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."

I Prefer Tortillas Over Bread On My Space Flights Because I Don't Want Crumbs Flying Around The Cabin

Being an astronaut can be a very discouraging job.  I wake up literally every morning with a horribly painful erection that, due to strict NASA regulations (brought fourth when they were purchased by Caumcast), I am not to touch, poke or even glance upon--lest it distract me from my mission, which is making adjustments to an unstable Caumcast satellite (so the citizenry of earth may watch Sugar Foo Foo, the child bride).  As a result, I am left feeling much like a Mormon boy, letting semen accumulate inside my bowels until I have a gallon of "milk" sloshing around in there.  Milk that is left to sit and fester, much like my mood.  Not being able to release myself is not only a boondoggling psychological strain but a physiological one as well.  At the very best I have, quite literally, a single american gallon of semen inside my body that I have to try to ignore.  At the very worst, I have that gallon of white butter PLUS a painfully hard erection (generally in the morning and afternoon hours or whenever I look upon my co-pilot Barbara, a normally unfortunate looking woman that I am now lusting furiously over due to my lack of options).

Forced Expulsion of Unwanted Feelings

"Upon denim contact, I felt as if I had to forcibly expel my internal organs through my anus in order to prevent the sacred feelings from travelling down to my pringle." -Hazzard Maplewood, Formerly Jailed Denim Contact Addict

Ever since brother Maplewood has been attending services here at Christian LordGod's Kingdom, I've had a funny feeling about him. It all started at the casserole feast last Friday. I was standing next to brother Maplewood in the chow line when, during light conversation, he explained that he had recently disposed of his denim collection due to "general dislike of the fabric." I found it to be an odd thing to say to someone, especially after buying so many pairs of pants before suddenly deciding to get rid of them. I asked him what influenced him to make such a decision and he suddenly thrust his entire hand deep into the bean and liver glorch casserole, perhaps in an attempt to distract me from my line of questioning. He proceeded to grab a giant hunk of food and slap in on his paper plate before rushing further down the line while wincing quietly. I caught up with him near the melted ham gelatin mound and asked him if he'd like to speak privately with me in my office. That's when things got strange. As Hazzard's eyes turned up from the buffet table and met mine, I could see that he had begun to sweat profusely. His face was drenched in sweat droplets. In fact, his white T-shirt was so covered in sweat that it looked like an extra layer of skin. That's when he began to speak. "Pester Chad, I am a cold and moistened spirit. Let me dine upon his sludge in relative peace." That's when Hazzard slunked off to the corner of the room, in a dark corner to eat alone. Just then, I noticed brother Jinker and his son tiny Ed walk over and sit next to him. Little Ed waved to Hazzard and asked if he could sit with him. Hazzard nodded hesitantly and Ed crawled up on his lap and begin to snuggle with him. That's when a look of inexplicable horror came upon Hazzard's face. He began to writhe in pain, squeezing his eyes shut and baring his teeth in an expression of pure agony. That's when Jinker noticed the scene and asked Hazzard what was wrong. Hazzard opened his eyes and pointed at little Ed's jeans. Jinker then grabbed little Ed and removed him from Hazzard's lap area. By then, the entire congregation had taken notice. Hazzard began to suck deep breaths of oxygen, his cotton pants soaked completely through in sweat. Once it was clear his situation was made public, Hazzard stood up in embarrassment with his head hung low. He looked to the crowd and in a booming voice, he screamed "I was protecting the boy from my tingle zone!" And ran full speed through the exit doors.

That was the last time I ever saw brother Maplewood at church services. I did, however see him downtown a month afterward. He was wearing a jean jacket, a jean baseball cap a jean undershirt and a jean necklace. He was sleeping inside of a sleeping bag made from stonewashed denim, right on the steps of the courthouse. Though I didn't bother waking him up, I wished him well in a silent prayer.

