Sunday, March 22, 2009

Ladies and Gentlemen, Mr. Jon the Intergalactic Gladiator and Dr. Mrs. The Monarch.

Dr. Mrs. The Monarch: Thank you.

Jon The Intergalactic Gladiator: I wasn’t sure if I’d see you here tonight, Dr. Mrs. The Monarch, but I had a hench that I would.

Dr. Mrs. The Monarch: Wow, that was awful.

Jon The Intergalactic Gladiator: Yeah, I was just following the TelePrompTer. It’s good to see you though, and hear your voice in person.

Dr. Mrs. The Monarch: What about my voice?

Jon The Intergalactic Gladiator: Well nothing, it’s husky you know. You sound kind of like Kathleen Turner on steroids.

Dr. Mrs. The Monarch: What about your voice? You sound like a squeak toy with some kind of nasal problem.

Jon The Intergalactic Gladiator: Hey!

Dr. Mrs. The Monarch: Good thing you’re an Intergalactic Gladiator, whatever that is. Your voice definitely isn’t cut out for broadcasting.

Jon The Intergalactic Gladiator: Alright alright, let’s just get back to the script.

Dr. Mrs. The Monarch: Merriam-Webster’s defines a henchman as a trusted follower: a right-hand man, a political follower whose support is chiefly for personal advantage, or a member of a gang.

Jon the Intergalactic Gladiator: Whether the boss needs a new hideout built into a volcano, his sworn enemy exterminated, or when he’s just jonesing for a double bean burrito from the local Taco Mat, the henchman is the trusted lackey who he turns to.

Dr. Mrs. The Monarch: Unfortunately, the life of a henchman is a dangerous one. They face high technology weapons, cunning adversaries, and occasionally the wrath of their boss.

Jon The Intergalactic Gladiator: At this time, it is our privilege to remember those from the Union who have fallen in the past year.

Dr. Mrs. The Monarch: Thank you.

Monday, March 16, 2009

The Finale

"Welcome everybody. Its lovely to see the staduim packed out like this. Lets hear a cheer for all the great contestants." enthuses Lin.
"Whatever!" cries Kon-el.
"Take it off!" screams another.

Off stage Henchy and I watch as Lin continues to try and encourage the audience to show some sense of enjoyment. The two of us look out onto the dissalusioned gathering of freaks and degenerates.
Henchy turns to me in his tuxedo and gives me a look of bemusement.

"Dude this is the worst crowd, ever." he states dissapointedly.
"Well what do expect? This were all who answered our invitation and they only came because they think Lin is Lindsay Lohan." I reply. "That and the lifetime supply of our one and only sponsor."
"Urinal Mats. Ugh!" Shivers Henchy as we turn our attention to the stage and Lin's attempts at warming up the audience.

"Well with no further ado lets introduce the twin towers of worlds toughest henchmen. Captain Koma and Henchy!" enthuses Lin uging the lame audience to clap. They don't.

The two of us join Lin on stage. The silence is such that I can clearly hear Kon-El chatting up the Jessica Alba look a like.
"Hey baby I'm fast as a speeding bullet in everything but where it matters." he sleazes.

"Uh-hum." I cough trying to get the audiences attention. "Worlds Toughest Henchmen is one of the most toughest reality game show ever envsioned. It was an honour to judge it. Of course you all want to know who won and what they get. The actual winner was hard to choose. Both Bennet and Gyrobo..."

"Just get on with it man!" screams the fat geek behind Kon-El. "I'm missing Sailor Moon."

"Try miss this!" screams Henchy and he throws the winners trophy at the fat geek.

The trophy was made out of a steel alloy with gold paint. It was pretty heavy and Henchy's over powered cypbernetic arms can throw very hard. The result wasn't brilliant for the geek. The trophy embeded itself in the Fat Geeks head. Blood spurting about all over.
The Jessica Alba look a like screamed and ran off. This made Kon rather angry.

"Henchy! I was so in there." yelled Kon.

"As if you were." snapped the Fat geek. "Now if one of you could please take me to a hospital so I can get this removed."

We did take the geek to hospital. As the trophy was removed from his head the geek asked the doctor if he could see it one last time. The doctor showed the geek the trophy.
"What! I don't bleieve it." cried the geek. "Thats not true... Thats impossible!"

"Whats wrong?" asked the doctor.

"Gyrobo was the winner." howls the geek. "I bet my Star Wars Collectables that it was Bennet."

Monday, March 9, 2009

Gonna make you sweat

Like wow! That was amazing both of you gave your all. These were posts of high quality and you both deserve to win.

However the head henchman here has ordered me to hold back on any hasty judgement right now. He's told me to wait a week to expand the length of the game, give us some time to reallt think about who should win. And give the other players who are not in the final some time to post their own opinoins on who won and why. But really all its for is one reason.

Thats right we're gonna make you sweat.

We'd love any posts from the other players with their thoughts on who should win the final and why. Of course you should be offering real critiscism and not just lamabsting the finalist.
Than again who am I kidding of course you all going to take the piss and say you should have been in the final. So let the sweating begin.

Mission Eight: Dancing with the Star Wars

"Oh, my God, Dad!" Claire replied, "I am so not going to my prom with that loser!"

"That loser," I explained, "happens to be the biggest number two in the galaxy."

