Rumplestiltskin BaskinRobbins "I am Danvid Bonie"

 

The following are excerpts are from an audio interview *recorded on a four track cassette* with local David Bowie impersonator "Rumplestiltskin BaskinRobbins" (born Derek Jones) from the small hamlet of Heaven's Den, Indiana. The following interview was conducted in January of 1996 and published in local bi-yearly music magazine BUMPY JERRY. Interview conducted by Brownsburg Community college student Ben Smith.

BS: Hi RB, thank you so much for taking the time to speak with us today. 

RB: "Crystal stardust has its ways."

BS: It, uh...it certainly does.

RB: "I am fine."

BS: *Interviewer shuffles papers uncomfortably* Yes, uh. According to our records, it appears you've been a David Bowie impersonator for nearly 15 years. Tell us what drew you to this line of work.

RB: "See him shaking in the trash can, oh man look at that cape men go. It's the finkiest show."

BS: There's no doubt of your devotion to your craft by any measure. Could you tell us what it was like growing up a David Bowie fan in the god-fearing state of Indiana?

RB: *Mr. BaskinRobbins begins to squirm and make snake-like movements with his arms, hissing quietly* "I was born in a discount hospital."

BS: Next question, how did you decide upon the stage name Rumplestiltskin BaskinRobbins?

RB: "I ate a taco that was 11 months old and felt so sick so I ate some ice cream to feel better and my hair started to grow twice as fast as it ever did."

BS: Our records indicate you planned and performed a solo tour exclusively in Arby's parking lots across the greater Brownsburg area in August and September of 1992. Can you tell us about what compelled you to grind out your tunes on that white-striped concrete for America's beef-heads?

RB: "5 for 5 is still alive. Rock and roll will survive."

BS: There's no doubt there. I couldn't help but notice you bear a striking resemblance to Stardust-era Bowie, especially with the red hairdo and all. Would you say the Ziggy period was Bowie's strongest as an artist?

RB: *Mr. BaskinRobbins begins to pull what appears to be ground beef out of his jean's 5th pocket and attempts to eat it discretely while hunched over, breathing heavily out of his mouth, spilling remains on the tile floor.*

BS: Last question sir before we let you get going. And thank you so much for your time by the way. Do you have any upcoming plans for your next tour? It says here that you are planning a winter tour in '97. 

RB: *Begins to snarl in a low animal voice. Stands up suddenly on the chair before dropping into a low crouch, only to jump up through the office ceiling panels, disappearing completely into the rafters of the complex. The last noises on the tape are shuffling and heavy breathing that slowly dissipate into complete silence.*

END AUDIO 

***BUMPY JERRY archives indicate this was the last time anyone saw Rumplestiltskin BaskinRobbins from that point forward.

History Remembers: Haybale Jim

"I tried to do a marry on a haybale but she melted in the skydrops."
-Jim Hungerbunger

No Shakespearian tragedy could come close to matching the high-drama of the life of Jim Hungerbunger, or "Haybale Jim" as he was known to the residents of Corncob Plains, Tecs-us in the olden times of nineteen-hundred-n-ten.

Corncob Plains Mayor Pumby Snoot explained the story as succinctly as possible:

"Jim was once a happily married man with a normal worky-jobber, but one day he was struck by a hotstick from a skypuff and it made his brain turn into a dinger."

Bung Korbie, a old neighbor of Jim's, attempts to explain Hungerbunger's complicated backstory:

"Yep (spits hot tobacco into a roadside ditch) Jim's a haystack boy, plain and simple. He got smoked by Jesus' pinky finger down from on high and now he loves to pump on them scratchy-squares. Some people whisper in ears around town that he did a murder on his old human wife Butterscotch Jilda but no one knows for sure if them words is true. If ya look at his right hand, he wears his sleeve extra tight because people say that's his naughty-time hand that he did no-no things with."

Another resident, Hunder Roargus Jr., attempts to tell us what happened:

"He tried to marry a female haybale named Stephanie after he got a hotstab from the sky. When Stephanie melted in the drip weather, it broke his tick-tock and turned his brain into buttermilk gravy. Ever since then, he's been walking all over town trying to take all the haybales back to his barn for a good rough one. Before we knew it, there were hardly none left for our cows to eat for cow supper. If you look at his bodystyle, he dresses like a dandyboy. But he's just trying to show off for all the female haybales around town. Me and the boys drink our suds and watch him wander around town with his two-poke pronger, searching for yellow-scratch, all wild-eyed. But now he' can't find jack squatty. We've got him convinced there's a national haybale draught, but there ain't. We just hid all the haybales from him (high-pitched laughter)."