 Head Pester Chad Trinkle
 Christian LordGod's Kingdom Church Facility
 Boarflesh, North Carolina

Thunderjack Rogers: A Frustrating Truth Revealed

The following are a series of compiled quotes from "A Frustrating Truth Revealed," the long-awaited memoir by Thunderjack Rogers, a legendary Vietnam War vet, warm chicken meal eater and public bathroom expert.

"Back in Vietnam, a few of the boys used to call me 'Tussles.' I didn't like that nickname so I shot them and I told my commanding officer that the enemy shot them." -Thunderjack Rogers, on his wedding day

"To my knowledge, I was the only man who fought the entire war with a skin tight full-body leather outfit under my military fatigues. Whenever I felt that I was gaining stiffness in my front zone, I unzipped my fly and let my jorkus out for a fresh breath of air. It just so happened that I let it out once when I was standing over Private First Class Tinky, who was only 18 at the time. I was tired from doing so much war stuff so I had to take knee. Coincidentally, my skin column was right near his mouth when my platoon happened by. It was frustrating that they felt they had to take the whole event out of context and call me a male lust ranger. It is simply not true. I am a hardened American Male and I love women only."

"In 1987, when musical act Styx were becoming popular on the radio I decided to grow my hair out to match the way they looked. It also happened to be rather bright outside one day and I didn't have my sunglasses so I borrowed a pair of my wife's. I ended up wearing them every day because they felt comfortable on my face. I also got full breast implants so I could sleep more comfortably on my stomach at night. Many people said I did those things because I like men but they are telling lies. I am a red-blooded woman-lover and I am a trained military guy. I don't believe men and men should be more than just good friends."

"He came to me in a dream once when I was on my first tour in Vietnam. In the dream, was standing near the bank of the Ten'Chau river. He was naked and crawling towards me on all fours at an implausible rate. I was standing near the tree-line, also fully nude. We were both fully aroused and already on the precipice of ejaculation when we made physical contact. Just then I awoke with the front of my combat jeans soiled from reproductive matter. I was holding a small American flag in one hand and a 9mm pistol in the other. I remember feeling a sense of ease that my body had finally rejected those unwanted feelings."

"It wasn't five minutes after my first tour in Vietnam that I met Grover Allens, a young man of 19. He said he needed financial help and that he was lonely and in need of firm companionship. I had just received war money and I felt like I was able to help. After I cashed my check, he took me back to his apartment on 131st where we both removed our clothing. I was very hot from the summer sun so I hung mine up to dry and only for that reason. He began to tickle my beard and refer to me as 'Muffins.' I was able to suppress my violent urges and told him that I didn't appreciate the nickname and that he only refer to me as Thunderjack, the name my father wanted me to embody. He told me not to be so sensitive. He then placed the tips of his fingers gently on the back of my neck as I faced his window. He ran them down the back of my spine until he reached my dark crevice."

"My life changed forever when I had my first son. Only a few hours after the birth, my wife Stacy and I began to discuss baby names. She suggested we should name him John. I stood firm on naming him Tipples. As our conversation wore on, I could feel the tensions rising between my wife and I. After refusing to budge on my name choice, she claimed that Tipples sounded 'homo-erotic' and threatened to call my father to tell him about my alleged secret tender feelings towards other men. That's when I lost my temper and flipped her hospital bed over and jumped out the 3 story window, landing feet first on my mother in Law, Barbara."

"Life finally calmed down for me in the Summer of 1994. I spent that whole season lounging around in a pair of pastel underwear at the local Sauna, making great conversation with new friends I made. Many of them had small, small mustaches and tiny haircuts. Some of them liked to tickle my chest and pat at my round bobbers."

Make-A-Hope: Fun Ryde

"My son Ruffy got to ride on the bumper of an air mover. He had some screams and some tears but he had a good time in the cloud city." -Torton Griffer, PCP Addict

The passengers of flight 76R of the SkyJammer150 airline service had a real honker when they heard the muffled screeches of a youngbody outside their plane. When they looked out their window, they were shocked and pleased to see a smallman desperately clinging to the side of the aircraft at around 16,000 feet. He was crying until about 20,000 feet or so, then he began to smile and giggle and run up and down the wing, presumably from the lack of oxygen.

