I brought my car in to have a coolant leak fixed, and the engine light was also on (it had been running a bit rough on-and-off for a while), so I had them look at that too. They said it was the catalytic converter and wanted like $3500 to fix it. So wanting to put it off, and figuring it would run for a while at least, I tell them to skip the repair. My Dad ends up driving me in to pick it up, and he asks if I want him to stick around. Figuring things will be okay, I say, "nah." So of course the first thing that happens is the paper work isn't ready, and I'm there after all the service guys have gone for the day. I guess they slacked off on the paperwork when I told them earlier that I'd be there the next morning. Surprise! So that gets straightened out after half an hour, thanks to the help of a lovely coed, who is exceptional at her job, and I'm on my way. I notice the car is running a bit rough, but I get off the main drag and onto a side-street that leads to my area. So I figure no problems. That's when the car begins going slower and slower no matter how hard I push on the gas pedal. And by the time I've been going 2mph for a block and a half, I decide that I'm just not going to make it. So I pull over, call the dealership--thank goodness I remembered my cell phone--and arrange a tow through a number they give me. For the next forty-five minutes, I end up sunbathing in my car, while a hundred plus people whiz past from the local train station, no doubt wondering what the heck is up. After all, I was stopped in kind of an odd place. It was by a line of trees and bushes across from a park. Thank god I wasn't wearing a trench coat or one of the cops that passed probably would have hauled me in. So Ernie's Towing arrives and gets me back to the dealer, where I realize I'm either going to have to eat the cost of the repair and hope things stop going wrong with the vehicle or start thinking about a replacement. So, to keep a medium story medium, I end up going back the next day and getting one of their cheaper models. I ended up with a basic Focus, which took a chunk out of my savings. On the positive side though, if I end up homeless, I'll have a newer car to live in at least. Ah . . . that new car smell. Also, they included the price of the coolant-leak fix in my trade-in value, so I didn't have to pay for that. And it might be perfect timing--or fate is just messing with me--but I got a call back on my latest job application. The phone interview seemed to go okay, and now we're moving on to the next steps. That reminds me, I need to get one of those big-and-not-so-tall suits to use for any potential interviews and my nephew's upcoming wedding. I'm thinking of getting one like Mr. Furley used to wear on Three's Company, hehe.
Just something that came out when I was thinking about this year's NaNo. The call of phantom trumpets heralded the arrival of my guest, who appeared amidst a puff of sulfurous, purple smoke. The tiny, potbellied pig opened his mouth to speak, but was quickly overcome by his smoggy surroundings and launched into a fit of coughing, which managed to unseat his top-hat. I calmly watched as it rolled to a stop on my kitchen table, then waited for him to regain some composure. “Must you be so dramatic?” I asked, eyes beginning to water from the fumes. “You know,” he began, and was briefly interrupted as the smoke detector chirped a greeting. “You may have a point there.” Then he let out a squeak-like sneeze, which sent his rose-colored glasses sliding half-way down his black snout. “Gesundheit,” I offered, while he fussed with the glasses. “So, Mortimus, what brings you to my kitchen on a Sunday night?” Mortimus settled the top-hat back upon his porcine noggin, taking care to make sure it rested at its usual, jaunty angle. Then, satisfied that his accouterments were back in order, he beamed a pearly-white smile in my direction. “Oh, I just stopped by to offer moral support for the NaNo kickoff tomorrow.” “Just to offer moral support?” I inquired, having noticed his surreptitious glance at my late-night snack. “Um . . . well . . . that and the Funyuns. You're not going to finish them, are you?” A sigh slipped from between my lips. “You can have the rest, but I'm not going to fry any bacon for you again. It just creeps me out to no end.” Tiny feet clicked against the tabletop as Mortimus made his way to the paper plate and the remaining Funyuns. “You are such a wuss,” he muttered, before happily crunching away on the onion-flavored treats. I rolled my eyes and thought back to two weeks ago, when I had asked a clear, night sky for help in getting me through this year's NaNo. In truth, an otherworldly, cannibalistic pig with a flair for the dramatic, and a Funyun obsession, wasn't what I had been hoping for at the time, but it's certainly what I ended up with. Mortimus derailed my train of thought with a hearty burp. “You got any soda?” he asked. “You mean, pop, right?” Now it was his turn to roll his eyes. “You're so Midwestern, you know that?” I got up to head for the fridge. And as I went, an old adage played through my mind. “Be careful what you wish for.” Smiling, I removed a pop from the fridge for my helper.