*the above information was harvested from the Historical Society of Corncob Plains*

The Tale of Lieutenant Brumble

Look all over this wet circle / pond rock we call "the round map" and you'll be hard-pressed to find a steamier and more iron-sided eyeball gaze than that of Lieutenant Bip Brumble. Bip (known affectionately as "Bam-Bam" by friends and family) was a passionate machine gun lover, first and foremost. From the tender age of six months old, when he was first issued his "child's machine gun" onto age sixteen when he enlisted in the You-Ess Arm-Ee to fight the Globe War Sequel, his passion for rapid gunfire was as strong as the mighty oak trees he resembled. In fact, the only known record of romance involving Bip Brumble was a crudely carved blood-pumper containing the initials "B.B." and "AMMO" on the side of his family's barn.

During the Globe War Sequel, Bip was assigned to a non-combat "Potato Storage and Food Preparation Unit." This dismaying news sent Bip into a gargantuan crocodile pit of "mental toughies." We refer to that condition in current times as severe clinical depression. Bip was a single man and he wanted nothing more than to fire his personal GLOARK fifty-six caliber machine gun though the living flesh of his mortal enemies: "the other country boys," as he called them.

Sadly for Bip, his war assignment was to peel 'n' prep potatoes to be boiled to feed the warm army boys so they could slop them down to fuel their bodies for war battles. Bip hated peeling those brown 'n' downers so much he used to scream really nasty words at work in order to relieve his brain of all the pum-pum dunkers and hooters that floated around inside of his roundbone.

A colleague, Private Lingus Runger remembers Bip's unfortunate condition...

"Yeah, Bip and I were stationed together at POTATO BASE in France and he used to scream to himself while he peeled and sliced the brown circles. His eyes were constantly bloodshot and he always used to bare his teeth and hiss at us when we'd speak to him. He was really having a rough go of it there for a little while. That boy is a hero and should never have been separated from his GLOARK."

Unbeknownst to the men in Bip's unit, the You-Ess Arm-Ee haphazardly built their Potato Base over an old French graveyard that just so happened to be haunted by a lethal gang of "vegetable demons." **For the uninformed, vegetable demons are a specific breed of French demon that are attracted exclusively to vegetables as vessels for possession**

Midway though a late-night peeling shift, Bip noticed something strange. A large crate of potatoes near the east-facing window started to glow an eerie shade of red and snarl like a feral bone chomper. He knew right away that he and his men were in danger. Before he had time to hit the deck, potatoes started flying at lightning speed though the air in all directions. Bip could make out tiny red eyes and razor sharp teeth on each one. One of the potatoes whizzed by him, taking an enormous bite out of his left ear, spewing blood and bendy-bone all over his white shirt collar and paper chef's cap.

That's when things went red for Bip.

Private Lingus Runger recalls the events as follows...

"So, um, we heard a horrible commotion in the kitchen and when we went in, we saw thirty or forty potatoes hovering in mid-air. Each of them had little devil faces on them and they were snarling like Grizzly bears at a salmon buffet. We saw Bip jump out of a plate glass window and make a bee-line for the storage shed. That's when a few of the air potatoes flew at me and chewed my right arm clean off the bone. Some of the other boys in the kitchen weren't so lucky. All I could hear was screaming. In maybe ten or twenty seconds...we lost twelve men to deep bite wounds and another twenty-seven were injured and bleeding on the floor. That's when Bip kicked down the back door, GLOARK fifty-six in hand. All I remember was seeing a flurry of bullets and sparks and hearing blast after blast of gunfire. Before I knew it, all thirty or forty flying demon potatoes were gone as quickly as they appeared. Just like that...they were all turned to mash, lying in little hot white piles all over the room."

