered over the parking lot of Chez Quickies: poetic justice for a bunch of undergraduate chefs that considered making chocolate chip & ginseng rolls.

From here for the next bit we're editing on CWBorysowich's BIG screen TV, which is large on size and small on resolution. So if the plot seems over blown and under-focused, that's why.

Time is a conspiracy of the watchmakers (go figure).

If we can have TV for the blind, why can't we have stereo for the deaf?

"You been listening to pop radio? We already do."

Where did all the clowns go?

Never mind clowns, here come the Cleveland Browns!

Next hit movie: The Violence of the Shams.

All of the French maids at Chez Quickies came out in force to clean up the parking lot before their president, Francois Mitterand, stopped in for a visit. He liked the job they did, and sold them all cars with faulty wiring. A month later came the biggest case of tragic spontaneous explosions ever known, and there were no maids left to clean it up, either.

Hey, you didn't think we could have the Plot to End ALL Plots without a few fatalities, didja?

Speaking of which, you should all realize that, when this monstrosity is finished, there will be no more plots. Ever. No stories, conspiracies, schemes, or intelligence work. So enjoy this stuff while it lasts.

And, when we're done, we're going to convert it into a microdot. That way, you won't have to read this gigantic thing. It'll look like this: .

PART LXXIX - There is an Accident on the Highway of Life

The unfortunate subject of this case study has, until very recently, led a hopelessly normal life. This all changed last Thursday, when he went to lunch at Butterworth's, on the ninetieth floor of the Rockefeller building. He was preoccupied with the effects of a new tax upon his hobby of collecting rare stamps in holograph when he tripped on the strap of a woman's handbag, crashing into a table and spilling wine on the surprised patrons. All would have been fine, except Jinxy D. Axi Dent-Prone, our subject, made the mistake of apologizing for the way one woman's dress allowed her no modesty when wet. Her husband took offense and struck Jinxy in the jaw, knocking him onto a desert cart. The cart rolled through the swinging doors into the kitchen where he was dumped into the garbage chute and slid down 5 floors. Upon dropping into the garbage elevator, he promptly attempted to find an escape route. He managed to force the doors open and staggered out into a freshly cleaned office area. A VP took one look at him and the smell made him heave his lunch consisting of oysters and yogurt on Jinxy's shoes. Jinxy then made a run for it into an area that was under renovation and he fell three floors into a pile of insulation.

A workman nearby flicked away a cigarette butt, which landed on Jinxy and scorched a small, round welt on his forearm. Jinxy flung himself off the insulation in pain. He ran through an open door while searching for a First Aid kit, and slipped on a puddle of lubricant. As he reached the end of the hall (thinking that he really should find out what kind of lubricant this was and use it in his car), a workman opened a door leading into an air shaft. Dent-Prone slid into him; our subject's jacket caught on a pipe, which saved him from falling eighty four stories to his death in the sub-basement, as the workman did. Jinxy did slide down another four floors before he caught on another pipe. His jacket ripped, and he fell to a landing one floor below. Jinxy limped out of the service shaft towards the elevator, thinking of the implications this afternoon had for his clothing budget. Thus preoccupied, he did not notice the elevator malfunction, which caused it to stop one floor below his own. As he stepped in, it started upwards; Dent-Prone was whisked up thirteen floors on the roof of the elevator. It stopped at the penthouse office of Stürmgosse Smith before plummeting to the ground floor for Mr. Smith's trip to the masseuse. Jinxy climbed through the emergency hatch as a beautiful young woman entered. He was unsure how to answer to her question, "What are you doing?"

"Uh, I'm here to fix the drapes."

"We have blinds."

"That's okay, I'll make the bill out in braille."

The elevator then malfunctioned again, flying up to the penthouse. As a result, Jinxy fell from the elevator ceiling, and the young woman received serious bruising to her inner thighs (rape charges are pending.) The elevator then ceased functioning altogether, and has taken to dispersing pacifist literature to smart bombs.

The woman ran from the elevator screaming profanities. Jinxy left as well, looking for an unobtrusive way to get out of this place. Walking down a narrow corridor, he entered one of the rooms and was promptly hit in the eye with a rubber band.

"Collateral damage!" screamed The Manual "Kant," aiming another elastic at Johnny Dint, who had just pegged off David Wont. Covering his eye with his hand, Jinxy ducked back out into the hall and was smashed in the head by the mail cart, which pushed him across the building. He was dropped into a trolley which carried him down to the mail room on the third floor. A conveyor belt pulled him up and he landed on the desk of one of the sorters who pushed him to the floor.