Flight attendants soon realized he was Ruffy from the Make-A-Hope League, a program for sick kids where they get to make one last hoper before the dark hands come and grasp them. Ruffy's wish was to ride on the outside of a plane and be a "plane man." His father signed the forms and checked in with the pilots, but no one else had been informed of his presence. Once the passengers noticed the boy, it caused quite the commotion inside the cabin. The pilot got on the intercom and assured everyone that he was safe as long has he stays well fed and gets a personal "chyld syze" oxygen tank above 25,000 feet.

That was around the time a stewardess crawled out the porthole on the top of the airplane and walked out to the wing and brought the boy a half a tuna fish sandwich and his oxygen tank so he would be comfortable for the rest of the flight.

By the time the plane reached 50,000 feet, young Ruffy began to get tired so the stewardess brought him out a blankie and a pillow so he could sleep outside for a half an hour.

After naptyme, Ruffy awoke to find the plane making its final descent into the clouds. That's when Ruffy got on top of the fuselage and made his way toward the roof of the cockpit so he could get the best view of the cloud city. He pulled out his jar and scooped up a piece of cloud so he could bring it home to show his dad (when he got out of jail).

When the plane began its landing maneuvers, Ruffy was nowhere to be found. Everyone began to worry that the unthinkable had occurred, that Ruffy had fallen. That's when the radio tower alerted staff that Ruffy was wrapped tightly around the landing gear drinking an apple juice box savoring his last final moments of glory.

Rick Masters: Brown Rainmaker

On the narrow steel bridge in Plumith Groak, Mon-Tanna legendary Sports Musician Rick Masters flipped a switch on his tour bus that released nearly one metric ton of solid hot brown sewage on the faces of poor villagers below. Before pulling the switch, Rick got on the megaphone and told everyone to come out of their houses to catch free money that he had earned at his last Colosseum gig. People ran out of their houses hoping for a miracle but what they got was something much different.

Rick Masters describes the events in his own words: "Oh that one? Oh man! That was hilarious. So here's what I did. I had the driver stop on this steel grated bridge, right? So I get on the megaphone and I say 'Attention low income Americans. I am so sorry for charging so much for tickets to my shows. In an attempt to regain some of my integrity I wish to bestow you with free dollars from the sky.' Hahahaha. It was so funny I could barely say it without cracking up. Everyone in the neighborhood under the bridge started running out of their houses holding their hands in the air hoping to catch a buck or two but got a Rick Masters brown right in the kisser. When my faggot fans keep complaining about high ticket prices, I'm going to let them know exactly how I feel about them not having enough money to afford them. Period."

It was reported that the Mayor of Plumith Groak threatened to sue Rick Masters for the cruel trick, but before he could, Rick Masters purchased the entire town, and took a shit on everyone's doorstep just for kicks.

Rick Master's violinist summed the situation up quick succinctly by saying "Listen man, Rick is a turd man. He loves turds. And he hates people that hate sports. It's that simple."

Tremendous Isolated Achievement

The following text is reprinted with the permission of "Baldur's Dragon Scroll" Monthly Newsletter.

////Pliff////Freeze Time Spell////Pliff////

"It's no surprise that the world's top scientists have been unable to properly calculate the mind's energy expended on such honorable pursuits as online medieval warfare but today...we are one step closer to realizing that some of earth's brightest stars pursue life-quests on the digital plane. I can only hope that my forage into a sodium and refined sugar-rich diet was not for naught...but for a cause brimming with glory. A challenge to a higher plane of the shining rays of hope." -Suicide Note From Wharp Flameshield, former Internet Game Player

It is with great regret that I must inform you that Wharp Flameshild, a semi-respected game player has decided to take his own life by falling on his replica ninja sword today. To make matters worse, the sword was made of a low grade Chinese "metal-like" substance, laced with led and cheap plastic so he died not of the small abrasion to his hip but to the ensuing infection.

May we all bow our heads in a moment of silence as we picture the Majestic Mountains of Iso-Lor and the smoking tar pits of Blorkus-Shanner.