(Prologue: Struggles to write something) Well, you can stop struggling now, can't you? “Huh?” I mean, you did just write something. Didn't you? “Um, yah. I guess so.” So the struggle is over! Long live the revolution! “Just who the hell are you?!?” Quite obviously, I'm a voice in your head. “In my head?” Well, if I was a voice in someone else's head, just how the heck would you be hearing me? “ESP, I suppose.” Are you telling me you're psychic? “No, not that I know of at least.” And thus, ipso facto, I am a voice in your head, and only in your head. “Ipso whato?” I don't even have a head, and I think I'm starting to get a headache. “That makes two of us.” Now you're trying to tell me that you don't have a head? “Of course I have a head-” And trust me when I say it's cramped in here, with an annoying tendency to echo. . . . “Ya know . . . for a voice in my head, you sure are a pain in the ass.” To be honest, there really isn't much else to do when you're a voice in someone's head. I find that liberal amounts of sarcasm helps pass the time. “You wanna know what else helps pass the time?” Going to the local art museum where we can have in-depth discussions about modern art and what it portends for society as a whole? “Actually, I was thinking of having a few drinks.” Well, that might not be such a bad idea after all. A nice bottle of wine and conversation by the fire. “Sure, sure. I'll drive us to the liquor store if you don't mind.” That's a good idea, seeing as I can't quite reach the peddles, the radio, or the steering wheel for that matter. (Thirty minutes later at the liquor store) I believe that sign denotes that the “fine wines” are off to the left. . . . Why exactly are you heading to the right? “Oh, you'll see.” Hmm, I've never seen wine in a two-gallon jug before. . . . Is that wine in a box? Wait, what are you picking out? “It's called, Cisco, and you're gonna love it.” In that case, maybe we should get two bottles. “Now that's the first sensible thing you've said all night.” (Epilogue: One and a half bottles of Cisco wine are more than enough to get back at a sarcastic voice in your head. However, their consumption may also “get back” at other things like your esophagus, stomach lining, intestines, liver, newly painted drywall, and the finish on your expensive wood flooring.)
This has been edited somewhat, but I posted the earlier version in response to someone who likes mushrooms. Did you know. . . . The word "Mushroom" can be unscrambled to form "Rus H. Moom." Coincidentally enough, Rus H. Moom is the name of a not-so-famous inventor of late 19th century Indiana, who was looking into industrial uses for boogers. (Note the similarity in consistency here.) After several failed experiments, one of which escaped and devoured an outlying suburb of Indianapolis, Rus hit on the idea of an alternative food product. Being the time of history that it was, test marketing revealed that people weren't really too fond of eating boogers, with the exception of the sub six-year-old population, who really didn't have much say when it came to putting food on the table anyway. Further research also revealed that people weren't ready to eat scientifically-manufactured foodstuffs at this point in time either. So Rus went into creative thinking mode. Then it came to him one day after reading a VERY advanced (By 125 years or so) copy of the “Da Vinci Code”. "A SECRET SOCIETY!" Rus shouted, nearly giving his cat, Matilda, a heart-attack. Thus was born the "Gufnus Society". The Gufnus society eventually succeeded in genetically combining boogers and the muck that gathers under the fridge to form a stable, plant-like life form. Through their world wide distribution network, Gufnus then covertly placed their creation throughout every forest in the world, birthing a new, and all natural (wink wink, nudge nudge), gastronomical treat, which they called "Mushrooms." With their worldwide distribution network already in place, Gufnus was ready to take advantage of the new culinary craze and reaped multi-million dollar profits by taking advantage of an uninformed public. Thus, if I were to eat mushrooms, I would be eating really gross stuff and supporting big evil corporations. So, I consider it my civic duty to abstain from these tempting morsels.
