"Sodom and begorrah," ejaculated the chef. "Pardon my french, but quelle que chose sur le fuck, ne pas?"
Something had gone horribly awry. One minute, Barton Butmarten had been whipping up a batch of gruel souffle, and the next, the 17th century gourmand du monde had been flung forward through the Space-Time and Reason-Rhyme Continui, respectively.
Landing with a P-THUNK on a pink couch, Buttmarten found himself watching in horror and amusement as a gang of animate broomsticks brutally buggered and savagely sodomized an adorable anthropomorphic mouse, who for some reason was dressed in wizard's robes. It was a scene the likes of which Barton had not seen since his visit to the very gayest parts of gay Paree several years ago.
"I knew I should have used buttermilk instead of margarinemilk," Buttmarten thought to himself. "Well, I guess I might as well rescue the rodent."
Barton Buttmarten grabbed Mickey (for that's in fact who it was) by the ear, and they hopped into a conveniently waiting pushcart. Soon they were barreling down Brown Boulevard. A quick right on Rue d'Poo-poo, then a left, and they were speeding down the Hershey Highway.
As Buttmarten stitched up the mouse's anus, using one of his shoelaces, Mickey explained that he had been imprisioned in the Dimension of All-Anal Action by none other than the nefarious Screwtoons McFoolery, the dirtiest perv in the galaxy, and that they had better be on the lookout for his minions.
But weeks later, lost somewhere in the All-Anal sticks, they still hadn't seen any sign of Screwtoon's goons. Mickey's anal bleeding had subsided a good bit over the past couple of weeks, but Barton was still concerned. He had recommended a hot poultice, but the mouse had preferred the Anal-eez.
"I'm working on an unctment I do say you'll find posifizzily peachy," mentioned Barton Buttmarten, buttoning his wainscotting against the harsh interstellar winds. "It would combinate the well-observed lesion-sealing and prophylactic properties of petroleum products with something a little closer to home. There's no mess, and I'm initially thinking of offering it in a Mutton and Rice flavor and a smokin Jalapeno and Brie blend. If only there were an epicurean greengrocers in this godforsaken neck of space. There's not even a newsstand. What I wouldn't give even for a copy of Entertainment Weekly."
"Man, damn," concurred Mickey. "If I had a magazine I would read the fuck out of it right about now."
Indeed, this neck of space was not only empty, but foreboding as hell. Maybe there was a reason they hadn't been followed. In fact, this neck of space was like the face of the abyss if that face had neglected to use a good exfoliating cream and had grown thick with blackheads and rosacea.
Somewhere in the not-too-distant distance, a zit burst, spattering Barton and Mickey with pus.
Mickey wiped the slime off his ear with a spotted hand-kercheif. "There's only one thing so foul and unnatural that could lay waste to space like this," mused Mickey.
"The dagnabbed duo of Zombie-Anna-Nicole-Smith and Jason-Alexander-with-a-Vagina?" Barton Buttmarten asked.
"Yes!" exclaimed Mickey Mouse, holding a finger aloft. "No. Granted, they could make a whole Sectar smell like a beached whale at low tide just by thinking about it. But could they be responsible for such pustulence." He held out his rag for Barton to inspect.
Barton Buttmarten screwed in his monocle. "Considering the viscosity and thermal breakdown of this substrate, I would have to concur. But what in god's creation could it be?"
"Nothing in God's creation. No. Something this abhorrent could only be envisioned by the publishing conglomerate of Fitch, Schmidt & Schifflet - the same ones responsible for the undying stream of raw sewage that we call The Family Circus."
"Egads, ye gods!" Buttmarted cried. "What pustulence could come from the dark hand behind The Family Circus?"
"You see boss," Mickey explained as he wiped a gob of mentholyptus anal-eez off a fat white finger, "it's like this. You know how they're keeping Bill Keene and that wretched filth who writes B.C. cryogenetically subspended in anathema in order to stimulate the few working neurons in their brains into producing an endless torrent of self-same family-oriented puke? Well, they were going to do the same to Charles Schultz, but he escaped from the robots and spent the last years of his life in the Netherlands, smoking hash with Arlo Guthrie and Woody Harrelson. They said he died, of course, just like they tried to get us to believe that it was al Qaida and not Dick Cheney and H. Mellon Scaife who blew up the Twin Towers. But anyone with access to the internet knew better. That was, of course, before they turned the internet off permanently. (This mentholyptus stuff really hits the spot by the way. Much better than the banana stuff we got back in New Seattle.) But you see, even though Schultz himself remained in hiding, the goons of Fitch, Schmidt and Schifflet dug up the corpse of Charlie Brown and brought him back to their masters who planned to reanimate the baldy using robot voodoo power and turn him into a zomborg. But the experiment went horribly awry..."
"Egads and egg nads!" Buttmarten ejaculated. "Let me guess - instead of using extra-virgin olive oil, they used regular corn oil?"
"Worse," Mickey's voice began to quaver. "They used ultra-hydrogenated shitflower oil they stole from the grease-trap behind Wendy's."
And before the chef could respond, the he and his friend found themselves falling down an ass-aroma'ed crevace - a wormhole made by the poopworms of the Stool Sectar.
"Aaaiieeee!!!"
