(Mickey Mouse and his lover, the Abominable Charlie Brown have escaped the Feds and are on their way to Mackistan, but first they must pass through the strange land of Fudge Pakistan.)
When the plane touched down on the runway at Elton John International Airport, Mickey and his zomborg companion found themselves in what commentators were describing as a "politically volatile" situation, by which they meant that it was about to be the start of WWIII. A Fudge Pakistani secret serviceman had just been accused of assassinating the Polish Prime Minister, and a large crowd had gathered round the TV set in the terminal to watch the head of the Secret Service apologize that it was just a misunderstanding over what he had meant when he told his agent to, "go smoke a pole."
Mickey Mouse pushed his way through the crowd of anxious Fudge Pakistanis and changed the channel. "Fuck this shit, I wanna watch Oprah."
"Rubbers Banned in Fudge Pakistan," ran the kicker. The guest today was Owen the Spermatazoan talking about this latest victory in the Spooge Rights movement, as one of the final countries to ban condoms finally made this historic move. "I think that for a long time - partially because some of the first proponents of Spooge Rights were anti-homosexual, anti-masturbation, very extremist - I think the people here held onto the facile argument that because the sperm were swimming not towards the womb, but into the fudge, that they did not have the right to enjoy their brief struggle onward - perhaps into the esophagus, or maybe doing laps around the cornea, even into that dark fudgy goodnight..."
Someone changed the channel back.
"Grraggh," commented the Abominable Charlie Brown.
"Let's get out of here," said Mickey, who in an attempt to go incognito was wearing only three mouse ear hats embroidered with the NY Yankees logo and a single arm-thick rope chain. "I wanna get a taste of the local culture. Who ever heard of visiting Fudge Pakistan without going to see a Poop Shoot."
That evening they bought tickets to the Poop Shoots, and it was all they could have hoped for and more. Fudge Pakistani tribesmen adorned in the traditional robes and rainbow turbans danced their whirling jig, then in unison, at some hidden signal, bent over, lifted their robes, and using amazingly trained intestinal and rectal muscles, defacated up to 100 feet in the air. Meanwhile, trained marksmen dressed in the fatigues worn during Fuge Pakistan's war with the Russians fired Kalashnikov rifles at the feces, while the crowd squealed and ducked away from the fallout.
"It's kind of like a Gallagher show," said someone behind them, "except with fruits splattering the audience with shit, instead of a shit splattering the audience with fruit."
They turned around. It was Owen the Spermatazoan.
"I saw you on Oprah," said Mickey. "Can I have your autograph?"
"Does it look like I have any arms to write with?" Owen asked caustically.
"Umm," thought Mickey. "So can I at least ask how a spermatozoan got to be man-sized and able to talk?"
"Diet and exercise," Owen lied. "So how did you enjoy the Poop Shoot?"
"I'll tell you what," said Mickey Mouse, "if the fags in the United Stated had learned to pack heat the way they pack fudge, they might not all be in those Re-Education Camps."
"More like Reincarnation Camps," Owen chucked. "Anyway, it's the only cure."
Just then, two moon ghosts could be seen on the far horizon. By the colors, it looked like Inky and Clyde. The three Americans were not the only ones to notice them either. By the comments from the crowd, such sightings had become more and more frequent of late, and many in the throng suspected the CIA. Several hostile glares were thrown towards Micky and Chuck.
"Let's get out of here," said Mickey Mouse to Owen the Spermatazoan. "I don't want Chuck freaking out and going apeshit."
Owen, who seemed to be a frequent visitor here, led the pair down a winding cobblestone alleyway to a dimly lit hookah bar.
"Do you think it really is the CIA," Mickey Mouse asked, sucking in a mouthful of marshmallow-flavored opium smoke.
"Do you know who I think it is?" said Owen leaning forward conspiratorily.
"Who?" asked Mickey.
"Santa Claus," said Owen.
"I think this guy's a couple chomosomes short of a genome," Mickey whispered to the Abominable Charlie Brown, who was insterting the hookah stem into his anus.
Owen glared at Mickey condescendingly.
"Where's Ms. Pacman when you need her, right?" said Mickey Mouse.
"Ms. Pacman's not chasing any moon ghosts these days," said Owen. "She's a little too busy chasing tricks in the Pink Distrrict."
"The Pink District? Ms. Pacman? But I thought this was Fudge Pakistan?" Mickey asked.