This is a story I wrote about my first experience with bottling home brew. Well, I went and did it. I brewed up a five gallon batch of (magic) beer and it should be done fermenting. So the night before my scheduled bottling day I decided to wash the bottles, using the cleaning solution and bristly bottle-cleaner thing that came with my brewing kit. Oh my god! I'm so glad I did this the night before. Because if I had waited to actually do it on the same day, I probably would have quit, gone to the park out in back of my house, and blown up my brewing supplies like the army does with enemy arms caches. But I did it the night before which means I'm smart . . . or really lucky in a dumb sort of way. I'll settle for either. At my command, I had 48, 12 ounce bottles that I bought from the brew shop and 4 more that I collected (good excuse to drink expensive beer) from a 6 pack of Magic Hat No. 9. (Okay, while not the most expensive beer, it's still more expensive than my usual Busch Light.) These would equal the 53 bottles that the kit said I would need. . . . Right you are, 48 plus 4 does not equal 53, and I didn't realize this until I was half-way done filling the bottles. Luckily, it wouldn't matter. But my first grade teacher has probably risen from the grave as a math-book-wielding zombie, who is now in the lurching process of hunting me down for a whopping. Anyway, I filled my leaky bottling bucket with water and added the cleaning powder, ending with a solution that was slightly less caustic than the blood of the creatures in the Alien movies. Yah, I might be exaggerating . . . a little. I then used that to partially fill the bottles and scrub them out using the bristly bottle-cleaner thing. Unfortunately, the bottle brush is the size of a small shrubbery and balks at going into the tiny opening of a twelve ounce bottle. (Hears the perverts snickering in the background). Basically, it requires the force generated by NASA's early rockets just to get the damn thing in the bottle. Once in the bottle, however, the shrubbery-brush does a wonderful job. It was only when withdrawing the brush for the first time that I realized how adept bristles are at springing back into their original positions and launching a virulent spray of cleaning solution over everything within a meter of ground zero. (I'm melting!) And so, cleaning the rest of the bottles went something like the following: me running across the kitchen, leaping into the air and driving the cleaning brush downward into the bottle like a fat samurai dispatching his foe; followed by some placid scrubbing time (queue relaxing music); and ending with me, eyes tightly shut in a sissy-like manner, yanking the brush out and being enveloped in a noxious cloud that no doubt shaved time off my lifespan with each breath. It was over in an hour . . . thank goodness. Then it was bottling day! I started by opening the fermenter lid to see if the batch was okay, hoping it didn't smell funky and/or look like it was wearing an angora sweater. Actually, I started by praying to the Beer Gods that I didn't screw up when I brewed it in the first place. Then I opened the lid, and . . . ta-da, it looked fine and smelled like warm beer. So I took a measurement to see if it was done fermenting, and it was. That meant bottling day was a go! While sanitizing the bottles, I realized that my bottling bucket was still suffering from chronic incontinence, which meant things were probably going to be a little messy. This turned out to be a rather prophetic statement, or more accurately a prophetic understatement. I added the priming solution to the bottling bucket and began to siphon the contents of the fermenter over. This was one of the highlights of the day, seeing as I got the siphon to work without a hitch. As expected, though, once the level rose above 2.5 gallons in the bottling bucket, it decided it had to tinkle. So I moved a bowl over to catch the . . . sob . . . wasted beer. Once the siphon was over and I got through gawking at the yucky-looking, yeast layer lining the bottom of the fermenter, I hefted the bottling bucket onto the counter while simultaneously trying to move the wasted-beer bowl over with my foot. Now with my being as coordinated as your average uncoordinated person, there were of course numerous splatters of beer on the floor by the time I finally got the bowl into the correct position. But now I could start filling the bottles! So I hooked one end of the hose to the spigot and the other to the bottle filling wand. The bottling wand, for those not familiar, is a tube with a valve at one end that allows liquid to flow through when it is pressed down, but stops when it's lifted. A very neat contraption. . . . (Editor's Note: You might be a redneck if you think a bottling wand is “a very neat contraption.”) Due to the length of the hose I was using (insert wiener joke of your choice here), I had to fill the bottles at floor level. I hereby vow that if I ever make beer again, I will find something to boost the bottling bucket higher in order to avoid this. Because as good as the fat-man crouching on the floor to fill bottles image is for ratings, it's still hell on the fat-man. Talk about aches, it was like beer-bottling aerobics or something. Needless to say, between bouts of frequent swearing and spasms of agony, I filled a number of bottles and set them aside for capping. I also managed to overfill several during that time, further anointing the floor with my inaugural batch of beer. Deciding I would then cap what I had filled so far, and hoping I would be able to feel my left leg again in the process, I stood up and promptly activated the bottling wand by brushing the tip of it with my right ankle. This of course rewarded me with a warm-beer footbath, and contributed significantly to the growing pool on the kitchen floor. (A voice from far in the future: “Yes children, Lake Beer was formed near Chicago during October of 2009.”) Eventually, I got all 48 bottles filled—or mostly filled. See, I didn't need 53 bottles! Take that, beer kit! Hah! But there were probably two bottles worth of beer between the wasted-beer bowl and Lake Beer. Sigh! Cleaning was fun in a really awful, gosh I hope I never have to do this again sort of way. But now my bottled beer is safely ensconced in the tub of the extra bathroom. I even closed the plexiglass shower doors in case any of the bottles decide they want to become grenades due to over carbonation. Two more weeks and it should be ready to drink! Woot!
