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 James Gang Story Hour: The Sun Always Shines on T.V.

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Join date : 2008-11-15

PostSubject: James Gang Story Hour: The Sun Always Shines on T.V.   Sun Nov 22, 2009 9:11 am

Posted: Sat Mar 11, 2006 9:08 pm

The Sun Always Shines on T.V.
Starring: The James Gang

Episode 1: Pilot

The doorbell rings. Whammon sets the remote control to his new plasma screen television down and goes to the front door. He’s been waiting for that sound all evening. As he opens the door, he already knows what’s waiting on the other side.

“Quit with the fucking inner monologue,” said PatDaddy, crossing the threshold. “What do you think this is, a fucking film noir?”

“Yeah, and your doorbell’s gay,” added H-Town Steve as he entered the humble abode as well. Gene the Spleen followed Steve, clutching a small device in his shirt pocket. “It’s my new pacemaker,” he said, spying Wham trying to avert his glance.

“Oh, right,” replied Wham, awkwardly. “Well, have a seat, guys. There’s beer in the cooler, and I got some snacks going in the kitchen.”

The doorbell rang again. Wham walked to the door and welcomed in Kimber and BBmom. He took their coats, attempting to be a gentlemen, but then he realized he doesn’t have a coat rack of any kind, and threw them indiscriminately into a pile near the door.

“Ah, you got some women showing up, now,” said Steve. “You ladies want to see my 16-inch…”

“Steve, the only thing you have that’s 16 inches is the leash your wife keeps you on,” snapped Kimber, cutting him off. Pat laughed his ass off as Steve grumbled into his beer. After a moment, he jerked his head toward Whammon and yelled, “Bring me some nachos, bitch.” Wham was about to tell him to go fuck himself when the doorbell rang yet again.

Fusty and Rards showed up at the door together, clearly having some sort of argument, which they paused as the door was opened.

“Hey, Wham,” said Fusty, offering his hand. “We’re glad you invited us over.”

Rards turned his head toward Wham.

fustyruk wrote:
Hey, Wham. We’re glad you invited us over.
"It’s quite presumptuous of him to assume that we’re BOTH glad you invited us over. But then again, coming from such an obviously biased source as him, you can’t be too surprised by his over zealous nature."

“Fuck you,” said Fusty.

fustyruk wrote:
Fuck you.

“Right, well, come on in, grab a beer, enjoy the new plasma.” Wham began to close the door, but was blocked by a very pale hand.

“Why the fuck are you trying to shut the door on me, you fucking lib traitor?” AllWhite had arrived. “I know all you pussy libs are scared of the truth I bring, but don’t you dare oppress the white males that rule this country any further by giving me a welt on my wrist and denying me pretzels.” Wham rolled his eyes, wondering why he invited him, equal opportunity my ass, and took his coat, throwing it towards the pile, but intentionally overshooting and landing it in the bathroom, next to his copy of “My Thick Black Ass” magazine.

“I’ll be in the kitchen getting the snacks ready, you guys. If anybody else shows up while I’m in there, let ‘em in.” With that, Wham took his leave of the group. Meanwhile, back in the living room, Pat sat in the recliner chair, and flipped channels. He landed on a movie channel, playing the remake of “Texas Chainsaw Massacre.” “Man, will you look at the picture quality on this thing. You can really feel the splatter of random bodily organs.”

“Speaking of which,” mom interjected, “We are about to eat for Christ’s sake. Can we not watch this gore?”

“Fine,” grumbled Pat, and he continued to flip channels. The doorbell rang again. Steve got up and answered the door to find one of the strangest sights he’d seen all day, at least while sober.

“Hey guys,” said RedBob, entering the house, dressed from head to toe like a Renaissance knight.

“What the fuck is with this get up?” Asked Steve, wiping his eyes in disbelief, and wondering if Wham had dropped some LSD into his beer.

“I was at the Renaissance Faire, and I had a sword fight. I love sword fights.”

“Tell me you at least won, to justify this gay ass costume,” exclaimed Fusty.

“Oh yeah, I took him out easy,” said Bob.

“How the hell did you do that?” asked Kimber, stifling a laugh.

“Easy, I just laid down on the ground, and made it look as though I had died while trying to suck my own dick. When he came over to check me out, I TOOK HIM DOWN!” Bob finished his homo-erotic-while-ripping-off-Pat-and-"Clerks" story with emphasis on the end and a thrusting motion with his fake, plastic sword that he bought at Toys-R-Us for five bucks.

“Sit down, black knight,” said Trav, entering behind Bob, looking thoroughly embarrassed to be seen within ten miles of him.

“Don’t you dare call him that!” exclaimed Whitey, jumping up. “Do not besmirch his name by even implying that a nig could be a knight.”

Following behind Trav was Treesa, with Ready in tow. Ready took one look at Bob. “I told the male stripper I hired to do some roleplay, but I didn’t mean Dungeons and Dragons.”

“Where’s Wham?” asked Treesa. “I’m in the kitchen. Any of you bitches want to give me a hand?” he called from the other room. Treesa walked toward the kitchen, muttering sarcastically, “What a perfect gentleman.”

The doorbell rang again. “Oh, for God’s sake,” said Steve, getting up again. He opened the door angrily to find Sassenach looking at him funny. “Gee, Wham, I knew you had a man-crush on Steve, but you don’t need to start looking like him.” “Yeah,” said Biffy, trailing behind, “You don’t need to go all ‘Single White Female’ on us. You’re better looking than that.” The women entered, and threw their jackets on the pile. Steve didnn’t bother to close the door. “Fuck it, let ‘em walk in themselves. No one’s stealing any of Wham’s shit while we’re here, except for us, of course.”

“I call the porn collection,” said Pat.

“Good luck prying the pages apart,” said Wham, re-entering the room with a bowl of pretzels. Treesa follows behind him with a plate of nachos and chili dip. As they set down the first round of snacks, Outsider strolled in. “You people know nothing about public safety. You got doors open, lights on. For Christ’s sake, people will think you’re having a party in here.”

No one said anything, completely at a loss as to how to respond. The brief silence was broken when AllWhite proclaimed, “Just what we need. Another Don-Nig-Van McNigg fan.” The group collectively rolled their eyes, except for BBmom, who was conflicted about her happiness for a slam on the Eagles, and her indignation at racism.

The collective awkwardness of the group was broken up by the sound of techno beats getting louder and louder. Frats entered, carrying a large boom box on his shoulder.

“Bitches and gentlemen, put your hands together for the date that hibernates, the grizzly for shizzly, Snarky the Bear!” Snarky entered, doing the robot dance to the techno beats. “I’ve been perfecting the dance from my avatar,” he announced to the group at large. He continued busting his moves, while the group clapped in rhythm, with the obvious exception of AllWhite, who could be just audibly heard screaming, “Turn off that nig music!” Snarky kept his flashy style going, until he attempted to spin on his head, and wound up kicking Bob in his. Both were knocked down. “I’m alright!” yelled Bob. “I was wearing my knight helmet.”

“Well, now that we’ve had that fun, I’ll be heading back to the kitchen to make the pizzas. The rest of the group should be here shortly.” Wham exited.

After a few more minutes, Kate arrived. AllWhite could not contain himself, and strung his words together, though most were able to make out angry combinations of the words, “Traitor,” “Lib,” and “Nig Lover.”

“Okay, seriously, can we quit with the ‘nig’ jokes,” said AllWhite to no one in particular. “I mean, what’s next, you gonna have me need five cents and ask for a niggel? Fucking libs.” Not aware of the presence of any dues ex machina, the rest of the group stared blankly. Clearly looking more insane than usual, AllWhite said, “Never mind,” and sat down.

Just then, the group heard a loud scuffle outside. It sounded like a fight was breaking out. Some of the group got up to investigate, but there was no need. The fight came in to them, in the form of LasVegasGuy and JBCoops.

“I love Hunter S. Thompson more.”

“No, I love him more.”

“I’ve read all his books.”

“I’ve read all his books to sick children in the hospital.”

“I’m gonna have my ashes shot out of a cannon when I die.”

“I’m gonna have Johnny Depp smoke my ashes while he shoots them out of a cannon.”

“I’m gonna commit suicide right now in the same manner and fashion that he did.”

“Enough!” cried Gene, who had been largely silent to this point. “We know you both have gay love for Hunter S. Thompson and want to spread his ashes on Brokeback Mountain, but give it a rest, and have some nachos.”

“Ooh, nachos,” they said in unison. Peace was achieved, for now.

“Hey! How the fuck can you have a party without me?” The group turned to see Outlaw strolling in, looking nonchalantly pissed. “Without me, there is no James Gang, there is no Bar & Grill, there is no ridiculously hilarious cartoon with ff7wasbest being represented by a giant piece of shit in Rectum Mountain!”

“That’s Ass Mountain,” said Gene, “And yeah, I’m pretty proud of that one.”

“We didn’t forget you, Outlaw,” said Wham, re-entering with a plate of chicken wings. “It’s just that we ain’t seen you in a while, and I didn’t know where to send the invite. Here, have a wing. I got them from the shack.”

Outlaw grabbed the plate of wings, and sat down next to Steve, quite satisfied. As he took his seat, Sparky McSlapnuts entered the fray, followed by Narrator and Rocket, with whom he was deep in conversation.

“Seriously, I’m telling you. Up until right now, Wham didn’t even know I was a dude. I bet he doesn’t even know if Kate’s black or white.”

“I wonder if he knows what parts I got down there,” replied Narrator. “But then again, from what I hear, he’ll go for anything. Did you know he voluntarily saw ‘Brokeback Mountain?’ Just for the Oscars my ass. Oh, hi Wham.”

“Evening faggots. Grab some pizza and enjoy the plasma and shut the fuck up.” Laughing, they took seats on the floor, near the plasma screen. At this point, Pat has flipped to the remake of “The Fog.”

“Pat, will you stop with the horror already?” cried Mom. “We’re trying to eat.”

“For the love of God, it’s a PG-13 horror movie. There’s no gore. How can there be gore when they’re getting killed by fog? I’m actually breaking my own standards by going down this far.”

“The hot chicks have arrived,” cried Goddess, as she entered, followed by LakeRat. Everyone looked in different directions, wondering where the hot chicks were.

Wham clapped his hands together to get everyone’s attention. “Okay, now that everyone’s here…” He was cut off by the sight of a cute little dog walking through the door as he was about to close it. Wham knelt down.

“Well, hey there, little fella. What’s your name?”

“Ruff, my name is Ruff,” replied the dog. No one seemed surprised that a dog was talking. “I have a ruff draft of a letter to you written on ruff toilet paper tied to the sc-ruff of my neck.” Wham took the note, and read it aloud.

“Dear Wham, can I have the copy rights to this and all future and past stories, comic strips, and movies produced by the James Gang? Love, Z.” Wham looked at the letter with confusion. “Love? What happens in Vegas’ basement stays in Vegas’ basement.” He turned his attention to the dog. “You can tell him, ‘no,’ but before you go, feel free to drink out of my toilet.”

“Ruff, YAY!” exclaimed the dog, rushing into the bathroom. Excited slurping could be heard as Wham closed the bathroom door.

“Now, where was I? Oh yes.” Wham closed the front door. “Now that we’re all here, I have to confess. This is not a little get together with snacks, TV and movies. This is a mass orgy, which Pat will be taping for his movie. Steve, get the ball gags. Bob, you get the sloppy seconds.”

The women looked at Wham with a combination of shock, disgust, and confusion. After a moment, Wham laughed. “Just kidding.” The women forced a laugh as Wham sat down in his chair. “Dammit, I was gonna get sloppy seconds,” lamented Bob.

The party went well for a couple of minutes. Friends and cyber enemies enjoyed food and TV. After a while, AllWhite checked his watch.

“Holy shit. It’s time for Hannity and Colmes. Give me that remote, Lib.” He quickly took the remote from Pat, and frantically flipped until he got to Fox News. He then quickly whipped it out and started jerking himself off with his right hand, while securing the remote with his left.

“Eww, what is he doing?” screamed Kimber, clearly offended.

“Shut up, traitor lib,” screamed Whitey. “Ooh, oh yeah. Ooh, Ann Coulter’s on in place of Colmes this week, oh yeah.”

“For God’s sake someone grab the remote!” shouted Outlaw.

“Fuck you! I’m almost done…AHHHHHHHH!” AllWhite screamed as he shot a load onto the screen.

“Aww, you sick bastard,” said Wham, getting up. “That’s a brand new screen. You better clean this up when I get back with the Windex.” Wham got up and left the room. Steve went up to the TV while AllWhite wrapped his arm around it, smoking a cigarette. “Was it as good for you, baby?”

Steve looked at the screen in disgust, but laughed. “Hey, look. It really is all white. Now gimme the remote.”

“Screw you, Lib, I feel another one coming on!” screamed AllWhite.

Steve grabbed the remote, “Hand it over.”

“No way!”

“Let it go!”

“Up yours!”

“Give it here, NOW!” Steve screamed as he ripped the remote from AllWhite’s hands. Unfortunately, amidst the scuffle, the batteries flew out of the remote, and landed squarely into the chili dip. Steve pulled them out only to see that the chili had seeped into the batteries, causing them to bubble battery acid.

“Wham, you better bring some new batteries for the remote, too,” said Pat. Wham called back from the kitchen to acknowledge the request.

“Screw that, dude,” said Steve. “The season premiere of ‘Sopranos’ is on in five minutes. Gene, give me the batteries from your pacemaker.”

“Uh, I kinda need that to live,” said Gene, looking incredulous.

“It’s just for a minute, till Wham gets back, so I can turn on HBO.” Without waiting for a response, Steve grabbed the pacemaker out of Gene’s shirt pocket and took the batteries. He began to cram them into the remote, but they didn’t fit quite right.

“Uh, Steve, I don’t think that’s going to work,” said Treesa, looking mildly concerned.

“It’ll be fine. For Christ’s sake I’m about to rebuild houses in New Orleans. I can put batteries into a remote control.” After some further effort, he got them to fit in the remote. “There we go.”

Steve pointed the remote towards the screen and entered the numbers to tune the television to HBO. He hit the “Enter” button.

As quickly and as suddenly as anyone could see, the group was enveloped in a strange, greenish-yellow light. Only Outsider could get something out before they all disappeared.

“Dude, you know nothing about the consequences of crossing power sources for differing technologies.”

And with that, the light ray receded into the TV. A moment later, Wham re-entered the living room, carrying a roll of paper towels, a bottle of Windex, and two AA batteries.

“I hope you put as much elbow grease into cleaning my TV as you did in messing it up, Whitey,” said Wham, entering the room. He looked up. “Where the hell did everyone go?” He looked around the room. “Steve? Pat? Kate? Random screen names that substitute for real names I don’t know?” No answer. “Well that’s just great. That fucking racist twit jerks off on my screen, scares everyone off, then leaves the mess for me to clean up. Son of a bitch. This is the last time I invite him anywhere.” He looked at the goo on the screen. “How the hell am I gonna get this shit off? I sure as hell ain’t touching it. Hey, Ruff, there’s some yogurt on the TV screen for you.”

Wham opened the bathroom door, and Ruff rushed out, excited, and quickly lapped up the mess in an instant, then gagged.

“Ruff, that tasted ruff.”

“Whatever, go lay down.” Clearly upset at the rudeness of AllWhite and the rest of the group, Wham sat in his chair, and grabbed the remote control.

“What the hell are these?” he asked himself, looking at Gene’s pacemaker batteries. He quickly pried them out, and placed the new batteries in the remote control.

“Oh well,” said Wham, shaking off his disappointment. “Let’s see what’s on.”

And he turned on the TV.


Episode 2: Goin' Down to South Park

Whammon was settled in his recliner chair as he turned on the television. He flipped on the on-screen guide and searched for something to watch. “Fucking assholes,” he said to himself, lamenting the fact that his party was ruined and all his so-called friends had abandoned him. “I got all this food to eat, too.” Wham grabbed a slice of pizza and continued flipping through the channel listing.

“Fuck it, let’s go with a standard,” he said to no one in particular. He then hit “Enter” and turned on Comedy Central and sang along with the theme music, while digging through a drawer in the end table.

“Goin’ down to South Park, gonna have myself a time…” he sang, as he pulled out a cigar box. Wham continued humming the tune, not looking at the screen, while he opened the box, and rolled himself a nice, fat blunt.

* * *

Meanwhile, Pat was just coming to.

“What the fuck?” he groaned, adjusting his eyes to the light. He raised his hand above his eyes to shield himself from the harsh rays. “What the…” Pat noticed that his hands were covered with yellow snow mittens. He rose up out of what he realized was a snow drift, and brushed the snow off of a bright red winter coat he was wearing. Why he was wearing it, he couldn’t say.

“Where the hell am I? For that matter, where the hell is everyone else?” Pat stood up, and began to walk. Unfortunately, as he discovered, he couldn’t really, walk, per se. He merely was able to lean left or right, then jump slightly, to advance along the way. While he attempted to get used to this fucked up means of conveyance, he overheard voices.

“What the fuck kind of shit is this?” came Steve’s unmistakable drawl. Pat started to run toward the sound, but only managed a weak hobble. He heard himself breathing very heavily. After a few feet, he spotted three silhouettes. Pat then heard Gene’s voice echoing through the mountains. Wait a minute, mountains?

“You had to take my batteries. You had to take my fucking batteries.”

Pat finally caught up with the scene, and stopped himself in shock. Standing before him at a school bus stop were three clearly pissed off figures. Steve, wearing a brown jacket and blue puff ball hat. Gene, standing next to him, wearing an orange jacket and a green hat, and a third figure wearing an orange parka that covered everything but his eyes. As he arrived on the scene, Steve and Gene remained locked in argument, not noticing Pat.

“Look, I’m sorry, fuckface.”

“It’s for my fucking PACEMAKER! I need it to LIVE!”

“Fine, here.” Steve proceeded to tear a part of his jacket off. “It’s just fucking construction paper.” He then rolled the construction paper into two slender round objects, resembling batteries. Then, Steve took Gene’s pacemaker, also made of construction paper, and crammed the paper batteries inside. Gene then put his hand to his heart, and felt his pace settle.

“Sveet,” said Pat, in a voice clearly not his own. Steve and Gene at last saw that Pat was standing right next to them, and they laughed their asses off.

“Yes! Oh yes! I knew it had to be you,” said Steve.

“That just made my day,” said Gene. “That’s almost worth genius over here nearly killing me.”

“What the fuck are you guys talking about?”

Steve hobbled over to Pat, and grabbed his shoulder. He then pulled him aside to a patch of ice on the road.

“Look down, fat ass.”

Pat looked down to see his own reflection, wearing the outfit of Eric Cartman.

“Oh, God DAMMIT!”

* * *

Meanwhile, back in his apartment, Whammon smoked his blunt with pleasure. He munched on his pizza, and toked another hit.

“Because I got high, because I got high, because I got high-igh. Sing along, Ruff.” Ruff just stared blankly at Wham, and went back into the bathroom. Wham continued watching the show.

“So what the BLEEP just happened,” said Cartman.

“How the BLEEP should I know, you donkey-raping BLEEP eater,” said Stan.

“Dude, you guys seen this sweet video of this chick on the floor with a donkey?” said Kyle.

* * *

“Oh, not with the fucking donkey again,” said Steve.

“Fuck the donkey,” said Pat.

“Exactly!” exclaimed Gene.

“No, seriously, how the hell did we get here?”

“I ain’t no rocket scientist,” said Steve, stating the patently obvious. “But I think something happened when I put Gene’s batteries in the remote.”

“We got sucked into Wham’s TV,” finished Gene.

“No, that can’t be,” said Pat. “It’s too stupid. Why would we rip off a ‘Simpsons’ Halloween special AND a John Ritter movie?”

“You got me,” said Steve.

“So who ended up as Kenny?” asked Pat, looking over at the angry person struggling with his parka. The three guys walked over to their counterpart. The parka obscured everything but his eyes. Nothing could be made out by looking at him.

“Dude, say something,” said Gene.

The Kenny figure struggled further with the hood of his parka, and couldn’t speak. However, the group was able to make out one word amongst the mumbling.

“Mmmph, mmph, mmmph, Libs!”

“Great, we’re stuck with AllWhite,” said Gene. “Just what we fucking needed.”

“Mmmph, ummph-nnmph, mumph, Libs, mrthsmph-mmmph, Nigs.”

“What the fuck did he just say?” asked Steve.

“Who knows?” said Pat. “It’s not like he ever said anything that made sense anyway.”

“Good point. So what do we do, now?”

“Might as well explore the place,” replied Gene. “Looks like we might be stuck here a while.”

The four boys started walking from the bus stop, down the road, and into South Park. They hobbled along for a couple of minutes without really moving, eventually mastering their construction paper movements and walk cycles. Along the road, a small dog came up to them.

“Whoa, did Ruff get sucked in with us?” asked Pat.

“Nah, that’s my dog, Sparky,” said Steve. “I mean, Stan’s dog, Sparky. What the fuck is going on with me?” Sparky approached Steve and started humping his leg.

* * *

“Ah, I love this episode,” Whammon said to himself. “And thankfully, Ruff’s in the bathroom, so he won’t get any ideas.”

* * *

“Fuck no, mmmph, mmmph, hmmph,” said AllWhite, still struggling with his parka.

“Listen to me you little shit,” snarled Pat, hitting AllWhite in the head. “If it wasn’t for you spooging Wham’s screen, and bogarting the remote, the sequence of fucked up events that lead to us being imprisoned in a Goddam cartoon would have never taken place. And I don’t know what kind of fucked up psyche you have where you can jack off in front of twenty people but can’t do this, now fucking do it before I beat the living shit out of you!”

AllWhite sighed and lowered his head. He then walked over to Steve, and pried Sparky off his leg. He then knelt down on the ground, with Sparky on his back, and began.

“Red rocket, red rocket, Sparky!” said Steve, enjoying this way more than any well adjusted man should. “Red rocket, RED ROCKET!” Sparky was finished in moments, and AllWhite quickly ran to the nearest snow drift, and stuck his glove in, to wipe off the dog jizzum.

The boys continued walking toward town. Off in the distance, they heard a distant bell. As they continued, Gene felt a tap on his shoulder.

“All right, boys, move along, there’s nothing to see here,” said Officer Barbrady. “You’re supposed to be in school.”

The boys groaned, and moved on. As they approached South Park Elementary, they resigned themselves to the fact that they were going to have to at least follow along with whatever plot Trey Parker came up with while smoking weed and reading the CNN news ticker.

They walked along the hall, toward their classroom.

“Hi, Stan,” called a high-pitched feminine voice from down the hallway. Steve turned around, and couldn’t control himself as he vomited all over Wendy Testaburger. “Eww,” she cried, and walked off.

“What the fuck was that?” exclaimed Steve. “There was just no warning on that one.”

“Whatever, let’s just ask someone for help,” said Gene. “How about that guy in the chair over there?” They hobbled over to the nearby figure. “Hey, dude, can you tell us what’s going on, here?”


“Ah, shit.”

“TIMMY! Livin-a-lie, TIMMY!”

“Oh just fucking kill me, now,” said Pat. However, that seemingly innocuous statement had a very serious effect. Before anyone even knew what was happening, AllWhite was running for the hills, scared completely shitless.

The guys chased after him, hobbling as fast as they could, Pat breathing and grunting very heavily, and trailing far behind. At the end of the hallway, Steve and Gene tackled him.

“Pull yourself together, AssWipe,” said Steve. “You ain’t gonna die. At least not until about two thirds of the way through the show.”

“Besides, if none of us has killed you to this point, who would bother now?” added Gene. Pat finally caught up with the group as Gene finished his half-assed attempt at consolation and humor.

“You guys, seriously,” gasped Pat, trying to catch his breath. The guys regained their composure, what little there was, and walked to their classroom.

Inside the classroom, the guys hopped up into their seats, because for some reason, the desks were about three feet taller than all of them. As Steve sat down, he spied Wendy, passing by on the way to her desk, and promptly vomited again.

“What the hell? I haven’t even eaten, yet.”

The bell rang for a second time, and Mr. Garrison entered the room, followed by Mr. Slave.

“Hello class,” said Mr. Garrison. “Today, Mr. Slave and I are going to teach you about world religions.”

“Oh Jesus, Jesus Christ.”

“No, Mr. Slave, we’re not going to be talking about Jesus, but other religions that no one here gives a damn about.”

“Except for Jew-boy over here,” Pat interjected.

“Up yours, fat ass!” Gene yelled.

“Boys, do you need to go to the counselor’s office?” said Mr. Garrison.

AllWhite jumped up on his chair, and mooned Mr. Garrison, mumbling. “Mmmph, hhmmph, Lib, mmphmphmmm. Faggot mmph slmmpsht mmph uumph.” The whole class’s jaws dropped.

“What, what did he say?” yelled Steve. “How the hell do you people understand what he’s saying all the time?” Steve looked forward to see Mr. Garrison’s horrified face, full of rage at what he had just heard.

The boys were sitting in the Guidance Counselor’s office. They all looked at each other with angry confusion.

“How the hell did we end up here?” asked Steve. “We didn’t walk anywhere, we just showed up here. And what the fuck is up with that banjo music in the background?”

Before they could discuss the answers to Steve’s queries, Mr. Mackey entered the office.

“Mmkay, boys, now I am very disappointed in you, Mmkay,” said the counselor. “I mean I’ve never heard of the things you said today, Kenny. This kind of behavior is not acceptable, mmkay. Now go to the cafeteria while I think up a punishment, mmkay.”

The boys left the room. “So, we get off with no punishment, and we still don’t know what Whitey said,” Pat mused.

“Trust me, it’s for the best,” said Steve. AllWhite mumbled something incoherent, but the tone and inflection seemed to imply, “Fuck you.”

The boys reached the cafeteria just in time for lunch. They hobbled along to the lunch line, and grabbed some trays.

“Finally, I can actually eat something to throw up later,” said Steve.

“Hello there, children,” came a bellowing bass voice.

“Hey, Chef,” they said in unison. A light bulb went off in Pat’s head.

“How’s it going?”

“Bad,” said Pat.

“Why bad?”

“Chef, we’re not really Stan, Kyle, Kenny, and Cartman,” began Pat. “We’re actually four adult males between the ages of 25 and 50 from various parts of the nation. We write on a message board, and were invited to one of the members’ house for a party, but then the guy that looks like Stan put the batteries of the Kyle-looking guy’s pacemaker into the remote control, and we got sucked into the TV.”

Chef paused and stared at them for a moment. “Oh, children that’s a problem we all have to face at one time or another. Here, let me sing you a little song that might cheer you up."

To the amazement of the four men, funk music starts playing in the background, and this nondescript cafeteria Chef began singing like Isaac Hayes.

"I’m gonna bang you on the TV,
Hump you on the screen.
Baby, I’m gonna film it all,
And sell it to 'Barely 18.'”

“Chef! That’s not helping,” said Gene. “We need to get out of here.”

AllWhite finally succeeded in pulling his parka hood low enough to reveal his mouth. “What the hell do you expect from a singing nig?”

“Oh, hell no. What the FUDGE did you just say, boy?” exclaimed Chef.

“Oh crap,” said Pat.

Chef, pulled out a chef’s knife from behind the counter.


The boys hobbled/ran as fast as they could. Out of the cafeteria, out of the hallways, out of the school. Onto the streets they ran, and out of South Park. All the while, Chef was not too far behind, wielding the knife in mid air.

“What are we gonna do?” yelled Pat, gasping for breath.

“How the fuck should I know?” Steve answered. “I don’t even know how we got here in the first place. I say we just let him kill Whitey and keep running.”

* * *

Back in his living room, Wham, now high as a kite, was laughing hysterically. “I always knew Kenny was a closet racist. Might as well see what else is on.” He hit the button for the on-screen guide again.

* * *

The boys continued to run, screaming, until, very suddenly, their world went black.


Episode 3: I Love Kate

The on-screen guide on Whammon’s television showed that he had decided to watch TV Land for a little while.

* * *

Kate awoke to find herself sitting on a gray, nondescript couch. She yawned as she slowly regained consciousness. She rubbed her eyes, allowing them to adjust to her surroundings. However, that did absolutely no good, as her eyes still registered the same images as they did the second she awoke.

She was sitting in a living room. But how could one call this “living?” Everything was drab and gray, different shades of which were scattered about. The couch was gray. The carpet was gray. The chair, gray. The television, the door, the stairs, all gray.

“What the hell did Wham put in my drink?” she asked herself, as she wiped her eyes again, this time in pure disbelief at what she was seeing. After she finished rubbing, she stopped herself short. She gasped, noticing that her hands were as gray as the rest of the room. She turned her hands over, and back again, seeing only different shades of gray on her palms, fingers, and nails.

She rose from the couch, desperate to find a mirror. She ran from room to room. She barely noticed that the kitchen was as gray as the living room. She rushed around the gray house, up the gray stairs, past the gray bedroom, until she found a gray bathroom.

“Oh please, God no,” she whispered as she entered the bathroom. She slowly approached the vanity mirror, afraid of what she might see. Upon looking at the reflective glass, she screamed so loud that she didn’t hear the front door open and close.

She could tell that she was wearing lip stick, entirely too much of it, in fact. It was almost as if her mouth had been drawn to resemble a clown. Her eyes were heavily made up, and she had the eyelashes of a drag queen. On top of her head, a small handkerchief wrapped itself nicely about a set of large, curly locks. Kate was close to tears when she heard a loud, Hispanic voice echoing from downstairs.

“Lucy, I’m home!”