"Like, whatever! He's, like, got asthma and stuff. So, uncool."

There was no way I could change her mind. If there's one thing I know about cheerleaders, it's that they don't date anyone from the Star Wars universe. That meant I'd have to actually put some effort into this challenge. Lord Vader wants a prom, and I'm going to have to give him one.

Unfortunately, prom happens to be a very expensive ordeal. Fortunately, before he left, I pickpocketed $1,262.13 from Jon.

"This place is perfect," I said to the Administrator. "I want to book it for Vader's prom."

"Sure thing," the charming official replied, "Now, let's just discuss the fee."

"The fee?" I rubbed my chin in preparation for the upcoming negotiation tango that, being in the paper business, I'm all too familiar with. "How much did you have in mind?"

"Well, let's see..." he began. "How much do you have on you?"

"One thousand, two hundred and sixty-two dollars and-" Luckily, I caught myself as I made the fatal faux pa. Thinking quickly, I managed to minimize the damage. "And no cents," I coolly finished.

"Well, then," he replied, "That just so happens to be what I charge for something like this."

And so I obtained a venue, the wonderful Cloud City, for Lord Vader's big night of romantic awkwardness and sweaty armpits.

The 2009 Enchantment in the Clouds Dance

Finally, the big day arrived. "Rise and shine, Romeo," I called out as I entered Vader's Meditation/Life Support Chamber.

"I don't want to go to prom!" he replied, still in bed.

"What? Why not?"

"What's the point?" he sobbed. "Padme's not here."

"There are other fish on the buffet," I offered. "In fact, I got just the girl for you."

"You do?" the dark lord replied, rising from his bed. "Like who?"

"TV Personality, Melissa Rivers."

"She has a meditation slash life support chamber, too!" I added.

He looked at the picture and screamed, "NooOocoOoOoOOOO!!!!"

"How about not ever doing that again?" I said. "Calm down. I've got a back up girl you'll love. Just get into the limo. She'll be at the prom."

The truth was there was no back up girl.

"Listen," I said on the limo ride over. "Looks like we're going stag to this prom thing. But don't worry. I'm a great wingman."

"What?" Vader seemed annoyed. "I wanted to get laid tonight!" The limo's liquor bottles began to shake.

"Calm down," I said. "I'll walk you through it. We'll get you a woman." I gave him a shot of vodka as we pulled into the parking lot.

Vader entered the building confidently. "We're getting laid tonight. I can feel it," he announced. "There'll be no one to stop us this time."

We started off casually. We made our way around the room, scoping out the possibilities.

Darth Vader came to a halt. "Obi-Wan is here," he said, "The Force is with him."

I looked over to see an old drunk dancing alone.

Then, I noticed a scantily-clad woman standing by herself against the wall. She was holding a glass of punch and looked ready to be swept off her feet. "There's your girl," I said.

"I don't know," Vader said. "Maybe we should..uh, mingle some more first."

"Don't chicken out on me, man!" I said grabbing him by the shoulders. "The worst she can do is say no. Just go up to her and ask her to dance."

Vader pumped himself up with a few words, and I gave him a pat on the back as he walked toward the girl.

"May I have this dance?

The girl took Vader's hand, and they both moved onto the dance floor. I watched happily from afar.

"It makes me wish I had a son," I thought aloud.

As the night drew to an end, Vader came up to me. "The girl is great," he told me. "She wants to get out of here, and I told her we could take the limo. Do you think you could find a way home?"

"Sure," I said, seeing the hopeful gleam in his mask's shiny eye bulges. Our little Sith lord was about to become a Sith man. "Use the Force," I called out, "and protection."

Yertle the Squirtle

PARENTAL WARNING: This story should only be read to children who have a 5 O’clock shadow and exhibit symptoms of cantalouping.

Turtle! Turtle!
“Can anyone tell me,” I berated Team Rocket,
“Why your boss hired third-party thugs out-of-pocket?
Are you hiding your numbers? You can’t be this dumb…
After more than a decade, your total is none?”

They looked down at the ground and they shuffled their feet
And they once more recounted their tales of defeat:
It was always the same, the same boy with his hat,
The same shocking conclusion, the same yellow rat.

I’ve never quite seen such an unbroken streak
Of magnificent failure! What horrid technique!
So I preached them the merits of switching careers
As we sat by the lake and it filled with their tears.
“Your problem’s in planning, you must keep things plain—
Why not sneak up at night and just bash Ash’s brain?”

My advice became shouts and I yelled until purple—
And that’s when we noticed an everyday turtle.
Just an everyday turtle who shouted its name
As it waddled past quickly, along the marsh grain.
It sat down and relaxed by the edge of the shore
And ignored us quite well as it started to snore.

I slapped my fat forehead as if sprayed by bear mace:
“Can’t you see with your eyes what’s in front of your face?
Can’t you see that that turtle that lays on those rocks
With his unfettered spirit and striped purple socks
Is the prey you’ve pursued far and wide yet not near
For lo! this last decade, plus three extra years?
They say you’re the worst, so prove you’re the best!
Are you honcho or hoodwink of Pokémon theft?”

The three smiled with hands wrung together like chains
As they thought up a plan, and they went to great pains
To construct a machine of Rube Goldberg descent
To capture this creature beneath a great tent.