In another bit of news, the above picture was taken of me by my stupid brother, Nedrew. He blackmailed me into putting it into the newsletter. Earlier this morning, he found my stash of Chinese Girl action figures with all of their outfits taken off underneath my bed. He took pictures with his camera and said he'd tell mom and dad I was wiggling my thumper to action dolls if I didn't take a degrading picture and post it in this newsletter. He gave me a towel, a clothes pin and a pair of my sister's recently worn wrestling underwear and told me to dress up like a "gay forest elf" and pose with my Warp Craft box. I am sorry to bring you down even further after the already bad news.

On an uplifting note, I discovered that I am growing some hair underneath my peaches in the "end zone." Some of the people that I hang out with have already entered the "mysterious phase" where red forces begin to appear on their forehead and their voices become that of warriors instead of cabin boys. I am excited when I am able to leave the realm of my parent's and get a castle of my own one day. But until then I have to put up with stupid gay Nedrew and all of his taunting.

Swords of Eleandor!

////Plowr////Dark Smoke////Plowr////

-Dark Whisper The Vigilante

Fhal Kill Mur's Hidden Village

"My Hidden Village is a testament to all I've accomplished as an actor. Most notably my work on Batman Forever [Kill Mur pauses to take a massive bite of a submarine sandwich] the epitome of human achievement and spiritual forcewill."
-Fhal Kill Mur

Former A-List actor Fhal Kill Mur has recently opened a low-grade amusement park based solely on his past projects. Vhal named the park "Hidden Village" in remembrance of his performance in the oft-overlooked and critically dismissed 80s picture "Willow."

The park was built last year by Fhal and a couple of migrant workers over the course of a few weekday afternoons (with a few siestas tucked in for good measure). The result: an underwhelming smattering of wood and scrap-steel based rides and booths for picture viewing. The following is a list of attractions:



1.) "The Blue Flash." A roller coaster that evokes Val Kilmer's career-making performance in Heat.



2.) "Wooden Wonderland." A ride based off of the Fhal Kill Mur-starring pornography drama "Wonderland" that was released in the early two-thousands.



3.) "Batman Forever: The Revenge Of The Riddler." This is an action packed, fully horizontal land-based ride Fhal has dedicated to his successful addition to the batman franchise.

Admission to the park is $7.95 and each ticket purchase comes with a fresh home-made submarine sandwich from Fhal's own kitchen. Many people don't know this but Fhal is a pryme sandwich enthusiast and has a certificate of completion from the Subway "Sandwich Artist" training academy. His recent weight gain and ballooning facial features are considered a result of his new found obsession for refined carbohydrates.

Blord: The King Wood Toucher

(This article has been reprinted with permission from The Wood Elf Herald, an online publication for underdeveloped adults.)

WOOD ELF HERALD
Feature Article By Blayde St. Revenge

I met Blord at Flosh Grudens Community College in 1997. While the other kids went to class, we would go back behind the bushes and play with our action hero figures. Blord was Kraft from Ringlords and I was Bowman from Slyngers. We would knock our guys together until our moms came and picked us up in their minivans. After the first few weeks our moms realized we weren't going to class so they made us quit college. So I was forced to get a job at the mall working at Fruit Blendz Drinks For Men. But Blord took it all really hard, the break up and all. All I remember is that he said "Dark Forces Are At Work" and he picked up a medium-sized log and ran full speed into the New Jersey Pine Barrens. I literally haven't seen or heard from in in a year. But apparently other people have. I took some testimonials from people in the area that have seen him wandering the wyld plains:

"I was walking my dog through the pine barrens and I saw a large man with long hair attempting to hide behind a small sized rock. I literally walked right past him and he kept adjusting himself in some sort of feeble attempt to stay out of sight. Not only did I see him, but I was concerned that he was some sort of deranged woodsman that wished me or my dog harm. So I confronted him. I just asked if he had a problem. Then all of a sudden he began to screech at an ear piercing decibel. He the stood up violently, continuing to scream, picked up a giant hunk of wood and galloped away at a frantic but awkward pace towards dense wooded cover."
-Dr. Berri Snyder