Chudz Blog: (Entry 6) Beer Quest – Part 4 (The Scene: Stars shine overhead as a nameless field swims gradually into view. Looking closer, we notice fresh scars deep in the shadowed earth and see three inert figures sprawled amongst the tall grasses. Then they begin to stir.) Mr. B rises on four unsteady legs and begins kissing the ground repeatedly. Chudz mumbles: Jeebus Christ, why don't you two just get a room. Mr. B chuckles. CB stumbles upright, tendrils of smoke rising from various parts of his body. Chudz says: You okay, CB? CB answers in the affirmative, his voice going up and down in pitch as he does so. Chudz chuckles Mr. B remembers something important and goes completely rigid. Chudz says: Uh oh! CB says: What's wrong? Mr. B removes his flight helmet and beanie then dons a long, blonde wig, before snarling menacingly. Chudz says: Oh *BEEP!* Chudz looks around and notices the mechanical hand/censor button combo lying nearby and picks it up with a grin. (The scene fades as our trio is hoofing it toward the far end of the field and hopefully the nearest liquor store as well.) (The Scene: Not ten minutes have passed and a phantom figure appears at the edge of the field.) Goldilocks pauses, going to one knee, and silently surveys the darkened landscape ahead, taking in every detail. Goldilocks grumbles: That damn bear has more lives than a cat. (A quick scene-shift brings us to a dirt road that Deputy Jasper is slowly driving along, the headlights of his cruiser piercing the night's gloom. The bumpy road is bordered on one side by a forest and the other by a farmer's cornfield. He's on the lookout for the UFO crash that several nearby residents have reported in 911 calls.) Deputy Jasper mutters: UFO, schmoo eff oohhhh. Chudz, Mr. B and CB suddenly tear across the road right in front of Deputy Jasper forcing him to slam on the brakes. Deputy Jasper's vehicle comes to a dusty halt, and he hears screaming fading into the depths of the cornfield. It's vaguely reminiscent of how that kid sounded in the Home Alone movie. Deputy Jasper mulls over the image that was just framed in his headlights, which was comprised of a fat-guy carrying a mechanical hand that was pointing into the cornfield; followed by an overweight bear wearing a long, blonde wig with a propeller-beanie on top; followed by some type of smoking robot. Deputy Jasper delcares: Holy cow, there really was a UFO crash! (The scene fades as Deputy Jasper gets out of his parked cruiser and makes a call in to dispatch.)