Now, the tent was substandard and the clunky machine
Was so gaudily painted I thought it obscene.
The pistons were wooden, the girders were bent
And a family of opossums was lodged in the vent.
But the fools were just sure it would capture their pet—
Though I’d’ve just scooped the thing up in a net.
They flipped a blue lever. The machine hissed and swayed
And the turtle woke up and it wandered away.

The tent fell to the ground with a slip and a tumble
And the creaky contraption collapsed into rubble.
And the turtle was laughing! It laughed from the lake!
It laughed at my students! My pride was at stake!
Without thought to the law or with thought of myself
I hurled myself skyward toward the sea shelf.
With Jessie in one hand and James by the foot
And Meowth on my coattails we crashed the sea roof.

We needed no catch-phrase to swat out that bug.
No nonsense of starflight, nor scorning of love.
We beat-boxed that turtle, it took seven hours—
But after we caught him, we’d harness those powers.
Those powers that fought us to the edge of the brink…
Until mid-morning’s generous armistice drink.
We ceased our attacks and retracted our blades
And for forty-four minutes no battle-hymns played.
But on the forty-fifth minute I broke off the deal—
And I broke more than that with my boots, shod in steel!

With a final sick wheeze, it gave up the ghost
And the turtle’s shell crumbled like overdone toast.
We captured it quickly and contained it by purse
Until it could be tended by a pink-headed nurse.

Soon the turtle’s shell shone— it was healed and grew finer,
And they auctioned it off and bought South Carolina.
But when Jessie and James sealed the state’s borders,
Their boss caught wind and summoned his lawyers.
Thanks to twelve briefs in a rude contretemps,
Jessie and James now collect workman’s comp.

And what of the turtle that caused this dispute?
As far as I care, it’s been turned into soup.
My contract is up, so it’s time now, it seems,
To unfurl our sails and drift into our dreams.

Good night.

Tuesday, March 3, 2009


Ladies and Gents,

It's now time for the Final.

However, we need in make a cut. Since Bennet won the last challenge. That means either Gyrobo or Match have to leave the show.

I want to thank both of these fine beings for showing up and doing their best. Sorry, but someone gots to go.

Who will that be?




I thank you, but you are not tough enough.

On to the final challenge. I have made two different challenges for each of you.

Bennet; You make a prom for someone who has never had the chance to go to his. Meaning, you most come up with the venue, theme, guest and prom date...
For Darth Vadar.

Gyrobo; You must help...
Team Rocket

Catch a Pokemon and get approved for unemployment.

Best of luck to both of you.

Dental for all.

Raptor Jesus rules.

Monday, March 2, 2009

Judging with a little help...

Well that was the best round since, ever.

The three of you all stood up and boldly pushed yourself to the max. You gave it all you had and strained until breaking point to bring your 'A' game to this challenge. As your judge I am totally impressed with all three of you. It was a trimunative of stellar posts. A trifecta of trifectas. A wonderful tour de force of pop culture and social comentry.

But unfortunately there can only be one winner. I can't award the three of you as the winner because then what kind of judge would I be. Thats right this kind.

So onto your judging so I'd better get the right music on.

I love MC Cat

Okay now I've got the right music on I can judge you all.

Match - For you opposites dont attract but don't worry I'm quite sure that Fury will be Forever your girl. Nice work with the Skrulls and the violence was cool. Still you rambled a bit again. Pickup the action man get the pace. Rememeber like Paula sings - Shut up and Dance.

Gyrobo - Ah Taft. Even in Australia we represent for Taft. If only he didn't get infected with Skrully selfishness. The time conundrum worked too. Love your work as always. Also loved your pic with Jon IG. The small Taks were a great touch. Entertaining and confounding yours is a talent we all live in awe of.

Bennet - There's a bit of a resemblance between you and Rummy. Were you adopted? Makes sense with the adoption of your own daughter.
Nice way to get into the Raft and then get caught. Shows that your willing to take risks. Henchmen need to know that they are ultimately expendable. Also you killed reall heroes and not unknown guards, love your work.

Okay now who's won. Who's scored immunity and goes straight into the finals.

I'll give you a clue. He's got his own action figure. He's got a rather short but hot daughter. He also goes by the letters H R and G.
Bennet wins

Mission Seven: Escapism

For years I have been containing superhumans in a prison in the basement of a paper company. Surely The Raft wouldn't be much different. That meant I had an advantage. I knew exactly what to expect. This would be like fighting myself. Simple. Easy. I'm a pushover.

"Hello," I said extending my hand.

The warden of The Raft shook my hand and responded, "Good to meet you."

"As I said on the phone, I'm with a very top secret paper company," I explained, "and, well, we'd like to borrow a few Skrulls for a while; we need test subjects for our enhanced interrogation techniques."

"Skrulls, eh?" He rubbed his head. "I don't know. I mean, they're worse than Muslims. They're like Muslims on Red Bull. Have you ever seen an overly-caffeinated suicide bomber?"

I shook my head.

"Pray you don't, son. Pray you don't."

"Can I see where you're keeping them?" I asked.

"Sure," he replied. "Follow me."

Warden Rumsfeld led me down a long and heavily-guarded corridor and into an elevator. He inserted his ID card into a slot and entered in a passcode on the numberpad. Then, we were in motion. "So, did you see The Sopranos finale?" I asked.