Earlier, when Bip was cutting down the potato demons with his powerful weapon and dead-eye aim, it escaped his mind that the ammunition in the GLOARK was heavily coated in canola oil and garlic salt to preserve its shelf-life. In a rather strange and fortuitous turn of events, the former demon potatoes had been instantly transformed into a delicious dinner for the boys. While medics removed the dead from the unit, the healthy war men helped themselves to the enormous feast at their feet. Even the injured men whooped and howled in joy, feasting on the hearty whitepiles all around them. Some injured were even seen pouring mash into their bite wounds, knowing the garlic would help them heal faster and give them goodflavor inside of their blood.

My Master Holds Me Inappropriately

A confession from the personal diary of Grungus Hornswallow III
*the following diary was found buried in a hole in Crayg's backyard some time ago*

Crayg, my crap hole master, is a new-millennium ramrod. Look at this piss faucet. He adopted me from St. Grutch's dog jail last week and I wish he'd take me back. I'd rather eat cowflesh flavored corn balls and piss all over myself in jail than be stuck with this starch-collared dickroger. At least in there I could smell some good old fashioned bibblers.

But yeah, Crayg thinks wearing these stupid buttons and dungarees while getting photographed holding me on his front porch is going to help him get attention from longhairs on the people screen! HAW! Look at the way he's holding me!!! Hey, longhairs! Is that the kind of guy you'd want trying to hold you with those slippery margarine-hands on your engagement photos? He'd get yellow stains all over your dress and probably blame me.

Third-generation roughhairs like me are sick and tired of mushy potato-heads like this. Classic-time roughies like me are only interested in three things: "blasting crotch," eating rats whole and street fighting other tail-gangs near the trash bags.

All I can really do is rage-lick my darkzone and look Crayg dead in the eye while he drinks his craft beers and updates his stupid computer date jam machine. He doesn't care. He keeps me around like a cactus to spruce up his new-millennium "ram pad." I guess I do more than that. When he goes to sleep I wake up and eat his old Nachos out of the fridge and rub my back door squinter all over his apples.

When he's gone visiting his starchy parents, he leaves me here with house sitter, Brynda. She's pretty cool and I sniff her darkzone and it sends me to a magical palace of roughhair feelings. I think she doesn't use darkzone wipers and just leaves her crumbles on her blaster because she knows I love that deep dark tingle in my smell tunnels.

I plan on digging my way out of this shitbarge tomorrow when Crayg goes to work. I'm going to bury this diary and take a big smokey beef-log all over the top of it in case Crayg tries to find it.

GRUNGUS OUT!

Robo "Terror Wolf" to Curb Sexual Appetites of Wild Boars in Coastal Alabama

PHOTO: "Jim" the Robo Terror Wolf with Grayg Handstanwich, his master

This article has been reprinted with permission from the Alabama Cornrustler News LLC, 2006

Due to the boundless sexual appetites of wild boars in coastal Alabama, the population sizes have spun out of the Lord's control. As a result, millions of dollars of damage have been inflicted on local bump crops, property and hot garbage bags left on the curb. This dire situation has left local Alabama residents scrambling, fever-praying in sweaty living rooms and desperately grasping empty palmfuls of air for a solution.

Enter local robotics/toy enthusiast Grayg Handstanwich. His solution? Scare the wits out of mating boar couples mere moments before planned copulation. The method? A robotic, radio controlled "Terror Wolf" with glowing red eyes and a mane of sweet, beige hair to aid in distracting and confusing the hot-to-trot oinkers.

Grayg originally conceived the Terror Wolf idea while watching an episode of Galaxy Boys, his favorite television program. During the episode, lead character Swoop and his sidekick Grungle Jr. get into a bind when they are cornered by a Star Beast deep in the forests of Ronhunkus. That's when Grayg got the Lord's blessing in the form of a brilliant mind-blast that he could use this Star Beast concept to solve his city's own dilemma.

It took only six months, along with some donations from local investors, to get his idea fleshed and furred out.

"We took our prototype Terror Wolf 'Jim' out for a field test and he worked like the dickens, let me tell you. You see, Jim uses infrared technology to sense sexual desires from deep within the boars. We can see them like little ding-dots on a map. In fact, using Jim's sensors, I can pinpoint the millisecond when the boars form an erection. That's when I enable Jim's 'attack' feature. In seconds, Jim comes crashing through the bushes, scaring the living daylights out of the male and female boars seconds before the moment of divine penetration. Fog and laser SFX were also added to Jim's arsenal to heighten the mood of pure terror."