Chudz Blog: (Entry 5) Beer Quest – Part 3 (The Scene: Twilight is descending. We find ourselves hovering over an empty construction site where several luxury homes are being erected, about a half-mile from Chudz Tower. Suddenly, we hear a door opening, and our view centers on a port-o-potty far below, where someone is exiting. We quickly zoom in for a closer look and see that it’s. . . .) Goldilocks steps out of the port-o-potty and closes the flimsy door behind her. Peering around to make sure she’s still alone, she grumbles about how her insides have never quite been the same since that fateful incident. Realizing she’s in the clear, she holsters her M1911A1 semi-automatic pistol, and stows the copy of “Soldier of Fortune” that she was reading, in one of the deep pockets of her fatigues. She starts heading for one of the homes—where she has setup her sniping position—when she hears a helicopter approaching. (The Scene: As she is scanning the sky, the Huey comes thundering over one of the nearby houses. Trailing smoke, the helicopter is spinning out of control and losing altitude fast. Goldilocks glimpses a bulky silhouette braced in the back, and her blood runs cold.) Goldilocks draws her pistol in a flash and empties the clip at the receding chopper, muzzle flashes strobing in the darkness. She then starts running for the rest of her equipment as the helicopter disappears behind a distant tree line. (The scene switches to onboard the helicopter.) Chudz says: Holy *Beep!* Chudz looks around and sees the mechanical hand hovering over its censor button, strapped to one of the seats in back. The mechanical hand flashes Chudz the peace sign, as The Doors: “Light My Fire” starts blaring over the chopper’s speakers. Chudz chuckles. Mr. B. is almost completely green now, due to all of the spinning. CB says (over the intercom): Hold on, this is going to be a rough landing. Chudz says: *Cough* I’m too handsome to die! Mr. B. bazooka vomits out of the chopper. Chudz says: Well, you’re not exactly Brad Pitt in a fur coat either, Pal! Mr. B. chuckles and hopes they crash soon, so he’ll be back on the ground at least. (The scene fades to black with just the music being heard for a few seconds. Then there is the sound of a large object impacting the earth, followed by silence.)
Chudz Blog: (Entry 4) Beer Quest – Part 2 (The Scene: Several hours have passed, during which time Chudz and company have brainstormed their way to a rather intricate plan, officially known as “Operation Get Beer”. Unofficially, it has “without getting shot-up by some psycho *Beep*” tacked onto the end of it. The sky has started to darken, and they’re now crouched on top of the tower, waiting for the pizza delivery guy (AKA – The Decoy) to show up. Mr. B. and Chudz are both wearing flight helmets; Mr. B. has his beanie resting on top of his.) Mr. B. scans the area through night vision binoculars, keeping a lookout for both Goldilocks and the pizza guy. Chudz is under a poncho, rechecking their route on the map with a penlight. CB is listening to “The End”, by The Doors, on his integrated MP3 player. Mr. B. catches sight of the pizza guy’s Geo Metro, rolling along the main road, about half a kilometer away. Mr. B. gives the agreed upon signal, or at least his modified version of it, and whaps Chudz in the head while he’s still under the poncho. Chudz says (Muffled): Hey! Watch it you big galoot! Chudz takes off the poncho, glares angrily at Mr. B., and gives CB a thumbs-up. CB transforms into a Bell UH-1C Huey, his music now blaring out of the chopper’s speakers. “This is the end, my only friend. . . .” Chudz hops on board and straps himself into the co-pilot’s seat, as the rotor blades whirl overhead. Mr. B. climbs in, attaches the safety line to his harness, and takes up position as the door gunner. After checking the M60—which is suspended by a bungee cord—he gives a paws-up CB lifts off of the roof, blades whumping away, as the bewildered pizza guy pulls up below. Chudz waves to him out the open window. Chudz says: I love the smell of pizza in the evening. Mr. B. is scanning—in a rather paranoid fashion—for Goldilocks. (The Scene: The helicopter has gained altitude and is now flying over Farmer Jenkins’ place, where the shadows pooling around the buildings are growing deeper with the approaching night. Then two things happen near simultaneously, which result in a little mayhem and destruction. In the first, Mr. B. thinks he catches a flash of golden hair near a small, wooden structure below. And in the second, Chudz lets loose several huge farts that reverberate nicely off of his seat.) Mr. B. thinks Goldilocks has them under fire, and opens up with his M60. Chudz thinks Mr. B. has spotted something, sees the tracer fire thundering into the building below, and asks CB to start circling. Mr. B. is grinning like a mad-bear now, thinking he’s got Goldilocks dead to rights. Farmer Jenkins, dressed in his jammies, comes running out of his home and sees a helicopter destroying his old, empty henhouse. Farmer Jenkins mumbles: What in tarnation. . . . Mr. B. runs out of ammo, but the structure is completely destroyed, and flames are starting to spread through it. Then he notices Farmer Jenkins running toward something that is under a tarp, and thinks, Uh Oh! Farmer Jenkins tears the tarp off the Quad-50, anti-aircraft weapon, and begins swiveling its business end toward the Huey. Chudz notices what’s going on and his eyes get big as saucers. Mr. B. says: ROAR! Chudz starts shouting for CB to perform evasive maneuvers. (The scene fades as Farmer Jenkins opens up, the four machine gun barrels spitting tracer-laden streams of fifty caliber slugs toward our panicking trio.)