Kate rushed down the stairs, thankful for the presence of another human being. She stopped halfway down, and stared in wide-eyed disbelief at the slick-looking Latin man standing before her.

“Lucy, my dear,” he said as he approached her, arms open. Kate stepped back in fear.

“Stay back,” she said, instinctively. “Who are you?”

“What’s wrong with you, Lucy?” he asked, clearly confused.

“Stop calling me that. My name is Kate.”

“Lucy, you got some splainin’ to do,” he retorted, attempting to assert himself.

“No, you got some splainin’ to do,” Kate answered, mocking his diction. “Who are you? Where am I? Why do you insist on calling me ‘Lucy?’ Why the fuck is everything so gray?”

The man covered his mouth in horror.

* * *

Wham inhaled his joint deeply, then coughed in shock.

“Did Lucy just curse? Hey Ruff, does Lucy curse?”

The dog stuck his head out of the bathroom.

“How the ruff should I know? You got anyruff where a dog can take a ruff?”

“You’re in the bathroom, you stupid mutt. Just use the toilet.” Wham heard some scuffling noises as Ruff retreated into the bathroom. A moment later, the dog spoke again.

“Ruff, I can’t reach. I’ll just go on this bundled up rug over here. Ruff.”

Wham continued watching the TV, wondering to himself where he got a rug for his bathroom.

* * *

“Come, sit down,” said the Latin man, guiding Kate over to the disgustingly tacky gray couch. “Do you have a fever? It’s me, Ricky, your husband.”

“Since when am I married?”

“We’ve been married for years, and we’re just like every other couple in this great country. We sleep in separate beds, I go to work all day, and you stay here and clean the house and cook the dinner, just like a wife should.”

Whether by fever or not, Kate felt herself turn beet red.

“Excuse me? I am NOT a homemaker. There is no way in Hell, in this day and age, that you will see me cleaning, and cooking, and waiting for my hubby with my fucking eyes batting.” Ricky gasped again at Kate’s use of language, then regained his composure.

“If you weren’t cooking and cleaning all day, then why are you wearing an apron, you silly girl?”

Kate looked at the domestic servant garb adorning her dress. Why the hell am I wearing a dress, she thought. She immediately untied it and tore it off, throwing it on the ground.

Ricky stood up, ready to assert himself again. He pointed a finger at Kate.

“Now, you listen to me, Lucy. I don’t know what’s happened to you. If I had to guess, I’d say you and Ethel tried to break into the club again and got into the spirits.” Kate scoffed. “But enough is enough. You are my wife, and this sort of behavior needs to stop, now!”

The front door opened.

“Hey, Rick,” greeted an old man, smiling. He entered, put his hat on the rack by the door, and escorted his wife over the threshold.

“Hello, Fred. How are you?” Ricky answered, acting as if the previous argument hadn’t happened.

“Well, Rick,” said the energetic Fred, “it’s the darndest thing. I was driving home from work today, and I saw these four gentlemen wandering down the street, bundled up to their eyeballs.”

“You don’t say,” said Ricky. “It’s the middle of July.”

“I know. It was so strange, I just had to pick them up. Come on in, boys.”

Over the threshold of the Ricardo household stepped Steve, Pat, Gene, and AllWhite, still in their "South Park" garb.

“God, it is hella hot in here,” said Pat, grabbing his collar to release sweat.

“Oh, thank God,” said Kate, rushing over to the door. She hugged Gene as hard as she could. She then stepped back, taking in the sight of these four men in such get-ups. Even though they were all gray, the outfits were unmistakeable.

“Ha ha ha, I love it. Pat’s Cartman,” she laughed. “But who’s dressed as Kenny?”

“Whitey,” said Steve.

“You’re kidding,” she said, praying it wasn't true.

“Afraid so.”

“Waaaaaaaaaaaaaa,” Kate whined, in an inflection clearly not her own. Pat proceeded to laugh his ass off.

“Would someone mind splainin’ to me what this is all about?” Ricky interjected. “Do you know these people, Lucy?”

Gene didn’t miss a step. “Yes, we’re old friends of Lucy’s from childhood. She told us you needed backup players for your show tonight, so we came as quickly as we could from Colorado, hence the jackets.”

Steve, Pat, and AllWhite stared at Gene in disbelief.

“Dude, you watched ‘Lucy?’” asked Steve.

“I spend my days in a trailer in your back yard drawing cartoons. What else am I supposed to do?” he whispered back. They looked back at Ricky, who thankfully looked pleased.

“Excellent,” he said. “Well, let’s get going, then.” He began to lead them out of the house.

“Are you insane?” whispered Kate. “What are you doing?”

“Just follow my lead,” said Gene.

They all walked out the door, as their surroundings faded to black. A moment later, the light rose again, inside a swinging Latin club. Ricky was in his finest tuxedo, standing at the center of the orchestra stand. Steve, Gene, and Pat were sitting amongst the band members, each holding a trumpet. AllWhite sat in the crowd along with Fred. Ethel and Kate were backstage.

“You’ll do fine. You always said you wanted to be in Ricky’s show,” said Ethel.

“Ethel, why do you always do what Fred tells you to?” asked Kate.

“Because I love him, and because that’s what’s proper.”

“Love doesn’t mean servitude. You’re a strong woman. We’ve been on tons of adventures, like the candy factory. You can do these things and more, and without Fred’s permission.”

“You mean it?” said Ethel.

“Of course,” said Kate. “Don’t take any more crap. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a show to do.”

“I’m telling you, Fred, my man, you need to backhand that Lib bitch,” said AllWhite.

“Sir, that’s my wife you’re talking about. I love her,” said Fred.

“Yeah, yeah, sure, sure. Love’s great. But you gotta assert yourself,” said Whitey. “The white male in this country is being continually put down and held back by all these pussy traitor commie libs.”

“Commies?! You don’t say.”

“I do say. And these people have to be put in their place. So the next time your wife gives you any of that women’s lib bullshit, you show her who’s the man.”

“Dude, you sure you know what you’re doing?” Pat asked Gene.

“Of course I do. When the music starts, just put the trumpet to your lips. It’ll be fine.”

The lights dimmed, with a spot on Ricky. He raised his baton, and struck up the band. Instantly, a high tempo mambo sound filled the club. People danced and cheered. Pat, Gene, and Steve pretended to blow to their hearts’ delight. Music came out anyway.

Kate stepped into the spotlight and began to sing, to the shocked anger of Ricky. But the show had to go on, so he didn’t interrupt her.

Out in the crowd, Ethel rejoined Fred.

“Ethel, look. Lucy’s on stage.”

“I know. It was our idea,” said Ethel.

“But you know Rick told her she couldn’t be in the show.”

“Well, I guess a husband can’t always order his wife around like that.”

AllWhite nudged Fred in the shoulder. “Do it. She’s trying to steal your manhood. Assert yourself.”

“You’re right,” said Fred. And with that, he slapped Ethel in the face. The music stopped.

“Fred, what have you done?” asked Ricky, Ethel, and Kate in unison.

“I’m exercising my right as a husband!” exclaimed Fred.

“Hell yeah,” said AllWhite.

“FIGHT!” screamed Steve.

The club broke out in a riot. Punches were thrown all over the place. Pat grabbed Kate’s arm.

“We gotta get out of here. Now.”

Gene and Pat carried Kate out of the club. Steve jumped into the melee and grabbed AllWhite, dragging him out of the club as well. The five of them met up outside and ran a whole city block before stopping. Kate spoke first.

“Will someone explain to me what the fuck is going on?!”

“We’re inside Wham’s TV,” said Steve. “The four of us ended up in an episode of ‘South Park,’ obviously. After a while, the world went black, and we ended up here, which I can only assume is ‘I Love Lucy.’”

“Thanks for the exposition block, ass pirate,” said AllWhite. “The question is, how the fuck do we get out of here?”

“Beats the fuck out of me,” said Steve.

“I would have, if you hadn’t dragged me out of the fight,” said AllWhite.

“Shut up, both of you,” said Gene. “There’s not much we can do right now. We do know that the four of us ended up in one show, and then we found Kate in another. That means the rest of the group must be scattered throughout other shows. We need to focus on finding them first, then we’ll figure out how to get out of here.”

“Fuck that,” said AllWhite. “I got a Peggy Noonan column to stroke to later.”

The background turned completely black.

“It would appear that you don’t have that luxury of choice,” said Pat. “Wham’s just changed the channel again.

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Posts : 1137
Join date : 2008-11-15

PostSubject: Re: James Gang Story Hour: The Sun Always Shines on T.V.   Sun Nov 22, 2009 9:13 am

Posted: Sat Mar 25, 2006 1:53 am


Episode 4: Tick, Tick DOOM!

Wham flipped through his on-screen guide until he came to the FX channel. He selected a rerun he particularly liked.

“The following takes place between 4:00pm and 5:00pm.”

“Here we go,” said Wham to himself. “An actual quality show.”

* * *

“Wake up!” came a shrill, female voice.

Fustyruk opened his eyes and began wiping crust away. As his eyes adjusted to the light of the room around him, he jumped in his seat, startled by the scowl of an otherwise mildly attractive Chloe O’Brien.

“You trying to get yourself fired?” asked Chloe. “Now get back to work and run these hourly reports for me.”

Fusty had no idea what this woman was talking about. However, being good at half-assing his way through life, he began to furiously type at his keyboard, looking as busy as possible. As he pounded the keys furiously, he heard a laugh from about ten feet away.

“What the fuck are you laughing at?” he said.

fustyruk wrote:
What the fuck are you laughing at?
“I’m laughing at a truly pathetic individual.”

Rards wrote:
I’m laughing at a truly pathetic individual.
“Up yours, you braindead fuck! Where the hell are we, anyway? Last thing I remember we were eating nachos in Wham’s living room, and now we’re suddenly in an office. What in God’s name is going on?”

fustyruk wrote:
Up yours,
“You, too.”
Quote :
you braindead fuck!
“Odd comment coming from the type of people who killed Terry Schiavo.”

“Dude, you quoted me mid-sentence,” said Fusty.

“Whatever,” said Rards. “In response to your other queries…Wait, what did you say? Hold on.” Rards screwed up his face in thought for a moment. “Oh yeah!”

fustyruk wrote:
Where the hell are we, anyway? Last thing I remember we were eating nachos in Wham’s living room, and now we’re suddenly in an office. What in God’s name is going on?
“I don’t know.”

“Great,” said Fusty. “Just fucking perfect.”

As Fusty finished his lament, he was approached at his desk by a large, heavy-set man, panting as if he’s just run a short distance.

“Hey, have you finished running those hourlies, yet?” he asked, breathing heavily. Fusty stared at him blankly for a moment, then Rards broke in. “Don’t worry, Edgar. He’s just had a bit of problem running the code. The hourlies will be done in a moment.”

Edgar Stiles, satisfied, waddled away. Fusty’s attention, however, was squarely on his counterpart.

“How the hell did you know his name?”

fustyruk wrote:
How the hell did you know his name?
“Because, you ignoramus, I’ve seen this one before.”

Rards wrote:
I’ve seen this one before.
“Seen what one before? And don’t call me an ignoramus, bitch.”

fustyruk wrote:
“Great comeback.”

“Will you guys stop it, already?” yelled Chloe from the other side of the room.

“Yeah, seriously, enough,” echoed Edgar.

“You’re one to talk,” said Rards. “You two argue all the time, despite the fact that you’re clearly in love with each other and we can cut the sexual tension with a knife.”

Both Chloe and Edgar’s mouths drop, then they look at each other, and blush, momentarily flashing the only smiles we’ve ever seen from them. And with that, they started making out behind Chloe’s desk.

“Dude,” said Fusty, “that was so gay.”

fustyruk wrote:
Dude, that was so gay.
“You’re gay.”

“You still haven’t explained to me where we are, and what it is you’ve ‘seen’ before,” said Fusty, attempting to steer the conversation back to a subject matter he could deal with.

fustyruk wrote:
You still haven’t explained to me where we are, and what it is you’ve “seen” before.
“You really are quite an idiot, aren’t you. Look around us.” Fusty looked around the office, and saw several high-tech work stations, lots of steel construction, and people wearing government identification. He looked back at Rards, realization dawning on his face.

“You can’t mean…” he started, but he was cut off by the sudden entrance of Jack Bauer, looking extremely distraught.

“We have a situation, here!” he yelled to the room at large. “Chloe, I need you in the Situation Room, you guys, too.” Jack talked while he walked, and pointed out Fusty and Rards to join him. Chloe emerged from behind her desk, followed closely by the happiest Edgar anyone had ever seen. Fusty and Rards joined them, more than a bit confused. However, Fusty couldn’t contain himself as he whispered to Rards with a giggle, “Dude, I love this show.”

fustyruk wrote:
Dude, I love this show.
“You’re such a woman,” whispered Rards back. Fusty rolled his eyes as they entered the Situation Room.

Inside, Jack began his briefing.

“We’ve intercepted intel from one of our contacts that the terrorists are planning to detonate large amounts of explosives in ethnic neighborhoods all over the Los Angeles area.” He pulled up a map of greater Los Angeles. “Koreatown, Compton, Sherman Oaks, it’s all at risk.”

“Who’s behind it?” asked Chloe.

“Our sources say it’s these five people,” said Jack. He pulled up a satellite photo of five oddly dressed individuals. Fusty and Rards had to contain their shock. Jack continued his briefing, not noticing. “Right now, they’re in The Barrio, where we predict they’ll make their first strike. I’m moving out to intercept.”

“We’ll go with you,” said Fusty, jumping up, and pointing to himself and Rards.

“You’re not field agents,” said Chloe, attempting to state the obvious.

Chloe wrote:
You’re not field agents.
“So what,” said Rards. “This is Jack Bauer we’re talking about here. This man has never once gone by the books, followed protocol, or done anything that could be considered routine. And yet, he’s always right.”

Fusty looked over at Rards. “Impressive.”

fustyruk wrote:
“About time you realized it.”

Jack looked at them. “Okay, let’s move out.”

Fusty and Rards followed Jack out of CTU headquarters and into the parking lot. They went to a black SUV. Jack got in the driver’s seat, Fusty rode shotgun, and Rards got in the second row, behind Fusty.

Rards leaned in to whisper to Fusty. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

The screen went black as a timer ticked four seconds off a clock. The show was at commercial.

* * *

Back in the real world, Wham had left his chair for a few minutes. He went upstairs, to use a bathroom not populated by clothes and dog fluids. He flushed the toilet and came back downstairs.

“Ruff, why’d you go upstairs, ruff?”

“Cause I needed to pee, and you can’t climb the stairs to pollute my other bathroom,” said Wham. “I’m getting a beer.” Wham walked into the kitchen and pulled out a bottle of Sam Adams from the fridge. He came back into the living room, took his seat, and took a swig. He noticed Ruff at his feet, tail wagging.

“You want a taste of beer, little guy?” Wham cupped his left hand and poured a tiny amount of beer into his palm. He then lowered it to the little dog’s level. Ruff lapped it up in an instant.

“Be careful, now. That stuff goes right through you.” Ruff lifted his head to listen, and his eyes bulged. He yelped, and ran for the bathroom. Wham returned his attention to the TV.

* * *

The clock continued to tick, with a different camera angle coming up on a different section of the screen as the show came back from break.

BEEP! Jack’s face came on the upper right-hand side.

BEEP! The five “terrorist suspects” popped up on the lower left.

BEEP! “What the fuck was that?” asked Fusty to no one, as his face popped up on the upper left.

BEEP! “Ha-ha, I knew you were a lefty,” said Rards as he came up solidly on the right.

On a neighborhood rooftop in The Barrio, Steve, Pat, Gene, Kate, and AllWhite, stood baking in the hot L.A. sun.

“Where the hell are we, now?” said Kate, still dressed as Lucy, but at least now in full color.

“And what the fuck are all these beaners doing here,” said Whitey, seeing all the Hispanics along the rooftops and street.

“Dude, we’re in a Hispanic neighborhood,” said Gene. “What did you expect, Asians?”

“Fucking spics,” mumbled AW.

“Hey, that black SUV’s coming this way pretty fast,” said Steve.

Down in the vehicle, Jack was pulling up to the building. He pulled over outside the building where the group was standing. They got out, and looked up toward the roof. Jack handed guns to Fusty and Rards.

“I’m going up the back way to the roof. You two take the front way. Cover each other.” And with that, Jack ran around to the back of the building. Rards watched him enter the back stairwell, then signaled to Fusty, who immediately called up to the others.

“Hey, Steve!” Steve looked down.

“Holy shit, Fusty, what’s going on down there?”

“Jack Bauer is coming up to the roof. He thinks you guys are terrorists.”

“I can’t hear you. He licks guys’ what?”

A door crashed open as Jack emerged on the rooftop.

“GET DOWN ON THE GROUND! NOW!” They all did without hesitation. “I’m a federal agent with Counter Terrorist Unit of Los Angeles!”

AllWhite jumped up. “Great, arrest all these traitors.”

“How are they traitors?”

“They’re liberals. Especially the broad. They all bitch about the government, using those pussy facts and quotes. They’re against our government, therefore they’re against America, therefore they’re traitors and terrorists. Arrest them!”

“I don’t care about political ideology. I’m here because you people were ID’ed as terrorists attempting to detonate weapons in ethnic areas.

“There’s your man,” said Gene, pointing to AllWhite. “He’s the racist bastard you’re after. He kidnapped us and dressed us up like this to make us look like his followers.”

“PROVE IT!” yelled Jack, still pointing his gun at the group.

“Whitey, where are we right now?”

“We’re in a spic neighborhood surrounded by filthy niggers, libs, beaners, and I’m sure there’s a sand-nig around here somewhere.”

Gene looked at Jack as if to say, “proof enough?” Jack nodded, and advanced on AllWhite.


“Is that all you can say?”

“GET DOWN ON THE GROUND! NOW!” AllWhite cowered under what could be the instrument of his own demise. The others, seeing that Jack was now preoccupied, quickly escaped down the stairs, out the back, and met Fusty and Rards, who were waiting in the SUV. They drove off.

“Thank God you guys were nearby,” said Kate. “Anyone else from the gang in ‘24’ or just you guys?”

“Just us,” said Rards. “Seems you guys have had a bit of an adventure, yourselves. Care to fill us in.”

“Sure,” said Kate.

Back on the rooftop, Jack had AllWhite tied to an exhaust vent.


“Stop yelling.”


“There are no weapons. What the fuck are you talking about, lib? Why are you yelling? I’m two inches from your face. And by the way, they’re called ‘Tic-Tacs,’ okay. They’re not expensive.”


“What the fuck’s wrong with you? You got shit in your ear? Stop yelling.”


“AMERICA!” spat AllWhite, finally deciding to yell as loud as Jack, who fell back in shock.

“My God. The terrorists are inside our own government.”


* * *

A small pile of bottles had grown next to Wham, illustrating the large amounts of beer he had drunk between commercial breaks.

“I get knocked down! But I get up again! You’re never gonna keep me down! Sing along, Ruff.”

Ruff stumbled in from the bathroom, clearly doggy plastered.

“I get knocked ruff!”

Wham stood up and staggered to the kitchen to grab another beer.

“I take a whiskey drink! I take another drink! And when I have to pee, I use the kitchen sink! I sing the songs that remind me I’m a urinating guy!”

Wham took another beer from the fridge, and collapsed back into his chair.

* * *

BEEP! AllWhite’s bleeding face appeared on the right.

BEEP! Jack pistol whips Whitey, then collapses and sits in front of him, on the left side.

BEEP! “What the fuck is that?” said Steve.

HTownSteve wrote:
What the fuck is that?
“We’ve already covered this. Keep up.”

Back in the SUV, Kate was concerned.

“We have to go back.”

“Are you out of your mind?” said Pat. “And why haven’t I gotten any lines in this episode until now?”

“Dude, that’s all that you’re worried about?” said Fusty. “You’re doing a lot better than me.”

“That’s cause I’ve already been through this twice.”

“Before we go any further down this tangent,” said Kate, “I still say we need to go back.”

“Why the fuck should we?” said Steve.

“Look, AllWhite may be a dick, but we can’t leave him behind.”

“Fine,” said Rards, turning the vehicle around.

Back on the rooftop, AllWhite was berating Jack with his lunatic rantings.

“The more they’re allowed to spew their America-hating rhetoric, talking about rights, privileges, unity, accountability, and all that other lib trash, they’re giving strength to the terrorists who attacked us on 9/11. If they’re allowed to continue, they’ll just give the terrorists more ammunition. They are helping the terrorists.”

“Do you ever shut up?” asked Jack, clearly exhausted from hearing this tripe.

Fusty and Rards stormed through the rooftop entrance, guns pointed.

“We’re taking Whitey with us,” said Fusty.

“I’M NOT FINISHED WITH MY INTERROGATION!” yelled Jack, swagger and volume fully returned.

fustyruk wrote:
We’re taking Whitey with us.
“Didn’t you hear him? He said we’re taking Whitey with us,” said Rards.


“Okay, enough of this shit,” said Fusty. And with that, Fusty shot Jack twice in the head. Jack fell off the roof. He was dead before he hit the ground.

* * *

Wham spit out his mouthful of beer.

“What the frurck?!” Wham slurred. “Jack Bauer does NOT die! What the hell did Wham put in my beer?”

* * *

“Why did you do that, you fucking lib?” yelled AllWhite. “I almost had him convinced. Just like you libs, always wanting to silence those who speak the truth about your freedom-hating ways.”

“You want some of this, bitch?” said Fusty, pointing his gun at AllWhite, who immediately pursed his lips.

The three ran down the stairs, and climbed into the SUV, now being piloted by Steve. The group drove off.

* * *

“Something’s fucked up here,” said Wham. He changed the channel again, hoping to see something normal.


Episode 5: Travis and Bob-Head

The universe surrounding the group illuminated from the black that had been there a moment before. The black SUV landed on a brightly colored, yet poorly drawn road.

“Thank God we got to keep the truck,” said Steve. “If we had to walk any further I don’t think my heart could have taken it.” Gene promptly slapped Steve in the head.

“Where are we, now?” asked Kate. The group looked around out the windows, and around themselves, and could at least tell that they were animated.

“Great, another fucking cartoon,” said Pat. “Wham watches way too many cartoons for a grown man.”

* * *

Back in his apartment, Whammon had moved from his chair to the sofa, so he could sleep off the hangover that was sure to come. However, before laying down, a thought had occurred to him. He picked up his cell phone and dialed.

“Yeah, can I get some sushi delivered? What the hell do you need my phone number for? It’s a cell. Fine.” Wham rolled his eyes. “867-5309. Stop laughing and bring the fish, already.” Wham hung up the phone. “Last time I sign up for a cell phone plan on 80’s Theme Day.” He dialed again. “Hey, Jack, it’s me. Yeah, can you stop over here for a minute? Thanks.” He hung up again, and turned his attention back to the screen.

* * *

Trav opened his eyes and rubbed his neck.

“Fucking crick,” he said. “What the hell am I doing sleeping on a couch?”

Trav looked around the room, finding very little. A cracked, poorly painted wall, a TV with rabbit ear antennae on it, garbage on the floor, and Bob sleeping next to him on the couch.

“Oh, God,” he said. “Bob, wake up.” Trav slapped RedBob in the face to wake him.

“Ah! What the hell is wrong with you?” Bob yelled, rubbing his forehead.

“Why the hell are you sleeping next to me, gaywad?”

“How the fuck should I know? I thought we were at Wham’s. Did we miss the whole party or something? Where is everybody?”

“At least you got rid of that gay ass knight costume,” Trav said.

“What are you talking about?” asked Bob, looking down at his black AC/DC shirt and red shorts. “Uh, wait a minute.” Bob looked at Trav, who also happened to be sporting a t-shirt and shorts, only his was light blue, and read “Alice in Chains.”

“Uh, hold on.” Bob scanned the room. “Uh…” Bob scanned the room again, looking at Trav. “Whoa, I think I just figured something out.”

“What?” said Trav.

“This sucks.”

Bob rose from the couch, and went into the bathroom, which was covered in random stains from past expulsions of bodily fluids. Trav followed him in, and they looked into the vanity mirror, confirming what they had both deduced.

“Heh heh, hey Bob. We’re like, in a cartoon.”

“Huh huh, uh huh huh. Cool. Let’s go like, uh, watch TV.”

Trav and Bob walked purposefully the whole five feet back to the living room, and plopped down on the couch. Trav picked up the remote control next to him, and turned on MTV. They tuned in just in time for a 7-hour marathon of “Road Rules.”

“Hey, heh heh,” said Trav. “What the hell, Bob? Where’s the music videos?”

“Uh, oh yeah. I like, forgot. MTV hasn’t played music videos since 1998.”

“Heh heh, oh oh yeah. Well, I’ll like, turn on MTV2. They still have videos, cause no one watches.” Trav turned on MTV2, and found a video of Hole.

“Oh make me over. I’m all I wanna be.”

“Whoa,” said Trav. “It’s Courtney Love! Heh, heh.”

“Uh, yeah. It’s the hole from Hole.”

“Heh hmm heh. Hey, hey Bob. I saw like, this thing on Comedy Central, where Courtney Love was showing off her boobs.”

“Huh huh uh huh huh, yeah.”

“And then, and then there was like, Pamela Anderson had this tight shirt, and um, you could see her boobs, too.”

“Uh, no you couldn’t, dumbass. They had like, this black thing over her.”

“No, no. You could like see through it and stuff. Like you had X-Ray vision, woooooooo, tee tees, heh heh.”

“Uh, oh yeah,” said Bob. They continued watching the video.

“Oh look at my face.”

“Uh, we don’t want to look at your face. It’s all like, drugged and stuff, and your makeup’s all smeared and stuff. Show us your boobs.”

The video ended.

“Hey Bob, heh heh. I just realized. We’ve never actually watched a whole video before.”

“We just watched a Hole video, fartknocker!”

“Shut up, Bob. I mean like a WHOLE video. They always cut it off.”

“Uh, Travis, you’re a dumbass. We just watched a HOLE video.”

“Um, oh yeah.”

Trav and Bob walked outside their Highland home, giggling stupidly as they walked. Eventually, they came to Highland High School. They entered.

“AAAAHHH, what the hell are we doing here, Bob?”

“Uh, I dunno.”

“You guys are such idiots,” came a female’s voice. Trav and Bob turned around to see a plain, bespectacled girl staring at them with bored contempt.

“Diarrhea, cha-cha-cha. Diarrhea, cha-cha-cha,” the boys cha-cha-chanted. Daria rolled her eyes and left the hallway. Trav and Bob continued walking until they came upon Van Driesen, the hippest of hippie teachers.

Mmkay, boys, why don’t you run along to class,” he said, in his girly ass, stupid hippie voice.

“Whoa,” said Trav. “It’s like, um, Mr. Macky.” Bob slapped him in the face. “Wrong cartoon, butt munch.”

“Shut up, Bob!” Trav tackled Bob in the middle of the hallway. The boys screamed and rolled around on the ground, like a retarded “Brokeback Mountain” parody. They rolled all along the hallway, and right out of the building, finally stopping after they both toppled down the stairs. They rose, still giggling.

Trav and Bob continued walking for a little while, until they came upon a small convenience store. The store itself was of no interest to the boys. However, the small blue car in the parking lot was.

“Whoa,” said Bob, clearly impressed by everything. “It’s Todd.”

Todd, completely disheveled, unshaven, and most likely drunk, stumbled out of his car and approached the boys.

“What do you little twerps want?” he said, annoyed by the site of them.

“Can we like, hang out with you?” said Trav. “Todd rules. He can help us SCORE!” he added, referring to Todd in the third person as if he wasn’t standing right there.

“Hang, huh?” said Todd. “Sounds like a good idea.” He grabbed Trav by the throat, and tied his shoelaces to the trunk latch of his car. He then proceeded to drive donuts in the parking lot as Trav screamed in idiotic agony.

“Uh, huh huh. Cool.”

Todd stopped the car, and Trav fell off. “You’re next!” Todd yelled at Bob, but seeing as how Trav was now running away, still screaming, Bob decided to follow the path of least ass-kicking, and joined Trav.

* * *

The doorbell rang. Wham rose up and answered the front door.

“Hey, Cat. Thanks for the sushi. I see you’ve been eating the salads at Olive Garden,” he added, noticing her erect nipples. Without waiting for a response, Wham handed her some money and closed the door. He could faintly hear the word “asshole” as he sat back down on the couch.

Ruff approached him with his tongue hanging out, panting. Wham gave him a piece of sushi, which Ruff munched happily for a moment, but then the dog ran for the bathroom yet again, and Wham heard him wretch.

“Is there anything your system can handle?” asked Wham as the doorbell rang again. He rose and answered the door to find ThunderJack standing at his threshold.

“What the fuck do you want?” asked TJ, clearly pissed. “I’m about ready to cyber-fuck your ex, which I feel some psychotic compulsive need to remind you of every chance I get.”

“Yeah, about that…” began Wham, as he wrapped his arm around Jack’s shoulder. He then kicked him square in the crotch. ThunderJack, however, did not react.

“Oh that’s right, I forgot,” said Wham. “You don’t have any balls. My mistake.” And with that, Wham shut the door, returned to the couch, and fed himself some sushi as he watched the show.

* * *

Trav and Bob continued running as fast as they could, Todd trailing very closely in his car. Thankfully, since Todd was so drunk, he drove very erratically, knocking over trash cans and mailboxes, which slowed him somewhat. The boys ran as fast as they could, constantly looking back over their shoulder to track Todd’s pursuit, until they unwittingly slammed head-on into a black SUV.