Before he could answer, the elevator stopped.

"Nice," I said as we stepped out into the cold concrete facility. "This looks just like what we had, uh, have back at Primatech. What is that? Anti-power Plexiglas?"

"The forty-eight hundred series," he replied, "not out on the public market yet."

I tapped on the Plexiglas in amazement. The inmate on the other side snarled and banged all four of his fists against it.

"Here you are," Rumsfeld showed me an empty cell.

"There are no Skrulls in there," I observed.

"This is your cell, Noah," he pulled out a microphone and began dictating orders to the prison staff.

"No! You can't lock me up," I complained, raising a finger. "I'm a very important person, middle management even."

"Sometimes even middle management is expendable," he replied.


I awoke in dull pajamas, like most mornings.

"Well," I said aloud, "I guess I lost this challenge."

"Don't give up yet!" the Plexiglas said.

"Whaaa?" I was not only confused, but quite bewildered as well.

"Shhhh!" it commanded. "Not so loud."

"They think this cell is empty," the bed added.

"But it's not," said the Hello Kitty poster.

"Wh-who...what are you?"

"We're Skrulls," Hello Kitty poster explained. "Here, you'll need me."

Before my eyes the Hello Kitty poster transformed into a handgun. "If there's one thing I love more than Hello Kitty, it's firearms," I said picking up the mysterious talking weapon.

The Plexiglas and bed transformed into lizardy-looking humanoids. "How'd your aim?" one of the creatures asked of me.

"I never get anything on the toilet seat," I replied.

"Great," he responded. "We've been waiting for a marksman for some time. Our last escape attempt ended with three deaths and an injury from friendly fire.

"Well, let's do this," I said, cocking the pistol.

We exited the cell and began our escape. Soon we were confronted by Donald Rumsfeld. Now, he had back up with him.

"Stop there, criminal!" Captain America ordered.

"I'd say you're going to the big house," Spider-Man said, "but you're already here."

"Do something!" one of the Skrulls shouted, and then they transformed into various furniture and went into hiding.

Asking myself, "What would Jesus do?" I pulled the gun and fired three shots.

As he bled slowly to death, Captain America mumbled, "Wh-why...did you...have to have...a gun?"

The Skrulls, now having transformed back into their usual selves, walked up to me. "Wow," one said, "It's so easy if you just shoot them instead of your own people."

I shot him.

He fell to the ground dead, and I said, "It's about the same."

As we exited the facility, my gun transformed back into a Skrull. We arrived at the A.I.M. base shortly after, and the Skrulls were on their way home.

♪ Get Out of Raft with Taft ♫

This post is brought to you by The Government.

Buy War Bonds!
“Washington declined a third term. Grant was denied a third term. Roosevelt demanded a third term.”

“So don’t I deserve a second term?” Boomed history’s heaviest U.S. President, William Howard Taft.

Pulled from primeval 1912 to the present day, he took up two seats and destroyed our mileage.

“Is he going to complain about Teddy Roosevelt the whole ride?” Travis asked under his breath, shooting me daggers.

“Teddy!” wailed Taft.

“Now we’re going to have to stop for chocolate. Thanks, Travis.” I folded my arms. My prison guard uniform chaffed.

“Why is he here anyway? We don’t need him…”

That’s a little like asking Picasso why the Mona Lisa only has one ear.

“SUBMITTED,” I began, “that our most honorable mission is to mount a Skrull jailbreak from Raft, the prison for superhumans. Taft knows more about breaking out of Raft than anyone — his campaign slogan was ‘Get out of Raft with Taft.’”

“Actually,” Taft twirled his out-of-date moustache, “it was ‘get in a raft with Taft.’”

“That’s the easy part.” I pressed the camouflage button on the hovercraft’s dashboard. Immediately, our vehicle morphed into an exact replica of the prison transport we’d run off that bridge five miles back.

“Taft?” Travis looked back, “This is your last chance to back out.”

His rubicund face contorted thus: “Perish the thought! Teddy’s not the only one as strong as a bull moose! I can handle any burden.” He flexed, and the buttons held.

The prison rose as the temperature fell. Though it was midday, searchlights shone upon the perimeter, illuminating God only knows what. Desperation, fear and a touch of madness emanated psychically over the reinforced walls and turrets. A thousand and one deadly traps lay waiting in the foliage, and the air smelt of decay. Above, the sky was an ugly inky black, and the clouds twisted meanly.

We pulled to a stop. Travis spritzed himself with prison-grade cologne and I rehearsed my lines again, as the drawbridge crashed down over a glowing purple moat. We could not cross, as Travis’s MERE PRESENCE would set off the hypnosis alarm. Guards armed to the teeth with riot gear spilled out, ready for a prisoner transfer.

I climbed out and shook hands with the warden (I assumed he was the warden, he wore only the finest purple linens and silks), clasping his wrist firmly.

“I’m master bounty hunter Mongrel Jones, and this is special agent Perry Nöel.”

“Bonjour,” Travis waved.

“We’re here to conduct the peaceable transfer of one, W. H. Taft, to the prison Raft.” I stifled a chuckle at the rhyming goodness.