"So imagine you're a boar with a strong sexual desire and you lock eyes with a beautiful female, who is ready and willing to do a breed-and-feed. Just when you get ready to mount her, you hear a hellish barking noise, you see the bushes shake violently, fog and smoke come pouring out, and then two piercing red eyes, long teeth and a mound of tan fur come flying at you like a devil's dust storm!"

We had a chance to see Grayg field-test Jim on a couple of local hogs back behind the Cornrustler building. We watched from afar as the male boar began sniffing the female's genital area, deep in a haze of lustful desire. That's when Grayg powered Jim on. Within moments, Jim was pounding through the brush, making a bee-line for the mating pair. Just before the tip of the boar's penis entered the curved halls of the female's entrance chamber, Jim came lunging out of the bushes in a sea of smoke, flashing red lights...and the chorus of "Rock You Like A Hurricane" by Scorpions.

"Yeah, we added that song to Jim's sound system just for fun. It plays during all the attacks now," Grayg says in between hearty chuckles. "Scares the shit out of the boars. They hate the chorus."

While the long-term efficacy of Grayg's project is yet to be determined, the short term effectiveness is clear. Based on our observations, the primal fear in the boars' eyes, and the speed at which the boar's erection was annihilated post-attack, we have faith that Jim is the Wolf that will save Alabama.

TRINDER: "Fostering Stronger Interpersonal Bonds, Aiding the Lonely and Healing Communities"

TRINDER: "Fostering Stronger Interpersonal Bonds, Aiding the Lonely and Healing Communities"
An Editorial by Welt Scrimmer

Finger-jam left or finger-jam right? In today's "fast towns," there is no better way to discover your mega-value. And everyone wants to know what theirs is! So what are YOU worth, you ask? Likely, the answer is no more than a penny coated in hung-bung-roop. Try your luck at Trinder's "skin lottery" and you may very well win the juck-pot. But on the other hand, you may lose the very thing that makes you a leg-walker.

For calendars and calendars, relationships between warm-bodies and other warm-bodies have been terrible. Now things are better, at least according to Trinder CEO Hid Chamstring.

"Yes yes I think I made a mash-button sight where hungry boys and hungry girls can feast on one another with no thoughts of the grim skeleton hand and the shadow that it casts over all of our lives."
With a twinkle in his eye, Chamstring laughs heartily as he comments on the state of affairs in our nation's fast towns.

"History has shown us that reflection and soul-searching are stupid and worthless ideas. Down here at Trinder home offices, we think it's best to 'jam-up' with countless strangers, sort of like a buffet. But at our buffet, you never need to get a clean plate. Just keep using the first one until the odor and decay starts to scare the buffalo away."

"Listen bud, wrap yourself in butcher paper and huck yourself over some old barbed wire fence into the mouth of a hungry stranger. Doesn't that sound better than discovering your own true needs through careful introspection and sound communication? *sinister laughter* Anyway, listen, just be happy that we're even giving you this button to mash. If we didn't, you'd still be mashing in your mom's potatoes, am I right?" Again, Chamstring bursts into a fit of uncontrollable rage-laughter.

"One thing I know for sure, brother...is that Trinder fosters stronger interpersonal bonds, it aids the lonely and it heals communities, the same way people like yellow-rods and McDarnald's."

While the jury may be out on whether or not Trinder adds any depth, wisdom, sincerity or cranberry sauce to the sacred interpersonal bonds of relationships, one thing is for sure: people are turning jaw.

CALL-INS FROM OUR LISTENERS:

"Yeah man so I had a hard spell last calendar. I lost my job at Hinkle Dink's over the holidays, had some health issues and had a mental honkey tonk the size of Houston all in the same month. It was super rough trails for this ol' length-of-rope. I didn't know how I'd make it through without my girlfriend Sooze. Instead of just feeling sorry for my face like an old handkerchief, I got two full-time jobs to make sure Sooze and I could be comfortable and well fed. During one of my night shifts scrubbing the bathroom floor at Danny's First Meal House, I got a message from Sooze telling me that she found a guy with better clothes and better money in his wallet. After she left me, and after they closet-jammed for the 6th time, the dude left her for a model named TERESA 5. It hadn't even been a week. Then Sooze tried to call me to apologize but I have decided that I want to euthanize myself at a hospital instead of go on living in this shiver world."