"This is a restricted area, sir!" the sorter yelled.

"Yeah yeah, and I'm only PG." Jinxy dragged himself out of the room and walked through the door across the way. It was the stairs. Jinxy caught his breath a moment while staring down them when a man came barreling through, knocking him flat. Jinxy was flung into the spiral stair well and proceeded to tumble to the lobby. Two large security guards, standing at the bottom, lost control of their coffee and donuts when he plowed into their ankles. "Watch where you're rollin', asshole!" they growled as they threw Jinxy out onto the sidewalk where his left hand met the bottom of some woman's spike high heeled shoe.

While he lay on the ground dazed, Lassie, the imaginary dog (now deceased) came along and urinated on his face, which snapped him back to reality. He picked himself off the ground and crawled into a cab. Jinxy told the cab to take him to his apartment in the center of town.

The driver considered it odd that Jinxy addressed the car directly, but decided not mention it.

Once they arrived on his street, Jinxy realized that there was no money in his pockets. "Is it alright if I run upstairs and get some cash?"

The cabbie turned and said, "What?"

"Look out!"

"What?"

The driver turned back to the road in time to widen his eyes at the chemical truck backing out in front of him. The vehicles collided, spilling an unidentified radioactive substance all over the street as the taxi skidded into a fire hydrant. A gyser exploded under the car, flipping it over and drowning the driver. Jinxy floated out of the cab, thinking, 'At least I don't have to pay for the ride!' The water carried him into an open storm sewer, which carried him ten miles through some now radioactive sludge to the river outside of town. Immediately after surfacing, Jinxy was hit on the head by The Good Ship Hash Pipe, piloted by Gordie Leadfoot.

He awoke on shore to find a three hundred pound woman who had fallen in love with him at first sight giving him mouth to mouth. Jinxy took one look at her and screamed, shattering both her eardrums and attracting the attention of two cops. Being unable to get any coherent answers out of either of them, the cops tried to haul Jinxy and the fat woman off to the station. The woman went berserk and killed both cops with a bear hug.

In the confusion, Jinxy wandered off, suffering from amnesia. He now thought he was a Neo-nazi torture warden about to put a whole city to it's death. Contriving individual tortures for each person in the populous took him fifteen seconds (Jinxy, in his new identity of Uber Storm Fuhrer Gerhardt Von Gruesome, had the imagination of three deities, if nothing else).

A piece of bubble gum got stuck on Jinxy's shoe, tripping him into a newspaper box. Having discovered the necessary materials for his first torture, J. picked the colour comics out of the box and snatched up a nearby skateboard. Skating down the street, he spied his first victim. Before he could administer a lethal paper cut, however, a wheel from a 747 fell from the sky and struck the back of the skateboard, catapulting Jinxy 35 feet in the air and landing him in an open dumpster seconds before a garbage truck came to empty it.

Tumbling into the truck's dark chamber, J. was then compacted into several cubic meters of rotting restaurant garbage. Hours later, sandwiched amongst rotting tangerines and green Limburger cheese, the truck launched it's contents into the local dump. Jinxy crawled out and scared the two attendants to death. Climbing over their bodies, he wondered who he was. Oh yes, William T. Rockefeller, richest man on earth. He made a deranged beeline for the Rockefeller building, intending to take possession back from his simpering sister and buy up Ravensgate.

When he fought his way into the boardroom past security and secretary, five board members passed out, one crashing through a window and plummeting to her death 90 floors below. A cool summer breeze lightly rustled the papers on the table and flattened the remaining twenty board members to the back wall, who applauded the death of Rockefeller's simpering sister. Jinxy was about to sit down when the T2001 walked in and had a slight malfunction, which caused the shootings of the remaining board members and several wall panels before it shorted out completely. Crawling out from under the table, Jinxy heard a large crash echo from below the open window. The building started to shake. Looking down from the window, J. saw three bus loads of Japanese tourists crashed into the lobby by their Chinese drivers. Subsequently, the building's base started to crumble (there's Italian building for ya)..