The warden frowned at his clipboard. “There are 20 prisoners scheduled for today, but none of them are named—”

“This is the prisoner you’re scheduled for,” Travis declared, briefly flashing a whistling hypnotic spiral with Obi-Wan-like ease. The guards stumbled, almost falling over from the sheer power.

“Is it?” The warden mumbled. The mind-veil had taken! Travis’s aim was improving; the last time this feat had been attempted, there had been no survivors.

“Get up, you great lump!” I commanded of the time-marooned president. Taft shambled out of the backseat, his arms and legs shackled together. As the searchlights hit his orange jumpsuit, sweet memories of James & The Giant Peach floated to the forefront of my mind.

“Stop yelling at me!” Taft shielded his eyes, but I could see he loved the attention. Our needlessly complex plan was ONLY one third of the way completed, but the allure of a job well done kept me on the straight and narrow.

“This is… who did you say this was again?” The warden searched his clipboard. Someone should take that away from him.

“Willy Taft,” I clucked, tapping the president’s back with my plastic baton. “Caught just outside the Shire Sunday night. It took more than an outraged band of halflings to take down this blue elephant,” I pointed to his tusk-like moustache, while simultaneously referencing his left-wing and Republican affiliations. “He gored three hobbits and an orc.”

Taft loudly chewed his own cuds while the warden finalized the paperwork. “What powers does the inmate posses?”

Only those delegated by the constitution, I held back. “Laser breath, microwave eyes, etc.”

The guards nodded, “That’s pretty common.”

“Yeah. Garden variety.”

“How pedestrian.”

“I’ve seen bigger.”

“We’ll just be on our way then,” I snapped the completed paperwork from the warden’s still-shaking hands. Travis and I packed back into the camouflaged hovercraft and sped away. Out of the corner of my eye, Taft gave us a covert wink as they slipped a laser-proof drool collar on and led him inside the fortress.

“So what’s the plan now?” Travis asked, clasping his hands tighter to the wheel as we passed safely beyond surveillance range. “Have Taft start a fight while we sneak in through the sewers? Stage a public protest against Taft’s imprisonment and have some incensed hippies tear the walls down? Or do you plan to leave Taft displaced from time in an attempt to ruin Earth’s past to prevent the Skrulls’ arrival?”

I beamed. “The student has become the master. But nay!” I unfolded a map of New York City. “We’re to journey to the Presidential Library of William Howard Taft—”

“B-but there is no Taft presidential library—”

“Bite your tongue, wastrel! The library was constructed in secret almost a century ago — it’s more a vault, really — to house a single envelope which has remained unopened and undisturbed for exactly 96 years tomorrow. Now shut up and FLY!”

Seven hours later, Travis and I returned from the secret vault, having fought past our share of skeletal warriors and solved the riddle of the Spider King. I was exhausted and Travis would soon lose a finger to gangrene, but we recovered the precious envelope. Wars were waged over envelopes such as this. The writing on the front was faded completely, and the stamp had long ago fallen off and withered to dust.

“Mongrel Jones! What a surprise.” The warden didn’t sound surprised, swaggering over as we disembarked from the vehicle. “What brings you back to Raft? Got another inmate for me?”

“We’re here to make a withdrawal, not a deposit,” I spat, using banking jargon to great effect.

“What’s that in your hand?” He half-pointed to the envelope. Couldn’t really be bothered to point fully, huh? Whatever happened to work ethic? Did it just EVAPORATE?

“It’s a blank cheque,” I whipped out my letter opener and broke the ancient wax. “A presidential pardon for William Howard Taft, issued exactly 96 years ago tomorrow — by President William Howard Taft.”

Jaws dropped around the board and the injustice of it all caused more than one guard to exhibit the symptoms of hysterical blindness. When the warden regained his composure the forest was silent for his verdict.

“This is a valid pardon…”

Grown men wept and children danced in the streets at this simple proclamation. Fair maidens hung wreaths around my neck and offered me gumbos and stews laced with the tastiest spices.

Taft rode out the prison gates atop a pygmy blue elephant (tuskless), waving to the masses, and bands played him great fanfare as the timeless president exited to the cheering throngs of humanity.

“Bully for you, I say,” I patted him on the back. “They haven’t yet built a prison — or bathtub — that can hold William Howard Taft!”

Fortunately, they had built a hovercraft which could (hold him). The three of us flew from Raft as if someone had lit a fire under our collective rumps.

“Now…” I slyly slinked as we skinked past the city limits, “Bring them forth!”

As if on cue, Taft shoved his massive arm down his throat. Travis cringed, as with a *GRK*ing sound, the president regurgitated a series of fire-red bricks.

“Are those—”

“Skrulls! Taft’s stomach lining shielded them from the anti-shapeshifting rays.”

With a final jerking, the last Skrull-brick was safely stowed away in the overhead compartment and Taft spent the remainder of the ride recuperating.

As we neared my magical workshop, an errant thought came to Travis. “Why did we go through all that trouble when Taft could have pardoned the Skrulls instead?”

When I was finished flogging him, I answered, “The Democrats were monitoring his ink usage. If he’d signed that many pardons — especially for Skrulls! — he’d’ve been discovered and Wilson would have won a large enough mandate to take out the Kaiser on day one. The Progressive Era was known for its suspicion of the goblin-men.”