(Next week! Into the lair of the Abominable Charlie Brown???)
Something had gone horribly awry. One minute, Barton Butmarten had been whipping up a batch of gruel souffle, and the next, the 17th century gourmand du monde had been flung forward through the Space-Time and Reason-Rhyme Continui, respectively.
Landing with a P-THUNK on a pink couch, Buttmarten found himself watching in horror and amusement as a gang of animate broomsticks brutally buggered and savagely sodomized an adorable anthropomorphic mouse, who for some reason was dressed in wizard's robes. It was a scene the likes of which Barton had not seen since his visit to the very gayest parts of gay Paree several years ago.
"I knew I should have used buttermilk instead of margarinemilk," Buttmarten thought to himself. "Well, I guess I might as well rescue the rodent."
Barton Buttmarten grabbed Mickey (for that's in fact who it was) by the ear, and they hopped into a conveniently waiting pushcart. Soon they were barreling down Brown Boulevard. A quick right on Rue d'Poo-poo, then a left, and they were speeding down the Hershey Highway.
As Buttmarten stitched up the mouse's anus, using one of his shoelaces, Mickey explained that he had been imprisioned in the Dimension of All-Anal Action by none other than the nefarious Screwtoons McFoolery, the dirtiest perv in the galaxy, and that they had better be on the lookout for his minions.
But weeks later, lost somewhere in the All-Anal sticks, they still hadn't seen any sign of Screwtoon's goons. Mickey's anal bleeding had subsided a good bit over the past couple of weeks, but Barton was still concerned. He had recommended a hot poultice, but the mouse had preferred the Anal-eez.
"I'm working on an unctment I do say you'll find posifizzily peachy," mentioned Barton Buttmarten, buttoning his wainscotting against the harsh interstellar winds. "It would combinate the well-observed lesion-sealing and prophylactic properties of petroleum products with something a little closer to home. There's no mess, and I'm initially thinking of offering it in a Mutton and Rice flavor and a smokin Jalapeno and Brie blend. If only there were an epicurean greengrocers in this godforsaken neck of space. There's not even a newsstand. What I wouldn't give even for a copy of Entertainment Weekly."
"Man, damn," concurred Mickey. "If I had a magazine I would read the fuck out of it right about now."
Indeed, this neck of space was not only empty, but foreboding as hell. Maybe there was a reason they hadn't been followed. In fact, this neck of space was like the face of the abyss if that face had neglected to use a good exfoliating cream and had grown thick with blackheads and rosacea.
Somewhere in the not-too-distant distance, a zit burst, spattering Barton and Mickey with pus.
Mickey wiped the slime off his ear with a spotted hand-kercheif. "There's only one thing so foul and unnatural that could lay waste to space like this," mused Mickey.
"The dagnabbed duo of Zombie-Anna-Nicole-Smith and Jason-Alexander-with-a-Vagina?" Barton Buttmarten asked.
"Yes!" exclaimed Mickey Mouse, holding a finger aloft. "No. Granted, they could make a whole Sectar smell like a beached whale at low tide just by thinking about it. But could they be responsible for such pustulence." He held out his rag for Barton to inspect.
Barton Buttmarten screwed in his monocle. "Considering the viscosity and thermal breakdown of this substrate, I would have to concur. But what in god's creation could it be?"
"Nothing in God's creation. No. Something this abhorrent could only be envisioned by the publishing conglomerate of Fitch, Schmidt & Schifflet - the same ones responsible for the undying stream of raw sewage that we call The Family Circus."
"Egads, ye gods!" Buttmarted cried. "What pustulence could come from the dark hand behind The Family Circus?"
"You see boss," Mickey explained as he wiped a gob of mentholyptus anal-eez off a fat white finger, "it's like this. You know how they're keeping Bill Keene and that wretched filth who writes B.C. cryogenetically subspended in anathema in order to stimulate the few working neurons in their brains into producing an endless torrent of self-same family-oriented puke? Well, they were going to do the same to Charles Schultz, but he escaped from the robots and spent the last years of his life in the Netherlands, smoking hash with Arlo Guthrie and Woody Harrelson. They said he died, of course, just like they tried to get us to believe that it was al Qaida and not Dick Cheney and H. Mellon Scaife who blew up the Twin Towers. But anyone with access to the internet knew better. That was, of course, before they turned the internet off permanently. (This mentholyptus stuff really hits the spot by the way. Much better than the banana stuff we got back in New Seattle.) But you see, even though Schultz himself remained in hiding, the goons of Fitch, Schmidt and Schifflet dug up the corpse of Charlie Brown and brought him back to their masters who planned to reanimate the baldy using robot voodoo power and turn him into a zomborg. But the experiment went horribly awry..."
"Egads and egg nads!" Buttmarten ejaculated. "Let me guess - instead of using extra-virgin olive oil, they used regular corn oil?"
"Worse," Mickey's voice began to quaver. "They used ultra-hydrogenated shitflower oil they stole from the grease-trap behind Wendy's."
And before the chef could respond, the he and his friend found themselves falling down an ass-aroma'ed crevace - a wormhole made by the poopworms of the Stool Sectar.
"Aaaiieeee!!!"
(Next week! Into the lair of the Abominable Charlie Brown???)
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