"Hey yeah so I just threw my phone into a sewer and took off my clothes and now I live in the forest and I am pretty sure I am turning into a wolf. I am never going to use Trinder or any pant-unzipper ever again." *SIGNIFICANT HOWLING ENSUES*

"My name is Trey-C and I just wanted to call in to explain that I met a really nice guy named Brud on Trinder. He had nice brown slicked-back head-top hair and a perfect rustle of face-bottom-hair. He picked me up in his Owdee 5,000,000 VERSION 6 SPURSTER outside of my rental house. He smelled so nice, like a thousand bundles of sports candles. He took me to eat liquid clams and hunks of beef at NIGHT SLIDERS, one of the nicest "roof rammer" restaurants in town. He took me home and his mouth smelled like beef and he tried to make me slork by using his mouth on my downtown compass. After all of that, he said some weird things about wanting to step on the throats of people with cars older than 2016 so they would all die and he would have the roads to himself. When I woke up, I was all alone. All that was left of him was a single sports candle he left on my pillow. It had an engraving that said 'America First.' That was the last I ever saw of him."

"Hey there, I'm Tiddle Two. I have a Trinder story pretty similar to the one that Trey-C just told me. I met a really nice-seeming mixologyst named Trim who worked at O-Da-Lolly's down on First in the Downtown Boiler Zone. He told me he could throw a drink up in the air and walk away for a brown unload and come back and then catch it and the drink would be fully made. He really steamed me with that one! We took our date on the back of a steed that he ordered from horse.com. We went out to eat at Zinger's Arcade and Cafe. We played some games and he ordered me some basket-food. Then he took me back to his place for Trinder-perscribed ramming. Instead of going right for my lettuce, he had a tour around my garbanzo beans and my garden area. I could feel his neatly trimmed facial hair all over me. I felt odd about his choice to rustle around in my bean garden so told him politely that we should save that for later. That's when Trim threw up his arms and told me I should go join the Navy and that I was a real snooze. He left and never returned my feverish phone calls."

Dino Dad: My Boy and I Live Inside A Dinosaur

Jucksnick Rumcum's personal "Dino Journal"
Day 645 of being a "Dino Dad"

I woke up this morning with a severe back ache from accidentally slipping down the dinosaur's colon during a period of deep sleep. Luckily, I was able to reach around in there and find a few bones to pull on to get myself back up into the stomach area. Once I pulled myself into the safety of the inner largecavern I found my boy, Nidpip Helvin Rumcum, resting on a pile of human and animal skulls in a pool of stomach acid. I was so happy to see that little butterscotch bumper that I let out a little honk of glory and gave him a snugger.

I'm not going to lie. It's been really tough living inside a dinosaur with my young son. Ever since my wife left us, it's been a butt hammer. I lost my job as a toothpaste salesman and my wife shot out the door like a greased weasel in a tailpipe. I never pictured myself as a Dino Dad but now I guess that's what I've got jam into my noggin. What gives me the hankers is that my boy and I are living hard. We don't get enough to eat in this darn bone and muscle house. And we aren't able to wash our clothes well enough. Those are pretty much our main complaints...except that Dominoes stopped delivering to us after our Jurassic scalehouse ate one of the delivery men and it got blood all over our pizza order.

It's hard to believe it's already been 645 days living in this old Thunder Lizard House. The real estate man said that ever since the economy started getting bad, it's been pretty common for dads like me to move into scientifically-resurrected dinosaurs with their boy sons. I did what any desperate single dad would do and bought a modestly sized landfill property and a large Tyrannosaur to eat us and allow us to live in him.

I think for dinner tonight I'm going to make some gravy from one of the dead deer bodies we have in here. From there, I'll probably bake some bread in the large intestine (downstairs) with some seeds and old smellweed we found.

Maybe tomorrow we can take our house on a trip the park to watch the money people do normal things. With some luck, maybe we can make some money by letting people take our photographs and laugh at us. I will spend it on pizza delivery. But this time, I will have the delivery man throw it in our housemouth, not try to crawl in to give us the receipt.

Terri Lost Everything

CINCINNATI MENTAL FORTITUTDE EXAMINER
A Cincinnati publication that focuses specifically on the mental fortitude of rabbits
Issue 274

As the mist slowly crept back over the jagged and unforgiving black mountains of eternity, a local mechanic and jackrabbit named Terri Gringer, Jr. was swept into the unyielding gaze of doom, rendering his mind and body totally atrophied under its endless crushing weight.