The giant spermatazoan chuckled. "Oh, you'll find that there are about as many hets here as there are any where else. They've just been forced into hiding, getting their kicks from back alley prostitutes, filthy bath houses, anonymous bathroom sex, that kind of thing."
"And Ms. Pacman is one of these back alley hookers?" Mickey Mouse inquired.
"I'm afraid so," scoffed Owen. "She started mixing in some xanax and valium with her power pellets. Then it was onto Ecstasy and other pills. For a while she was working as a high class coke whore, but you can only keep that up for so long. Now she's a full-on junkie, doing tricks for 5 dollars American, if that's your thing."
"Boy," said Mickey Mouse. "It sure is! With a mouth like that, she could really do a number on my ping-pong ball-sized clit."
"Wokka wokka!" cried the Abominable Charlie Brown, eagerly.
Once they were done, Mickey Mouse handed her a hundred and told her to keep the change.
"So baby," said Ms. Pacman, "what brings two cats like you to Fudge Pakistan? You're not exactly the typical visitor."
Mickey Mouse explained that they were looking for a guide to lead them a across the treacherous mountain borders and into Blakistan, whence they would travel the war-scarred desert into Mackistan.
"Well, you're in luck," purred Ms. Pacman. "My pimp lives in Blakistan. Meet me here in three hours if you want to go. It's a thousand up front and a thousand when we arrive."
"Here's three thousand now," said Mickey, pulling off a wad of bills from his stack.
True to her word, Ms. Pacman appeared in four hours with a pack of ass-camels and supplies for the dangerous journey across the high mountain desert.
That night she led them to a cave that had once been used as a fotress in the war against the Russians. Even the ass-camels - smelly as they were - were sequestered inside the cave, so as to escape the notice of mountain brigands and vicious tribesmen.
When they woke up the next morning, however, Ms. Pacman had vanished along with all of Mickey and Chuck's money and "bling," as well as Owen's liver. The ass-camels had been slaughtered to ward off pursuit. They had nothing except for the clothes on their backs.
Owen the Spermatazoan pressed the icepack against his chest and moaned.
When the plane touched down on the runway at Elton John International Airport, Mickey and his zomborg companion found themselves in what commentators were describing as a "politically volatile" situation, by which they meant that it was about to be the start of WWIII. A Fudge Pakistani secret serviceman had just been accused of assassinating the Polish Prime Minister, and a large crowd had gathered round the TV set in the terminal to watch the head of the Secret Service apologize that it was just a misunderstanding over what he had meant when he told his agent to, "go smoke a pole."
Mickey Mouse pushed his way through the crowd of anxious Fudge Pakistanis and changed the channel. "Fuck this shit, I wanna watch Oprah."
"Rubbers Banned in Fudge Pakistan," ran the kicker. The guest today was Owen the Spermatazoan talking about this latest victory in the Spooge Rights movement, as one of the final countries to ban condoms finally made this historic move. "I think that for a long time - partially because some of the first proponents of Spooge Rights were anti-homosexual, anti-masturbation, very extremist - I think the people here held onto the facile argument that because the sperm were swimming not towards the womb, but into the fudge, that they did not have the right to enjoy their brief struggle onward - perhaps into the esophagus, or maybe doing laps around the cornea, even into that dark fudgy goodnight..."
Someone changed the channel back.
"Grraggh," commented the Abominable Charlie Brown.
"Let's get out of here," said Mickey, who in an attempt to go incognito was wearing only three mouse ear hats embroidered with the NY Yankees logo and a single arm-thick rope chain. "I wanna get a taste of the local culture. Who ever heard of visiting Fudge Pakistan without going to see a Poop Shoot."
That evening they bought tickets to the Poop Shoots, and it was all they could have hoped for and more. Fudge Pakistani tribesmen adorned in the traditional robes and rainbow turbans danced their whirling jig, then in unison, at some hidden signal, bent over, lifted their robes, and using amazingly trained intestinal and rectal muscles, defacated up to 100 feet in the air. Meanwhile, trained marksmen dressed in the fatigues worn during Fuge Pakistan's war with the Russians fired Kalashnikov rifles at the feces, while the crowd squealed and ducked away from the fallout.
"It's kind of like a Gallagher show," said someone behind them, "except with fruits splattering the audience with shit, instead of a shit splattering the audience with fruit."
They turned around. It was Owen the Spermatazoan.