Steve opened the door, and laughed hysterically, before helping Trav and Bob into the truck.

“Whoa,” said Bob, for the millionth time, surpassing Joey Lawrence. Trav and Bob continued laughing as they drove back to their house. After about five seconds, Kate slapped Bob.

“Enough already. You’re just inside ‘Beavis and Butthead,’ you don’t have to act like them.”

“Aw, come on,” said Trav, breaking character. “Let’s at least enjoy this fucked up scenario, seeing as we can’t get out yet.”

“Fair enough,” said Kate, conceding the point. Trav and Bob continued their moronic giggle.

When the group arrived at the house, they found Stewart waiting for them, dressed in a knight’s costume.

“Hey guys,” he exclaimed. “Wanna have a sword fight?” Bob’s eyes lit up.

“Well at least we know what happened to the faggy costume,” muttered Trav, still out of character.

“Uh, okay.” Bob grabbed a katana out of nowhere, and sliced Stewart straight down the middle, “Kill Bill”-style. No one bothered to ask where the sword came from.

“Uh, huh huh. That was cool. Uh huh huh.”

“What in the Hell is going on here?” came the bored, Southern drawl of Tom Anderson. “Have you boys been a-whacking in my tool shed again?”

“Shut the fuck up,” said Pat. “What the hell does it matter? You become Hank Hill later on. You’re a non-entity mother fucker.”

“Well, all right, then. I could have sworn you were the boys that were whackin’.” And he walked off without another word.

“I always wondered if that would work,” Pat mused.

Before they could have more time to dwell on the almost robotic way that Tom Anderson ignored what Pat had said, Todd had arrived on the scene.

“Well, well, well. It seems like you wussies got some backup.” Todd began fighting the whole group. He knocked AllWhite and Gene on their asses in an instant. He then incapacitated Pat with one good gut check. Fusty and Rards ran into each other while trying to run in opposite directions, knocking both of them out. Kate, however, got an idea.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” she muttered to herself before she began. “Hey there, Todd,” she said, undoing the top button on her blouse. It was enough. Todd was distracted by even the mere possibility of getting laid. Steve sprang into action.

“Trav, quick!” Steve threw Trav a Jolt Cola, readily available in Texas, which Trav downed in an instant. He began to change. He seized up like an epileptic, his head spinning from side to side like Linda Blair. He screamed, and pulled his shirt up over his head.

“I AM CORNHOLIO! I NEED TP FOR MY BUNGHOLE!” he screamed. Todd’s attention turned back to Trav.

“What the hell are you doing, you little fruit?”


“I’m gonna kick your lily ass!”


“Shut up, you little twerp!


Todd had had enough. He rushed Trav head on, but was stopped short by Trav kicking him square in the balls. Todd’s face went red, he grabbed his crotch, gasped, and keeled over, vomiting on the ground.

The group slowly got up and loaded into the truck. Trav and Bob, however, lingered behind.

“Come on, you idiots,” said Kate, “before Todd gets up!”

“Heh heh, no way! We’re gonna score!” said Trav, as a busty woman approached.

“Uh, hey baby. Come to BobHead.” The woman rolled her eyes and walked off.

“Dammit,” they lamented in unison. With that, they got into the SUV.

“I guess being Beavis and Butthead comes with a downside,” said Trav, waxing philosophical about a cartoon.

“Alright, let’s get this Cartage Family Bus rolling,” said Bob.

Fusty, now in the driver’s seat, made a point of backing up heavily, so that the rear wheels crushed Todd’s skull, then put the car into drive. The group drove off into the sunset as the screen went black.


Episode 6: Is This SportsCenter?

Whammon put down his beer. Which beer it was, he couldn’t tell; he had lost count ages ago.

“God this night turned out to be boring,” he mused to himself. “I’m drunk, stoned, alone, surrounded by food, and there’s a neurotic talking dog in my house. Might as well see what’s going on at work.” He picked up his remote control and turned on ESPN.

“Yankees and Red Sox teeing it off like they always do,” came the hip voice of Stuart Scott. However, Wham’s attention was not drawn to the anchor, but to the figure walking around in the background behind the desk.

“What the fuck is Outsider doing on the ‘SportsCenter’ set?!” asked Wham loudly to no one in particular, prompting his next door neighbor to shout at him to shut up.

* * *

Outsider stood behind Stuart Scott and Dan Patrick, who sat at the desk, seemingly oblivious to his presence. Stu continued his highlight.

“Top of the third, Sox down one when Coco Crisp decides to jack one right over the center field wall. Johnny Damon’s looking back as the ball sails over his head, thinking, ‘That was a good trade.’”

“What a load of crap!” yelled Outsider. “You gotta be out of your freaking mind to think the Sox got the better end of the deal. Coco Crisp is young and has an inconsistent bat, whereas Damon’s a solid lead-off man and one of the most committed center fielders in the game!”

Stuart continued his report without acknowledging Outsider’s presence. “Bottom seven now and Jason Giambi, as cool as the other side of the pillow. Three run jack to bring the Yankees within one.”

“What a stupid catch phrase,” Outsider interjected. “Who gives a shit about the other side of the pillow? What’s next, you gonna tell us about how someone delivered a score like a pizza?”

“Bottom of the ninth now and Keith Foulke eyeing Bernie Williams. Swing and a miss, no luck there. The Red Sox, come up huge, seven to six, and move into first place in the AL East, where they hope to stay.”

“Dude, you know nothing about baseball. The Yankees will eventually come back and win the division, just like no matter how good the Phillies and Mets do, the Braves will somehow find a way to win the NL East for the fifteenth straight year.”

“Turning to the NASCAR Nextel Cup Series, now,” came the calm voice of Dan Patrick. “Trouble on the track this afternoon as Tony Stewart and Jeff Gordon get tied up with an SUV.”

“We go’n race the truck. People love the truck,” interrupted Stuart, attempting scripted humor.

“Indeed,” said Dan. TO hit himself in the forehead.

On the screen, the black SUV containing the assembled James Gang was shown falling over, after a serious bump draft by Tony Stewart’s number 20 car in a dirty attempt to pass Jeff Gordon’s number 24.

Steve climbed out of the wreck, and brushed himself off. The others followed suit, with Fusty pulling Kate out of the passenger seat. They all yelled and screamed random things at each other, but none of it was heard over the loud rumble of 43 big block engines and 100,000 screaming rednecks.

The group ran across the track, attempting to escape the wreckage. They dodged several cars along the way. AllWhite lagged behind, attempting to preach to his choir of Southern moronic conservatives. No one heard him. No one needed to. Thankfully for him, he heard the engine of Mark Martin’s number 6 car getting louder as it approached him at 200 miles per hour. He quickly jumped and barely made it onto the fringe of the track as Martin passed. Once the group was assembled, the track faded away.

“I guess that van became ‘en fuego,’” finished Dan. Outsider ran his fingers down his face in disgust.

* * *

Wham dialed the phone as quickly as possible. A female voice came on the other end.

“ESPN Security.”

“Hi, I work for dot-com,” began Wham. “I’m watching ‘SportsCenter’ right now, and there’s an intruder on the set. He’s wandering around, and berating the talent.”

“I don’t see anything.”

“He’s right there!” Wham yelled, motioning to the screen that the security woman couldn’t see. There was Outsider, yelling himself hoarse in Dan Patrick’s ear, but Dan, the consummate professional that he was, seemed to be completely ignoring.

“Sir, I’m going to pretend this call didn’t happen. Goodbye.” She hung up, very annoyed by the sound of it. Outsider, on the screen, appeared to get so bored with being ignored that he left the set. “What the hell’s going on?” said Wham, clearly confused, and not even from the weed and beer. He passed out.

* * *

Outsider left the “SportsCenter” set and walked toward the nearest exit. He followed anyone he could see through any open door, and found himself outside, on the ESPN campus in Bristol, CT.

“How did I get here?”

“It’s called being gay,” yelled Steve.

“Dude, that’s the best one-liner you could come up with? A half-assed gay joke?” yelled TO back.

“Fuck you, bitch. I’ve wandered all over fucking TV tar nation in the last few hours, collecting you misfits and trying to figure out how to get the fuck out Wham’s gay ass story—I mean TV, yes, that’s the ticket, and get my fucking nachos cause I’m fucking starving. So yeah, that’s the best comeback I can think of under this type of duress, you opportunist mother fucker!”

The group stared at Steve in utter disbelief for several moments. The silence was eventually broken by Bob.

“Whoa. Uh, huh huh. That was cool.”

RedBob86 wrote:
Whoa. Uh huh huh. That was cool.
“That was way too much for me to quote, so I’m gonna just agree with Bob that that was pretty decent,” added Rards.

“Lazy fucker,” said Fusty.

fustyruk wrote:
Lazy fucker.
“Up yours.”

Kate whistled loudly. “People can we settle down for about 15 seconds?” The group collectively shut up and turned toward her. “Figures the lone woman in this group has to set all the little boys straight.”

“Fuck you, niglib!” yelled AllWhite. “You can’t control me you little mmmph.” Whitey’s tirade was cut short by Pat pulling the Kenny parka hood over his head and tightening the draw strings.

“Thank you, Pat.”

“I’m no hero, I just prefer listening to mildly attractive chicks over racists,” said Pat, grinning at Kate during his pseudo-compliment.

“Anyhoo,” began Kate. “Look around us. Where are we?”

The boys stare blankly. Outsider finally chimed in, lazily. “ESPN.”

“Very good,” said Kate, placating TO as if she were a teacher complimenting a kindergartener after he figures out what 2+2 is. “And who do we know who WORKS at ESPN?”

The group’s eyes lit up in retarded realization.

“Somebody find a way to contact him! Go, now!”

The group split up. Steve and Outsider headed toward the cafeteria. “I told you, I’m fucking starving!” said Steve, justifying his choice of direction. Trav and Bob went toward the building that Outsider had just exited.

“We’ll meet back here in 15 minutes!” yelled Kate. “I’ll stay here and ask people for help.”

Pat, Whitey and Gene started walking up a hill, just north of the cafeteria.

“Where do we start?” asked Gene.

“This is a business, just like any other,” said Pat. “They’ve got to have a personnel office or something.”

“Right.” The three wandered fairly aimlessly for a moment or two, until they came across a building labeled, “Human Resources.” They rushed up to the door. AllWhite attempted to grab the door handle, but couldn’t. He tried again, but still nothing.

“What a retard. He can’t even open a door,” said Gene. “Here, genius.” Gene reached for the handle, but saw only his hand pass through it.


Fusty and Rards headed east. After a few moments they came across a building marked, “Health and Fitness Center.”

“Let’s go,” said Fusty.

fustyruk wrote:
Let’s go.
“It’s a gymnasium. Since when does Wham work out?”

“Since his friend died a couple months back.”

fustyruk wrote:
Since his friend died a couple months back.
“Please. You saw how much food Wham made. You saw how big he was. True, he’s not as big as Pat, but still. Like he actually works out. Like anyone here would know him.”

“Fine, let’s go back and meet up with Kate, then.” Fusty and Rards, quickly giving up, headed back to the rendez-vous.

Bob and Trav approached the “Digital Center,” which Outsider had exited shortly before. They stood on a rubber mat next to an automatic door. The door didn’t open.

“Uh, this sucks,” said Bob.

“Screw this,” said Trav. And with that, they headed back.

Steve and Outsider came to the cafeteria. “Please God let them have some burgers or something,” said Steve.

“God, you’re such a whiny bitch sometimes,” answered TO.

“Fuck you. I didn’t eat all day, prepping my stomach for a smorgasbord at Wham’s place, and this happened. I’m fucking hungry.”

The duo approached the automatic door, which also did not open.

“What the fuck?” exclaimed Steve. “We’re on the rubber square.”

“Brainiac, look,” said Outsider, pointing to the wall next to the door. There they saw an electronic card reader, blinking red.

“Fucking great,” lamented Steve. “All I wanted was some nachos, and to watch ‘The Sopranos,’ but NOOOOOOOOOOOOO.” Steve’s rant was cut short by the arrival of a young woman. She pulled out her ID badge, and waved it in front of the card reader. The door opened, and she entered, completely passing through Outsider’s body.

“Holy shit!” he yelled. “Oh God, I’m dead! I’m fucking dead! And even worse, I have to spend eternity with you fucks! Why me?! Why me?! I don’t deserve…Steve?”

The melodrama was cut short when Outsider noticed that Steve had left him, running into the café. He followed. Inside, he found, not just a lunch room, but a full scale restaurant, but more importantly, he saw people sitting at computers. He approached one woman in particular, sitting at a PC, and looked over her shoulder. She was looking at espn.com.

“Wham works for the website,” he said to himself. “What does he do for the website? Come on, Todd, think for once in your life.”

“Dammit, I couldn’t get any food,” came Steve’s voice. “My hand just passed through all the stuff, and there were some goodies, too. They had these mushroom stuffed pork chops.”

Outsider grabbed Steve by the scruff of his shirt. “What does Wham do here?!” he screamed, though only Steve could hear.

“He does something on ESPN 360. Something about hot tits or something.” They both looked up at a banner above the computers. “ESPN 360: A 2006 Corporate Priority. See it live, now.” They lowered their heads and saw two computers below the banner, each occupied by people sampling ESPN 360. One of which was showing, “The HotList.”

“That’s it, fucker!” said Steve. The two crowded next to, and partially inside the man viewing “The HotList,” and saw the credits below the website’s description. There, they saw Wham’s name, and the building where he worked.

“Let’s go, fuckface,” said Steve, but Outsider was stoic.

“Dude, we’re passing through matter. We’re fucking dead. Even if we find Wham, what does it matter? We’re fucking dead.”

“We’re not dead, retard,” said Steve, explaining as quickly as possible. “We got sucked into Wham’s TV, and we’re all in different shows, hence the ‘South Park” get up I’m wearing. You just happened to land in a non-fiction show, and wandered into the real world outside of the show. We’re not dead, just in some flux of space-time, mother fucker. Now let’s go.”

They ran out of the cafeteria, straight through the walls, not bothering with waiting for doors to move for them. They met with Kate at a flag pole in the center of campus.

“Sir, ma’am, please,” she said. “Don’t ignore me!” Steve and Outsider approached. “Why won’t they listen to me?”

“Because apparently we’re on another plain of existence or some shit,” came Pat’s voice from a few yards away. The rest of the group reunited.

“Forget all that shit, guys,” said Steve. “We need to get to Building B.”

The group walked up a long hill, following signs that would lead to Building B. Unfortunately for them, Building B was the furthest point on the campus from where they started. It took several minutes for them to make it, and by the time they got there, they were exhausted. Pat could barely breathe.

“You guys, seriously…” he gasped. They walked inside and they followed signs along the wall, pointing toward espn.com. They arrived on a standard bit of office space.

“Not nearly as glamorous as I would have imagined,” muttered Kate as they came to the cubicle with Wham’s name on it. They saw only six things: a desk, a chair, a small TV, a computer, a telephone, and a piece of paper, with contact information for the whole department on it.

“Quick, let’s call Wham!” said Bob, reaching for the phone. As with the others before him, his hand merely passed through. “Oh yeah, the whole ghost thing, right.”

While contemplating their next move, a young black man passed by and through them, and sat at the cubicle next to Wham’s, which was identically bare.

“Guys, I got an idea,” said Bob. “I saw this in ‘Bill and Ted’s Bogus Journey!’ That movie ruled!”

Bob approached the black man, and stuck his finger in his ear. Instantly, he was sucked into the young man’s head. The young man stood up and looked at the group, and spoke with a deeper voice, but the words were decidedly Bob’s .

“Dude, this is even cooler than a sword fight,” he said. He then pulled the waist line of the blue jeans he was wearing. “Dude, my pecker is HUGE!” The group rolled their eyes in unison.

“Just call him already, NigBob,” said AllWhite, echoing the sentiments of the rest of the group, racist or not.

“Fine.” He dialed Wham’s home phone number.

* * *

Wham’s phone rang loudly. At first Wham thought it was an alarm clock. “Just five more minutes, mom.” He regained what little composure he had, and noticed that “SportsCenter” was still on. The phone rang again. Realizing it was his phone, he picked it up, and said with a groggy, still drunk voice, “Yellow.”


“Oh, hey, Eric. How’s it going?”

“This isn’t Eric. It’s RedBob!”

“What the hell are you talking about?” said Wham, confused.

“Dude, it’s BOB! We got sucked into your TV! Right now we’re on ESPN, so we were able to contact you from the campus!”

“Eric, are you high? I told you not to smoke that shit on the job.”


“Dude, you should cut out early, get a nap or something.”

“We’re scattered throughout several shows. Just change the channel. I swear you’ll see more of us.”

“Wait a minute,” said Wham, trying to decipher what was going on. “You’re saying all my friends got sucked into my television, and didn’t leave me all alone and rudely?”


“Dude, you’re full of shit. Seriously, get some rest.”


“Whatever. Later, Eric.” Wham hung up the phone.

* * *

Bob pushed his phantasmal form out of Eric’s head. Eric shook his head, wondering what he was thinking about, and rose from his desk. He left the office area, looking for other things to do, as if nothing had happened.

“Did it work?” asked Kate.

“There’s only one way to find out,” said Bob. “We just have to wait and see if he changes the channel again.”

“Well, let’s hedge our bets,” said Outsider. “This whole fucked up adventure began on ‘SportsCenter.’ Might as well head back to the set. At least that way we’re still ‘on the show’ if Wham changes it,” he finished, giving air quotes.

The group walked outside to find a shuttle bus. Two people got on. The group rushed behind, crowding themselves, but not anyone else. The bus drove back down to the central location where they first met up. Leaving the bus, they walked into the “Digital Center,” and back to the set of “SportsCenter,” where Stuart and Dan were bantering about Brett Favre’s possible retirement.

“I’ll bite my tongue now,” said Outsider, showing an uncharacteristic amount of restraint.

“Nothing to do now but wait,” muttered Gene.

* * *

Wham rose from his sofa, clearly at a loss for words. High or not, drunk or not, that was the weirdest conversation he had ever had. He walked into the kitchen to find Ruff, scrounging under his sink.

“If you keep that shit down, I’ll be shocked. Hell, I’ll be shocked if you survive that,” he said, as Ruff began licking the bottle of carpet cleaner. He grabbed a soda out of the fridge, desperate for some caffeine to end this buzz.

“What the hell was Eric smoking?” he asked himself, as he reentered the living room. He sat down, picked up a cold piece of pizza, and took a bite, munchies setting in. “Since when does Eric even know who Bob is?” He took another bite. “Hey, Ruff. Do any of the group know any of my coworkers?”

“How the ruff should I know? *hic*” hiccoughed Ruff, somehow drunk off the carpet cleaner, but still alive.

“Yeah, how would they know?” Wham repeated to himself. “Trapped in the TV? That’s just retarded. But then again, Eric’s seen ‘Stay Tuned.’ Probably just playing the obscure pop culture reference game again.”

Wham took another bite of pizza, and stared at the remote control sitting on the end table. “Then again…” he trailed off. “I must be out of my skull.” Wham picked up the remote and changed the channel.

* * *

Back on the “SportsCenter” set, the background began to go black.

“Well, this is it,” said Bob, attempting to build suspense for no reason.

“I just realized,” said Outsider. “If we were passing through walls, how come we were able to ride the bus, and walk around buildings without falling through the floors?”

“If that’s all that’s bothering you,” said Fusty, “you’re doing a lot better than me.”

The world went black.
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PostSubject: Re: James Gang Story Hour: The Sun Always Shines on T.V.   Sun Nov 22, 2009 9:20 am

Posted: Sat Apr 15, 2006 1:54 am


Episode 7: Real World in the UnReal World

Whammon quickly crammed a piece of sushi into his mouth as he set his remote to program a random channel. “Goddam munchies,” he said, clearly beginning to crash from the weed. As he heard the familiar guitar riff that signified the station ID for MTV, he covered his face with his hands. “Just my fucking luck to land on MTV when I’m not even high anymore.”

* * *

“This is the true story,” came the voice of a black woman with the name Shaniqua written underneath her face.

“Of seven strangers,” said a young blonde man with what can only be described as a gay lisp named Gary.

”Where am I?” said Narrator, exploring the area around his head.

“And have their lives taped,” said a Latin woman called Fredrica Maria.

“Huh?” said Rocket, very groggy.

“What the fuck is going on?” asked Goddess.

“And start being real,” said a brown-haired man named Brad, dressed in hip-hop gear.

Inside the “Real World” house, the group came together for their first meeting. Rocket and Narrator sat on a sofa, while Goddess sat in a recliner chair. All three were very much separate from the rest of the group.

“So where you niggas from?” asked Brad, clearly attempting to be ghetto.

“I’m not even sure where here is,” said Goddess. “So how the fuck can I tell you where I’m from?”

“Cause chu don’t need to know where you at to know where you is from,” snapped Fredrica Maria.

“Holy walking, talking stereotypes, Batman,” said Narrator, clearly aghast. “Could you people be any more cartoonish?”

“Oh, be nithe,” replied Gary, waving his limp wrist.

“So come on, where you niggas from?” asked Brad again, getting impatient.

“Fuck off,” said Rocket, at a loss for something else to say. Brad nodded back in acknowledgement and respect, leading the group to smack themselves in the head. Brad turned to the other three and asked the same question. Shaniqua immediately rose from her art deco chair that looked like a large, petrified upright cat-o-ninetails.

“Oh no, you didn’t just call ME that!” she screamed. “Rocket, hold my baby while I whoop this white boy’s ass.” Shaniqua tossed a small infant into Rocket’s arms and decked Brad.

Inside the confessional, Fredrica Maria was recapping the events we had already seen. “I just don’t get this shit. They just started fighting like my five younger brothers over the last taco.”

* * *

Wham smacked himself in the head as he heard the confession. “Why am I paying attention to this? Forrest Gump couldn’t write something that retarded.”

* * *

“But then we decided we all needed to unwind and unite as a group,” Fredrica Maria continued, “so we all had an orgy in the hot tub.”

In the bathroom, an orgy was in progress. Brad, Fredrica Maria, and Shaniqua were in the midst of a three-way, and Gary was looking lonely. Despite the smallness of the hot tub, Goddess, Rocket, and Narrator remained at least partially clothed, and kept their distance. All of a sudden, Narrator jumped out of the jacuzzi like a shot, knocking Goddess’s head into Brad’s lap.

“Oh yeah, now that’s what I’m talking about,” he said, attempting to pin her head down.

“Get off me, you prick!” she yelled, coming to the surface for air. She turned to Narrator. “And what the fuck was that about?”

“He tried to give me a reach-around,” said Narrator, pointing to a clearly disappointed Gary.

“Narrator just don’t know how to deal with people,” said Brad in his confessional. “He’s all like, ‘I’m not gay. Where are we? Where’s Wham? I don’t want a penis inside my asshole. You’re not my priest!’ It’s totally gay.”

Back in the living room, the four caricatures stared at the confused trio with arms crossed.

“We need to have a house meeting,” said Shaniqua. “We don’t trust you three. You ain’t getting along with us.”

“Yeah,” said Brad. “We don’t want you guys banding together to vote us out so you can win the million dollars.” The other three nodded.

“Okay,” said Rocket. “You people are clearly retarded. First of all, there is no million dollars. This show is just around to exploit horny idiotic stereotypes like you. Plus, even if there were a prize, there’s FOUR of you and THREE of us.” Rocket held up differing amounts of fingers on corresponding hands to illustrate the point. “So you’d be the ones voting us out, which you can’t do anyway. GOD!” Rocket ended the tirade with a perfect Napolean Dynamite.

“The next day, we all started our jobs at the juithe bar that MTV gave us for our jobs,” said Gary, stating the patently obvious and not noticing his own redundancy.

At the juice bar, Rocket, Goddess, and Narrator were hard at work, mostly cause, given the current state of the MTV audience, they were the only ones who had ever worked a day in their lives in the first place. Shaniqua and Brad were making out in the back, Fredrica Maria was sanding her nails with an emery board, and Gary was licking a magazine photo spread of Josh Harntett.

“Hey, get to work you lazy fucks,” yelled Rocket, throwing a smoothie at Brad and Shaniqua, and ignoring the mother covering her two-year-old’s ears in shock.

“I’m never coming here again,” sobbed the woman, clearly offended by an innocuous word.

“Whatever, you uppity bitch,” came the response, but it wasn’t from Rocket. Through the door of the juice bar strolled Steve, followed by the rest of the James Gang. “If that offended you, here’s another shocker. Your kid’s gonna grow up to be an ass-ramming fag.” Gary’s eyes lit up as he lifted his head from the magazine momentarily. The woman hurried her young child out of the store, scandalized.

“Where did you guys come from?” asked Goddess, thankful for the sight of a familiar face.

“And why is that guy dressed like Kenny trying to separate Brad and Shaniqua?” added Narrator.

“It’s Whitey,” said Pat, pulling AllWhite back from the melee he was about to instigate. Thankfully, his hood was still pulled shut, so at least no one had to put up with him talking. “As for the rest of the story, that’ll take some time to explain.

Back at the house, the Gang took the time to explain.

“…and then we started wandering around this city until we came to the juice bar cause Kate was thirsty and wouldn’t drink anything that wasn’t ‘natural’ and ‘organic,’ so we went inside and found you assholes,” said Outsider, stressing the words “natural” and “organic” in a very sarcastic tone.

“I wanna tell the story next time,” said Fusty.

fustyruk wrote:
I wanna tell the story next time.
“You know the rules, pull a number like everyone else,” said Rards.

“Yo, whatchu people doin in here?” asked Fredrica Maria quite angrily.

AllWhite pulled his hood down. “Hey, there’s a cock fight outside. If you hurry, you can eat the loser.” All four of the group left, each reading something into those sentences that enticed them. In the distance, they heard Gary muttering, “Mmm, cock fight,” as he left.

“So anyway,” began Steve, “we need to figure a way out of here. We think we got through to Wham when we were at ESPN, but we need to make sure. Really drive the point home, you know what I mean?”

“How do we get started?” asked Gene.

“I know a way,” said Goddess. “I was just hoping to avoid it. It would mean actually getting immersed in this piece of shit show.”

Goddess sat in a chair in her bedroom confessional. Her name was written above her head like a five-year-old with a crayon.

“So anyway, yeah, the breakfast thing. I always like pancakes, especially with WHAMWE’REINTHETV! maple syrup. But lately it’s just gotten sort of TRAPPEDINTHETV! bland.”

* * *

Wham continued stuffing his face with raw fish as the high wore off even faster than normal.

“Huh?” he said, staring at the confessional on TV. But as quickly as he looked at the screen, the shot changed back to Brad attempting to break dance, and he went back to his food.

* * *

“Why are we doing this again?” said Brad as he lay in an awkward position.

“I told you,” said Rocket. “The producers want us to form shapes on the roof so they can take satellite pictures.” The four stereotypes huddled together on the rooftop of their flat, along with the rest of the James Gang.

“Nice buns,” said Gary, admiring Bob’s posterior from his position.

“Don’t make me get the sword out,” threatened Bob, straining through his back pain. “Can we get this over with?!”

“Almost got it,” replied Rocket, adjusting Steve. “Perfect.”

* * *

Back in his house, Wham saw the shot on the screen change to an overhead of the house. On the rooftop, clearly spelled out by bodies was the message, “TRAPPED IN TV!” Wham saw the message as he was gulping down another beer, only to spit take it all over the place. Five feet away, Ruff shook himself dry.

“What the fuck is going on?”

* * *

“Okay everyone,” said Goddess, talking to them as if they were kindergarteners, “our next task is to make our own music video parody. And we’ve been assigned this classic from the 80s.”

Brad held the camera, Gary held the boom microphone, and Fredrica Maria and Shaniqua positioned the lights while the James Gang prepared to perform.

“I can’t believe I let you talk me into this,” said Trav. “If we get out of here, I’ll never forgive you for this.”

“You would have thought they’d have the two guys who weren’t about hardcore metal do something this degrading,” added Pat.

“Aaaaaaaaaaannnnnd, action bizzles,” said Brad.

Goddess and Kate danced a jig in the background. Narrator, Bob, AllWhite, Rocket, Fusty and Rards sang backup.

“You gotta change the tube.” They snapped their fingers to the rhythm of the music. “Change the tube.” Trav broke out the first verse.

“The whole gang got sucked in your TV.”

“Ooh, ooh.”

“It all started when Steve fucked with Gene’s batteries.” Steve mimes playing with Gene’s pacemaker.

“Change the tube.”

“We’re enclosed.”

“Ooh, ooh”

“And there’s a reason we show up in these crappy, worn out shows. It’s not too late, to change our fate. We can still make a great escape. Just find the rest, and pass the test. We’ll make it out alive with your help. This isn’t a jest!”

Pat interjected with an energy rarely seen.

“Wake me up, before you go-go! Find the others inside a new show.” Kate and Goddess increased the intensity of their dance.

“Wake me up, before you go-go, because we don’t want to die in HD.” Steve joined in.

“Wake me up, before you go-go, you better not have eaten all the nachos.” All three together.

“Wake us up, before you go-go. We’re stuck in your TV.”

Gene added the high note kicker. “Please don’t let us DIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!”

* * *

“Ruff, I always liked this song, ruff!” the dog yelped, happily doing some doggy break dancing on the living room carpet. Wham, on the other hand, was clearly distraught.

“Holy crap! Holy crap! This can’t be happening!” He paced about the room very fast and very scared. “They can’t be in the TV. It’s just not possible!”