Chudz Blog: (Entry 3) Beer Quest – Part 1 (The Scene: Our three misfits have narrowly escaped their earlier dilemma, by barricading themselves inside the tower. And after haranguing them for over an hour, an angry Farmer Jenkins has just pulled away.) Chudz says: Whew, I thought he’d never leave. Mr. B. nods in agreement. CB says: How do we know he’s not sneaking back? Chudz says: Hmm, good point. Mr. B. can you take a quick peak out the window and make sure, please? Mr. B. thinks, No way in heck! and shakes his head accordingly. Chudz says: What? We were just out there not too long ago, and there was no sign of Goldilocks. Mr. B. frowns and points to the decoy, which is propped against the wall. The decoy is basically a long stick with a life-sized picture of Mr. B’s face secured to one end. Chudz says: Oh, all right, you big sissy. Chudz grabs the decoy and starts moving the picture of Mr. B. furtively around the window opening. Less than five seconds later, two holes are neatly punched through the picture’s forehead in rapid succession, followed by the echoing booms of a large caliber rifle. Chudz drops the decoy in surprise. CB says: Egads! Mr. B. thinks, I told you so! then sticks his tongue out at Chudz. Chudz says: Okay, so you may have a point there. CB asks: Why does she want to kill you, Mr. B.? Mr. B. rolls his eyes and looks at Chudz expectantly. Chudz says: Sure thing, buddy. Well, CB, it’s like this. Goldilocks was breaking and entering into numerous bears’ homes: eating their food, messing up their beds, stealing their stereos, etc. And the police couldn’t do anything about it. So, Mr. B. and his two roommates decided they’d be ready for her. They made some fresh porridge, stirred in liberal amounts of Ex-lax, and left the steaming bowls on the kitchen table. They also made their beds, and emptied some of their flea circus onto each one. And then they went up into the hills out back, with binoculars and their cordless phone. So, they eventually saw good ol’ Goldilocks jimmy the lock on their back door and sneak in, and that’s when they called the Feds. Twenty minutes later, the place was stormed by Federal Marshals, who found Goldilocks scratching away on the crapper, and took her into custody. Mr. B. and his buddies got a reward, since she was on the “Most Wanted” list, and she was sentenced to hard time. Unfortunately, she escaped about two years later, and turned Mr. B’s roommates into bearskin rugs, and is now after him. Talk about one psychotic, little *Beep!* CB says: Wow, you’re not kidding. Chudz says: Yep, so anyone else want a beer? Mr. B. raises his paw. CB says: Um, aren’t we out? Chudz and Mr. B. look at each other, their eyes going wide. (The scene fades as the viewpoint shifts to the outside of the tower, and we hear agonized cries and a mournful bellowing issuing forth.)