“What was done cannot be undone and cannot have been done any other way,” Taft spoke wisely. “Now,” he said as the craft slumped to a bodacious halt, “will you maintain your end of our Faustian bargain?”

Clapping my claws, the window rolled down and a winged cherub burst from my lab, carrying a jewel-covered black box with metal hinges and ornate designs beside the hand-forged handles. Hesitantly I opened it.

“Remember to sign your own pardon on your last day in office or you will rupture the very berry fabric of space/time or maybe you won’t because nobody ever tried doing that so it might work,” I rambled in an off-the-cuff run-on sentence that had no right to exist.

He braced himself. “Anything to return to my family and failing reelection campaign.”

I removed a glowing red crystal from the hauntingly slick box. “Then I release you from this century. Whoooooooooo!”

Taft, smiling, evaporated as the crystal broke in half. 96 years ago tomorrow, William Howard Taft, having already cemented his legacy as a staunch anti-Skrull, reluctantly pardoned his past self in the future.

BUT IN REALITY, stories of Taft’s selflessness spread from the Skrull he had rescued. Upon their return home, Taft’s exploits on their behalf circled the Skrull empire. Boy-Skrull and Girl-Skrull with names like “Willy” and “Howie” were common on the Skrull homeword in the succeeding seasons.

The benevolence of a single human helped bring the Skrull to the negotiating table, and a new peace opened between Earth and the goblin-men.

And somewhen, William Howard Taft, armed with the foreknowledge of supercomputers and helicopter rides, was busy helping others — and hoping that the next leap would be the leap home.

Jurassic Taft

Sunday, March 1, 2009

Escape from Superjail

Okay we're breaking out some shape shifting lizards. The getting in will be easy. Fury will pretend to be Wonder girl turning me in. Unfortunately that meant Fury wearing Wondergirl's new stupid costume.

“Damn it! How does that bimbo move her arms with this chest plate thing?”

“Very carefully." I respond.

“Ha-ha! Let's go to phase 2.

Phase 2 is stealing a Titans Jet from the Tower to make this look all legit. That was easier then it should have been. When we go to the Tower, they were all whining so much over some emo crap they didn't even notice us. And the security system is a joke, I didn't even need any powers to break in, in fact I didn't need to break in I walked in. No wonder Titans die so often.

So we fly out to the Raft. Getting in was the easy part. I was in Inhibitor Cuffs. And as I'm being carted away to a cell the Warden hits on Fury who talks like this now. “Golly! That'd be ever so swell sir!"

Ugh. I don't know what she thinks Wonder Girl sounds like but she was talking like Miss Martian, and Vella fused, and on crack. Not that it mattered apparently an18 year old blondes can be able to be as corny as they like.

Meanwhile the guards decided to get special with me. “Hey let's beat this albino Clone! He he He's not so tough now that he don't have all hen fancy powers!"

“He thinks he can kill prison guards at the Vault, and get away. Well he's got another thing comin’." Another one drawls.

I grin, " Not only do I think I can kill a few there, but all of you morons as well I let the cuffs fall off my wrists.” They weren't on." After breaking all of them in half I make my way to the Warden's Office

I half expected to find Fury actually canoodling the guy. But instead she broke the guy's back." “Hmph at least you didn't screw him." I growl.

“Aw are you jealous that's so hot!" We ended up making out right in front of the paralyzed warden Fury's butt hit a few switches as we rolled around, and most of the prisoners were let out.

oddly A song by Tenacious D somehow got played over the intercom but just one verse over, and over " We're gonna f'ing riot! Riot!"

After me, and Fury were finished with each other look up were the Skrulls are kept. Of course it wasn't with the rest of prisoners. They were held in a different wing all together.

Getting there was pretty easy the blended in with the bodies of everyone fighting it out. I disguised my self, as Superboy, as Fury tried to talk our way into seeing the Skrulls.

I was trying to figure out why these guards weren't trying to wrangle the other super villains like the others I guess they were just you know assigned to guard the aliens , and only the aliens.

Something about Fury saying “golly, and gosh set me off, and I heat visioned all the guards.

“Oh that was smart." She gripes. "The Lock is a combination, lock, and the door is Adamantium."
I tear it open. And let her think for a few minutes I'm that strong then say. “That door is secondary Adamantium easier to break, and much cheaper heh. Your tax dollars at work."

We free several cells worth of the aliens, and get ready to go. Now here's the thing about the guards at these super powered jails the reason they're here is because they flunked out of SHEILD. In fact a lot of these guys have flunked kindergarten. This is why even the dumbest villain can escape.

We all went out disguised as a clown parade, after they rounded up the slower prisoners who haven't escaped yet.

After we had already gotten, to the T Jet I heard “Hey wait a minute Clown parade!!!"

The Jet was damaged in the riot. So we could only make it to New York which was crawling with superheroes Okay you guys take the forms of the Teen Titans I instruct

I wish I had been more specific. They turned into this.

Of course before I could explain what was wrong with that. A group of heroes shows up. Iron Man looks over the Toon Titans. "Man what kind of drugs have they been taken?"

“Tis sad too see such noble youths taken by vice." Yes this coming from the biggest drunken womanizers the Avengers have ever seen.

Wolverine sniffs me “Match! Ya son of a- It’s payback time fer snippin' me bub."