"I was out birdwatching on the south end of the pine barrens and I heard a squirrel making warning noises. The warning noises got louder and louder then stopped altogether. Then I saw a giant oaf of a man fall about 75 feet out of an pine tree and land flat on his back. He seemed to be in some distress but he got up and in his right hand was a dead squirrel. He picked up what appeared to be a giant hunk of wood. That's when he noticed me standing about 200 yards away with binoculars. His eyes began to glow red and he barked like a dark Tasmanian wolfhound and shot off into the darkness."
-Hobby Pinkle

"It all started when I was picking blackberries off a massive tangle of vines last summer. I saw a huge clump in the far back row, just at the end of my reach. I had to stretch deep into the bush to get them. While I was straining I felt like there was someone behind me, but by the time I turned around a large, naked man with long black hair had already stolen my bucket of berries and was making a bee line for the trees. I was less upset and more just amazed that someone would steal berries. So I watched him run about 300 feet away. He stopped in the middle of a clearing and began to softly urinate on a pile of leaves. I used that time as my opportunity to sneak up behind him. I got closer and closer and he seemed not to notice my advance. Once I got to within a foot or two, I planned on just reaching down and stealing my berries back but the man quickly spun around, and let out a blood curdling snarl, revealing razor sharp serrated teeth. I quickly ran back to my car and drove home."
-Bonnie Tyler

Nooper "Do Not Dance Too Close To Female"

"I installed heat sensitive cameras inside my daughter's bathroom to ensure that she isn't getting warm feelings thinking about boys." -Elder Faithdust "Nooper" Placard

Nobody is more outspoken against male/female relations than Nooper, the popular Mormon Recording Artist. Though Nooper isn't his birth name, it was given to him by friends and family because of how often he says the word "nope" in a funny way due to his North Dakota accent.

Nooper became a popular name in the booming Mormon Recording Industry in the late nineteen seventies. Performing such hits as "NO NIGGERS IN THE PRIESTHOOD" (1977), "I LIKE BLACK PEOPLE (FOR THE LORD NOW SAYS IT'S OKAY)" (1978), MY NEIGHBORS SON KISSED A BOY AND HE IS BEING EX-COMMUNICATED" (1981), "THE HUMBLE WHITE UPPER MIDDLE CLASS/UPPER CLASS HOME" (1985), "MY MINIVAN" (1992), "MY DAUGHTER WILL NEVER HEAVY PET, I GUARANTEE IT" (1999), "DREAMS OF 9-11" (2001), "DON'T HOLD HANDS WITH MY DAUGHTER--OR TOUCH HER--OR LOOK AT HER" (2002), "SEXUALITY OUGHT TO BE REPRESSED--AND THE ENSUING MENTAL ILLNESS MUST BE STAVED OFF WITH CONSTANT READINGS OF 'PEARL OF GREAT PRICE' IN THE BOOK OF MORMON" (2005), "MARIE OSMOND'S SON DIDN'T KILL HIMSELF BECAUSE HE WAS A REPRESSED HOMOSEXUAL. HE KILLED HIMSELF BECAUSE THE MORNING STAR ENTERED HIS BLOODSTREAM AND MADE HIM LUSTFUL TOWARDS A MAN FOR A TEMPORARY PERIOD (BUT HE HAD THE POWER TO FIGHT IT)."

Now that he has entered his golden years, his daughter is of legal dating age--and Elder Nooper has TRULY gone off the deep end to protect his daughter. Acting out in response to his own sexual repression and deep seated insecurities, he's written an album entitled "Don't Dance Too Close To Female." He's distributed a copy to every male at her high school in hopes it will ward off any sexual feelings of lustful moisture towards his daughter.