Chudz Blog: (Entry 2) CB reporting . . . Note: For the sake of brevity, Chudz Blog is now being referred to as “CB”, and Mr. Beanie Bear will mostly be referred to by his sobriquet of “Mr. B”. (The Scene: Our three characters have dragged the charred mini-fridge out of the tower and into a nearby, deserted field, where Chudz is delivering a eulogy.) Chudz says: It was a good fridge and a brave fridge. It steadfastly cooled our . . . sniffle . . . beer through all seasons, never faltering once. We will miss our fridge, our friend, our ever cooling companion in the days ahead. But we must be steadfast ourselves and resolute in our determination to move on. Fare you well, our lovely mini-fridge. Mr. B. blows his nose into a Smokey the Bear hankie. HONK! CB wipes a mechanical tear from his eye and transforms into a back-hoe, in order to dig the last resting place for the mini-fridge. Chudz says: A mechanical, transforming blog . . . that was truly an outstanding idea you had there, Mr. B. Mr. B. grins like the Chessire Cat. (The Scene: The mini-fridge has been buried. CB has transformed back into his usual mechanical-looking, Frankenstein-type self. And Chudz is busily counting up the beers—that were put on life-support—in an ice-filled washtub.) Chudz says: Hey guys, there’s 42 beers here. Are you thinking what I’m thinking? Mr. B. is thinking about two female bears and a hot-tub full of honey. CB says: Two 21 beer salutes? Mr. B. puts the hot-tub thought on hold. Chudz shouts: Let’s do it! (The Scene: An hour or two has passed, and the ground is now littered with empty beer cans. Mr. B. is sprawled out on his back, tongue lolling out one side of his mouth, snoring loudly. Chudz is passed out, hugging the empty washtub. And CB has transformed into something resembling a reclining chair and a lawn mower.) Farmer Jenkins pulls up in his old pick-up truck and honks the horn. HONK! Mr. B. launches himself into the air, thinking Goldilocks is after him. CB whirls through several transformations, until he’s finally back to normal, with a little dizziness added in. Chudz pats the washtub affectionately. Chudz mumbles: I love you too, baby. . . . Farmer Jenkins honks the horn again. HONK! Chudz wakes up and looks around, bleary eyed, until he notices Farmer Jenkins. Farmer Jenkins pokes his head out through the side window of his truck Farmer Jenkins says: If’n you miscreants dun buried another mini-fridge in mah field, I’ma gonna shoot you fulla rock salt again! Mr. B. thinks, Yoinks! Chudz gulps. CB says: Again? Farmer Jenkins lets out a sigh and reaches toward his gun rack, and the waiting shotgun. Chudz yells: RUN! (The scene ends as Farmer Jenkins is fishtailing through the field, steering with one hand while shooting at our former mourners, who are scrambling back toward the tower.)
This is just some goofiness that I started in another blog and will maybe never finish. Chudz is played by big-ol-fat me. Mr. Beanie Bear is a portly black bear who has a penchant for wearing one of those old-fashioned beanies that has a propeller on top. And Chudz Blog is a cross between Frankenstein and a Transformer. It was done along the lines of a script for a TV show. Without the formatting of a real TV show script. Enjoy! Or not, hehe. Chudz Blog: (Entry 1) Stardate . . . um . . . today! (The Scene: Lightning strikes the rod placed on top of the tower; the voltage crackles down the wires and into . . . Chudz Blog! Chudz cackles with glee and begins doing the Happy Chudz Dance, which looks like the dancing gopher from Caddyshack. And with an electronic groan, Chudz Blog awakens as the current from the strike blows out several expensive appliances that weren't plugged into surge-suppressors.) Chudz says: Son of a *BEEP!* Mr. Beanie Bear, get the fire extinguisher, quickly! Mr. Beanie Bear says: Roar! Chudz reminds himself to get Mr. Beanie Bear a vocabulary book for his birthday, as his side-kick trundles out of the room. Chudz Blog starts coughing from all the smoke that is gathering in the room, shaking loose a few extraneous pieces. Of course, a heavy one lands on Chudz's foot. Chudz shouts: Owie! Son of a *Beep* *Beep* *Beepity* *Beep* Chudz waves in thanks to the mechanical hand that is hovering over the censor button, and the hand gives him a thumbs-up sign in return. Mr. Beanie Bear rushes back into the room. Mr. Beanie Bear says: Roar! Chudz and Chudz Blog say: Huh? Mr. Beanie Bear starts a game of charades, gesturing wildly. Chudz says: Goldie Locks ate your Lean Quisine meal? Mr. Beanie Bear gives him the evil-eye and continues gesturing. Chudz Blog says: Hmm, you want to get a brazilian wax? Chudz and Mr. Beanie Bear both cringe. Mr. Beanie Bear thinks of getting a new job, but continues. Chudz says: Oh, I get it. The mini-fridge holding the beer is on fire. Chudz thinks for a moment. Chudz Blog says: Auuuggghhh!! Mr. Beanie Bear thinks, finally. Chudz yells: OMG! (The scene fades as they all scramble out of the room. . . .)