How can he tell any difference between me, and Superboy? Any way I yell. “Skrull!" And point at the midget.

Thor looks him over. “Yes that would explain why he's in every team at once."

“Look Bub Marvel just thinks I sale comics is all." Wolverine brags.

"And you are saying the God of Thunder does not?" Thor bellows.

“How many times has yer book been canceled goldilocks?"

“Have at Thee!" Thor yells attacking.

While all the heroes get into the fight we make our escape. You know I believe superheroes want any excuse to fight one another. We got to the AIM base, and the transporter without further incident, well except Fury heart her arms when she tried to stretch her arms over her head.

Tuesday, February 24, 2009

The final three and Breakout Challenge.

Ladies and Gents,

Thank you for all of your post. Match, that was a job well done. However, there needs to be a cut.

My choice was between Gyrobo and Jon. Both you are masters of your craft.

But, I choose to cut you.

Jon, you are not tough enough. I am sorry, but you show some real promise.

Now on to our next challenge the Breakout.

You must break in and out of the Raft. The Raft is a superhuman prison. There you will free some Skrulls and get them to a AIM base so they can escape the planet.

Dental for all.

Raptor Jesus rules.

Monday, February 23, 2009

Hullabaloo on you

For a few minutes there I was hoping that Bennet wouldn't post on time.

Oh boy I was hoping he wouldn't. I thought maybe he's dead. Oh such joy filled my heart.

But he just made it. Dammit!

Okay now on with the judgement.

Bennet you actually interviewed people and chose from what little you had. Nice cat fight apart from that it was okay.

Match you interviewed lots of prospective losers and the Punisher. Yet you went from funny evil to evil evil. Not sure how I can rate that.

Gyrobo that first picture was just magic and I loved it so very much. However from that start of brilliance I got bored cause you just mourned the passing of Codex. How is that completing the mission?

Jon IG talk about crapping on. I've met some fillabusters in my time but this takes the cake.

okay the weiner is.....


Mission Six: Idols of Evil

With all my experience with reality television shows, I knew exactly how to go about selecting a new member for the Masters of Evil.

I recruited my daughter and my The Haitian to assist me in the process.

Let's get to the auditions!

First up, a young up-and-comer from...the backwoods.

"Hello, sirs and lady," he said politely. "I'm so honored to be here. Thank you for this wonderful opp-"

"Next!" I shouted.

"Ugh! Gah, Daddy," my Claire Bear whined. "You, like, didn't even, like, listen to him and stuff."

"She speaks true," The Haitian added.

I leaned over to him and said, "You need to speak in Ghetto."

"But I am not from the Ghetto," he replied. "I am from Haiti."

"That's why it's called acting!" I rubbed my forehead. "Surrounded by idiots," I whispered into my mic and the audience broke out into laughter. As the guffaws died down, I said to The Haitain, "Just speak fake Ghetto."

"..." he responded.

"Um, this alot of fun and everything," the contestant began, "but should I be getting you guys coffee or something?"

"Decaf," I ordered, "Cream, sugar, sprinkles if you got 'em."

"Yes, sir!" he shouted with an enthusiastic clap. Then, he hurried off stage.

The next contestant took his place.

"Hello," she said. "I am Hoda Kotb."

"Hello," The Haitian replied. I glanced over at him. With a sigh, he continued, "What be up with you girl, yo, yo, yo, shizzle." He looked back over at me for approval, and I simply nodded.

"I want to join the Masters of Evil," she explained.

"Why is that?" I asked.

"Because I want to kill Kathy Lee Gifford!" She began laughing maniacally, then quieted down and appologized for the outburst.

"Oh. My. God. You are, like, weird," Claire said.

"She's the weird one!" Hoda complained. "She's psychotic! She does things to me, terrible things!"

Security quickly dragged her off the stage.

"Well, she was rather loopy," I commented. The audience began laughing once again.

After interviewing several more losers, the first contestant finally returned with my coffee.

"Here you are, sir," he said, handing it to me.

"Thanks, Steven," I replied, taking the cup from him.

"It's Kenneth."

"What?" I asked sternly.

"Or Steven. Usually, it's Kenneth, though."

"Next!" I yelled as I shooed Steveth away with my hand.

"Hi there!" the bimbo said cheerfully. "I'm Kathie Lee Gifford and I just like being on television." She then whispered to me, "I'm not really evil or a master."

Before I could insult her stupidity and call for the next contestant, she was viciously tackled by a crazed-Hoda.

"Claire, cover your eyes!" I commanded.

Claire pulled out her cell phone and aimed it at the fighting females, "This is going on YouTube, like, totally!"

The Haitian stared. "..."

The audience cheered enthusiastically.

A terrified Steveth, or whoever he is, ran for cover.

"This is not only great television," I commented, "but the winner will be a perfect candidate for entry to the Masters of Evil!"

Unfortunately, as the fight drew to an end, both Hoda and Kathie Lee were badly beaten. They both fell to the ground in defeat. We watched as they slowly bled to death. The audience laughed hysterically.

"Oh, my!" Steveth said coming out of hiding. "What happened?" He surveyed the horrific scene before him. "These two sleeping women really made a mess of this place. Someone ought to clean it up."

"Congratulations," I said to him. "You've won. Your first assignment in the Masters of Evil is to dispose of these sleeping women so they can continue to rest without being found, uh, I mean, disturbed. Well, get to cleaning!"