* * *

“Dude, that was off the chizzy,” said Brad, who would have been impressed by leaves in a gutter.

“Do you think it’ll work?” whispered Goddess to Steve.

“It better. I’m never doing that again.”

“For sheazy,” said Brad.

“All right, that’s enough!” said AllWhite. “I am so sick of you pathetic apologist libs trying to act like nigs.

“OH, NO YOU DIDN’T!” screamed Shaniqua.

A fight broke out instantly. However, as the James Gang was already used to fights in this and other shows, they immediately knew what to do. They shoved Gary into the mix, where he was beaten and molested, not necessarily in that order, nor did he necessarily object. Fredrica Maria jumped into the fray, and the gang ran out the door and onto the street.

“What the hell is wrong with you?!” screamed Kate at AllWhite. “You’re gonna get us all killed.”

“Fuck you, lib,” he yelled back.

Narrator grabbed AllWhite and snarled. “Listen, you imbecilic twerp, if we didn’t think it was somehow important for us ALL to get back to reality TOGETHER, we’d teleport you into outer space as soon as Wham found a ‘Star Trek’ rerun!” AllWhite instantly shut up.

“What’s that?” asked Bob, pointing down the road. Coming towards them was a bright red light. It was so thick that it seemed to consume the environment surrounding it.

“I’d say Wham was changing the channel, but the scene normally goes black when that happens,” said Gene.

“Then that can only mean one of two things,” added Steve, resigned to the worse of the two things.

* * *

“This isn’t happening! This isn’t happening!” Wham continued to scream as he paced the room like a crack addict in rehab. “I gotta get out of here.”

Wham quickly grabbed his jacket from the kitchen, and scurried to the couch. He picked up the remote and ran for the front door. Just before he left the house, he turned off the television, and threw the remote to the floor.


Episode 8: Mid-Season ReCrap

Hi, I’m Jeff Probst. You might know me as that smug asshole from “Survivor.” I raise two fingers and snuff torches, and I get paid millions of dollars, bitch. Take that, VH1. “Rock and Roll Jeopardy” my ass. Anyway, as you’ve all read, our good friend, and I call him a good friend because he pays me under the table, Whammon has brought you this lovely little story/showcase. Over the last seven weeks, we’ve seen all our James Gang cast scattered throughout our favorite TV shows of the past and present, and there’s still more to come. But since we’ve hit the halfway point, and since Wham hasn’t gotten off his ass to finish writing it, let’s take a look back at the story to this point.

In this special, behind the scenes, uh, special, we’ll take a look at all aspects of the production. You’ll see cast interviews, production notes, and exclusive, never before read deleted scenes and outtakes from the story. So sit back, relax, and skim to the parts you like in this Story Hour Special.

“Hi, I’m Whammon, and welcome to the set of ‘James Gang Story Hour.’”

It all began as a request made to PatDaddy77 when he was writing “Death at Sea.”

“Yeah, I was writing all these dramatically gory death scenes for the whole crew, and Wham breaks in and asks if he can follow it up with a comedy. I’m like ‘whatever, bitch, you’re not my wife, do what you want.”

“Oh Pat was on board from Day 1. As I recall, he was all about the idea.”

And so Wham set to work, thinking up brilliant story lines for a massive comedic epic involving as many members of the James Gang as possible. Unfortunately, he couldn’t come up with anything, so he smoked a humongous blunt and watched “Stay Tuned.” If John Ritter only knew what was being done to the greatest concept for one of his films since “Problem Child 2.”

“The title of the story is ‘The Sun Always Shines on TV,’ which is the title of A-Ha’s other song in the 80s. I love references that only nerds like me would get. It makes me feel that much more superior to everyone else.”

And so the cast was assembled. Treesa, Ready, H-Town Steve, everyone. They were handed scripts for each chapter at the same time, so even they wouldn’t know what was going to happen in advance.

“Actually, it was just so I could write each chapter over time, instead of all at once. However, I did plan out each show the cast would be in, and the order of shows, in advance.”

The costume and makeup crew is assembled. They’ll have lots of work ahead of them.

“Uh, hey, I’m RedBob86, and right now, I’m being fitted for my medieval knight costume. For whatever reason, Wham wants me to look like a total ass when I make my entrance.”

The special effects department was out in force early on, as AllWhite famously masturbated on the screen. It took three days of hard labor in the studio, and the bathroom, to create a mixture of vanilla pudding, goat’s milk, and cottage cheese that accurately simulated racist jizzum.

Also, there was a late addition to the cast, in the form of Ruff, the little dog created by Zvon when he started his James Gang cartoon two years ago. The hardest part of creating the Ruff character was getting a voice for him. The auditions were long and arduous, but finally, the perfect actor was found.

“Hi, I’m Gilbert Gottfried, and I play Ruff. They needed someone with an insanely annoying voice, and I needed a role that didn’t involve me playing a bird. The AFLAC Duck, Sonny the Cocoa Puffs bird and Iago the Parrot; I’ve got the bird market cornered.”

And now, in this exclusive deleted scene, see what happens when Ruff enters the bathroom for the first time.

Ruff lapped from the toilet happily for several seconds. Then, he got down and shook the water out of his head. He then saw AllWhite’s jacket on the floor, then saw Wham’s copy of “My Thick Black Ass” magazine. He used his little doggy nose to turn the pages.

“Ruff, she likes it ruff!” He continued flipping the pages.

“What you gonna do with all that Ruff? All that ruff inside your ruff. I’ma g-g-g-get you ruff, get you love ruff off my ruff. My ruff, my ruff, my ruff, my ruff, my ruff, my ruff, my ruff, my ruff, my lovely lady ruff!”

Episode Two begins the real adventure. H-Town Steve, PatDaddy77, Gene the Spleen, and AllWhite wake up inside an episode of “South Park.” Of course, it violates copyright laws to actually translate an episode line for line, so some changes had to be made.

“For example, we begin with AllWhite jacking off Sparky, which happened in episode 507, ‘Proper Condom Use,’ but then we see Mr. Slave, who didn’t appear until episode 614, ‘The Death Camp of Tolerance.’”

The hardest part of the episode, of course, was for the boys to walk around the hot set in heavy winter coats.

“This is Hell. Every episode I have to be in this hot ass coat and hat all day. My 16-inch member is sweating like crazy.”

“This fucking parka chafes me like you wouldn’t believe. How am I supposed to spread the truth I bring when I’m sweating my balls off?”

But the story is not without controversy. As you will see in this never before read scene, an improvised joke nearly ruins the whole story.

Steve, Pat, Gene, and Whitey walked down the road in South Park towards the school. After a while, they stopped so Pat could take a breath.

“Dude,” said Pat. “I can’t go on much further. It’s so hot in this coat.”

“Dude, get a hold of yourself,” said Steve. Steve slapped him in the face to bring him back to his senses. Just then, Butters showed up.

“Hey, fellows,” he said, looking cheerier than Donnie Osmond on pep pills.

“Dude, shut up. What is with that voice of yours? You whine more than Ray Ramano.”

* * *

“Oh that is it!” fumed Wham, rising from his couch. “How dare he? I love Ray Ramano. I’ve been worshipping at the altar of Raymond for 9 years. How dare he mock my faith? That’s it. I quit! That’s it. It’s over. Wham, stop writing. They mocked our faith. It’s wrong. It’s WRONG!”

Thankfully, the matter was resolved after we all agreed not to show that clip, even in the montage show. Uh-oh. Um, moving on…

Episode Three marked the first appearance of a woman since the pilot. In “I Love Kate,” Kate wakes up as Lucy Ricardo, complete with the colorless backdrop of 1950s TV.

“I really liked the fact that Wham cast me as Lucy. Sure she’s a little subservient in the show, but Lucille Ball was the first truly independent woman in the television industry. She broke so much new ground for women in the industry. Minorities, too. Do you honestly think Desi Arnez, a Hispanic, would have been let on the air without her? Ow, dammit Whitey!”

“Yeah, I’ve had a thing for her from the beginning. That’s why I berate her so much. It’s like the kids on the playground in first grade. We pick on the girls we like. In this case, I just play grab ass whenever I get the opportunity.”

The makeup and hair process was very difficult for this episode. It took 27 hours of intense hair and makeup applications for every day of shooting to make Kate look like Lucy, without having any color in her face or clothing.

“It’s hour 17 of my makeup process for the day, and we’ve only been able to get my hair the right way. We’ve actually had to add 7 hours to the day in order to get anything shot today.”

Thankfully the episode did go off as planned. But as we see in this outtake, the director had a little bit of fun with the cast.

“Dude, you sure you know what you’re doing?” Pat asked Gene.

“Of course I do. When the music starts, just put the trumpet to your lips. It’ll be fine.”

The lights dimmed, with a spot on Ricky. He raised his baton, and struck up the band. Steve, Gene, and Pat pretended to trumpet, but the song sounded familiar. Kate opened her mouth to sing.

“Love, is a burning thing. And it makes a fiery ring. Bound by wild desire, I fell into a ring of fire.”

Kate stopped lip syncing, and fell to the ground guffawing. Steve, Pat, and Gene put down their trumpets, giggling like idiots. Even Ricky cracked a grin.

Moving on to Episode Four, we bring in our favorite dueling banjos, Fustyruk and Rards, placing them in the most appropriate show, given their endless bickering and debates, “24.”

So what’s the deal with the quoting thing?

Jeff Probst wrote:
So what’s the deal with the quoting thing?
“Basically, my brothers and sisters and I used to always play that game where we annoy each other by repeating each other, and one day, I did it so much that my older brother smacked me upside the head with a tire iron. My brain’s been adversely affected ever since. So now, when anyone asks me a question or argues with me, I have to repeat what was just said in order to respond to that.”

Wow, that’s pretty intense.

Jeff Probst wrote:
Wow, that’s pretty intense.
“Yeah, but it gets me laid all the time. Whenever a chick accuses me of not paying attention to her endless, nonsensical ramblings about bullshit that has absolutely no bearing on anything relating to reality, I repeat back to them, verbatim, what they just said. It’s a better aphrodisiac than Spanish Fly.”

During each episode of "Story Hour," we always cut back to Wham’s apartment, to get some reaction from Whammon as he slowly realizes what’s going on. Of course, we also see him eating like a pig, drinking like a fish, and smoking weed like Bob Marley the Hobbit. But being the law-abiding society that we are, we always have a Drug Enforcement Agent on the scene, to make sure Wham doesn’t actually smoke marijuana.

“Fucking narc.”

“It’s my job to make sure that Wham actually obeys this fine country’s drug laws, which are in no way contradictory, and are designed with his health in mind. So instead of smoking a joint, we have him smoke an unfiltered cigarette, hand-rolled by a chick with herpes."

“Fucking narc.”

And now, in this exclusive never before read scene (exclusive cause it was just written), we see that AllWhite just can’t stop having fun.

The group crowded into the van. AllWhite attempted to tune the radio.

“Hey, find me some kick ass rock,” said Steve.

“Fuck you, lib,” said AllWhite. “This is a Fox show, so there’s got to be some Fox News Radio.” Finally, he hits the station.

“This is Bill O’Reilly, and welcome to the Radio Factor.” Once again, Whitey whipped it out and began stroking it. The group immediately pulled the van over.

“Not again, fucker,” yelled Steve as he shoved Whitey out of the still moving van. It came to a halt, and they closed the door. “And turn that shit off.” Rards tuned the dial to a Latin station playing “Spanish Flea.” The crew twiddled their thumbs for a moment or so. Kate whistled the tune. Finally there was a knock on the door. Steve slid it open as AW crawled back in.

“Okay, I’m done. Oh, by the way, the tires are now white walls.”

Episode Five saw TravInChains and RedBob86 stranded in the animated world of Highland, Texas, and MTV’s last worthwhile show, “Beavis and Butthead.”

“I don’t get why everybody pairs us together. I mean, okay, Pat had me and Bob be the killers in his story after pretending to be dead. That’s one thing. But for me to be Beavis to his Butthead. That was getting a bit too weird. At least Wham let me have a Cornholio moment.”

“The hardest part of the episode was getting the video rights. ‘Beavis and Butthead’ was famous for the cut scenes where the guys would comment on music videos. But it’s hard to get the rights to music videos. So I did the only thing I knew how to do. I coked up Courtney Love and fucked her while she signed the rights away. For a drug fiend, she’s a pretty decent lay.”

Of course, this episode was not without controversy. Cameo appearances were made by SushiCat and Thunderjack.

“He’s having me come on to deliver sushi. What’s next, gonna have Vegas show up on ‘Las Vegas?’ Oh well, it’s exposure, and that’s what’s important.”

“So yeah, here I am, I’m here to get kicked in the crotch because I’m rumored to be dating Wham’s ex-girlfriend. It’s kind of weird.”

The controversy ensued once the episode aired. Thunderjack, offended by his portrayal, believed it to be a cheap shot on Wham’s part, and called him out. Of course, everyone saw through the bullshit. It’s hard to believe criticism that starts out with a one-line shot, then attempts to be justified by saying he doesn’t proofread, and then once it’s proven he did proofread, saying it had nothing to do with what proofreading fixes.

In this fun little outtake, Wham pulls a prank on his guest cast.

“I snuck into TJ’s dressing room and stole his athletic supporter and cup.”

“And, action.”



“I think we need another take, Mr. Director.”

“Okay, action.”


“Not quite feeling it, yet.”



“Still not there.”



“Okay, three real quick.”


“Almost there.”


“There we go.”

“And cut! Print!”

“Nice work, TJ. Wow, you’re so blue I could work you into a ‘Smurfs’ episode later on.”

Last we heard, Thunderjack was still recovering. His testicles have been located. Currently, they’re somewhere in his lower intestine. Next…

Episode Six plunged us deep into a transdimensional shift.

“Since I work at ESPN, I thought it would be cool to incorporate the actual ESPN location into the story. Whereas all the other shows were fiction, or even cartoons, this one was non-fiction, and potentially happening in the present, so we could actually have them walk off the set.”

First, we needed someone to be in the show.

“Wham chose me to be on SportsCenter. I think it’s mostly because of my vast knowledge of sports, and my compulsive need to analyze it and criticize others’ interpretations. Plus, we need more Philly fans in this show.”

Now that we had Outsider, we needed the locations.

“So here we are at the ESPN campus in Bristol, Connecticut. It’s in the shape of a triangle. Building One is the lower right corner. The Health Center is the lower left corner, and Building B, where I work, is the upper corner. ‘SportsCenter is filmed in the Digital Center, which is next to the Cafeteria, just north of Bulding One.”

Finally, we needed a device to get through to Whammon.

“Hey, everyone, my name is Eric, and I do work with the man you call Whammon here at ESPN.com. I suppose it’s my job to pretend Bob here, has possessed me, and call Wham, letting him know they’re all in the TV. But he doesn’t seem to believe me/Bob because it’s my/Eric’s voice.”

Since time was short, Whammon helped speed the process along.

“In order to keep things moving, since the use of the ESPN facilities is very limited for non-work related production, Wham sat around the corner and talked to me on the phone for real while we filmed the scene. In fact, if you look closely, you can see Wham’s back out of focus over my left shoulder as I speak to him.”

The rest of the shoot was fairly easy, with just everyone wandering around campus looking for a means to contact Wham. The following scene was deleted from Fusty and Rards’ search because Bob’s idea of possession rendered the dramatic effect of the scene worthless.

fustyruk wrote:
Let’s go.
“It’s a gymnasium. Since when does Wham work out?”

“Since his friend died a couple months back.”

fustyruk wrote:
Since his friend died a couple months back.
“Please. You saw how much food Wham made. You saw how big he was. True, he’s not as big as Pat, but still. Like he actually works out. Like anyone here would know him.”

“Fine, let’s go back and meet up with Kate, then.” Fusty and Rards, quickly giving up, headed back to the rendez-vous.

Had they gone inside the Health Center, they would have seen a young trainer working at a computer station, typing up a weight training regiment for Whammon, complete with his body information, address, and phone number, leaving no doubt that it was Wham.

“I just can’t shake the feeling that there was something important in there,” said Fusty.

The last episode we’ll look at tonight is Episode Seven, dubbed “Real World in the UnReal World,” in which Rocket, Narrator, and Goddess63 make their first appearances since the pilot.

“I just liked the fact that Wham got some more women into the show before the midway point. This was turning into a complete sausage fest. But from what I’ve heard about Wham, I wouldn’t be surprised if he preferred the boys’ club.”

In order to make the image of the show that launched the reality genre, destroying television, and paying me for years to come look authentic, the cast had to be auth-ethnic? Dude, Wham, that is just a shitty pun.

“Just read the line, Probst, or I’ll bring in Richard Hatch for a reach around.”

Fine. The cast had to be as auth-ethnic as possible, which meant many stereotypes, since all MTV knows is appealing to the lowest common denominator.

“We auditioned dozens of racial and social stereotypes, looking for the right mix.”

“I rove math.”


“Oy, you bleeding wanker, give me a Guinness before I plant me fist in your arse.”


“Uh, yo. My name’s Samantha, but you can call me Sam.”

“We already have a gay person. Next.”

“All the niggers and libs will pay when the pure white race regains its rightful power.”

“AllWhite, you’re already in the cast!”

“Oh yeah.”

No successful show can be written alone. Any good show has several writers pitching lines, story points, and jokes throughout the writing process (which tells you how good this story is since it’s just Wham). But credit is given where credit is due. Take this gem for example:

Narrator grabbed AllWhite and snarled. “Listen, you imbecilic twerp, if we didn’t think it was somehow important for us ALL to get back to reality TOGETHER, we’d teleport you into outer space as soon as Wham found a ‘Star Trek’ rerun!”

“That line was actually pitched to me by Narrator, himself. He PM’ed me after I started the story and pitched the joke, originally having Pat say it. But I figured it would be an appropriate hat-tip to wait until Narrator made his appearance, and let him have his moment.”

“Yup, that one was mine. I can’t believe Wham actually used it. I had better ones. Maybe I should encourage others to pitch lines, and send some more off myself.”

“No, you shouldn’t. Keep it up, and I’ll have to give you a writing credit, and then I’d have to pay you Writer’s Guild minimums, which I can’t afford, and that’d piss me off.”

In this final deleted scene, the assembled (to this point) James Gang makes one more attempt to get Whammon’s attention. This takes place after the roof scene, but before the George Michael number. It was cut because with four jokes, this one seemed kind of superfluous.

Narrator came into the living room with an envelope from the producers. “Hey, everyone. It says we’re supposed to recreate our own version of ‘The Newlywed Game.’”

“Awesome, I love that show. I’ve loved it since I was a little boy in Delaware,” said Brad. Everyone stared at him for a moment. “I mean, I heard about it in da hood.”

“Okay, now,” said Steve, acting as host. “Brad, we asked Rocket what her best feature is.”

“Her hair?” A buzzer went off.

“Ooh, I’m sorry. Rocket actually said, ‘Wham we’re stuck in your television.’” Rocket held up a large flashcard with the message written on it.

“Fredrica Maria, we asked Narrator what his dream date would be.”

“Sex on the beach.” Again the buzzer sounded.

“No, that’s his favorite drink. He actually said, ‘We got sucked into the set when Steve replaced the remote batteries with Gene’s pacemaker batteries, which created a freaky ray beam that sucked us all in.’”

“Of course,” said Fredrica Maria, smacking herself in the head, as if this was obvious.

“Finally, Gary, we asked Goddess what her ideal man would be like.”

“Uh, me, cause she kind of looks like a fag hag?” BUZZ!

“Ooh, close. She actually said, ‘There are more of us out there. Keep flipping channels until we’re all assembled, so we can all get out together and alive.’”

“How is that close?” added Gary.

And there you have it. Where once several people were all joined, now some are joined and the rest are scattered. And you, our loyal viewers, are surely pissed off because we promised a new episode, and you just got a rehash of everything you already know. Stay tuned in the coming weeks as more of the James Gang are discovered.

“Where’s the stewardess with my drink?” asked Treesa.

“Dude, just bang her already!” yelled Snarky.

“For the love of God, don’t shoot me!” screamed LakeRat.

And one of these people,

Will make,


That’s all for now. I’m Jeff Probst. Until next time, the tribe has spoken.

“Wrong show, dipshit!”

Just give me my check.


Episode 9: Saturday Night Lame

“I gotta get out of here. I gotta get out of here,” said Wham, muttering to himself as he left his apartment. He started toward his car, then stopped himself just short. “After all that weed and beer, I’ll foot it. Better crazy than dead.” He turned away from the car, and took to the sidewalk.

“Shit I’m hungry. Goddam munchies.” Wham walked a few blocks until he came to a McDonald’s. He walked inside, and bought a burger and soda. Walking back out, he was distracted by the sight of a young black girl riding a tricycle. After another moment, the young girl was run over by a car exiting the drive-thru. As the car sped off from the young girl’s corpse, Wham could see that the windows were quite clouded with smoke.

“Huh,” said Wham. “I guess that really can happen. I guess weed isn’t that harmless after all. Good thing I wasn’t driving.” He took a sip of his coke. “What the fuck am I talking about? The poor bitch had it coming. What six-year-old girl goes bike riding in the middle of the night?” He walked on.

Wham walked a considerable distance, wandering fairly aimlessly. He ate his burger, and drank his coke as he went. When he was bored, he chucked the drink into the road, where it hit the windshield of a vehicle with smokey windows. The sudden impact on the windshield startled the driver, who then swerved, and slammed the car head-on into a light pole. As Wham walked on, he heard a small explosion behind him. Justice had been served.

After a while, he entered a residential neighborhood, with fairly nice suburban houses. Wham stopped himself when he found a mailbox that looked rather odd. Despite crashing from a high, Wham knew exactly where he was as soon as he saw the dinosaur with a Yankees cap. He ran to the door and rang the bell.

“Hey Wham, long time no see,” said Bronxilla, leading the wanderer into his home.

“Yeah, how come you didn’t show up tonight? We were wondering where you’ve been.”

“Eh, I’ve been too busy working on my routine. You wouldn’t believe how hard comedy writing can be.”

“Don’t I know it,” answered Wham. “I’ve written sixty-three pages of absolute crap so far, and it’s only halfway done. If I get any laughs, I’m shocked as hell.”

“You wanna watch some TV?” asked Bronx, tossing Whammon a beer.

“If you can find something that won’t drive me batshit insane, sure.”


“Nevermind. Long story. I’ll tell you sometime.” Bronx shook off the weird moment and tuned his television to NBC.

Meanwhile, back in Wham’s apartment, Ruff, still in his happy state, was rummaging about the living room, music stuck in his little doggy head.

“Ruff me up, before you ruff-ruff,” he barked to himself, munching some chicken wings that fell on the floor. He sniffed around for a moment or two, eventually coming across Wham’s TV remote. He licked it a second, then picked it up with his teeth, playing with it as if it were a chew toy. He played happily, not noticing that his tooth had hit the power button, and even tuned to a network. What played in Wham’s abandoned living room was the same as Wham and Bronxy saw across town.

“Live from New York, it’s Saturday Night!”

* * *

Sparky McSlapnuts was awoken by a punch in his shoulder.

“Stop leaning on me, queer bait,” said Frats, sitting next to him.

“Where…” began Sparky, but his question was cut off and answered for him by the voice of Don Pardo.

“And now, please welcome Alec Baldwin and Steve Martin.”

Through the small door on the main stage, Alec Baldwin and Steve Martin crammed their way together, in a half-assed way of pretending to be fighting for position. They walked to the edge of the stage, each taking bows, and acknowledging their counterpart, while the audience obeyed the sign telling them to applaud.

“Thank you, thank you,” said Alec, placating the crowd. “It is a thrill to be in New York hosting ‘Saturday Night Live!’” The audience cheered as the sign ordered.

“Yes,” said Steve Martin, “since Alec and I have each hosted the show a whopping fourteen times, we decided to do one together. And now we’ll take questions from the audience.”

* * *

“Aw, dude I hate this bit,” said Wham. “Why do they still do the fake questions from the audience monologue?”

“I don’t get it,” said Bronx. “The show sucks nowadays, but I’d still do anything to write for it.”

“Me too,” said Wham.

* * *

A woman rose from the audience. She was big, blonde, and wearing pink stretch pants.

“Uh, hi. I was just wondering what you guys would do on a date with me?”

The men grinned and looked in a direction nowhere near her. “Well Alec,” said Steve, “What do you think?”

“I’d like to Pink Pant Her! Hahahahahahaha.” Sparky and Frats hit themselves in the head.

“Any other questions?”

“Uh yeah, I got one.” Sparky stood up. “Do you guys even have careers anymore?” The audience cheered without the aid of a flashing sign. Alec and Steve appeared taken aback.

“Of course we do,” said Martin, attempting to laugh it off. “I do movies all the time.”

“Uh, no,” said Frats, standing up to join the bash. “Crappy remakes and sequels thereto don’t count. And don’t try to slink off, Baldwin, you ‘Cat in the Hat’ making dumbass!”

“What the hell happened to you guys?” pleaded Sparky. “I loved ‘The Jerk.’ It was a piece of comedic brilliance. And now you’re doing ‘Cheaper by the Dozen Two.’ What the hell, man?”

Steve and Alec looked down in pure shame, completely at a loss for words. Then Alec perked up his head. “We got a great show tonight, so stay tuned.” The sign resumed its arduous duty of making the audience clap.

* * *

“Whoa! Did you see that?”

“Yeah, that was pretty cool,” said Bronx. “They really looked like they got taken down a peg. Maybe the writers actually are gonna try this week.”

“No, not that,” said Wham. “That was Sparky and Frats on there.”

“Dude, are you alright?”

“What, you couldn’t tell?”

“I saw Adam McKay and Seth Meyers on the screen. That’s what they do. Random writers and cast members always do the fake questions.”

“No, it was Sparky and Frats, I swear. But how is that possible?”

“Dude,” said Bronxy, “I knew I smelled weed on you when you came in. Obviously you haven’t completely crashed. You’re seeing things. Now sit down and chill the fuck out.”

“Yeah, you’re right. Sorry.” Wham sat down and attempted to relax.

Back in his apartment, Ruff had dropped the remote out of his mouth, and had moved on to the kitchen, where he resumed his carpet cleaner binge drinking. As he happily lapped up the toxic chemicals, he giggled a puppy giggle as he hiccupped a bubble.

* * *

“Goddam transdimensional shit. I want some fucking food!” yelled Steve, pawing at the spread in the Green Room, and watching in agony as his hand passed through it. “Fuck!”

“Will you quit your bitching, already?” said Outsider. “Be thankful you’re alive.”

“At least this time we were prepared for it,” said Kate.

“So let me get this straight,” said Rocket. “We’re in ‘SNL,’ but since it’s a live show, happening in real time, we’re also partially in the real world, only we can’t interact with anybody, and can’t touch anything?”

“Unless it’s the person or persons inside this show,” said Gene.

“And those persons would be standing right here if you fuckers would notice,” said Frats, entering the Green Room with Sparky in tow. He walked over to the buffet table and picked up a cookie, downing it in an instant.

Steve’s jaw dropped. “How? How!?”

“My show, bitch,” said Frats.

“Wait, you mean I could have had food at ESPN?” said Outsider. “Shit, I could have tortured Steve a long time ago.”

“Don’t you dare, you son of a bitch!” snarled Steve, as Sparky also went for the buffet.

“Enough’s enough!” said Narrator. “If we can’t eat, no one does.”

“Fine,” said Frats, pulling himself and Sparky away from the spread. “I didn’t even know that was gonna work, but it was SO worth the effect.”

“ANYWAY!” interjected Goddess, attempting to gather the attention of the group. “So what’s next? Obviously, we’ve found our counterparts for this particular program, and we survived Wham turning off the TV. So where do we go from here?”

“If only there was a way to see into Wham’s place from here, so we could communicate with him directly,” said Pat.

“Dude, that is just fucking queer,” said AllWhite, ending his streak of personal silence, setting a new record.

* * *

Ruff walked back into the living room to rummage for more food. Passing through, he stepped on Wham’s remote control, hitting the “Active” button.

* * *

Back in the Green Room, the far wall lit up.

“What the hell?” said Trav. He walked up to the wall and tapped it. Instantly, he was able to see Wham’s living room. “Holy shit!”

AllWhite looked around in amazement. “If only there was a hot chick sucking my dick right now while wearing a Klan hood.” He looked down to his crotch. Nothing happened. “Fucking libs.”

“Where’s Whammon?” asked Bob, studying the screen. “I see Ruff, but not Wham.”

“Maybe he’s in the bathroom,” said Fusty.

fustyruk wrote:
Maybe he’s in the bathroom.
“Not unless he likes going with the door open, retard,” said Rards, making sure that everyone gets a line in this episode.

“Oh, thank God,” said Steve.

“What, do you see him?” asked Kate.

“No, but at least he didn’t eat all the nachos.” Gene slapped him upside the head.

“Great,” said Pat. “We can look at Wham, now, but he ain’t there. That’s just fucking perfect.” With the last word, he pounded the wall. The picture fluctuated for a moment, and then became a split screen. One side showed Wham’s empty apartment, the other side showed Wham sitting in a chair next to Bronxilla in his house.

“I wondered where Bronx ended up,” said Bob. “Hey Wham! Wham, can you hear us?!”

“No, but we can. Shut up,” said AllWhite. It was true. Despite Bob’s loud yells, Wham didn’t react.

“Perhaps we have to actually do something within the show,” said Sparky.

“Yeah, you guys got to do shit in your shows, it’s our fucking turn,” said Frats.