Jinxy fell out the broken window only to land on a misdirected hang glider. This would not have saved him either if it weren't for the strong updraft caused by the burning buses, which got the hang glider safely to the roof of a shorter building. Stepping off the hang glider, Jinxy walked over a skylight and fell into the Ramada Inn's indoor swimming pool. The water instantly turned an indescribable grey-brown colour (the Ramada is suing, claiming that the pool has to be replaced entirely), and two swimmers lapsed into comas from toxic shock syndrome. Slipping into the men's change room, Jinxy discovered the showers had been filled with purple dye by some juvenile prankster at the practical joke convention being held in the hotel.

J. wandered out of the shower after getting dressed and into the hotel lobby only to have a baseball bat meet his head from a crazed junkie that had decided to hijack the lobby.

"Take this lobby to Cuba!" the junkie screamed as a SWAT team swatted him.

When he regained consciousness, J. found himself in one of the hotel rooms in bed with a Cocker spaniel and a marriage license sitting on the night stand to Fifi. There was a pounding on the door. "Open up! Police!" The door burst open and in rushed the LAPD and other assorted racist scum, along with the SPCA and a noose borrowed from Our Brothers of Perpetual Strangulation.

Thinking quickly for a change, J. threw the dog at the lynch mob, causing a total of thirteen near-fatal concussions. However, this attracted the attention of the Goddess of Spaniels, who became so incensed that she grabbed a statue of J. (which, much like a voodoo doll, contained his soul) and stepped on it. Now very short and very wide, J. waddled out of the room into the arms of Lickin Linda Lovelace the... pocket mortician(?), who immediately broke his arm by riding on it with Lawrence the Arabian. Waddling as fast as he could to escape, J. failed to notice an open man hole (in a hotel?), and he fell into a mess of over-ripe banana peels. Squishing his way out, J. was subsequently punted into another time zone by a passing subway.

And then Ravensgate collapsed in on itself, and Jinxy's day took a turn for the worse.

Part LXXIII - IS THAT a GRAY ELEPHANT FROM DENMARK?

"Hmmm... Amino Acids... Poly Peptides... DNA... A smidgeon of guacamole... And... Now where did that damn alligator go?"

Dr. Albert L. was hunched over his checker board and had almost made a stunning discovery, except for the fact that L. wasn't really a doctor. He'd received his degree from a mail order contest and had no background in any academic pursuit. Just the same, L. was an inventor. He had created such great gadgets as the Cordless Extension Cord, the Newspaper Hash Pipe, the Beeper for Lonely People (it beeps periodically for no reason), the Expanded Disc, Door Bell for the Dead, the Magnetic Floppy Disk Holder, the Wine Heater, the Exploding Safe, the Solar Powered Flood Lamp, the Solar Powered Flood, and the Aquatic Sodium Dispenser (a great kick at pool parties).

Just now, he was trying to recreate Life's Sidekick. This had bothered him for a long time. Every great hero had a sidekick, right? Well, since life itself was the hero of the modern existentialist novel (according to the back of a pizza box he'd read in the fifties), then life had to have a sidekick. Simple, really. So where was this guy? Albert had thought for a long time about this, and eventually concluded that the poor schmoe had been run over by a cement mixer. It was terribly sad, kind of like a Sartre novel. [Really, folks, this is sad. You'd better start crying. Authors] But it didn't have to be, as long as scientists were willing to rescue great literature.

He looked about. The tracks seemed to indicate the alligator was travelling in a westerly direction. That would put it on a vector for Victor's pool.

That could get messy if Victor's kids were there.

A loud knock was heard at the door. Albert turned to face the direction of his front door. He waited, and while he waited, he thought. Then the knock came again and shattered his thoughts completely. He may never think again.

Albert went to the front door and opened it. The knock at the side door came again. L. closed the front door and shot the half dozen bolts and latches with a pea shooter. Going to the side door, L. opened it to reveal a soaking wet Victor missing one arm and dragging one of his legs.

"Can I help you?"

"Are you really a doctor?"

"No, weren't you reading along?"

"No, I was too busy being eaten alive. Is that your alligator?"

"Yeah."

"Oh." Victor collapsed. A real doctor would have called it shock and blood loss, but Albert just thought he was being polite.

"Well, I guess I know where the alligator is." And with that, L. set out to retrieve his life long pet. On the way to Victor's yard, L. regained his thought. [This is terribly sad folks. You'd better be crying. Auts]

`Are scientists to save literature - would they be the ones to defend the will of free speech - o the devastation that would occur as the rift between the different scientists would mount to a galactic war over Steinbeck and his little wizards...'