"I saw you on Oprah," said Mickey. "Can I have your autograph?"
"Does it look like I have any arms to write with?" Owen asked caustically.
"Umm," thought Mickey. "So can I at least ask how a spermatozoan got to be man-sized and able to talk?"
"Diet and exercise," Owen lied. "So how did you enjoy the Poop Shoot?"
"I'll tell you what," said Mickey Mouse, "if the fags in the United Stated had learned to pack heat the way they pack fudge, they might not all be in those Re-Education Camps."
"More like Reincarnation Camps," Owen chucked. "Anyway, it's the only cure."
Just then, two moon ghosts could be seen on the far horizon. By the colors, it looked like Inky and Clyde. The three Americans were not the only ones to notice them either. By the comments from the crowd, such sightings had become more and more frequent of late, and many in the throng suspected the CIA. Several hostile glares were thrown towards Micky and Chuck.
"Let's get out of here," said Mickey Mouse to Owen the Spermatazoan. "I don't want Chuck freaking out and going apeshit."
Owen, who seemed to be a frequent visitor here, led the pair down a winding cobblestone alleyway to a dimly lit hookah bar.
"Do you think it really is the CIA," Mickey Mouse asked, sucking in a mouthful of marshmallow-flavored opium smoke.
"Do you know who I think it is?" said Owen leaning forward conspiratorily.
"Who?" asked Mickey.
"Santa Claus," said Owen.
"I think this guy's a couple chomosomes short of a genome," Mickey whispered to the Abominable Charlie Brown, who was insterting the hookah stem into his anus.
Owen glared at Mickey condescendingly.
"Where's Ms. Pacman when you need her, right?" said Mickey Mouse.
"Ms. Pacman's not chasing any moon ghosts these days," said Owen. "She's a little too busy chasing tricks in the Pink Distrrict."
"The Pink District? Ms. Pacman? But I thought this was Fudge Pakistan?" Mickey asked.
The giant spermatazoan chuckled. "Oh, you'll find that there are about as many hets here as there are any where else. They've just been forced into hiding, getting their kicks from back alley prostitutes, filthy bath houses, anonymous bathroom sex, that kind of thing."
"And Ms. Pacman is one of these back alley hookers?" Mickey Mouse inquired.
"I'm afraid so," scoffed Owen. "She started mixing in some xanax and valium with her power pellets. Then it was onto Ecstasy and other pills. For a while she was working as a high class coke whore, but you can only keep that up for so long. Now she's a full-on junkie, doing tricks for 5 dollars American, if that's your thing."
"Boy," said Mickey Mouse. "It sure is! With a mouth like that, she could really do a number on my ping-pong ball-sized clit."
"Wokka wokka!" cried the Abominable Charlie Brown, eagerly.
Once they were done, Mickey Mouse handed her a hundred and told her to keep the change.
"So baby," said Ms. Pacman, "what brings two cats like you to Fudge Pakistan? You're not exactly the typical visitor."
Mickey Mouse explained that they were looking for a guide to lead them a across the treacherous mountain borders and into Blakistan, whence they would travel the war-scarred desert into Mackistan.
"Well, you're in luck," purred Ms. Pacman. "My pimp lives in Blakistan. Meet me here in three hours if you want to go. It's a thousand up front and a thousand when we arrive."
"Here's three thousand now," said Mickey, pulling off a wad of bills from his stack.
True to her word, Ms. Pacman appeared in four hours with a pack of ass-camels and supplies for the dangerous journey across the high mountain desert.
That night she led them to a cave that had once been used as a fotress in the war against the Russians. Even the ass-camels - smelly as they were - were sequestered inside the cave, so as to escape the notice of mountain brigands and vicious tribesmen.
When they woke up the next morning, however, Ms. Pacman had vanished along with all of Mickey and Chuck's money and "bling," as well as Owen's liver. The ass-camels had been slaughtered to ward off pursuit. They had nothing except for the clothes on their backs.
Owen the Spermatazoan pressed the icepack against his chest and moaned.
(Are Mickey Mouse and his lover and their new companion doomed? Will they ever make it to Blakistan? Is WWIII eminent? What are moon ghosts doing in Fudge Pakistan? And what's going on with Barton Buttmarten, now that he and his companions have escaped the Waffle Iron Fortress? Tune in next time for an answer to between one and three of these excruciatingly exciting questions - give or take a few.)
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