“Fair enough, but what?” asked Gene. His question was answered by the director over the loudspeaker.

“Musical performance is next. Ashlee Simpson to the stage.”

“You gotta be shitting me!” said Pat. “They brought that bitch on again?”

“Maybe they wanted to give her a second chance,” said Bob.

“Bullshit. More like they didn’t learn their lesson. Bronx and Wham are right. This show sucks now. They should be in charge, and my band should be ripping that shit.”

“Dude, I got an idea,” said Frats, pulling an iPod out of his pocket. “Sparky and Gene, you’re with me. Steve and Pat, wait in the wings for your cue. The rest of you, get in the crowd.”

The group split up and headed for the stage. The largest section of the group took seats in the crowd and watched “Weekend Update.”

“Osama bin Laden has released another video tape, threatening to destroy America,” began Tina Fey. “That brings the tally of videos to, bin Laden seventeen, Olsen Twins nineteen, Colin Farrell forty.”

* * *

“Dude, that shit is funny,” said Bronx.

“It wasn’t bad,” said Wham. “Still, I’d rather just bang her.”

“Totally, she’s so hot with them Lisa Loeb glasses, mmm. I’d love to cloud her vision, if you know what I mean.”

“I do indeed. I too would enjoy having an orgasm across her face, staining those glasses with my own ejaculate in the process,” added Wham.

“Thanks for that.”

* * *

Steve and Pat waited in the wings as Ashlee Simpson walked on stage. As she passed them, they quickly looked away, pretending to be roadies.

“Dude, her mic ain’t plugged in,” said Pat.

“Some bitches never learn,” replied Steve.

In the hallway outside the Sound Control Room, Sparky, Frats, and the almighty Spleen stood at the ready. Sparky knocked on the door. A chubby sound engineer stepped out to investigate.


In an instant, Sparky had placed a white hood over the sound guy’s head. Frats punched him in the gut, quickly subduing him. Sparky dragged him into a closet as Frats and Gene entered the Sound Room.

Inside, Frats handed Gene his iPod. “Quick, hook it up to the speakers.” Gene set to work, hooking the MP3 player into the studio’s sound system. He crossed wires, converted plugs, and connected adapters. He just finished when Sparky joined them.

“I always knew AllWhite’s Klan hood would come in handy. We ready to go?”

“Almost,” said Gene. “All we gotta do is pick a song.”

“I know just the one.”

Down on the main stage, the red light on Camera One lit up, signaling the show was live again. Steve Martin and Alec Baldwin introduced the act in unison.

“Ladies and gentlemen, Ashlee Simpson!” The camera panned over to the musical stage, just to the left of main.

Ashlee Simpson danced around the stage, trying to work her own frumpy charm that never worked before, doesn’t work now, and will never work in the future.

“Do it,” said Frats. Gene hit the play button in the iPod.

Ashlee put the unplugged microphone to her lips and began.

“Girl, you know it’s true. Ooh, ooh, ooh, I love you.”

“Oh shit, not again,” said Ashlee. Frats, Gene, and Sparky rushed onto the set. “NOW!”

As Ashlee attempted to escape the stage, Steve and Pat met her on stage and decked her. She was quickly bound by the microphone wire she didn’t bother to plug in.

“After having to do the Wham song, this is sweet justice,” said Steve. As they dragged Ashlee off stage, the gagged performer could make out two words, “Acid Reflux.”

Back on stage, Frats and Sparky yelled into the cameras. “Wham, we can see you!” In fact, they could see him. The glowing view of the world translated itself into the reflection from the camera lens. “We’re almost all together, just wait a little while longer, then we can get out of here!” That was all they could get out, as security finally arrived, suspending the show, and rounding up the gang.

* * *

“Holy shit, you had to have seen that!” screamed Wham, jumping from the chair and spilling his beer.

“Yeah, totally. I can’t believe she lip synced again!” added Bronx.

“No! You had to see the whole crew there. They’re stuck in the TV! They got sucked in and now they’re stuck, holy shit!”

“Okay, Wham, I think you’ve had enough. You’re getting way too freaky for me. Get out of my house.”

“Dude, I’m not making this up!”

“I don’t care what psychotropic hayride you’re on right now, but you’re not doing it in my house. Now get the fuck out.”

“Fine,” said Wham. And with that, he left.

* * *

Back on the SNL set, security was busy attempting to restrain the James Gang.

“How dare you embarrass her?” said Steve Martin. “She tries so hard.”

“No, she doesn’t,” said Frats, “hence, the lip syncing.”

As the group looked around, Sparky noticed a change in the viewing wall. As soon as Wham left Bronxilla’s house, the right side of the split screen went black, leaving only the view of Wham’s apartment. As they looked at the view of the living room, they saw Ruff walk toward the remote control. The little dog’s paw hit one of the buttons, and the world went black once more.
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Posts : 1137
Join date : 2008-11-15

PostSubject: Re: James Gang Story Hour: The Sun Always Shines on T.V.   Sun Nov 22, 2009 9:22 am

Posted: Fri May 05, 2006 2:20 pm


Episode 10: A Tale of Two Random James Gang Members

Gene blinked his eyes to adjust them to the surrounding light. “Fuck, I’m getting sick of this. How many more are we supposed to find?”

“How the hell should I know?” asked Kate. “Counting is about the last thing on my mind. How about we figure out where in God’s name we are.”

“Kate invoking God, there’s a twist,” added Narrator, taking a seat next to Kate and Gene, who now noticed they were also plunked down in chairs at a semicircular table.

“Ante up, please,” came the voice of a young man opposite them at the table. Kate, Gene, and Narrator looked at his dress shirt and bow tie, then at the felt table beneath them.

“Oh, yes, of course,” said Kate, as she placed a small stack of plastic chips in the center of the table. Narrator and Gene quickly followed suit. The dealer began distributing cards to each of them.

* * *

Wham walked in solitude. As the evening grew colder, he zipped up his jacket. He stuffed his hands in his pocket as he walked the city streets. He traipsed along, ignoring everyone and everything around him. People bumped into him, cars nearly ran him down, but he paid them no attention. The only thing he could focus on was the weird violin music that trailed him wherever he went. He was about to ask himself where the hell it was coming from, when an old man fell out of a nearby tree. He dusted himself off, lit a cigarette, and approached Wham.

“Oy, that’s our violin melody. You didn’t ask permission to use it. We’re gonna sue you,” said the old man.

“Dude, every time I walk this street we have this same conversation,” said Wham. “You’re not Keith Richards. You’re just some homeless drug addict who slurs his speech like Keith Richards. Now here’s a dollar. Go away.”

The old man took the dollar and climbed back into the tree.

* * *

“Come on, seven. Daddy needs a big plate of nachos,” said Steve, tossing a couple of dice down a craps table.

“Snake eyes, busted,” said the table runner. He collected the dice as Steve left the table, slightly dejected. Pat came running up to him from across the room.

“Dude, why do you look so downtrodden? And may I just add that I’ve been looking for a reason to use the word ‘downtrodden’ today?”

“Aw, I’m fine, but the budget for your movie just went down the dumper.”

“Any of you gas have a clue where we’re at, yet?” asked Rocket, joining the fray.

“Not the slightest,” said Steve. “Obviously we’re in a casino, but that could mean any number of things. Hell, we could be in ‘Casino.’”

“That, and since there’s no sign of anyone new from the gang, we can’t really proceed in this fucked up misadventure anyway,” added Pat. “Might as well just go with the flow for now.”

* * *

Wham continued walking for a couple more blocks. Relieved at the sight of a bar, he went inside.

It was a relatively nondescript tavern. Too rustic to be a singles club, too much rock and blues memorabilia on the walls to be a country saloon. He took a seat and signaled to the bartender.

“What’ll it be, boy?”

“Hey, Duke. Gimme a Jack and Coke.”

Raul Duke ducked behind the bar and mixed a quick drink. He set it on a coaster in front of Whammon and hobbled over to a television hanging from the ceiling. He pressed the power button and busied himself with another customer.

* * *

“Hey, fucker. We were wondering when someone was gonna show up,” said Steve, as LasVegasGuy sat down beside him at a poker table.

“How the hell did I end up in a casino?” asked Vegas, clearly confused by the situation, as well as Steve’s relative calm about the situation.

“All in,” said Steve, apparently ignoring Vegas. He turned over two Queens, and stared in dismay as his opponent turned over two Aces. After five cards were laid down on the table by the dealer, Steve was eliminated. “Fuck,” he said, as he rose from the table, Vegas in tow. “So, yeah, why we’re all here…”

* * *

Wham spit out his drink. “Does this nightmare never end?”

“Now look here, son,” began Duke, “I got customers to serve, here. I can’t have you spitting all over my bar, making me clean instead of serve. You get the economics of what I’m trying to say here, boy?”

“Yeah, got it,” said Wham, wiping his chin. “By the way, what’s with the sideways talk?”

“I had a stroke,” he said. To prove his point, he hobbled out from behind the bar, showing that the left side of his body was basically limp, and that he was heavily favoring his right side.

* * *

“Goddammit, when am I gonna get to relay the exposition block?” yelled Fusty as Steve and Vegas appeared beside him at the roulette wheel.

“Oh, grow up, bitch,” added Trav, sidling up beside them. “$500 on 17.” He placed a stack of chips on the circle marking 17, and the table runner spun the wheel. “Besides, we still don’t know where we are yet.”

“Seventeen and a winner!”

“Sweet,” said Trav, collecting his winnings. Vegas’s jaw dropped.

“I don’t believe it,” said Vegas.

“I know, I think I just won ten grand,” said Trav, unable to control his enthusiasm.

“No, not you, dumbass. I mean that,” he replied, pointing at a middle aged man across the room. Clearly seen at the other end of the casino floor was James Caan.

“Holy shit,” said Bob. “We should get his autograph.”

“You idiot,” said Steve. “It’s not really James Caan. It means we’re in the show, ‘Las Vegas.’ What the hell’s his character name?”

“How the fuck should I know,” said Sparky, joining the fray. “No one watches this retarded show. Oh hey, Vegas. Wait a minute. We found Vegas in ‘Las Vegas?’”

“I’ve never been so insulted,” added LVG. “It’s like a retarded third grader wrote this.”

“Wait, we’re in Vegas?” asked Trav.

“Sadly,” said LVG.

“That means prostitution is legal here. C’mon Bob, I’m cashing in my chips and you’re getting sloppy seconds!” The dumbassic duo raced from the floor. As they left the building, the assembled James Gang could hear Bob screaming, “Yay, sloppy seconds!”

* * *

“Duke, another please.”

”Here you go,” said Duke, plunking down another drink.

“You ever have one of those days where you question every facet of existence?”

“If I did, I probably dropped acid and forgot about it.”

“Hmm, sounds like a good idea.”

* * *

“You got the guns?” asked Vegas.

“Yeah,” said AllWhite, handing one to Vegas, and another to Rocket.

“Are we going to bother explaining how we got these?” asked Goddess.

“Nah,” said Pat. “If you’ve ever seen this show, you’d know that every single plot point and twist is completely beyond logic and explanation. Let’s go.”

The gang, guns cocked, walked across the room. Everyone in the casino ignored them, completely absorbed in their stupid selves. They walked towards James Caan, Vegas in the lead. He only looked up when they were right on top of him.

“Can I help you people?”

“Goodnight, Sonny,” said Vegas.

“What the hell are you talking ab--” was all he got out. The entire gang unloaded their clips into his chest. Shot after shot was fired, with all the casino patrons completely oblivious. As he fell to the ground, Caan was able to let out one more sentence: “Dude, I’m not even at a toll gate.”

* * *

“Dude, can you change it?” asked Wham.

“Yeah, one second,” said Duke. “Can I get you something?”

A man in a white zoot suit raised his head. “Get me a Holy Bartender.”

“Fuck you, you Kevin Smith slurping twerp,” said Duke, as he pulled a machine gun from behind the bar, blowing the patron away. Wham quickly swallowed the remainder of his drink as Duke stowed the gun and flipped the TV up one channel.

“Aw, I hate this show,” muttered Wham to himself as “Buffy the Vampire Slayer” came on the air. He watched a couple of scenes, and saw no one from the James Gang. “At least they’re not in the show,” he continued to himself, signaling Duke for another round.

Meanwhile, back in Wham’s apartment, Ruff was trotting to the bathroom for a drink.

“Don’t stop, thinking about tomoruff.” As he strolled toward his porcelain mug, he stepped onto the remote control, hitting the channel up button, tuning “Buffy.”

* * *

Biffy86 came to in a foggy graveyard. Looking around her, she rubbed her arms in the cold of the night. As she rubbed, she winced in pain, scraping her left arm with a wooden stake. She covered her arm to stop the bleeding, wondering what the hell she was doing with a wooden stake in her hands, when she heard footsteps approaching from the mist. She drew the stake up in an attack position.

“You getter not be a rapist or anything. I’m armed, asshole!” she screamed to the approaching footfalls.

“Whatever, Little Miss Girl Gone Mild,” said Steve, as he led the group through the fog, meeting up with Biffy.

“And by the way, way to make sure you don’t get attacked,” added Pat. “Just yell in a random direction, leading any potential threat right to you. Does anyone learn from horror flicks?”

“How the hell did we end up here?” asked Bob. “I was about to get my sloppy seconds when all of a sudden we’re in a damn cemetery.”

“Okay, eww,” said Kate, not needing to add anything further.

“So, I’m in ‘Buffy?’” asked Biffy to Fusty, who apparently used this diversion to deploy exposition at last. “What kind of shit is that? Biffy as Buffy. It’s like some retarded third grader wrote this.”

“Tell me about it,” said Vegas.

* * *

“Hey, I made it to at least middle school!” shouted Wham at the TV, clearly drunk again. Duke and the other customers shook their heads and ignored him.

* * *

“Anybody want to check in on Wham?” asked Gene.

The Spleen wrote:
Anybody want to check on Wham?
“One second,” answered Rards. He went to the nearest head stone, apologized to the fictional dead person buried in the grave, and banged on the marble. Instantly, the gang was able to view Wham in the bar, alongside the split shot of Wham’s living room.

“What a lovely display,” came a cool, baritone voice. The group turned in unison to see Angel, the recovering vampire with a heart of black gold.

“Aw, dude, it is an honor to meet you,” said Bob. “Can I have your autograph? I already missed out on James Caan.”

“Well sure, why not?” he answered, searching for a pen. The search was cut off, however, when he began to convulse. He writhed on the ground, turning feral. He screamed as he rose himself up in immense pain. His fangs bared, he struggled against himself as he advanced on Bob.

“Uh, nevermind. Not that big a deal,” whimpered Bob, staggering backward to get out of the way. Feeling a strange obligation to save Bob from one of the most idiotic deaths imaginable, Biffy shoved Bob aside and plunged the stake into the center of Angel’s chest. He immediately crumbled into dust.

* * *

“WooHoo!” screamed Wham. “Maybe now that stupid spinoff will never happen!” Duke had had enough.

“Alright, son. It’s, I say, it’s last call for you. You ain’t gotta go home, but you gotta get the heck up out of here.”

“Fine,” said Wham, clearly sick of getting kicked out of random establishments by friends. He gathered his coat, and headed for the door. On his way out, he muttered, “PhD. in Journalism my ass.”

* * *

Back in the show, the gang once again watched as the Wham view faded to black, leaving only the view of his apartment.

“Shit, now what the hell do we do?” asked Frats. “And why haven’t I gotten a line to this point?”

“To answer your second question,” said Narrator, “no one cares. As to your first query, the answer’s on the screen.”

The assembled Gang observed Ruff trotting out of the bathroom, happily singing a jaunty tune.

“All I wanna do is zoom-a-zoom zoom zoom in your boom boom. Just shake your ruff!”

“Ruff!” yelled Biffy into the stone. Amazingly, the dog actually reacted. He turned his head toward the screen, and sniffed his way forward. When he reached the screen, he stopped, sat down on his hind legs, and barked happily, apparently able to see the gang.

“Ruff, we need your help,” said Biffy. “We need you to relay a message to Whammon!”


“I’ll take that as a ’10-4, good buddy,’” said Rocket.

“Ruff, this is very important,” continued Biffy. “We need you to tell Wham that the trouble began when Steve put Gene’s pacemaker batteries into the remote control.”


“Also, tell him there are, how many of us left?” she stopped herself, looking back at Kate, who was counting heads.


“There are nine of us left still lost out here. He needs to find us all before we can get out of here.”

“Ruff! Ruff!”

“Also, if you can hear us, that means he can. Let him know he can talk to us through the screen. Let him know we’re okay.”

“Now I wouldn’t say that.”

Biffy turned her head away from the grave stone to see a group of vampires approach them in the cemetery. How did she know they were vampires? Because they were all dressed like rejects from a Sex Pistols look-alike contest, of course. Leather jackets and 1980’s Billy Idol-style moussed hair not waving in the breeze, the gang of the undead encircled the gang.

“Let’s dance, bitch.” Biffy ran at the leader, and plunged the stake into his chest, dissolving him on contact, just like Dawn to greasy pans. As the vampires scattered, trying to corner individuals, Biffy stepped up the attack, stabbing at will. Narrator joined the fray, taking his crucifix out of his shirt, and burning any exposed skin on their foes.

* * *

Wham re-entered his apartment, stumbling across the threshold in his inebriated state.

“Oh thank God. The last three houses were very rude.” He sat down on the couch, peeled his jacket off, and threw it in the pile. Ruff approached him with an urgent look in his puppy face.

“What’s up with you? You finally getting sick off the carpet cleaner?”

“Ruff! I’m supposed to tell you that everybody’s o-Ruff! And that they’re Ruff in the TRuff! It all Ruffed when Ruff put Ruff’s batteRuffs into the Ruffmote ContRuff! There are still Ruff of them left to Ruff, and they can Ruff to Ruff through the Ruff!”


“Ruff! Everybody’s o-Ruff! And they’re Ruff in the TRuff! It all Ruffed when Ruff put Ruff’s batteRuffs into the Ruffmote ContRuff! There are still Ruff of them left to Ruff, and they can Ruff to Ruff through the Ruff!”

“Uh, Marklar?”

“Ruff! In the Ruff! You Rufftard!

“Hey, what are you doing with my remote on the floor?” scolded Wham. “You could get electrocuted playing around with this thing. Not to mention get mad sick off the battery acid.” Wham walked over to the remote, lying on the floor in front of the TV, and picked it up, turning off the set in the process.

* * *

“Get these assholes off of me!” screamed Steve, like a prepubescent girl. “I don’t wanna die! I just wanted nachos!”

Biffy ran over to him and plunged her stake into the back of the vampire pinning Steve down.

“We can’t take much more of this!” she exclaimed.

“It’s okay,” said Pat. “We’re getting a break.” The red haze associated with a temporary power shutoff quickly approached, eliminating the children of the night.


Episode 11: The Lost Episode, Literally.

Whammon, remote control in hand, walked back over to his couch, dusted off some pizza crust, and plopped himself down. He sunk himself down inside his ass groove, and let his gut hang out. And people wonder why the women aren’t all over him. He sat up long enough to belch, and noticed that Ruff was at his heels. Wham stared at the concern in his puppy dog eyes, and rolled his.

“Okay, let’s try this again,” said Wham. “What are you trying to tell me?”

“Everyruff’s inside the teruffision,” began the increasingly annoying dog. “It happened when Ruff-Town Ruff put the Ruff’s batteruffs in the remote contruff.”

Wham covered his face with his hands in aggravation. “Okay, then what?”

“They’ve been going from progruff to progruff, and there’s ruff of them left to ruff. Then, they can all come home.”

“Wait,” said Wham. “Why do you say ‘Ruff’ in place of certain syllables and as entire words?”

“Ruff you!”

“Right, whatever. While I’m sure it’s impressive that you’re talking at all, I can’t understand a goddam thing you’re saying. You go figure out a way to communicate in a manner I can decipher, and I’ll watch some TV and pass out.” Ruff headed back into the bathroom and slammed the door with his puppy paw. As the door closed, he could be heard muttering “Mother Ruffer.”

“I heard that, bitch.” Wham turned on the TV.

* * *

“What can I get you, hon?” came a sweetly disgusting southern voice. Treesa opened her eyes and gazed at the tackily dressed flight attendant standing two inches from her face.

“Excuse me?”

“Anything to drink? Coffee, tea, milk, soda, beer?”

“What, huh, get me a glass of wine. Thank you.” The stewardess walked away while Treesa focused her eyes to her surroundings.

“Don’t bother trying to figure it out,” came a familiar voice from behind her. She tilted her head up to see Sassenach staring down from the row behind. “I don’t know why we’re on a plane, how we got here, or where we’re going. I just hope it’s somewhere nice. Like the Caribbean. I haven’t had a real Bahama Mama in years.”

“Um, right. Anyone else here we know?”

“I recognized some of them, but I can’t remember from where,” said Sass. “At this point I wouldn’t worry. It’s not like we’re getting off the plane anytime soon.”

“I guess. Where’s the stewardess with my drink?” asked Treesa. No sooner had she asked the question than a glass of white wine was placed in her hand. “Well, at least the service is good. And these seats are really comfortable. We must be in first class.”

“We travel in style, I suppose,” added Sass. “Why we’re traveling, I couldn’t say.”

A man’s voice came over the loudspeaker.

“This is your captain speaking. I’m going to have to ask you all to fasten your seat belts. We’re hitting a little bit of turbulence up ahead. We’ll be through it in a few minutes, so just relax. Our ETA into Los Angeles is about twelve more hours. So sit back, relax, and enjoy the service aboard Oceanic 815.”

Treesa and Sassenach’s eyes lit up in terror.

“He didn’t just say…”

“I think he did!”

“Strap in!” They hastily fastened their safety belts and grasped their armrests firmly. The plane dropped suddenly. The passengers began gasping and screaming. The plane shook from side to side and bounced up and down. Treesa and Sass could hear metal buckling behind them. They didn’t dare turn their heads to look as the tail end of the craft snapped off, falling to the ocean below. They began to dive very fast.

“All hands, brace for impact!”

Neither of them knew how they survived the crash, how fast they swam, or if they were still in one piece, cause obviously, the plane wasn’t. All they knew, as they opened their eyes into the bright blue sky, was that they were alive, and lying on a beach.

* * *

Wham was half asleep when Ruff started licking his face. He sat bolt upright, while Ruff gagged.

“Ruff, your face tastes worse than the jizz and carpet cleaner!”

“Hey, you said a coherent sentence,” exclaimed Wham, changing the subject.

“Ruff, I guess I did. Ruff!”

“Okay, tell me again what happened.”

“Everyruff’s in the teleruff! Cause of the batteruffs!” God dammit!”

“Okay, we’re going about this the wrong way,” said Wham, placing his head in his hands in a pensive manner, despite his drunken state. “I know that everyone’s in the TV. I’ve been seeing it for like, the past five shows. I’m not retarded. I also know that I haven’t seen everyone yet. How many are left?”


“Wait, you know how many are left?”


“Well, how many?”


“Great, you can’t say numbers right now cause that would be too convenient to the plot. Alright. Here’s what I’ll do. I’ll say a number. If that’s the right answer, bark. Okay?”


“I’ll take that as a ‘yes,’” said a clearly annoyed Whammon.

* * *

Sassenach and Treesa busied themselves trying to build a shelter. Helping them were a black woman and a short British guy.

“Give me a hand with those palm branches, Charlie,” said Treesa.

“Why am I the only man working on this project?” asked Charlie, confused from a heroin binge.

“Because your short, scrawny, and more effeminate than the three of us put together,” said Sass, clearly agitated. “Now come on.”

“Whoa there, spitfire,” came a musky southern drawl from behind them. Sass turned around and gazed into the visage of James Sawyer, grinning back at her. “Don’t wanna aggravate the leprechaun. He might not lead us to the pot of gold.”

“Oh God, take me now!” screamed Sass, jumping into Sawyer’s arms, kissing every inch of his stubbly face. Sawyer, struggling to maintain his balance, backed away in haste. Sass gave chase.

“Hey, I’m British, not Irish,” said Charlie, taking this long to get the joke.

“I say we make a smoke signal.”

“I say we use lava rocks and logs to make a signal visible from space.”

Treesa rolled her eyes as Jack and Locke approached, arguing as they always do.

“I’m telling you, we need a smoke signal, so the mystical spirits who allowed me to walk again can awaken Indian spirits to save us,” said Locke.

“You are so full of crap you must bleed feces,” said Jack. “We need to make a clear, visible signal so that it can be seen from space, then the military can be sent to save us with radar and stuff.”

“Alright already!” screamed Treesa. “We know there’s a well established dichotomy between the two of you. One spiritual and faith based, the other grounded in scientific fact. Just have gay sex already and complete each other. Oh, and Jack, if I were you, I’d focus on Kate while Sass has Sawyer occupied.”

Jack grinned, and sauntered off. “Oh, Freckles…”

Meanwhile, down the beach, Sass had finally caught up with Sawyer. She tackled him from behind.

“Now, where were we?”

An Asian man ran out of the jungle, very frightened. He tripped and fell next to Sawyer and Sass.

“Others. Others! Others!”

Sawyer pulled out his gun. Where’d he get a gun? Who cares? Anyway, Sawyer pulled out his gun. He pointed it toward the jungle, watching for signs of life. He jerked slightly left as some plants were jostled. His gun trained, Sawyer was startled by the sound of howling whispers coming through the jungle.

“This seems really familiar,” said Sass. Just then, she heard a loud suction noise.

In an instant, Sass was at the airport in Sidney, Australia. She was sitting at the terminal, waiting to board. Looking around for any explanation as to what she was doing there, she heard Sawyer mutter behind her. “I can’t wait to shoot something when I get home.” Sass heard the suction sound again, and was back at the beach.

“What the hell? That wasn’t my past. And it didn’t explain anything. What was the point of all that?” Sawyer ignored her, his eyes trained on the jungle, and Jin couldn’t understand English anyway.

A shrub moved suddenly at the edge of the brush. Sawyer didn’t hesitate.

“Where the hell are we now, libs?” asked AllWhite, annoyed yet again by the fact that he was wearing a parka in a warm climate.

“I don’t know, just keep walking,” said Narrator.

As the James Gang appeared out of the brush, the shot rang out. AllWhite fell to the floor, a gaping hole in his head.

“Oh my God,” said Steve, “they killed AllWhite!”

And there was much rejoicing. “Yay.”

“You guys, this is serious,” screamed Kate, our Kate, not Freckles. “If he’s dead, how the hell do we get home?”

“Obviously, it’s a moot point at this juncture,” said Frats.

Another shot rang out. This time, no one was hit.

“Where the hell did you guys come from?” said Sawyer, gun pointed at the group.

“They’re from the plane, too,” said Sass, thinking quickly. “They were from the tail section.”


“No, it’s true,” said Treesa, joining the scene. “We saw them at the airport. How do you miss four guys in winter coats in the middle of Australia?”

“Fine,” said Sawyer, lowering his gun. He walked off, completely unperturbed about the fact that he just killed a man. Sass and Treesa joined the rest of the group. They circled around AllWhite.

“I can’t believe he’s dead,” said Treesa, sobbing.

“I can’t believe none of us killed him first,” said Pat.

“Oh that’s real nice, jackass!”

“People please,” said Fusty, attempting to calm everyone. “We’re all sad that he’s dead. But there’s nothing we can do about it now. We have to move on.”

fustyruk wrote:
People please. We’re all sad that he’s dead. But there’s nothing we can do about it now. We have to move on.
“Um, I’m not sad,” said Rards. “He gave us conservatives a bad name.”

“Yeah, cause Bush, Cheney, Rove, Limbaugh, Fallwell, Frist, Hastert, Rice, Ashcroft, Coulter, O’Reilly…”

* * *

“Seven?” Ruff remained silent.

“Eight?” Nothing.



“Okay, there’s nine of them left,” said Wham, exhausted, but satisfied that one point had been clarified. He looked at the screen, and noticed Treesa and Sass, who he hadn’t seen until now.

“Ruff, were Treesa and Sass on the TV when the group spoke to you before?” Ruff shook his head.

“Okay, we’re down to seven then,” said Wham, showing his brilliant command of kindergarten math. “Almost ready to bring them home.”

* * *

“…Hannity, Snow, Stevens, Chambliss, Rumsfeld, and DeLay were giving you guys such a glowing reputation,” finished Vegas, setting the record for the longest diatribe thus far. “Yes, it was Whitey that made it bad for you guys. Do you hear yourself? I might just call Sawyer back over here and have him finish you off.”

The group stared at him in shock.

“Um, yeah, let’s take the body,” said Gene. “Might as well give him a proper burial.”

The group assembled a few dozen yards off the beach. AllWhite, wrapped in a white shroud, was buried in a small plot, beneath a small cross made of birchwood.

“You wouldn’t believe how hard it was to find white wood,” said Sparky, who then giggled at the last two words.

“And now, two of the young man’s friends, Travis and Robert, will sing a funeral dirge,” said Locke. “Gentlemen…”

Trav and Bob stepped forward, heads lowered. They began their tribute. “Deh, deh-deh-deh, deh-deh-deh, deh-deh, DEH-DEH! Deh, deh-deh-deh, deh-deh-deh, deh-deh, DEH-DEH! Amen.” The castaways lowered their heads in respect. The James Gang smacked theirs in anguished disbelief.

As the mourners parted, the James Gang huddled to divide up responsibilities.

“We should let Wham know it’s time to move on,” offered Treesa. “I mean, obviously, we’re the only ones in this particular show. And with AllWhite dead, I don’t think we should risk any other casualties.”