As L. entered Victor's yard, the devastation was immense. Entire trees were uprooted, body parts from Victor's children were strewn all over the back lawn and floating in the pool, and vultures flew in triangular patterns overhead. Victor's wife lay half eaten with no clothing on; obviously raped by the alligator. But no sign of his life long pet. L. searched for some clues. After several hours, he noticed a large hole in the fence that led into the set for Dallas.

This might have caused a stir, except that Dallas had been cancelled long before, so the city had no where to be. Such being the case, the set was empty, save the twenty foot reptile dozing and burping along the south wall, where the sun was. Albert ran forward to embrace his pet.

Fortunately for him, alligators digest slowly, so the beast wouldn't be hungry again for about a month. Getting it back home was going to be a problem, though; usually, he tempted it with a girl scout.

"Herman? Can we go home now?"

The alligator opened one eye. "You can, if you think you can."

Albert thought about this for a while, and eventually said, "Huh?"

"Do you have the physical ability to go home?" Asked the alligator.

"I think so."

"Is there anything keeping you here?"

"You."

"Why?"

"I want you home."

"Why?"

"Because you're my pet."

"Define `pet'."

"Uh... what is this an exam?"

The alligator rolled its eye. "I think, therefore, you're not."

Albert disappeared, at least from that vicinity.

Don't tap dance.

Turning on the TV, Stevie flipped through the channels. After a while, his back was sore, so he stopped performing acrobatics and used the remote instead. On CBC was an evening at the Vancouver pops, where the Flatulent Fellows were preparing to perform the Hallelujah Chorus. The commentators, Jimmy and Reg, were veterans to this type of music and opened the show.

"So, Jimmy, what does it take to be an alto tenor in this field?"

"Well Reg, the secret is rectal shaping. You need a precise form that will produce the correct resonance. Stance is important too; you have to stand with a perfect thirty three degree angle between your thighs and your abdomen. Sopranos, like Suzy there, can stand nearly vertical, although some conductors do like a bit of curve to the buttocks..."

Stevie sat in rapt attention to the artistry of Suzy's stance.

"... and baritones like Big Ed generally have to go with a forty to fifty degree angle. But the alto tenor needs the contortion to the sounding chamber. I'll tell ya, some of the things my conductor had to do, well, they don't bear repeating in polite company."

"Speaking of repeating, it looks like we're about to begin."

The camera panned out over the crowd, showing hundreds of people dressed in tuxedos and evening gowns waiting with anticipation for this unique musical event. As the camera focused on the stage, the curtain rose to show a line of men and women standing with their backs to the audience. The curtain disappeared above, and the chorus dropped their drawers to the gasps of the audience. Little did they know how much gasping they might be doing that night, especially in the first few rows. The musicians assumed their positions for the best pitch and resonance. The conductor, who was the only person on stage facing the audience, rapped his rectal thermometer on the podium, and you could see the cheeks tense.

"This is it Reg," whispered Jimmy.

Stevie wasn't sure whether to hold his breath or giggle. When the camera panned over the soprano section, though, he wished he was taping this.

As the conductor began to wave and the Chorus entered its beginning chords, the lead baritone began to tremble, to shake with his own private earthquake. Reg said, "Wait a minute, Jimmy, what's going on with Big Ed?"

"Looks like constipation has struck the star of this group, Reg."

"If so... wait a minute, I don't think that's it. He's trying to clench, not push!"

"My God! The special diet of beans and onions must have backfired!"

"If not, then it certainly looks like it's about to!"

The first row of spectators was stirring, but their artistic appreciation impeded panic, to their eternal dismay, not to mention their dry cleaner's. With a mighty cry and a huge, flatulent boom, Big Ed exploded over the audience. Reliable witnesses said some of the chunks flew more than ten rows back.

Stevie thought the whole thing looked like a chocolate twelve gauge going off. Those closer insisted it was more fried onion than chocolate.

Amidst screaming, running, regurgitation, and the disgusted drawing of hundreds of handkerchiefs, the rest of the orchestra launched into the Halleluja Chorus.

Don't polka.

"You farted didn't you?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"You farted!"

"I did not!" exclaimed the Voice.

"Nobody else is here except me and I didn't fart," claimed the Dark One.

"Well, you're right about who's here. Just exactly how is nonexistence supposed to be flatulent?"

"I don't know, but somebody or something cut the cheese in here!"