We spoke to Bunky JamJam (one of Terri's closest friends and co-workers) about what happened and what he saw:

"I work with Terri and he is a great guy. Probably one of the most chill dudes I know. I really just saw a change in him today. He was flippin' a wrench on my bro Flingus' old Mazda Miata. He is so sick when it comes to replacing struts, it's insane. Anyway, yeah, out of the corner of my eye I saw Terry jerk a little bit and drop his wrench. He just got super tense and his eyes just started, like, bulging out of his head. I just don't know what's up with him, we were supposed to go out to Jake's Beer Drinking Place tonight to drink beers out of beer cups but now...I just don't know..."

***

One can never attempt to fully understand the complexities of the mind. Ever since Terri's story got out, countless specialists have speculated as to what could have turned one of Cincinnati's most legendary wrench turners into a complete catatonic. 

It has now been six long years since that horrible mind disaster and Terri is still mentally and muscularly-locked and as tense as a bridge wire on a windy day. His wife (Nanner Widget-Gringer) promptly left him mere moments after his medical emergency. She stated that she wanted to be with a "real man." 

Nanner explained that the "last time I saw Terri was the day when he went stiff. I saw saw him cling to Bill's shirt in pure terror that day and I thought to myself 'I can't be with a guy with problems.' In fact, I knew then that need a lot more money to feel like I'm really happy in life so I divorced Terri by mail that same night and married a few men that I met at Jake's Beer Drinking Place. They bought me beers inside beer cups. We went to a hotel later. I love them."

With all these events occurring, we could't help but feel for Terri in his profoundly grim situation. We went to visit Terri at the International Center for Existential Dread and he was in a very similar state to when he was first afflicted. His eyes had a deep glaze and nearly every muscle group in his body was still clenched as tight as ever. 

Bunky, his old pal from the auto mechanic shop, was visiting with him bedside. Still in his mechanic garb and blue work shirt, Bunky hunched over Terri's twisted frame and spoke sweetly and softly into Terri's ear. It was then that we noticed he was reading passages. As we discovered, he makes a special visit to Terri's room every night to read from his favorite books.

BUNKY'S BOOKS:

"My Faith in the Sword" by Jones Boss

"How They're Made: Tater Tots" by Pibby Rugg and Boon Nip-Nodbod

"Widget's Naughty Place" by Yip Schooner

Pvt. First Class Dooty Nee (LEFT) to reporter: "I am far better looking than Elvis Presley any day of the week!"

From an archived copy of The "Tuscaloosa Toot" Newspaper, published February 6th, 1955:

Take casual notice of the young man standing to the left of Elvis Presley with his top-lip curled up into a dark and mysterious frown-grin.  This man is none other than Pvt. First Class Dooty Nee of Trout Grunder, North Mississippi.  According to Mr. Nee himself, "the world is one great big dung heap and I'm at the top of it because of my chiseled good looks and strong jaw's line."  

You may not be surprised to learn that among the members of Groark's 51st "Special" Infantry Unit on this U.S. Army Platoon's personnel base in Glunk-Blimdunk-Hanker County on the Arkansas/Tennessee border, Pvt. Dooty Nee ranks among the least popular.  In fact, directly after Mr. Nee made this statement to us, a couple of fellow infantry men poured a pot of spoiled boiled hen all over Pvt. Nee's lap, creating a stench so unholy that certain members of our news organization projectile vomited onto the airstrip, which was 5 meters away.

On a brighter note, it's no secret that none other than Elvis "Pussyfaucet Knobturner" Presley is also a proud member of this very same Personnel Unit.  In fact, Elvis garnered worldwide news attention for his decision to join the Army back before his penis was badly damaged from smashing it into a few underage girls in the dark and dismal Southern winter of 1954.  When asked to comment about the crude and unseemly behavior other infantrymen displayed towards Pvt. First Class Nee, Elvis only replied that he "felt a tingle downstairs and had to step into the restroom."