“That makes sense,” said Sass. “We should signal him, somehow.” Sawyer walked by the huddled mass. “Make that, YOU should signal him, somehow.” Sass trailed after Sawyer, growling.

“Yeah, you guys have fun with that,” said Steve. “We’re gonna go play.”

“Where do you think you’re going?” accused Biffy.

“Dude, we’ve been through this shit 10 times now. We’re on a tropical island for Christ’s sake. Put two and two together.”

“That makes four!” yelled Bob. Trav smacked him in the head.

“Fine. I guess it’s up to us,” said Goddess.

Rocket, Goddess, and Treesa set to work carving letters out in the sand. “What should we write?” Treesa asked herself. The suction noise returned.

Treesa found herself in her childhood home, with her sister and mother. Her mother reached out a hand.

“Now remember, dear,” began Mrs. Treesa. “If you’re ever stranded on a desert island, make sure to tell whoever’s watching to change the channel.” The suction noise sounded and placed Treesa back in the present.

“Thanks, mom. Okay, ladies, new plan.”

“Aww man,” said Rocket, dragging a log through the sand. “I almost had ‘Swing Away’ written in the sand. I only had ‘wing Away’ left to go.”

Rards, Vegas, Sparky, and Frats trudged back and forth from the beach to the rocky shore, carrying large dark lava rocks.

“Dude, this sucks,” said Frats. “My pledge period ended years ago.”

“And I thought the wife drove me hard,” said Sparky. “At least with her, I get some sex when the ‘Honey-Do List’ is taken care of.”

“Look at those guys, having the time of their lives,” said Vegas. “Makes me sick.”

Steve and Pat were deeply immersed in a game of Hide and Seek…Behind Hurley.

“Can you see me, now?” said Steve.

“Nope, you’re completely obscured,” said Pat, laughing.

“Dude, this isn’t funny,” said Hurley. “I’m a millionaire.”

“Then buy some liposuction tubby,” said Gene. “Maybe then Libby will give you a blowjob before she snuffs it.”

Trav and Bob were having their fun as well, at Charlie’s expense.

“I say, Merry, how ever will we get back to the Shire?” asked Bob with a faux, high pitched British accent.

“Indeed. Mister Frodo will be wanting to go the Grey Haven, and Pippin’s too busy doing something incredibly stupid,” added Trav.

“What the hell are you two sods on about?” asked Charlie, coming down from his heroin high.

The women folk were just about finished arranging the lava rocks into their new pattern, when Jin came screaming out of the jungle again.

“Others! Others!”

However, this time, he was right. A group of people came out of the jungle, led by a man in a beard. The James Gang confronted them.

“Hey Grizzly Adams, the line’s way back in the jungle,” said Outsider. “So why don’t you turn around, head back in, and leave these folks alone. They’re quite capable of killing themselves.”

“Now that’s no attitude to take,” said the man in the beard. “You should learn to be more courteous.” And with that, he cold cocked Outsider, landing him on his ass quicker than he could blink.

The James Gang rushed the Others. Grabbing what weapons they could, they ran up beside them. They traded shots, slashed with knives, and randomly fired guns. All the while, they appeared to have the battle carefully choreographed so that no one actually got hurt.

* * *

“The Jet survivors are gonna rumble, tonigh-ight,” sang Wham, getting into the action.

* * *

“What’s taking Wham so long to change the channel?” asked Kate, struggling to avoid capture.

“I don’t know, but he better hurry up,” said Fusty. “We can’t fight them much longer. We’re still worn out from the vampires.”

“What vampires? What are you talking about?” yelled Treesa.


“We got him!” yelled Steve. He and Pat pulled the bearded man down onto the beach as the rest of the Others ran back into the woods.

“Alright. Let’s see who you really are,” said Pat, pulling the beard off his chin. “Oh my God, it’s old man Withers, the owner of the amusement park!”

“And I would have gotten away with it, too, if it weren’t for you meddling able-bodied adults!”

Locke came running up. “By the way, guys. While you were fighting with this guy, the rest of the Others came and kidnapped all our children and women.”

“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” screamed all the men.

“Oh, and they kidnapped James as well.”


* * *

Back in Wham’s apartment, Whammon was able to see the shot change as Sass screamed. Lining the beach, written in stones, was “CHANGE THE CHANNEL.” He did so, muttering to himself, “God I hope this retarded crap ends soon.”


Episode 12: How can a Queen be an Apprentice?

Whammon selected a channel at random. He regretted his choice immediately as Ruff began singing along with the theme song performed by the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame enshrined, but yet still clearly in need of money, “O-Jays.”

“Ruffy, ruffy, ruffy, ruffy. RRRRRRRRRRRUFFY!”

“I can’t believe I’m watching this again,” said Wham, resenting his luck at landing on the tired reality show that rewards rich people by making them richer. “Even worse, it’s the rerun of last week’s episode on CNBC, so I gotta deal with the stock ticker going by constantly. Oh well, at least I already found the missing members for this show.” Wham finished his tirade as he saw the faces of Ready and Kimber flash across the screen during the opening credits.

* * *

Ready awoke inside a posh apartment suite inside the Trump Tower in Manhattan. Despite the clear art deco design, and the obvious spaciousness of the place, she couldn’t help but notice that she was sleeping on a cot, sharing the room with at least three other women, including…

“Morning Kimber,” she said, wiping the crust out of her eyes, as she saw her counterpart standing above her, fully decked out in business attire. “What’s with the corporate getup?’

“We’re on ‘The Apprentice,’” she answered. “How we’re here, I haven’t the foggiest, as it’s been at least two years since I applied for this piece of shit reality show. Now come on, we’re due in the boardroom in five minutes.”

Ready sat up in bed, covering her body with the blanket. “What boardroom? What are you talking about? I’m not even dressed.”

“Already taken care of, my friend,” said Kimber, ripping the blanket off the bed, revealing Ready fully clothed in a smart business casual outfit. Ready stared in amazement.

“How did you do that?”

In the boardroom, the two teams were assembled. There were eight in all, including Kimber and Ready. The women sat on one end of the table, the men on the other. Across from them sat George and Caroline, staring daggers at the lot of them. Dramatically, the back door opened, and in walked Donald Trump, the man who’s never worn a t-shirt in public. He coolly sat down in his thrown-like chair, which had no doubt been polished and cleaned several times to placate his germ-fearing ass.

“Okay, everyone,” he began, “we’re getting down to the wire. So it’s time for some shake-ups. From the beginning it’s been men vs. women, but today, we’re going to switch it up. We’re moving the one member of your team who most defies the role of your gender, to the other team. Terry, you’ll be moving from Team Perfume to Team Musk. And Chad, you’ll join Team Perfume.”

Instantly, a butch-looking feminist stood up from the left side of the table, and walked to the right. Then an effeminate looking blonde guy rose dramatically, and sauntered to the left end of the table.

“Now, you’re task for today is to create billboard advertisements for Sony PlayStation 3,” continued Trump, unfazed by any of Chad’s theatrics. “The System is being unveiled at the E3 convention, and they want something big to get the message out there. Whoever comes up with the best billboard campaign, wins. Losers, I’ll see you back here, one of you will be fired.” With that, Trump waived his arms, as if dismissing a servant, and the eight remaining contestants exited the boardroom.

Back in the suite, Team Perfume gathered for a pre-task meeting.

“So who wants to be Project Manager?” asked Kimber.

“As it so happens, I will be Project Queen,” interjected Ready. Chad looked at her in disgust.

“How dare she call herself, ‘Project Queen?’” said Chad in his confessional. “I’m so offended, mostly that I didn’t get to use that title first.”

Inside their company provided cars that are more luxurious than any normal person could dream of, the team created their designs.

“We’re gonna need painters for this,” said Christine, the fourth member of Team Perfume.

“Way ahead of you,” said Kimber, talking from the driver’s seat. She cranked the steering wheel and pulled into the parking lot of a local Home Depot store. She pulled the vehicle over at a small section of the parking lot, where a tarp covered about 30 or so migrant workers. She rolled down the window.

“I need people to help me paint billboards.”

“I can’t believe you’re going to use immigrants,” said Chad, indignantly.

Kimber turned her head inside the car to respond. “You know any other way to get labor this cheap? We’re on a budget here.”

“We could just do it ourselves.”

“Since when does anyone in the management levels of the business world actually do anything for themselves?” Kimber craned her head out the window again. “Like I said, I need people to paint billboards for me.”

“Right here, bitch,” came a familiar voice.

“Seriously, how come Steve gets to be the one to make the group’s entrance every time?” said Fusty.

“Quit your bitching,” said Pat. “First you couldn’t get over not being able to deploy the exposition block, and now you want to promote yourself to the introductory quip for the group? Get over yourself and get in the truck, motherfucker.”

The rest of the James Gang crowded their way into the car, clearly making Chad and Christine uncomfortable. Kimber drove off.

“At least we don’t have to smell them wetbacks anymore,” said Bob, completely out of character.

* * *

Wham rose from the couch with a start as he heard a knock on his door. He stumbled across the beer cans, dishes, and Ruff, to get to the front door. He opened it to find MarineGal standing at the threshold with a look of concern on her face.

“Is everything okay?” she asked. “I’ve been hearing noises all night. I’m trying to get some sleep already.”

“Oh yeah, sorry about that,” said Wham. “Come inside for a minute.” He motioned with his hand, guiding her in. She took one look at the place and was visibly disgusted. It also didn’t help that Ruff was already humping her leg.

“My Ruffshake brings all the boys to the Ruff, and they’re like, it’s better than Ruff! Dam right, it’s better than Ruff!” MarineGal seemed much more perturbed by the leg humping than by the fact that the dog was singing “Milkshake.”

“Ruff, down boy. Sorry about that,” said Wham as the dog got down.

“It’s okay. Hey, you want a treat little fella?” Ruff immediately sat upright, wagging his tail. MG rummaged through her purse and pulled out a Tic Tac. “My dog loves these,” she said. She held out the miniature mint, and Ruff licked it out of her hand. He swallowed, then jumped up in fright.

“Oh Ruff, not again!” He dashed into the bathroom like a bullet. Wham, more than used to this by now, was already holding the door open. He closed it as soon as the dog cleared the threshold.

“He’s got a weak stomach. So what can I do for you?”

“Oh, yeah, right. I was hearing noises tonight from next door. I was trying to get some sleep. What’s going on?”

“Oh, sorry about that. I was having a party here a while back. After it broke up, I’ve been, uh, working on an assignment for work, yes that’s the ticket.” He stared at the TV, and saw the gang beginning to paint the billboards, and got an idea. “In fact, would you mind helping me out a little bit? I don’t want to keep you up any longer, but I could use a little bit of assistance.”

She stared at him hesitantly. “I’m not sleeping with you.”

“No, no, no, that’s not it,” said Wham. “I just need to take notes on all these TV shows tonight, looking at product placement. But I’ll admit I’ve been a little drunk tonight, and my vision’s a bit blurry. Could you just take notes with me, and we can compare when we’re done, make sure I saw it right?”

She considered it for a moment. “Okay, but I’m still not sleeping with you.”

“Christ, is my sex life that pathetic that every woman assumes I want to sleep with them?”

* * *

“Yes!” yelled the James Gang, staring at the real world scene through the wall of the billboard. Christine and Chad stared at them in confusion, both for their outburst, but also because the billboards had nothing to do with PlayStation.

“What kind of an ad campaign is this?” said Christine in her confessional. “I hope Ms. Ready gets fired tonight. I may just throw the rest of the task, just to make sure we lose, so she can get fired.”

“Keep painting, guys. We’re done with the first, now move onto the second,” said Kimber, sitting comfortably in a lawnchair, sipping a martini.

“Yeah, guys, chop chop,” said Ready, clearly enjoying ordering the mostly male group around.

“What the hell,” said Kate, setting her roller down for a minute and grasping her lower back in pain. “Get your lazy asses up here and help already.” The rest of the group gathered their supplies and walked over to the second billboard. The first revealed the message, “AllWhite’s Dead,” including a nice little picture drawn by Gene that shows a decapitated Klan hood with blood dripping from it.

* * *

“AllWhite’s dead?” said Wham, writing this down on a notepad. “Are you getting this?”

MarineGal looked at him incredulously. “Uh, no. Stop playing your Beatles records backwards.”

“What about the decapitated head?”

“It’s a zombie with its head on a pike. They’re probably advertising a new game.”

* * *

“This sucks,” said Treesa. “We’ve only been here for one episode, and we’re already bogged down in manual labor.”

“You said it,” echoed Sass. “Why couldn’t I bring Sawyer with us?”

“Oh shut up, already,” said Sparky, painting a red power button on Gene’s design of a remote control.

Back on the ground, Gene approached Kimber and Ready, holding a tray with more martinis.

“The term is three-martini lunch,” said Gene. “You guys are now up to five apiece.”

“And yet we’re still not drunk enough to enjoy any of this,” said Kimber. “Chop chop.”

“You realize we are so getting you back when we switch shows, right?”

“Hey, just be thankful you’re not up there working. We know about your condition, so you got off light in just designing the signs.” Gene grumbled and walked away.

“Alright bitches, were done!” yelled Steve. The group got down to reveal the second billboard, the message, “You know what to do,” along with a picture of a remote control.

* * *

“Okay, you had to see that, right?”

“Uh, yeah, it’s a picture of a game controller, and a rather ugly one at that.”

“But, didn’t you see…nevermind.”

“Look, are we done?” asked MG. “I don’t want to be rude, but I really need some sleep.” She got up to leave. Just before she walked out the door, she turned back to him. “You need to stop drinking.” And with that, her promised cameo was over.

“Well, at least I know one thing,” said Wham to himself as the door closed. “No matter what set I watch, only Ruff and I can see what’s really going on.”

* * *

Back in the boardroom, Trump was announcing the winner of the task.

“I can’t believe how badly you did. You were just awful. Your entire campaign was violent, and seemed to have nothing to do with PlayStation. I award you no points, and may God have mercy on your souls.”

“A simple ‘wrong’ would have done just fine,” said Kimber, completely unfazed by Team Perfume’s failure.

“Team Musk, your campaign wasn’t great. I mean a billboard that just says, ‘Buy PlayStation 3’ isn’t anything special, but at least it was on topic, so you win. Your reward is a mass orgy with all the Miss Universe contestants, which I host, for you and your crew. Go.”

Team Musk left the boardroom, high fiving each other. Outside, a frustrated voice could be heard lamenting, “Aww, I could have had sloppy seconds.”

Now that it was just Team Perfume and the three headed corporate monster, Trump bared his teeth. “All right, what happened?”

“Kim and Red just took over the task,” said Chad, at a level of upset only equaled by a “Queer Eye” hiatus. “She even called herself ‘Project Queen.’”

“It’s not like you voiced any objections,” said Ready. “In fact, I don’t recall you or Christine even lifting a finger to work on this task.”

“Look at these billboards,” said Trump. “A decapitated head? That’s way too violent. All over the country, idiotic parents are successfully convincing idiots in Congress that violent games are corrupting children, and you go right at it with a violent theme? I can’t believe it.”

Ready and Kimber did not react, thankfully smart enough to realize these people saw something different than what they actually did. Christine and Chad shot them “I told you so” smirks.

“The second one was actually kind of creative. A picture of the controller, telling the audience they knew what they needed to do. But you made a huge faux-pas. The controller’s TV remote shape looks closer to the Nintendo Wii controller, not the PlayStation controller. That’s a huge mistake, which could have cost Sony millions, had we not paid some people at Home Depot to paint over it.”

Again, Ready and Kimber did not react.

“I don’t even need to discuss this with George and Caroline, especially cause I have to pay them for everything they say on camera. You’re all terrible, but you two are completely responsible for this catastrophic failure. Off with the queen’s head, you’re fired. You, too, Kim, you are fired.” Trump pointed at them both with his whole hand, in a fashion so dumb, it looked like a retarded version of half of a Bangles dance.

Team Perfume left the boardroom. Chad and Christine took the elevator back up to the suite, grinning their evil grins of success, shallowly taking their survival as approval of their actions, kind of like the president.

Ready and Kimber stepped into the lobby to find an odd sight. The assembled James Gang was standing there, mischievous grins on their faces. Trump’s secretary, Robin, was bound and gagged in her chair. The two women addressed their former migrant workers.

“Look, we’re sorry. We just wanted to enjoy the corporate lifestyle for a minute.”

“What, that?” said Pat. “Forget it. We’re not here for that. We’re just here for something we’ve always wanted to do. Go ahead and go downstairs, we’ll meet you in a minute.”

Ready and Kimber, confused but thankful they weren’t about to get their asses kicked, walked to the down elevator of shame. As the doors closed, they could hear Trump saying, “Who the hell are you?” as the Gang entered the boardroom.

Outside the Trump Tower, Kimber and Ready stood by the roadside, staring at the taxi that was to take them away for their last confessional for the losers. They were about to enter when the Gang came running out of the tower to join them. They stopped short, looking at the cab.

“There’s no way in hell we’re all fitting in there,” said Frats. Narrator went up, banged the roof of the cab, and it drove off.

“So what do we do now?” asked Ready.

“Wham can change the channel in a minute,” said Rocket. “We got something to show you guys first.”

Steve approached Ready with a pompous air about him. “In recognition of your astute leadership in this task, we, the Immigrant James Gang, bestow upon our queen, HER CROWN!” In a flash, Steve whipped out Trump’s toupee, and crammed it down on Ready’s head. She looked sheepish for a moment, before joining in with the laughter of the rest of the gang.

* * *

Back in his apartment, Wham, too, was laughing his oversized ass off.

“Hey, Ruff, you gotta see this.” He got up and opened the bathroom door to let the little dog out, so that he could see the billion-dollar hairpiece. Ruff stared at it for a moment, then broke down in little puppy tears. Wham went up to comfort him.

“What’s wrong, little guy?”

Ruff whimpered. “Ruff, I always wondered what happened to my uncle Ruffington.”

Wham, noting the sensitivity of the issue, changed the channel very quickly.
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Posts : 1137
Join date : 2008-11-15

PostSubject: Re: James Gang Story Hour: The Sun Always Shines on T.V.   Sun Nov 22, 2009 9:23 am

Posted: Sat Jun 17, 2006 6:28 pm


Episode 13: There Goes the Neighborhood

Whammon changed the channel to get Ruff to stop crying. The little dog continued balling his little doggy eyes out, however, so Wham patted the cushion next to him.

“Come on up here, Ruff, he said.” Ruff hobbled over slowly, and jumped up onto the couch. Wham picked him up, and placed him on his lap upside down, and began rubbing his belly. Ruff began laughing little puppy laughs, while the audience at home wretched. The collective vomiting of the audience, along with the combination of junk food and carpet cleaner in his stomach, gave Ruff a bad feeling.

“Ruff, gotta go!” Ruff jumped back upright, and bolted into the adjacent bathroom, leaving Wham exasperated, but thankful that Ruff stopped crying, and that he held his hurl until he got to the bathroom. He turned his attention to the television, and trained his ears on an Oscar winner’s voice.

“This is the story about a man trying to save his family business…” came the narrator, or something along those lines. No one watched this show, anyway, so there’s no way to be sure.

* * *

Snarky the Bear was coming to. He awoke from his hibernation with a yawn, and attempted to stretch out his arms and legs. Instead, he hit four walls.

“What the hell?” he said to the air. He attempted to kick and move, but nothing. “Come on, this ain’t funny. I’m claustrophobic.” He twisted, he turned, he kicked. Finally, he decided to put his newfound break dancing skills to use. He kicked up, stood on his head, and spun, building centrifugal force, then pushed down with his hands, flipping himself onto his feet. Now that he was standing, he noticed a door on one of the walls. Snarky walked out to find himself standing outside the Bluth Family Frozen Banana Stand.

“Oh, hell yes!” he shouted. “You gotta be fucking kidding me. I love this show!” His excitement was cut short by the force of a tackle that knocked him to the ground.

“What the fuck?” he gasped, the wind knocked out of him. “Who the fuck do you think…” his indignation was cut off by the sight of the man on top of him, a bald, older man, wearing glasses and prison scrubs.

“George Bluth?”

“Uh, no, I’m uh, Oscar. Oscar the Grouch. I mean Oscar the Bluth. I-I mean, Oscar Bluth, pretending to be George. I have to go now.” The escaped convict quickly got to his feet and ran off with a speed quite uncharacteristic of a 65-year-old man. Snarky rose to his feet and dusted himself, only to be knocked down again by a full grown man in a business suit that looked a lot like a former failed child actor. Michael Bluth didn’t bother stopping, merely stumbling for a moment, then continuing his chase.

“Ooh, it’s time for some fun,” said Snarky, cracking a wry smile.

* * *

Ruff came out of the bathroom, trotting happily as if nothing had happened. “Ruff, what were we talking aruff?” he asked, looking up at Whammon.

“Uh, we were going over the message that you were trying to deliver. Yes, that’s the ticket.” The lie, however, refocused him. “Okay, I know the guys are stuck in the TV, and that there’s five left to find. Oh, make that four, there’s Snark. But how’d they get in there again?”

“The Ruff’s ruffmaker. Ruff-Town Ruff took the batteruffs out of the ruffmaker and put them in the ruffote.”


* * *

Snarky strolled down the beach of Orange County until he found a group of people huddled together. He approached the mass to find a truly pathetic looking man attempting to do magic tricks.

“The Amazing Gob requires an assistant for the next illusion,” he said, voice cracking, clearly succumbing to the pressure of bombing.

“I’ll do it,” said Snarky. “I always end up doing it.” He strolled up to Gob, at the same time taking his hand out of his pocket, clenched in a fist. He coughed into it before he hit the faux stage.

“Now sir, we’ve never met, is that right?” asked Gob. Snarky shook his head. Satisfied, Gob waved his hands. Nothing happened. “Shoot, I forgot my lunch. Can you spare some change for a bite to eat.” Snarky turned out his pockets, revealing nothing. “Oh well. Wait, what’s that behind your ear?” Gob reached behind Snarky’s head, and revealed a quarter. The audience groaned at the lameness of the trick. However, Snarky was grabbing his stomach. “You all right, buddy?” asked Gob, appearing concerned. Snarky opened his mouth, and a load of coins fell out, easily a couple dollars’ worth. The audience cheered. Gob, unaccustomed to applause, took a bow. The crowd dispersed.

After they left, Snarky picked up his coins and shoved them back into his pocket. “See ya,” he called to Gob as he left the area. Gob stood aghast long after Snarky departed.

“I don’t get it. No one makes me look good. That son of a bitch! I’m gonna get him!”

* * *

“Okay, one more time,” said Wham, clearly getting frustrated again.

Ruff stared at him incredulously, if that’s possible for a dog. “You ruffing rufftard! Do you not understand Engruff? The mother ruffing batteruffs!”

“Meanwhile, at a local recording studio, Tobias was looking for his next theatrical conquest,” said the narrator.

* * *

“I will be the new narrator of this ass-backwards show,” said Tobias to himself, cause no one else was there. “I wonder why no one showed up for this audition.”

“I’m here,” said Snarky. He approached Tobias and sat right next to him. A door opened across from the duo, and out stepped Ron Howard.

“God I can’t wait till this is over,” he said. “Narrating the events of this stupid little comedy of errors kills me inside. I have guest spots on ‘The Simpsons’ to do. Oh, hello.” He had just noticed the two men staring blankly at him. “Okay, well, tell me a little bit about yourselves, and why you think you should be the next AD narrator.”

“I’m classically trained,” began Tobias, “and I even joined the Blue Man Group, and…”

“Yo Ron, this doucher said ‘A Beautiful Mind’ sucked,” interjected Snarky.

“You son of a bitch!” Ron decked Tobias, and the two began fighting like girls. Snarky took the opportunity to sneak into the recording booth, and locked himself in.

Inside, he found a stool and a microphone, Richie Cunningham’s outlet to the world, along with several screens, some trained on the various members of the Bluth family, others filming random scenes. He sat down and saw a group of misfits wandering the streets aimlessly.

“Come on,” said Trav. “We’ve been wandering about this place forever already, and we don’t even know what show we’re in.”

“It can’t be that hard to figure out,” gasped Outsider. “Over there’s the stadium where the Anaheim Angels play, so we have to be in Orange County.”

“We’re in ‘The O.C.?’” gasped Treesa. “That show is so gay. Why would Wham watch it?”

“Uh, cause he’s gay,” answered Outsider, attempting to state what he thought was obvious.

“He’s not gay,” said Pat. “I got a gay brother. Believe me, I can tell a gay from a mile away.”

“Uh, yeah, about that gay brother of yours,” came Fusty. “We’ve never met this guy. Got something you’re not telling us?”

“Leave him alone. Just cause he’s not attracted to you doesn’t mean you gotta out him in front of everybody,” said Vegas.

“Have I had a line yet?” asked Rocket.

“No,” said Ready.

“Enough!” yelled Kate. “This is getting retarded.”

“I agree.” The group heard Snarky’s voice, but couldn’t see him. They all looked about in confusion, like a fucked up Three Stooges convention. “You idiots, I’m not there with you. I’m in a recording booth.”

“Yo, what show are we in?” asked Frats. “Please tell us it’s not ‘The O.C.’ That show sucks major ass.”

“No, guys, you’re not in ‘90210 part 5.’” The group breathed a collective heavy sigh of relief. “We’re in ‘Arrested Development.’ I’m in the narrator’s booth. Come on, I’ll guide you. Head straight for about three blocks.”

The group marched along, in their various TV costumes, like a gay pride parade from Hell.

“How the hell did Wham turn on ‘Arrested Development?’” asked Narrator. “Wasn’t it cancelled?”

narrator wrote:
How the hell did Wham turn on “Arrested Development?” Wasn’t it cancelled?
“You’re honestly going to ask questions at this point?” said Rards. “We just went from ‘Lost,’ which airs on Wednesdays, to ‘Apprentice,’ which airs on Mondays, to a cancelled show, and it’s Sunday! At this point, just roll with it.”

“I agree,” came the omnipotence that was Snarky. “Take a left up here, then walk four more blocks.”

“I like this little bit of travel,” said Goddess. “We get a good amount of exercise, and it gives us enough time to each get a line in before the plot resumes, and Steve, Pat, and Gene get all the dialogue.”

“Definitely,” said Sparky. “It is nice to get a word in edgewise, especially when the old crowd are sweating too hard to speak.”

“I don’t even think we’ve had lines since we premiered,” added Biffy.

“When you all are finished gabbing like a pack of women in the bathroom,” interjected Snarky, “you’ll find that you’ve arrived.”

The group stopped short at a plain office building, marked only by a small FOX logo over the entrance.

“Fourth floor, come on up.”

The James Gang entered the building and took elevators up to the fourth floor. Bob hummed along with the elevator music, prompting a slap in the face from Trav. They got off on the fourth floor, and walked down the hall. Stepping over the unconscious bodies of Tobias and Ron Howard, Steve knocked on the door to the recording studio.

Snarky opened the door and let them in. The Bear high-fived his counterparts as they entered the cramped quarters.

“Anyone else with you?” asked Gene. “We still have four more to find.”

Snarky looked at the group. “Shouldn’t there be five more?”

“AllWhite’s dead.”

“So Kate finally snapped?”

“Hey!” Kate grabbed what appeared to be a switchblade knife out of Ron Howard’s back pocket and advanced on Snarky. “I do not snap. Got it bitch?” She hit the button to deploy the blade, and instead flicked open a comb. The group stared for a moment, then proceeded to laugh their asses off.

“What the hell?” asked Kate, embarrassed. “How the hell can he have a comb? He’s got like four hairs left.”

“Probably stole it off Henry Winkler during his ‘Happy Days’ uh, days,” said Bob, trying to end a confusing sentence.

“So what the fuck?” interjected Steve, sick of being silent for so long. “If you’re the only one here, why the fuck hasn’t Wham changed the channel? I want out of here. Give me that mic.”

* * *

“THE BATTERUFFS! BATTERUFFS!” screamed the little dog, his little doggy voice getting hoarse.

“What the fuck are you saying?”

“It’s batteries you idiot.”


“Yeah, genius, it’s Steve. You know, 16 inches, fucked your mother, you suck, and all that noise?”

“Where are you?”

“In the TV, fucktard!”

“I know that, dipshit,” Wham retorted. “I mean where are you within the show? I don’t see any of you.”

“We’re in the narration booth. Now listen up. Snark’s the only one in this particular program. What the retarded dog’s been trying to tell you is that I caused the accident when I crammed Gene’s pacemaker batteries into your remote while you were in the kitchen.”

“Right, so I’ll just put them back in, and get you guys out,” said Wham.

“No, dumbass. We gotta find the others first. We went in together, we gotta come out together.”

“But AllWhite’s dead, so what about that?”

“No real loss,” said Steve. “Still, we can’t risk losing any more. So wait till we find the others.”

“Fine. I’ll change the channel, now,” said Wham, reaching for the remote.

“No, wait,” said Snarky, grabbing the microphone back. “There’s something I always wanted to do since I first saw this show. Hold up a few minutes.”

“Fine, but it better be good. I’m a busy man.”

“Yeah right. We’ll be lucky if we come out and you have pants on. Busy my ass.”

* * *

“What the fuck, man. I want to go home,” said Steve, incredulous. “What exactly are we gonna do?”

“See those screens?” asked Snarky, pointing to Ron Howard’s guiding images. “They’re trained on Bluth family members. I want you guys to split up, grab as many of them as you can, and meet me at the Bluth family house in fifteen minutes. I’ll carry Tobias.”