"Then maybe you should look for an intruder rather than talk to the air."

"He'd have to be invisible not to see him in this room, damnit!"

"So?"

"Not great cover for an invisible guy if he farts upon entering the room."

"Not everyone has perfect bowel control, do they?"

Then the Dark One fell to the floor as he was hit with a right cross from the air.

"You see. There you were, arguing about flatulence when you could have been looking for the invisible cheese cutter."

"What the..." and Dark One doubled up in pain as he was given a sharp blow to the groin.

"Looks like your invisible farter fights dirty, too," said Voice.

Dark One pulled a pellet from his pocket and threw it into the air. The pellet struck a substance and exploded paint on the being that had entered the room.

"Hmm," said Voice, "he seems to be short and has a chicken on his head."

"No, it's a turkey..." The splotch in mid-air leapt at the Dark One and body checked him into his A.C. Gilbert chemistry set. That made him mad.

Dark One grabbed the turkey-head and put him into a full pike with a half-nelson. When they surfaced from the dive, Dark One said, "Who are you?!"

"How the hell are we swimming in the floor?" asked turkey head.

"I'm the Dark One, moron, I can manipulate reality."

"Oooh..."

Voice was conspicuously silent.

"Now, who the hell are you?"

"I'm Double Six Seven, ISO's top fifty agent."

"ISO's... You idiot! You work for me!"

"Uh, yes and no."

"What!?!"

Don't tango topless.

Wendle couldn't believe it. He was in New Jersey.

Don't Fox Trot Furless.

Wendle tensed. His hair stood on end. This couldn't be happening. Maybe it was the fact that he had left the oven on in Key West, or it could have been a sudden movement of a bag of cocaine that was hidden in his rectum, or maybe it was the potential confusion of the millions of people that would have been totally convinced that New Jersey was now Key West - not to mention the hundreds of people on the southern tip of Florida that would have no clue of where they were.

"Oh well."

Don't Disco. Ever.

"You've got to stop living your life in the past!" screamed CWBorysowich.

"True, but that doesn't change the fact that this is a past tense monstrosity."

Don't... oh, fuck it.

Notice to Orchestra Members: Keep Off The Brass.

Really. Fuck it, I don't want to hear anything more about dancing.

The road stretched on forever... or at least as far as the next convenience store, which was close enough. Wanderer looked both ways.

"This is fucking GREAT!"

He stopped. Ahead was a shape, a shape he dreaded more than the most prolonged cold water enema. It walked towards him, spreading its evil influence around like a cloud - a cirrus cloud, all wispy and innocent looking until it drops a ton of sleet on you. He beheld... the Meanest Hobo in the Cosmos.

I mean it, you mention dancing again and I'm outta here!

Notice to Politicians: Keep Off The Middle Class.

Okay, good so far, but I warn you, one word and I'm history.

Notice to Quarterbacks: Keep Off The Pass.

Ahh... It's great to be away from that dance crap.

Notice to Insulators: Keep Off The Fiberglass.

Alright, alright, you can headbang if you want. But no dancing!!

And they fell into a tight blue dress, spiraling into Dulles Tower we copy, you copy, and we sue you you slimy creature screaming at a Serbian in a hole, but that's okay, because even syckos need to breathe, unless they're in bed, so never leave the VCR on your mantle, because they hate it up there, anyway, when I was five the world was alive, now I'm not sure anymore, when I was six we played for tricks, but I'm not secure anymore, when the universe fell we all got bruises and went home early to eat chocolate milk and drink the blender, it tasted yummy, two, you know splat?

Notice to Sailors: Keep Off The Compass

Listen. I know you're out there. You guys are spying on me all the time and, frankly, I'm sick of it! Can't a guy peel his Kiwis with some kind of privacy, huh? I can't take it anymore! Eyes everywhere. Keyholes, knotholes, and every little crack they can find. It's driving me INSANE!!!

I'm still drawing my conclusions on our last subject - paranoia jumps to mind, but I think there is something more.

What, a kiwi conspiracy?

Moon Runner looked up. "Get this noose out of my face, Kimo Sabe."

"Sorry," said Beepo.

"Are you alright?" asked Bob.

"Considering I was just on the moon, I suppose so. I'm not dead, right?"

"No."

"Then why is there a Host of Angels over your shoulder?"

The New Messiah loved his new buddies. Not that there was anything wrong with that.

Notice to Fondlers: Keep Off The ***.