NOOPER
DON'T DANCE TOO CLOSE TO FEMALE

1.) JOSEPH SMITH DIDN'T BELIEVE IN INTERCOURSE (AND NEITHER SHOULD YOU)
2.) MALE PRESIDES OVER FEMALE
3.) FEMALE IS SUBORDINATE (AND MUST OBEY HER FATHER)
4.) GLAD TIDINGS FROM ONE TEENAGER TO ANOTHER (WITHOUT PHYSICAL CONTACT)
5.) PRESERVE YOURSELF IN YOUR HEAVENLY WHITE ROBES
6.) ONE DAY YOU WILL HAVE YOUR OWN MINIVAN
7.) DADDY'S CELESTIAL WONDER
8.) TOGETHER FOREVER (IN THE BONDS OF FAMILY IN WHITE ROBES)
9.) STAR MAKER (I DON'T WANT BLACK PEOPLE ON THE PLANET I CREATE-SORRY GOD)
10.) MODERN AMERICAN CONSERVATIVE VALUES ARE MY APPLE PIE (LOVE ETERNAL)

We were fortunate enough to catch up with Veronica Placard (the daughter) for a brief interview regarding her father's over-protective behavior. This is what she had to say:

"I totally forgot to take my birth control last night. I was pounding whiskey with Greg, Antonio, and D'Shawn and we smoked a whole $20.00 marijuana purchase. Anyway, I had relations with like one of them...or maybe more...haha...I don't remember but the point is...I forgot to take my birth control. Anyway, I'm going to have my friend Amber hit me in the belly with a broomhandle in a month or two to make sure I'm not pregnant. I can't go to the pharmacy to get Plan B or to Planned Parenthood because my dad insists on driving me everywhere in his minivan. The only reason I was lucky enough to party last night was because we did it upstairs in church while my cousin Jobe was getting baptized."

Plork (Fun Elvis!)

"Many jabber faces make remarks about my band saying 'you play shit.'"
-Unber Groak, Lead Vocalist (Plork)

At the mere mention of Plork, most music critics begin to tear away at the skin on their faces and reach for the nearest bottle of rubber cement to pour inside of their ear canals. But everything aside, Nor-Land's infamous "Hodge-Podge Eclectics" Plork are preparing for the release of their new album "Fun Elvis" and an extensive Southern U.S. Tour.

In a recent interview with Plork's lead vocalist, Unber Groak, we discovered much of the band's career so far has been rife with terrible hardship, crippling self-doubt and reprehensible body odors.

"It make me sad that everyone in the world hate our band. We go on tour of United America and a man, he take a bottle and bash it over my newborn baby son's face and tell me to die in lava."

Many people wonder how a band that is universally despised can afford to go on a tour to another continent. The answer: not easily. Unber and his band mates search for extra money deep in the bowels of the sewers.

"Last time we go tour America United, we get under the ground by sliding down a hole. We bring rakes and pieces of stick. Then we go where people make splashes in the white-pot. We stick our tools into the smell piles until we find coins and we collect them in Knhort's burlap sack."

After learning more about his methods, I realized that Unber is referring to the rogue coins that people sometimes accidentally shake out of their jeans into the toilet when they're taking their pants down before a bowel movement. Since not many people accidentally drop coins into the toilet, Unber and his band generally have a very difficult time searching for coins in piles of human waste. But after sixteen years of feverish searching, the band has come up with enough capital to fund another tour to the U.S.

Instead of taking a discount plane ride or taking a barge, due to their limited funds, Plork will be constructing a man-made raft from milk cartons and hardened dung from the sewers (used as sealant). They will consume raw fish meat on the ride over (fished from guitar strings) and they'll keep all their musical gear wrapped tightly in plastic wrap (found in the garbage).

Plork "Fun Elvis" will be released on cassette this December.

Track Listing:

1.) My Dig In The Sewer
2.) I Found A Coin
3.) My Son Hit With Bottle
4.) Feeling Worse About Underarm Bad Smell
5.) Good Times For Uncle Elvis
6.) I Smell Not Like A Good Man
7.) Money I Don't Have
8.) America Money Pot
9.) Sweat Woman
10.) Garbage Eater
11.) Trash Hunger