* * *

Ruff walked over to the couch and jumped up, coughing.

“Sorry your throat hurts, buddy,” said Wham. “You want an Altoid?” Wham began digging in the drawer of the side table, and after a few moments, pulled out a curiously strong mint. Ruff lapped it up happily, then sighed.

“There you go. Eases your throat, and improves your breath.” The happiness was short lived, as Ruff’s cheeks puffed out, and he again dashed for the bathroom.

“Oh for God’s sake. Keep something down!”

* * *

At the Bluth home, Snarky had Tobias tied to a chair, still unconscious. Narrator, Kimber, Ready, and Frats were with him. There was a knock at the door. Kimber went to answer it, and let Steve, Pat, and Gene in. They were carrying Gob, who struggled dramatically, but really wasn’t putting much effort into it.

“Plop him on the chair next to Tobias,” said Kimber, pulling out the rope and a cloth to gag him. The door opened again, and Lucille entered, with Buster in tow.

“Ah, robbers!” yelled Buster, turning and running head on into a wall.

“Sometimes it’s too easy,” said Snarky.

”What is the meaning of this?” exclaimed Lucille. “We’re rich. Our only contact with your types is to piss on you. I want to piss on you. Yes I do. I’ll piss on you.” Narrator conked her on the head with a candlestick.

“Dude, this isn’t Clue,” said Snarky.

“What Clue? I just always wanted to hit her.”

“Honey, I’m back from being a stereotypical rich wife,” came the voice of Lindsay as she came in the open front door. “I went out and spent money that isn’t mine to spend, and I’ll still never sleep with you.” She entered the living room, took in the scene, and changed her face. “Oh right, I’m supposed to be concerned about my husband’s safety.” She ran down to Tobias, and shook him awake. “What happened, baby?”

Tobias lifted his face dramatically. “I got beat up by Opie,” he gasped, and then passed out again. The Gang tied her up.

“This fucking kid bites!” cried Outsider, dragging in George Michael, along with Vegas, Sass, and Treesa.

“Well then don’t stick your finger in his mouth,” said Sass, stating the obvious.

“He said he was choking on his fillings. What was I supposed to do?”

“Let the idiot choke,” said Steve, also stating the obvious.

Goddess, Rocket, Kate, Bob, and Trav entered together, leading Mae, who did not appear to be resisting.

“I still don’t know why you guys came with us,” said Rocket.

“Here’s why.” Bob poked Mae in her left boob, Trav in the right. “Score!” They high-fived each other. The women’s hopes for enlightened men went down several notches.

“Am I gonna die?” asked Mae, quite calmly, as she was tied to a chair next to George Michael.

“No sweety, not unless you want to,” said Snarky.

Rards, Fusty, Biffy, and Sparky entered the house empty handed. Sparky and Biffy walked into the living room as Snarky addressed Fusty.

“Where are the others?”

“Don’t know,” said Fusty. “We couldn’t find them anywh—“ Fusty’s words were cut short as he was knocked to the ground by George Bluth, running into the house.

“Well, there’s one,” said Snarky, happy for the luck.

“Son of a bitch!” yelled Fusty, standing up gingerly. “And on my bad leg too—“ He was knocked down again by Michael Bluth ending his chase.

“Aha! Finally cornered you, and…what the?” Michael stopped his triumphant rant short as he gazed at the full spectrum of the scene unfolding before him. Snarky finished tying George up, and came over to Michael.

“Michael, my friend. I’m about to solve all your problems,” he said, putting his arm around Michael and leading him to the couch. “Just sit back, and let the Bear take care of everything.” Michael sat, at a loss for words.

Snarky first approached Lucille, and removed her gag.

“How dare you? I will have you killed! I will have you raped! I will have you—“

“SHUT UP!” yelled Snarky. “Shut the hell up! You are the reason for everything bad that’s gone on with this family. You alienated your husband, and you fucked up all three of your sons, and you corrupted your daughter into a slightly hotter version of you. Buster, stand up.” Snarky untied the hooked retard, who stood and faced his mother. “Buster, do what you need to do.” Buster scrunched up his face in rage, cried out, and slashed his mother’s face with his hook. He then ran out the door, scared for his life. Lucille, for once, without the aid of a gag, could say nothing.

“Moving on. Tobias. You are a loser. Your wife hates your guts and uses you.”

“But she loves me,” said Tobias.


“Why me?”

“Just do it,” said Snarky. “If you can have an avatar of a rabbit humping a balloon, you can do this.”

“Fine.” Kimber rose, untied Lindsay’s hands, grabbed her head, and kissed her. She kissed her long and hard. After a moment, Lindsay took over, wrapping her arms around Kimber. A bulge appeared in Kimber’s cheek as Lindsay stuck her tongue down her throat. Then she leapt, chair and all, onto Kimber, laying on her on the floor. Kimber kicked her off. “Enough already, we get the point.”

Snarky returned to Tobias. “Your wife is a dyke, and she uses you. Divorce her, get a job, and move on with your life. And not as an actor. Try being a conspicuous stand-up comedian. You look the part.”

He then advanced on Gob. “Gob, you are worthless. You’ve spent your life living in Michael’s shadow, and can’t get over it, so you continuously try to one up him. Stop. Live your life. You have a son. Go be with him. Be dad. You are not special. You are not great. And you’re certainly not a magician. Just lead a normal life. Oh yeah. One more thing, courtesy of your brother.” Snarky kicked him in the balls. Gob keeled over, chair and all, as Snarky moved on to the teenagers.

“Dude,” he said, grabbing George Michael’s head, so that his eyes were looking directly at Snarky, “Mae is not your cousin. You two are clearly in love.” George Michael looked over at Mae. “Dude, just bang her already!” yelled Snarky.

George Michael looked back at Snarky. “I can’t.”

“Oh yeah, I forgot. You’re a pussy. Fine, I’ll bang her.” He untied Mae, and led her down the hall. “You can take it from here, Steve.”

“I call sloppy seconds,” Bob called to Snarky. Steve got up and approached George.

“I ain’t got no speech. But since you’re a corporate fuckwad who cooked the books…” Steve punched George across the face, knocking him out cold. He then went over to Michael.

“There you go, Mr. Bluth. You’re free. We’ll be on our way.”

Michael rose up, tears streaming from his eyes. “I’m free. I’M FREE! OH THANK GOD!” He hugged Steve, sobbing hard. “Thank you. Thank you.”

Steve looked up. “Uh, Wham, now would be a good time.”

* * *

Wham, satisfied with the ending, flipped the station.


Episode 14: Lucky There's a Show as Good as "Family Guy"

JBCoops awoke to find himself behind a bush. He stood up, brushing dirt and grass clippings off of his clothes.

“Ugh, what the hell? Hello? Anyone out there?” Coops called out to the open road in front of the row of bushes in front of him. No one answered immediately, but there was a rustling in the bushes across the street.

“Who’s there? I’m armed!”

“Since when? They don’t let teachers bring guns into school.” Baseballmom stood up and brushed herself off as well. Checking the road for oncoming traffic, she quickly ran across to join her counterpart.

“Where are we?” asked Coops.

“For that matter, where is everyone else?” added Mom.

“Man, this is even weirder than the time I got amnesia,” Coops said.

In an instant, Coops and Mom were transported to a hospital room. Mom stood over the bed, while Coops lay in the bed. He came to, again, and looked at his surroundings. Next to Mom was a police officer holding several Polaroid photos. The cop knelt in.

“Do you remember any of this?”

Coops screamed. Instantly, he was back on the country road, standing next to Mom.

“What the hell just happened?” she asked.

“I have no fucking idea!” screamed Coops, breathing heavily. “That was fucked up.”

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, but that movie sucked.”

“I’ll say. Hey look, there appears to be a town just up ahead. Let’s ask for help down there. Come on.” Mom grabbed Coops’s arm, and the staggered ahead. After about a mile or so, they came to the edge of a town, bearing the sign, “Welcome to Quahog.”

“Welcome to Kwa-hoag?” Mom attempted.



“Hello citizens!” came an enthusiastic baritone voice approaching them. A man in his 60s approached, wearing an official type political suit. “Welcome back.” He got in close to the two of them and whispered with melodramatic urgency, as if he were in a comic book. “Proceed with caution. The invisible rat demons have taken over the city and they have eaten all the cheese. I’m off to find some help from the Morlocks.” He then snuck behind a bush, picked it up and began walking with it. As he disappeared into the distance, Coops and Mom stared, dumbfounded.

“Did Batman just warn us against invisible rats?”

* * *

Inside his apartment, Wham walked to the kitchen, happily whistling the “Family Guy” theme song. He grabbed the last beer from his refrigerator, and returned to his couch. As he sat, he was confused by Ruff growling and snarling at the screen.

“What’s wrong, buddy?”

“Ruff, I hate this show. That mother ruffing Brian is completely unbelievable. Like a dog could talk.”

Wham stared at Ruff with a raised eyebrow.

“Ruff, I mean, no dog could talk that eruffquently.”

* * *

Coops and Mom continued to walk the neighborhoods of Quahog, Rhode Island. They didn’t say anything, for fear of triggering another cut scene. After a few moments they entered Spooner Street.

“There seems to be some activity at that house. Let’s check there for some help,” Mom suggested. They walked up to number 31, and rang the doorbell. After a moment, the door was answered by a smoking hot red head who no one would believe was actually 40 years old.

“Oh, hello, we’ve been waiting for you. Come on in.” Confused, but utterly unconcerned, the duo entered the Griffin household. They crossed the living room, evading laser blasts aimed at Lois’s head as they went. As they entered the kitchen, they could just pick up an angry Englishman yelling, “BLAST!”

They sat down in the dining room as the family joined them. Having already put up with Ruff, they were not the least bit fazed by the presence of Brian. They began eating what appeared to be some sort of ham and eggs, though it might have been meatloaf and onions. They couldn’t really tell.

“So, what’s it like being a teacher?” asked Lois. Coops was startled briefly by Lois bringing him into the conversation. “Oh, yes, it’s very nice,” he said, “although the pay could be a lot better. But still, it’s nice to help the kids become successful creative writers.”

“Aw, this family’s filled with born writers,” began Peter from the head of the table, unable to go five minutes without saying something, “just like my great, great uncle, Edgar Allen Griffin.”

Instantly, Peter was transported into a small study in Baltimore in the 1800s. He was writing very intently.

“And get thy form from off my door. Quothe the raven, uh, hmm, let’s see.”

A raven called from across the room. “Your mom’s a whore!”

Peter became enraged. “Oh that’s it, buddy!” He jumped the bird, and began punching it. A moment later, Death entered, draped in a red robe.

“Hey, do you like my mask?”

They were back at the dinner table. “Why does that keep happening?” asked Mom, irritated.

“I don’t know, but it’s kind of funny,” said Coops, trying to get into the experience.

“Well I can’t stand it anymore,” she said, dramatically rising from the table. “Come on!” Again, she grabbed Coops’s arm, and dragged him to the front door. She opened the door, prepared to storm outside, but instead was met with the shock of seeing H-Town Steve staring at her.

“There’s my favorite bitch,” he said. “Now, make me a sandwich.”

“Oh thank God,” Mom said, rushing toward her friends, too overcome with relief to care about Steve’s chauvinism. Coops also joined the group, shaking relieved hands with the crew, until he came to Vegas.

“Figures I’d find you here,” said LVG.

“That makes absolutely no sense,” said Coops.

“Yeah,” said Trav. “It makes about as much sense as you two arguing about who’s a bigger Hunter S. Thompson fan.”

Flash. Vegas and Coops were in the home of the late gonzo author. Standing before them was the man himself, wrapped in a towel. He had an evil grin on his face.

“So, who’s my number one fan?” he asked devilishly, whipping off the towel.

“He’s your biggest fan,” said Coops, pointing at Vegas.

“No, he is,” mumbled Vegas pointing back.

“Well, at least we finally understand the use of the canon,” added Coops.

They were back outside the Griffin house. Inside, they could hear Meg crying, “You don’t know anything about me!” Meg came running outside. “This is worse than the time I got raped!”

They were back in Hunter S. Thompson’s house. Meg was lying seductively on the couch. “Wow, Mr. Thompson, I’m your biggest fan.” Hunter then shot himself.

Back to the present.

“Okay, we’ve sufficiently run this into the ground,” said Narrator. “How come Wham hasn’t changed the channel, yet?”

* * *

“Oh shit, what do I do?” asked Wham, taking a swig of his beer. “Obviously, we’re not going to find anyone else this time around, so I should just change the channel so we can end this whole ordeal that much quicker. But then again, this is my favorite show, the greatest show with which God has ever graced this Earth. How can I change it without waiting till it’s over? I got it.”

Wham got up from his seat, and ran to his bedroom. On the floor, he found his backpack from work. Reaching inside, he pulled out a pen and notepad. He then ran back to the living room and plunked himself down on the couch. “I’ll keep watching, but to justify it, I’ll take notes, so I can write a good spec script and get a job on the show! This plan is so good it’s retarded!”

* * *

“Well, as long as we’re stuck here, we might as well have some fun,” said Coops.

“Hey, you guys remember the time I got sloppy seconds?” said Bob, rubbing his hands together with an evil grin on his face.

He was transported to a large cafeteria, a tray sitting in front of him. A grotesque looking lunch lady came over to him and dropped a sloppy joe sandwich on the tray.

“Have another one, sweetie,” she said, looking at him like some aroused grandmother. With that, Bob was transported back to the present.


“God,” said Fusty. “This is dumber than the case for war in Iraq.”

fustyruk wrote:
God. This is dumber than the case for war in Iraq.
“Don’t you dare,” said Rards.

Instantly, they were transported to the White House, circa 2003. President Bush was sitting at his desk, typing furiously at an old-fashioned typewriter. Dick Cheney entered.

“How’s the personal ad coming, Mr. President?”

“Tell me what you think of this, Dick. ‘White Male, Divorced in America, seeks similar WMD in Iraq, for relationship, possibly marriage.’”

“Uh, I hate to break it to you, Mr. President, but there are no WMDs in Iraq.”

“Yes there are! I know there are! I’ll blow the whole country apart to find one, my one true love! And if there are no WMDs in Iraq, I’ll outlaw gay marriage. If I can’t have mine, no one will!”

And with that, Fusty and Rards were back in Quahog.

“Wow, I am so disillusioned right now,” said Fusty.

fustyruk wrote:
Wow, I am so disillusioned right now.
“You and me both.”

“Jesus, can we stop already?” screamed Kate. “These are the worst jokes I’ve ever seen. Well, almost.”

She was taken to a comedy club.

“And what’s the deal with the shorts with the writing on the ass?”


Kate was back.

“Dammit, I didn’t want to do that.”

“I can’t take this shit anymore!” screamed BBmom. She ran from the scene. Down the sidewalk she ran, away from the Griffin house. She turned her head to see if anyone was following her, when she was knocked over by a strong jab at her waist. She got up to see Glen Quagmire standing three feet away from her. He helped her up, and put her arm around her shoulder.

“Whoa, you seem to have taken quite a spill. Then again, you look like you spend a lot of time on your knees. Heh, heh, all right.”

“You fucking perv,” answered Mom. Quagmire was unfazed. He led Mom to his door.

“Heh, heh, come on honey. Time for this bear to show you his hundred acre wood. Giggity, giggity, giggity GOO!”

Snarky stared at the scene. “Damn, I should have used that line when I banged Mae.”

* * *

“Damn, I should have used that line when I wrote about Snarky banging Mae,” said Wham.

Ruff stared at Wham in mild puppy anger. “Aren’t you done watching this piece of ruff?”

“Aw come on, Ruff. For once this show is brilliantly hilarious, even without the aid of marijuana. However…”

Wham took a bong out of the drawer in the table next to the couch. He poured some beer into the bong, and lit up some weed. The combination of inhaling cannabis and bubbling beer made for an interesting buzz.

“Whoa. Ruff, you gotta try this.” Ruff waddled over and stuck his snout in the bong. “Now breathe in.” Wham lit the bong and Ruff took a hit. He swallowed, instead of blowing the smoke out. His cheeks were puffed right before he swallowed, and were, sadly, puffed again for a different reason after he swallowed.

Ruff yelped, doing all in his power not to open his mouth. He jumped over Wham’s legs and onto the coffee table. He ran across, trodding on Wham’s notepad, ripping off the pages of Wham’s notes with his paws as he ran. He just made it to the bathroom in time.

“No! My notes! My future writing career, gone! ThunderJack was right! Oh well, back to the show.”

* * *

“Okay, I’ve had enough of this bullshit,” said Steve. “Time to put an end to this.”

“And how exactly do you propose to do that?” asked Gene.

“Easy my pacemaker battery-induced psychotropic hayride riding friend,” said Steve, making about as much sense as calling Luke Skywalker a terrorist, “It’ll be great, like that time that Wham changed the channel.”

Instanly, Steve and Gene were transported to an animated mark-up of Wham’s living room. Alongside them, George Michael and Andrew Ridgley showed up, wearing shorts tighter than John Stockton and humongous bulges.

* * *

Wham was enjoying his last high of the evening when George Michael and Andrew Ridgley showed up, wearing shorts tighter than John Stockton and humongous bulges.

“What the fuck?”

* * *

Snapping their fingers, the boys jitterbugged their way over to Wham, took his remote control, and changed the channel.

Instantly, Steve and Gene were back in Quahog.

* * *

Snapping their fingers, the boys jitterbugged their way over to Wham, took his remote control, and changed the channel.

Instantly, they disappeared.

“Will someone please explain to me what the fuck just happened?”


Episode 15: The Long-Awaited Family Reunion

Outlaw awoke to the sound of rustling leaves. He jumped, wondering who, or what was approaching. It didn’t matter that he didn’t know where in God’s creation he was, only that he would be at the ready to defend himself from whatever threat came for him.

“Who’s there?” he whispered, setting himself up for the perfect 70’s slasher movie death. He heard the rustling of leaves again, only this time, he was conscious enough to at least notice the small amounts of trees around him, indicating he was in a small wood. Being used to small wood every time he took off his pants, he allowed himself to drop his guard slightly, and hide behind a tree.

Still waiting for the source of the rustling to approach, he noticed a dank, disgusting smell coming from all around him. It was as if God himself had farted on the entire 100 mile radius. He also saw huge clouds of smoke overhead, probably from a nearby factory. He stuck his finger into the collar of his shirt, beginning to sweat, both from nerves, and from the insane amount of heat.

“Who’s there?” he shouted this time, as he stepped out from behind the tree. He began to wander, searching for the body behind the approaching foot falls.

“Christ almighty, where am I?” he asked himself. “It’s hot. It stinks. There’s smoke everywhere. Did I die and go to Hell?” His thoughts were cut short as he felt a thud on his back, and fell to the ground.

“Hey, why don’t you watch where I’m going, you freaking mook,” came a hard voice with an accent as if Jay Leno held a cheese grater to his throat. “What, like you’re so special you gotta take up the whole walking path just standing around like some Kansas City faggot?”

Outlaw lifted his face from the dirt, spit out a couple of leaves, and looked up to see a fat Italian man in a jogging suit trotting past him as if in a hurry to get a cheeseburger, dragging behind him a small, exhausted dog. Outlaw got up, and dusted himself off.

“Even worse. I’m in New Jersey.”

He exited the small park, and entered the suburban sprawl that is the Garden State. He wandered aimlessly for a few blocks, trying to get his bearings.

“Sure are a lot of fat Italians here,” he murmured to himself, as he passed a really nice smelling pasta bar. He decided to tread lightly as he passed the legitimate businessmen, making sure not to make eye contact. He just didn’t want to start any shit. As the sun set, he passed a nice little sushi bar, and happened to look in the window. There, enjoying some raw seafood on an almost orgasmic level, was Anthony Soprano.

Not knowing what to think, his situation beyond comprehension, he bolted in the opposite direction, abandoning all pretense. Retracing his steps, he made his way back to the edge of the small wooded park. If nothing else, he’d hide there, until this whole thing blew over. Maybe it was just a bad dream, and he needed to wake up. Yeah, that was it, a bad dream.

As he made his way back to the park, he happened to notice Hesh Rabkin and his son-in-law Eli heading toward their car. As they got in, another car pulled up in front of them, blocking their ability to leave. Three rather large men got out and started yelling at Eli and Hesh to get out. Outlaw was amazed, both at the audacity of these men, and at the fact that all the random bystanders didn’t even seem to notice what was going on. One of the thugs lit a wash cloth on fire, and wedged it in the gas tank. That got Hesh and Eli out of the car. Hesh grabbed the rag and stomped it out, while the thugs had their way with Eli. He attempted an escape, only to be promptly hit by a cab. Hesh screamed that he’d get Tony Soprano on them, and the thugs ran off, abandoning their car.

Outlaw approached Hesh, and offered to help. “Stay with Eli while I call 9-1-1,” he sobbed. He ran off to the nearest open shop before Outlaw could answer. He stared at Hesh’s car, and couldn’t help but feel bad, not so much for Eli’s injuries, but for the fact that a car as nice as that almost got blown up just to prove a point.

As he mused about the fortune of the car to survive, he heard a banging noise coming from the car abandoned by the gang bangers. It was coming from the trunk. Outlaw rose to his feet and approached the car. “Don’t move,” he said jokingly to Eli, who was barely alive at this point, much less mobile.

Outlaw opened the driver’s side door and popped the trunk. He walked to the back of the vehicle to find, with a great combination of shock and relief, LakeRat, bound and gagged.

* * *

Back in his apartment, Whammon breathed a sigh of relief, both at the fact that with “Family Guy” over there would be no more ridiculous cut scenes with gay Brits entering his living room, and that, with the discovery of Outlaw and LakeRat, that everyone had been found. All that was left was for the James Gang to be reunited, and he could get them out of the TV, and this nightmare would end. He looked down at Ruff.

“Okay, buddy, let’s try this one more time. Everyone’s been found, so how did they get in?”

“The batteruffs, you rufftard,” answered the cuddly dog, annoyed at having to explain this yet again.

“Fuck it, I’ll figure it out myself later.”

* * *

“Man, am I glad to see you,” said LakeRat, after Outlaw comically removed the duct tape from her mouth. “These fucking guys tied me up and put me in the trunk cause I said I like the cheesecake at Lindy’s better.”

“That doesn’t matter now,” said Outlaw. “What matters is what the fuck is going on here. Somehow, we’re inside an episode of ‘The Sopranos.’”

“Great, so it’s not just me that’s confused by the inordinate amount of overweight Italians.”

“Let’s just get away from here,” said Outlaw, noticing that Hesh had arrived back on the scene, and hearing ambulance sirens from around the corner. “Maybe we can find some answers.”

The two walked around the town, keeping as low a profile as possible, which was hard, since LakeRat didn’t have her hair sprayed into a solid Fran Drescher helmet, Outlaw weighed less than 380 pounds, and neither of them were dressed like a 70’s porno.

“Dammit, why couldn’t we have woken up in Kevin Smith’s New Jersey?” asked Outlaw, annoyed. “We could have hung out with Dante and Randal over at the Quick Stop until this was all over, and made fun of ‘Lord of the Rings’ fans.”

“Whatever, I’m starving. Let’s stop at that diner over there.” The two of them approached a small, silver, trailer shaped diner, much like those you see planted in the middle of the desert, far away from civilization. But then again, they were in New Jersey, so it kind of fits.

Right as they approached the edge of the diner, they watched Eugene Pontecorvo enter through the front. He accosted some fat guy who seemed to take up a side of a booth to himself. Before Outlaw and LakeRat even had a moment to process what was about to happen, Gene, plugged the poor bastard three times in the chest. Blood spattered the window, and Eugene walked out, as if he was delivering a paper. LakeRat screamed bloody murder, cause that’s what it was, as the lanky hitman left the diner. He turned his head and faced them.

“Hey!” LakeRat started running, with Eugene close on her heels. Outlaw attempted to follow, but fell off the pace and was a lap down before he knew it. It also didn’t help that as soon as the chase began, Outlaw spied Carmella Soprano driving by in a brand new Porsche.

“Hey, get back here!” Gene shouted. “You’re not supposed to react to me killing someone! That’s how we get away with this shit! I’m just supposed to shoot the fuck, then walk out, Michael Corleone style, and no one’s supposed to draw attention to it! Get back here!”

LakeRat continued to run like a woman possessed. She screamed as she ran, attempting to draw out any help she could, but no one would react. It was as if the whole state had turned a blind eye to violent crime. She made her way back to the small wooded park where Outlaw had originally come to. As she stepped into the wood, she felt a hefty shove on her back, and was knocked to the ground. As she looked up, she could see a fat guy jogging, and yelling back to her, “Hey, why don’t you watch where I’m going, you freaking mook. What, like you’re so special you gotta take up the whole walking path just standing around like some Kansas City faggot?”

She got up on one knee, only to find herself staring down the barrel of Gene’s gun. He cocked it, ready to place a bullet right into the center of her forehead. LakeRat began sobbing and whimpering.

“I’m sorry. I’m just a tourist. I didn’t know I wasn’t supposed to scream. Please forgive me.”

“Can it, bitch. Face it, you fucked up,” said Eugene. “Once you’re dead, I can finally move to Florida and retire.”

“For the love of God, don’t shoot me!” screamed LakeRat.

She heard the shot, but kept her eyes closed. She almost wondered if when she opened them, she’d see the clouds and pearly gates like she was told in Sunday school so long ago.

“Get up, you idiot,” came a familiar voice.

“Fusty?” she squeaked, hoping against hope.

“There, you happy now?” interjected Steve. “You finally got to say the intro line for the group. Now quit your bitching.”

LakeRat opened her eyes to find the assembled James Gang, with the exception of AllWhite, standing before her. Even Outlaw was with them, panting heavily and clutching a stitch in his side. Beside her lay the bleeding corpse of Eugene. Standing above it, Gene the Spleen, holding a freshly fired, still smoking pistol.

“There’s only room in this convoluted story for one Gene,” he said, lowering the gun.

“Dude, you killed Eugene,” said Bob, amazed.

“It’s okay. He was gonna off himself later in the episode anyway, after he found out that Tony wouldn’t let him retire. I read spoiler sites.”

“Where’d you get a gun?” asked LakeRat, shaking as she got to her feet.

“Does it really matter?” replied Gene, grinning.

“God, it feels like forever since we’ve done anything,” said Fusty.

fustyruk wrote:
God, it feels like forever since we’ve done anything.
”Yeah, well, HBO kept us waiting for this premiere for what, two years. So they deserve it for making us wait so long,” added Rards.

“Okay, so we’re all here, now, let’s get the fuck out of here,” said Pat, clearly not wanting to prolong this agony any further.

“For once, I’m actually in agreement with Pat,” added Sparky. “I want to go home already.”

“Fine, let’s talk to Wham and get this thing underway,” said Snarky. He walked over to the nearest tree, and tapped it with his fist. Instantly, the group was able to see Wham in his living room, along with Ruff. “I feel like Fonzy when I do that,” snarked the bear.

“How…” began Outlaw, but Steve put up his hand to silence him. “Kate, Biffy, take these two aside and deploy exposition.” And they did.

Steve focused his attention on the screen, and failing all other viable options, he just decided to go with his instinct. “Wham!” he yelled.

* * *

Wham heard Steve loud and clear. “What?”

“We’re all here, douchebag, now bring us back!”

“How the fuck do I do that? I still don’t know how you got in there.”

Gene joined the conversation. “Steve put my pacemaker batteries in your TV remote.”

“Ohhhhhhhhhhhh,” said Wham, retarded realization dawning. He looked down at Ruff. “You were saying ‘battries’ this whole time.”

Ruff looked up at him in disgust. “Stupid mother ruffer. I gotta go take a ruff.” The dog sauntered off to the bathroom yet again.

“Dude, you really gotta stop smoking weed,” said Steve. “We already told you this stuff two shows ago.”

Meanwhile, Wham was searching the living room frantically for the batteries he took out of the remote so long ago. As he bent over to look behind his couch, he heard gagging noises coming from the TV.

“For Christ sakes, Wham, pull your pants up,” he heard Treesa scream.

“You know you love it,” he gloated, coming back from behind the couch, Gene’s batteries in hand. He popped open the battery casing, pulled out the normal ones, and crammed Gene’s inside.

“Now what?” asked Wham, staring at the array of buttons.

“Well,” said Steve. “We all got sucked in when I hit ‘Enter.’”

“Right, got it.”

* * *

Steve watched the screen linking them to Wham turn black and disappear.

“What the fuck just happened?” yelled Pat. “Why aren’t we out of here?”

“I don’t know,” said Sass, “but this is getting really annoying.”

“Hey, I just thought of something,” said Frats. “The reason this all started was because Steve wanted to watch this show, the ‘Sopranos’ premiere. He said it was going to be on in five minutes. That’s why he grabbed the remote.”

“Your point?” interjected Trav.

“Well, that was several hours ago. How did we go from this show starting in five minutes to spending hours inside the TV, and just now getting here?”

“TiVo, bitch,” came a voice from behind them. The group turned around collectively, wondering who gave such a snarky answer. What they found was Wham, remote in hand, standing beside them.

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Join date : 2008-11-15

PostSubject: Re: James Gang Story Hour: The Sun Always Shines on T.V.   Sun Nov 22, 2009 9:24 am

Posted: Mon Aug 28, 2006 1:15 am


Episode 16: Season Finale

“What the fuck are you doing here?” yelled Narrator, shocking everyone by his use of profanity, and the fact that he hasn’t really spoken up for about five shows.