We met again with Pvt. First Class Nee to get his opinion on sharing an Infantry Unit with none-other than the King of teen-aged music (and underage ram-jamming) and, sure enough, he replied with a comment so boisterous and left-field that even god himself threw up through the cracks in his fingers: "I am far better looking than Elvis Presley any day of the week!  I am, by f--." As it turns out, in the middle of his sentence, Dooty's strong overbite suddenly became firmly and inexplicably tangled in his lip-flesh, causing him to squeal in immense pain.  Blushing almost to the point of aneurism, Pvt. Nee then kneeled over awkwardly and began the arduous process of untangling his tender lip-flesh from around and between the grooves in his piano-like upper white-biters.  After a frustrated and hurried mess of fumbling and squeaks, Nee rose quickly to his feet and began stammering on in a clear last-ditch-effort to save face in front of his fellow infantrymen, who by then had already begun to form an impromptu "circle of humiliation" around the young buck-toothed private.  "I-I-I can sing way better than Elvis and the girls love me and the way I-I-I move my hip structure..." By then it was clear that the couple dozen-or-so infantrymen that had gathered in an almost-complete circle were there for no other reason than to gawk and laugh at the pitiful and tragic existence of the oral-layout and jawbone-challenged young man.  

Snapping to his senses and realizing that he had once again become the subject of a wealth of painfully vitriolic, crude and remorseless put-downs by his peers, Pvt. Dooty suddenly--and without warning--broke into a fit of violent tears and high-octave screaming and began tearing away at an almost superhuman speed toward a patch of distant foothills.

After hearing some of the commotion, Elvis Presley came swaggering out of one of the barracks, followed by three underage girls, clearly ruffled and unkempt from hours of unprotected intercourse.

"The hell's goin' on out here?" Elvis asked, slyly, in between breezy chuckles.

One of the infantrymen replied back that "Ol' Nee decided to run up in them hills--probably for good!"

As it turned out, Pvt. First Class Nee kept running into the horizon until he disappeared into the forest, never to be seen again. 

END OF ARTICLE

*Tuscaloosa Historic Society Vice Curator Bunger Frund notes that it was later discovered that Pvt. First Class Dooty Nee ended up making a permanent home up in those foothills, never to be seen again by any living person after his sudden sprint into the green horizon back in 1955.  Years after his death, a few hikers found his remains in a ramshackle cabin made almost entirely of human dung and small stones.  Inside the cabin, there were dozens of small statues Pvt. Nee made of himself.  Scrawled into those statues were various brags and sayings about how much better looking Nee was than Presley and how Nee was a far better singer and dancer.  [R.I.P Pvt. First Class Dooty Nee 1935-1955 "An American Hero"]

Chimichanga Richard

“Sometimes I’m overcome with emotions of warm, soft beef and I begin to sweat from my arm zone and strange feelings come across my heart.” -Chimichanga Richard

Whenever local food man Richard Dungameyer so much as pictures a Chimichanga in his mind, he is rendered physically useless, falling into a sort of strange sexual trance where his mouth falls agape and his hands move slowly to the front of his lap where he undoes the front of his jeans and begins massaging himself through his underwear.  Normally, behind closed doors, this behavior would be tolerable, if not a bit strange. But Mr. Dungameyer is a public rubber.  He generally performs this kind of activity in the booths of fast food restaurants like Hot Plate Jim's, Crowded Terrys', or The Oiled Chicken Leg on West 52nd.  

Richard's arrest warrant reads like a shopping list.  He's been cited for indecent exposure over 45 times across a period of 12 years in Horkin County alone.  But Richard insists he's not in the wrong.  

"I lead a life of quiet and tarnished damnation. Sure, my hands slide near my Jimmy when I think about hot sauce beef, but it's not my intention, Lord. No, sir."

Mr. Dungameyer claims that he suffers from a rare brain disorder known as "Chimichanga-Washout," where at the mere thought of ingesting a Chimichanga Meal (with a side of Mexican rice and fat-boiled brown beans) his physical body remains grounded but his soul and consciousness are brought to a spiritual realm he refers to as "The Outer." While in The Outer, he is able to place an order at a mystical fast food counter made of fog and smoke. As you would probably guess, Richard always orders the Chimichanga without hesitation. Richard explained that when he gets his "dream Chimichanga," it tastes almost as good as counter meals.  "And cheaper too," he adds.

While these dream sequences bring temporary relief, C.R. yearns for the corporeal experience. When asked about his plans for the future, Richard says "oh, not much I guess. Just probably go to a hot food establishment and rub up on my Jimmy."