“Well, I was just strolling around northern Jersey, admiring the smell, no offense Treesa,” said Wham, “and I figured I’d just bend dimensions for a second by sneaking up on you while you were talking to me in reality. What the fuck do you think happened?”

“Great. Just fucking great,” interjected Kate. “One more shitty facet to this fucked up scenario. This is more convoluted than an Ann Coulter book.”

“Oh, go burn a bra,” said Bob.

“All right, fuckers, calm the fuck down!” shouted Steve. He continued, trying to remain calm himself, but audibly grinding his teeth. “Now what did you do Wham?”

“I hit the ‘Enter’ button like you said.”

“I see, and even though I specifically told you that hitting the ‘Enter’ button got us here, you somehow thought that ANY OTHER RESULT WOULD HAPPEN WHEN YOU DID THE EXACT SAME FUCKING THING?!” Steve lunged at Wham, ready to rip his skull off, but was thrown backwards by Gene. Lying on his back, Steve struggled for a moment while Gene pinned him down with his foot. After a moment, he calmed down.

“Damn, for someone with a debilitating heart condition, you’re pretty strong and fast.”

“That’s what your wife said,” snarked Gene. “Now can we all just get out of here? Wham has the remote with him. One of the buttons has to get us out of here. Let’s just high-tail it.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Wham retorted. “You guys have been in here all night having fun in all these shows. Meantime I’ve been running all over town thinking I’ve lost my mind, getting thrown out of places, and attempting to discern the ramblings of a dog with a speech impediment in between bouts of him depositing God knows what combination of bodily fluids in my fucking bathroom.”

“Bob gets sloppy seconds,” said Trav.

“Shut the fuck up!” Wham spat back. “You guys have been having all the fun all night.” He walked over to the now deceased Eugene’s car, and popped the trunk. Inside was an assortment of semi-automatic weapons. Handguns, Uzis, revolvers, and other very shiny guns that Wham couldn’t identify. He pulled a .45 out, slipped a clip inside, and cocked it.

“Now it’s my turn to have some fun.” He focused on the remote control in his left hand, cradling the gun in his right. Having never handled a gun before, he couldn’t believe at first how heavy it was. He studied the buttons on his remote, and hit a series in sequence. Looking up, he saw a blue square appear in front of him, with the message, “DVR deactivated.”

“Grab a gun everybody. It’s time to pause for a brief station break.” The James Gang rushed the trunk, grabbing everything they could, as the surroundings faded to black.

The scene rose and the Gang found themselves inside a shitty apartment. A young lady sat at the kitchen table. After a moment, a young man entered, presumably her boyfriend.

“Where have you been?” she asked.

“Well, we were driving home, eating a 99 cent Crispy Chicken Sandwich from Wendy’s, when all of a sudden, a unicorn stepped out in front of our van. We get out to look, and, it’s a real unicorn, and then—“

“So wait, there’s a 99 cent Crispy Chicken Sandwich at Wendy’s?”

“Okay, I’ve seen enough,” said Wham. The couple noticed him just in time for him to shoot the young man in the head. The woman screamed, and Wham backed her into a corner.

He shot her in the right leg. “You’re a moron if it’s the price of the sandwich that impresses you.”

He shot her in the left leg. “And it’s not even 99 cents. Unless you’re in Delaware or New Hampshire, there’s a sales tax, so it’s more like a buck fucking ten!”

He shot her in the chest. “And it’s a shitty sandwich.”

He pointed the gun at her head. “And oh yeah, it’s been around for more than two years. If it took this to make you notice, you’re even dumber than your dialogue.” Wham then plugged her in the head. “Damn that was cathartic!”

“Shit son,” said Pat. “Tarantino wouldn’t have been that sadistic. I’m impressed.”

“I’ve been wanting to do that for years. Do what tastes right motherfucker.”

The scene faded out again. When it arose, the group found themselves in a poorly lit chain restaurant. Rocket and Goddess looked around at the atmosphere while Wham made a beeline for two gentlemen with acoustic guitar and bass in the middle of the crowd.

“Just sit right back and you’ll grab some tail, the tails of some tasty shrimp,” they crappily sang.

Bang. Bang. The two fell. “Stop doing gay ass parodies of songs by dead people or from shows with dead casts.”

The group caught up just in time for Frats to opine, “I hate Applebees.”

“Maybe you should calm down on the wave of violence,” suggested Sassenach.

“Why? I ain’t killing anyone real. And I didn’t hear any complaining when the deaths of certain characters meant life for you guys earlier on.”

The surroundings faded to black again. When color resumed, a young child was sitting at a computer with his mom.

“AOL is so easy, even my dad can use it,” he grinned. Wham pistol whipped both of them. “Your dad bought you the fucking computer. Show a little respect you queef.” The group looked at him in shock. “What? I wasn’t gonna shoot a kid.”

The scene faded one more time. It came up on a brightly lit street. The Gang wondered what ad this was, until they were suddenly attacked by teenagers and young adults falling from the sky wearing some of the ugliest clothes imaginable.

“Go run, tell your cous-ON, that we go’n get our fash-ON!”

As the teenyboppers rose back up into the air, Wham aimed and fired. They fell out of the sky one by one.

“Your clothes all look like bull-SHIT, so I plug you with a bull-IT!” By this point, even Steve was hanging his head in shame at the lame lines and justifications Wham was coming up with to commit mass commercial murder.

When the scene faded in and out again, Wham did nothing.

“Finally, a commercial I like.”

“When she breaks up with your friend, she’s breaking up with you. Forever!” asserted Burt Reynolds.

“But what if she’s drop-dead gorgeous?” asked one of the men seated around this vast table.

“All right, six months.”

“Man Law,” they all shouted, raising a beer in toast. Shots rang out. One after another, the men fell dead in a row. The Gang turned to Wham, who looked as shocked as them. “What, I didn’t do it. I said I liked this ad.”

They all turned to the far left of the group, and saw Kate holding a smoking Uzi. She blew on the tip. “Fucking mysoginists.”

While the Gang’s collective jaw was dropped, Sass ran over to Wham, and snatched the remote from his hands. “If Kate gets to execute people, so do I.” She quickly punched a few buttons and changed the channel.

The Gang found themselves on the grass at Turner Field in Atlanta, GA. Sass dropped her revolver, took Kate’s Uzi, and ran for the visitors’ dugout. In one fell swoop, the entire roster of the New York Mets lay on the concrete, blood oozing down the drain like Gus Van Sant’s shitty remake of “Psycho.”

“15 Divisions in a row, bitch,” she spat. As she turned away from the amazing corpses, the crowd cheered uproariously, each of them chopping their hands down like idiots and chanting in ways that offend every living Indian in this country.

“Give me that,” said Rards, taking the remote, and for the first time, not having to quote anyone to prompt his own voice. He punched up C-Span. As soon as the channel tuned, he turned his sights on former president Bill Clinton, who was giving a speech alongside former president George H.W. Bush about Hurricane Katrina recovery efforts. He raised his gun.

“Liberal chubby chaser!” He fired the gun right into his throat. Clinton fell. Fusty came up beside him.

“Dude, you totally stole that from ‘Family Guy.’”

fustyruk wrote:
Dude, you totally stole that from “Family Guy.”
“Yeah, but it’s still a cool line,” added Rards.

“Well if you’re gonna kill Clinton, I got my own target,” said Fusty.

fustyruk wrote:
Well if you’re gonna kill Clinton, I got my own target.
“Don’t you dare,” said Rards. “It’s a federal offense to even joke about killing the president.”

“Who said anything about him?” grinned Fusty as he tuned the remote. When the scene changed, Fusty stood before a bony blonde woman with so much hate in her eyes it was clear she hadn’t been laid since the National Guard showed up at Kent State.

“All his promiscuity suggests latent homosexuality,” she said. Fusty plugged her in the chest. “Of course, all liberals are so violent that they’ll protest the war, but simply shoot someone who tells the truth.” He shot her again. “And any of them who claim to be from a working family,” she began, coughing up blood, “is unemployed, leeching off the government, and doesn’t believe in a family, unless it’s comprised of married gays adopting aborted stem cell fetuses while they secretly support Al Queda.” Fusty shot her again and again until his clip was emptied.

“Goodnight, Ann.”

“My turn,” said Ready, who we all thought was gone forever. Jeez, how long has it been since we’ve heard from her? She politely took the remote from Fusty and tuned it to the Home and Garden channel.

“Today, we’ll be looking at all the wonderful things that Ortho products, such as Bug-B-Gone, Weed-B-Gone, and WonderGro Plant Food can do.”

“This program brought to you by Ortho,” came a small voice-over after the host began. Before any other words could get out, Ready shot them both, once, square, middle of the forehead, Michael Corleone style.

“Damn, Ready. I didn’t know you had it in you,” said Wham, impressed. “Okay, who’s next?”

“Me,” said Gene. “Since they’re my batteries to begin with.” Gene turned on C-Span2, where a Congressional Hearing was going on.

“And Mr. Secretary, you insist that the Department of Veterans’ Affairs is doing everything possible to aid disabled veterans?” came a very skeptical John McCain.

“No, he’s not,” said Gene, silencing the secretary before he could speak. “Hey, you’re right, Wham, this is cathartic.”

“As long as we’re here, let me get my cut,” said Vegas. He lifted his gun, and shot Donald Rumsfeld, who was sitting in the next chair to the right, in the chest.

“Oh look, Rummy,” said Vegas, pointing to the tip of his gun barrel. “I found a smoking gun.” And with that, Rummy’s brains were splattered on the chair behind him.

“You think we’re getting too gruesome with this?” Wham asked Pat.

“Nah. In fact, I got an idea. Gimme that remote.” Pat took the remote, and turned it to MTV.

“What the fuck are we doing here?” asked Wham.

“Payback. Payback to the one thing that’s worked harder than anything else to destroy music as we know it. Cue the ‘Pulp Fiction’ music.” And it did. But instead of the movie playing, the Black Eyed Peas entered the scene, doing their stupid song that sampled the track.

“Good enough for me. I’ll shoot her in her humps, her humps, her humps, her humps, her humps.” Pat took care of the remake “Poseidon” band leader first, then the rest of them. The video ended quite abruptly at that point.

“What happened?” asked Pat.

“MTV hasn’t shown a full music video since 1995,” said Steve. He began to muse further, but the music fading in signaled a new video, and what little music there was was drowned out by the screaming rampage that was Treesa.

“I’ll be there for you. These five words I swear to you.”

“DIE FUCKER, DIE! YOU’VE GIVEN NEW JERSEY A BAD REPUTATION, WHICH IS EXCEEDINGLY DIFFICULT IN THE FIRST PLACE CONSIDERING HOW MUCH IT SUCKS. DIE!” Treesa emptied her clip in Jon Bon Jovi’s skull. Richie Sambora was electrocuted by the shock that was generated when he pissed his pants, and the piss conducted with his voice box microphone for his guitar that he deep throats like a cock while he’s ripping off Peter Frampton, and then the mic was in his mouth, which conducted the saliva, and fried his Heather Locklear dumping brain.

“My turn, my turn!” squealed Bob, like it was Christmas morning. He carefully took the remote from Treesa, who was still foaming at the mouth with satisfaction from killing Bon Jovi. He quickly tuned to C-Span, where he shouted, “Liberal chubby chaser!” while shooting Bill Clinton’s already bullet-riddled corpse.

“Uh, dude, you all there?” asked Wham.

“What, I wanted sloppy seconds,” Bob answered, as if it was normal activity to shoot already dead former presidents in an alternate reality. “Fine.” He changed the channel again, landing on a campaign ad for Hillary Clinton’s re-election bid in the Senate.

“Liberal driver of men to chubby chasing cause you won’t put out like you’re supposed to!” screamed Bob with no regard for grammar or syntax as he blew away the former first lady and future president. “Don’t call her ‘future president.’ That clearly shows a bias in your writing,” said Bob.

“Fuck you,” said Wham. “Who’s next?”

“That’d be me, Sonny,” said Snarky, who’s actually younger than Wham. The Breakdancing Bear turned on Comedy Central, and promptly placed a large amount of heated lead into the chests of Lisa Lampanelli and Jeffrey Ross.

“Do something besides these stupid roasts. You have way more talent than that!” he screamed.

“By the way,” said Trav, “which roast is this? Pam Anderson or Jeff Foxworthy?”

“I think it’s the Anderson roast,” Snarky responded, completely calm and collected again.

“Okay, just wanted to make sure.” Trav raised his gun and pulled a Kurt Coabain on his widow, placing the barrel of a shotgun in Courtney Love’s mouth, and pulling the trigger, splitting her head in two like the T-1000. “That’s for fucking around with Kurt’s music after he died, you no-talent bitch. Who the hell gets a claim to fame by doing Fleetwood Mac covers?”

“Dude, not cool,” yelled Wham. “I was gonna nail her after the show. All I would have had to do was put some coke on my dick and have her do a line.”

“Since we’re clearly at this point going to give everyone a kill shot, and we’re all just lining up to get face time at this point, I guess I’ll go next,” groaned Outsider, full of cynicism. “You know nothing about writing, fucker.”

He turned on a “Quantum Leap” rerun, and saw Dr. Sam Beckett doing something to save someone in the past who fucked up their life. “Oh boy,” said Outsider sarcastically, before he shot him square in the chest. “I guess your next leap won’t be the leap home.” He turned to the Gang. “Now that’s a snappy comeback, losers.” The group hit themselves in the head, creating a rather loud sound with the collective simultaneous smack.

Rocket took the remote next, and turned on Bravo. There, standing on stage, with James Lipton, was Norm MacDonald.

“Well, you know, I, uh, haven’t done anything funny for about a decade, there, and, uh, my life is, uh, well, basically nothing, you could say.”

“At this point,” said Rocket, “it’s a mercy killing.” She promptly shot Norm. Meanwhile, James Lipton was clapping like an idiot, as if this was all staged. “What a delight,” he said. Rocket shot him for the collective sanity of the world.

“Yeah, but what are you gonna do?” asked BBmom, grabbing the remote. She tuned it back to ESPN, where Brett Favre was giving a news conference.

“This is the best Green Bay Packers team I’ve ever been associated with,” he said. Mom shed a tear as she put a bullet between his eyes.

“Like you said, mercy killing,” she said. “If he’s delusional to think this bunch of underachievers is better than Reggie White and Javon Walker and all the others, he’ll never retire with dignity. It’s sad, but it had to be done.”

“Ooh, ooh, me next, me next,” shouted Outlaw, too excited for such things. He grabbed the remote and turned on a NASCAR race.

“We are live at Talladega Motor Speedway, where everybody’s wondering what, and who, will cause ‘The Big One.’”

“Yeah, that would be me,” said Outlaw, standing in the middle of the track. As two rows of cars approached at break neck speed, he unloaded two Uzis, one pointed at each row. He fired straight on, from behind, and even criss-crossed his arms, firing one round after another, as the cars drove by, their drivers took bullets, and then crashed as they passed him. Somehow, despite all this carnage, Outlaw remained unharmed.

“Gimme that,” said Wham, having had just about enough of this. He flipped to a random channel, landing on the movie, “Goodfellas.”

“Aww, sweet. I love this movie.” Joe Pesci, Ray Liotta, and Robert DiNiro each entered the room, talking back and forth.

“Hey man, forget you!” Pesci screamed, but the word “forget” didn’t really sync up with his lip movements, and it sounded like someone else had said it.

“Can you believe this flipping guy?” asked Liotta, same effect.

“Aw, spit,” said Wham, attempting to say, “shit.” “I must be in a censored cable movie. Piece of spit cable networks cut thirty plus minutes out of the film for commercials, then censor what’s in it, when they don’t even have to. It’s cable. We pay for it. They don’t even have to abide by the FCC, cause it’s not network. Ugh.”

Wham opened fire on the trio. The shot stayed focused on him firing the gun, but never showing the barrel of the gun, so no one ever saw the bullets come out. When the group was able to look at the trio again, they lay on the floor, dead, but with no visible wounds, and no blood. Wham grumbled as he flipped the remote to LakeRat, who changed the channel once more.

“Coming up, on ‘Big Brother All-Stars’…”

“NOOOOOOOOOOO!” She opened fire without hesitation, killing all the “reality” show “stars.” The world was done a great service.

“Okay, it’s been officially too long since I’ve done anything,” said Steve, clearly pissed at being ignored for so long. “Gimme that fucking thing.” He took the remote, and turned on HBO.

“Sweet,” he cried, seeing himself standing in the middle of the dirt road that runs through Deadwood.

“Y’all’s gonna die,” said one random western stereotype.

“No, y’alls gonna die,” said another.

“I can see why Steve likes this show,” said Wham.

“Shut up, bitch. You ain’t good enough to be my catcher.”

“Yeah,” said Bob. “That job’s taken.”

Steve grimaced at the mere thought of assembling what just happened, and instead focused his attention on his fantasy Mexican Standoff with all the cowboy morons. One by one, he shot them dead. He killed five in all, which was good, cause he happened to be an idiot and chose the gun that only had six bullets.

“This show sucks,” said Sparky. “Let me find something better.” Unfortunately, Sparky landed on some children’s anime.

“Ah, little yellow Japanese monsters,” Sparky screamed, firing at Pikachu. “Kill them. Kill them all!”

“Well, that was pointless,” said Kimber.

“Wow, I forgot you were even here,” said Bob.

“Yeah, so did Wham,” she replied.

The scene faded to another commercial break. Nicolas Cage appeared on the screen.

“This can’t be good,” sighed Kimber.

“I’m looking for this little girl,” said Cage, as wooden as he always is.

“This fall, his search will end,” came the crackly voice of Dan LaFontaine, the guy who does all those movie trailer voice-overs. Yeah, bet you didn’t know I knew that, huh?

“Nicolas Cage in ‘The Wicker Man.’”

“No way!” shouted Kimber. “We’re one ‘Last House on the Left’ away from remaking every single horror movie from the 70s. I won’t have it!” She blasted the shit out of Nick Cage, and drove a bayonet into the throat of Dan LaFontaine.

“Damn, usually it’s me that has to be indignant about crappy horror films,” said Pat.

“Yeah, but you already had your turn,” said Wham. “Speaking of which, who goes next, seeing as how I’m now abandoning all pretense and making sure we all get screen time at this point.”

“I guess it’s my turn,” said Frats, as the screen faded once more, signaling another commercial. They found themselves, as the lights rose, in a crowded office. An excited hot redhead came in with tons of shopping bags.

“All right, my kind of commercial,” he said, looking at the hottie high-fiving her hot coworker brunette friend.

“Do you think he’ll like me in the red or the black, cause he just asked me out?” She blew a kiss at a guy across the way.

“And you said, ‘yes?’” answered her friend.

“Looks like someone missed snack time,” said a random black guy in the background.

“Eat McDonald’s Snack Wraps.”

“What the fuck is this?!” exclaimed Frats. “What’s wrong with that guy? Why is it such a travesty that he asked you out? He ain’t ugly. He ain’t dorky. He looks like an okay dude. Why should you be ashamed about the prospect of fucking him? And what the fuck does this have to do with a chicken finger wrapped in flat bread?!” He had enough, and blew the brunette and the black guy away. He then turned his gun on the redhead. “Fuck him, or die, you elitist bitch!” She wrenched the gun from his hands, and shot herself. The poor rejected man came over to Frats.

“I don’t get it, dude,” said Frats, picking up the gun. “Why doesn’t she like you?”

“I have herpes,” he said nonchalantly.

“Oh, right.” And then Frats shot him. “Next!”

Biffy stepped up and changed the channel. “Tonight, go behind the drama leading up to the worst terror attack in our history. Join us tonight, for this special television event, ‘9/11: The Day That A Bunch Of People Died.’”

“Oh hell no!” said Biffy. “As a respected member of the film art community, I won’t stand for this!” She started shooting everyone that came on the screen. It didn’t matter their involvement in this made for TV shitfest. They all had to die! “And by the way, since when is everything on TV an event? The D-Day invasion, that’s an event. The World Series, that’s an event, at least when the Yankees aren’t involved. But a new episode of ‘Girls Next Door’ is not a motherfucking event!” She continued shooting until the scene faded into yet another commercial break.

A cartoon guy in a suit came in dressed like Uncle Sam. “Hey, Mr. Opportunity here. This Fourth of July, do what our founding fathers would do. Stop in to your neighborhood Nissan dealer.”

“What?!” screamed Goddess, gun raised. “Since when would Washington and Lincoln drive a fucking Japanese car? For fuck’s sake, Lincoln’s got a car named after him!” She shot the animated spokesperson, and all the extras in the fake dealership. “Someone change the channel already!”

“All right,” said JBCoops. He flipped to a random channel, and landed on a random syndicated rerun of “Boston Public.”

“Aw, this show sucked,” he said, shooting Chi McBride. “This show was a complete mockery of the educational system I poured my heart and soul into. Someone take this remote from me and change the channel. Besides, Chi McBride was way better in ‘Desmond Pfeiffer.’”

“Will do,” said Narrator. He took the remote, and flipped it to Fox, just in time for another commercial.

“We here at Fox want to remind you about the V-Chip, and parental controls on your TV.”

“What do you know,” said Wham. “Ironically, we landed on something that makes sense for the guy who picked it. I guess it just goes to show—“ Whammon was cut off by the sound of gunshots, and the Fox voice-over guy choking on his own blood.

“I don’t put up with hypocritical bullshit,” said Narrator. “If it wasn’t for Fox, we wouldn’t need the V-Chip. And the only reason they believe in the FCC is because Rupert Murdoch funds the Republican Party that put Colin Powell’s son in power over it.”

“Right,” said Wham. “Well, I’ll just take the remote back now that everyone’s got to go. I wonder what’s on next.” Right on cue, another voice-over guy came on. How many of them does Fox have in storage?

“Coming up next on Fox, the Teen Choice Awards, with a special live performance by Kevin Federline.”

“All the little girlies used to call me K-Fed. Now they call me daddy instead.”

No one was sure which gun’s bullets hit him first. All the Gang knew was that by the time they were done firing, there was only a pile of blood, organs, and a dirty askew hat on the stage. Britney Spears still ran on stage drunk and tried to fuck it while the baby was in one of those holsters on her back.

“Okay, enough’s enough,” said Wham. “Time to end this madness.” He studied the buttons on the remote one more time, and, crossing his fingers, he pressed the button marked, “Exit.”

A green ray enveloped the group, and they knew nothing.

When they opened their eyes, they were back in Wham’s apartment.

“Woohoo!” screamed Bob, giddy like a confused thirteen year old altar boy when his priest fondles him for the first time. “We finally got out of the TV!”

“It sure is good to be home,” said Kate. “Everything back to normal again.”

“Hey Steve,” said Pat, holding up a plate in a tempting fashion.

“NACHOS!” exclaimed Steve, jumping on the plate.

“All right, you stupid libs, what the fuck just happened?” The group turned around in shock at those words, and at the source of them standing amongst them.

“AllWhite, you’re alive,” said Rocket, stating the obvious.

“Of course I’m alive, you fucking nig lib,” he said. “I don’t know what the fuck you traitors were doing, but you missed all the fun.”

“What do you mean?” asked Wham, sticking his hands in his pockets.

“Well, I remember being on some beach, with some stupid libs and a towel head,” said AllWhite, recalling his adventures on “Lost.” “Then I was in this beautiful place. There were clouds, and angles, and this nigger in a robe was serving me water that he turned into wine.”

The group looked at each other and smiled.

“Well,” said Wham. “Anybody want any pizza?”

“Are you fucking kidding?” said Steve. “We’re getting the fuck out of here, and we’re never coming back. Later cockstain.”

“Ruff, yeah, you stupid mother ruffer,” said the heretofore absent and silent talking dog. “And by the ruff, by using me in this storuff, you’ve violated Zvon’s copyruff, and he’ll see you in court.” The dog sauntered out of the apartment.

One by one, the James Gang left Wham’s apartment, taking their coats as they went. Some said their goodbyes, others just wanted to get the hell out as quickly as possible. As he was leaving, Gene patted his chest.

“Hey, Wham, where are my batteries?”

“Hold on,” he said. Whammon opened up the back of the remote control, but the batteries were gone.

“Where’d they go?” asked Gene.

“Were they destroyed?” asked Pat.

“I guess some mysteries are better left unsolved,” said Wham.

“Right then. I’ll just have Steve take me to the hospital for some replacements on the way home. Goodnight, Wham.” And with that, Pat, Gene, and Steve left.

After a few moments, it was just Wham and AllWhite.

“Where the fuck is my coat, lib?” he demanded.

“Oh, yeah, it’s in the bathroom,” said Wham. Wham walked into the kitchen to start cleaning up, as AllWhite stepped into the bathroom. Wham darted for a place to hide as he heard AllWhite scream, “What the fuck happened to my coat?!”


H-Town Steve took the plate of nachos home to his wife, where they had hot, greasy food sex. Or at least, that’s what Steve bragged about for the next week, in more disgusting detail than anyone wanted or asked for.

PatDaddy77 was commissioned by Troma Studios to make the goriest horror film ever. Lloyd Kaufman himself was impressed as Pat raked in millions with his gorefest, “Britney Fucks Kevin’s Corpse.”

AllWhite was arrested six months later for attempting to assassinate Senator Barack Obama. As he was dragged away, reporters heard him scream, “He’s a nig, he’s a lib, and his name rhymes with Osama, he’s gotta be a terrorist!”

Gene the Spleen made a full recovery from his heart condition, and went on to win awards for his Internet animations. Just before that happened, monkeys flew out of Steve’s ass.

Kate continued her crusade for equal rights, liberal interests, feminism, and human rights. Then she met a wonderful man with a nine inch penis, and never protested again. Turns out all she needed was some serious deep dicking.

Fustyruk became the first Independent candidate for president to win more than five electoral votes. His campaign slogan: “I swear I’m not a democrat.”

Rards went on to become a self-made millionaire by selling his services freelance to courtrooms all over the country as the world’s first machine-less stenographer.

TravInChains left the James Gang board for months at a time, only to come back every once in a while to complain about how much modern music sucks, as well as old music, basically anything not from Seattle in the 1990s.

RedBob86 finally got sloppy seconds, right after Willam saw the sailboat.

The Outsider launched his own line of self-help and instructional books, in an effort to combat the fad success of the “Dummies” books. Currently, he’s developed a niche for his “Dude, You Know Nothing About…” series.

Goddess63 faded back into obscurity, and was only ever seen again on the back of milk cartons. The search is still on, but it’s hard to find a woman who looks like a stick figure.

Narrator continued his radio career until satellite conglomerates bought out his station and replaced him with a Howard Stern robot. He is now paid minimum wage to push random buttons that make the robot make fart jokes, sexist jokes, racist jokes, and pretend to have a boner at hot naked chicks.

Rocket88 won season tickets to the Texas Longhorns football team. Unfortunately, the team was overrun with Mexican immigrants, and minutemen shot them all. She is currently begging Vince Young to leave the NFL and come back for just 18 more years.

Sparky McSlapnuts remains happily married in the suburbs of Kansas City, where there are no actual sports teams to distract the happy couple.

Frats went back to college and returned to his fraternity. At last check, he was hazing pledges by making them sleep with the chicks from the fat girl sorority, Epsilon Alpha Tao.

LasVegasGuy got sick of all the jokes about his hometown. He has since moved to a town with far fewer jokes, and changed his name to SanFranciscoGuy.

Biffy86’s horror movie was finally released on DVD. She now does commentary for it on her spare time, which is, sadly, every waking hour of every day. Yeah, talk about a career peak.

Sassenach finally came to terms with the fact that the Atlanta Braves won’t make the playoffs this year, much less win the division. She has since killed the Philadelphia Phillies.

Treesa went about her daily life. I have no joke here. We just miss her. Come back Treesa. I promise not to make fun of Jersey more than four times a day.

Ready stayed the night with her daughter in Connecticut. Wham kidnapped them both. She’s being returned to her family, one finger at a time, until the ransom is paid.

Kimber now runs a pet store featuring pets that perform tricks and stunts. This month’s special: rabbits who fuck balloons.

Snarky the Bear took his break dance moves to the big time, auditioning for “So You Think You Can Dance.” He was eliminated when a scandal broke out, revealing he doesn’t smoke pole.

JBCoops won Teacher of the Year, amongst the members of his own family.

BBmom finally got to the front of the line for Packers season tickets. It took exactly fourteen years. The day she cashed them in, Brett Favre retired.

LakeRat continued to support her husband LabRat’s home business. Once the minimum wage was raised, thousands of people lived better lives, and LakeRat never noticed. Turns out she had absolutely nothing to worry about. Although, she’s still a little edgy around anyone whose name ends in a vowel.

Outlaw closed his personal body shop to take a job as a crew member of a NASCAR team. Within four years, his driver became an absolute cockstain, so he started driving the car himself. His amazing life story is chronicled in the new movie: “Talladega Nights, The Ballad of Ricky Bobby.”

Ruff went to rat on Wham to Zvon, but was picked up by a local dog catcher. He now lives a happy, free life, chasing birds and rats for an old lady who thinks he’s a cat.

And as for Whammon…

With AllWhite sufficiently pissed off about the state of his jacket, Whitey left the apartment. Finally alone, Wham stuck his hand back into his pocket. Pulling it out, he opened his hand to reveal Gene’s missing pacemaker batteries. He placed them carefully into his remote, and changed the channel one last time. He then pressed “Enter” with a sly grin on his face.

“You are watching The Spice Channel,” came a sultry female voice.

As the green light enveloped him again, one word could be discerned from Wham’s mouth.


The end.
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