"Yes, sir!" he replied.

"I've never seen anything like this before..."

A Primer In Management Efficiency

As a pretend efficiency consultant, I’m often asked how to make fast, powerful decisions. I typically take four or five minutes to form a response, thereby discouraging future questions of that nature. Still, I’m now releasing this post, containing a brief example of my style. Take my words to heart, and you too can be recognized — and rewarded — for smart thinking by the highest echelons!

Darth Vader shakes hands with President Richard Nixon.
Wafting down from Heaven, delicate flakes of snow built up around my boots as I took another swing with my axe. Wiping sweat and condensation from my reddened cheeks, I stepped back and took a few deep breaths as the sinews holding the bark together gave way.

With a shout of “TIMBER!” the few birds who thought it safe to remain within the doomed branches took flight; the venerable pine bent as if in pain, the icy coating on its bristles biting it from above while I attacked from below.


A final, merciful blow from my axe made short work of the majestic tree.

After the inevitable ground-shaking crash, the forest was silent. I surveyed the trunk from this new, unnatural perpendicular angle: there was enough lumber here to build a small house.

Mopping the sap up with handfuls of snow, I tried tallying up the rings but called it quits after around 200, when I noticed that I’d missed about 50 or so very thin rings that weren’t really visible at the edge I’d been counting. There must’ve been a drought those years.

There’s enough firewood here to heat a castle, I thought as a shiver ran down my spine.

Sighing contentedly, I buried my axe in the still-oozing trunk. “That was relaxing.”

I rubbed my hands together and opened the studio’s back door, where a blast of heat from the diesel-powered furnace instantly brought the feeling back to my face. The coat rack groaned as I unloaded my heavy winter overcoat and pinned my mittens to the zipper. All interested parties in the room turned to puzzle at my strange ways as I dropped to the ground and writhed to my waiting chair using only my belly for transportation.

“Did you get me the box of toothpicks I asked for?” Travis grizzled, his fingers crudely trying to dislodge a grizzly fragment of pork wedged between his back left molars.

I cringed.

Ripples of laughter broke out within the pool of applicants; my facial expressions are hilariously risqué. So much so that photographs of my head — in both digital and analog formats — do not, and will not, develop. The only person to peruse such a boondoggle was Edgar Allan Poe, who attempted to create an amateur daguerreotype on the 2nd of October, 1849. No further attempts have been made.

“Some assembly may be required,” I aimed my eyebrows out the frost-caked window at the felled pine. Snow blanketed it like dirt on a casket.

Travis cut me off. “I think we should let the Questionable Mark into the league. This résumé—”

“DENIED. I could not possibly disagree more with your decision than I did 0.059 seconds ago. My anger is waning, hence the incremental drop in RAGE.”

Wee ha ha! In reality, I had no strong opinion whatsoever on the matter. However — there being only two of us to judge these miscreants — taking the contrarian position would force us to settle on a process for resolving what purists call “ties.”

Some jurists would call my method “collusion” and refuse to issue a decision. Overruled, yo!

“I never imagined I would miss Codex so much,” the hypnotist huffed, unpocketing a photo of the three of us taken just two weeks ago. It was hard to believe Yellow Fever acted so quickly. “He was the voice of sanity.”

“Sanity? He murdered his family and sold their teeth.”

“No he didn’t.”

“He routinely adopted stray cats and dogs and performed gruesome experiments on them while in med school.”

“No, he didn’t.”

“He used his impressive knowledge of ancient languages to forge a Syriac bible and tried to convince the pope to issue a papal bull stating that Jesus stuttered and that his eyes were two different colors.”

“No he didn’t!”

“He purchased a two-minute commercial during the Super Bowl, misleading viewers into thinking that two bottles of colloidal silver every day could reverse hair loss. Colloidal silver causes argyria, a condition that turns skin bluish-gray. He said he did it to pay homage to the Blue Man Group.”

“He had one of their CDs!”

“He ran an investment firm for charities and spent 20 years pocketing his clients’ money and giving them bogus numbers. $30 billion evaporated overnight, and he was busted by federal agents trying to charter a private jet to Ecuador. What little he actually invested went into ant farms.”

Travis drummed his fingers on the oaken table and checked his watch. “No.”

“Can we move this along, seriously?” the Questionable Mark interjected, leaning over on his uncomfortable wooden stool. “My wife is seriously very ill, seriously.”

“Your wife is two dwarves in a trenchcoat with a bad wig and a good story!” I shouted, barely cognizant of the lowlife’s desire for an expedited submission. Darn fool talked funny.

Crumbs from a thousand possible sources rolled down my seams as I rose. There was a bit of sadness to my swagger, my trademark jolliness tempered by the recent loss of my dear friend Codex. But thanks to a brilliant Santa Barbara taxidermist, I would see him every morning and night on my way to the bathroom.

“Where are we going?” Travis Read — you forgot his last name, didn’t you? Admit it. — begged as I towed him towards the exit, padlock and chain in hand.

The villainous… well, villains… were already cranky and overheated. Factor in their violent natures and superpowers, and you’ve got a powderkeg waiting to go off. Now, *licks lips* if I’ve learned one thing from my last job vetting cabinet appointees for Barack Obama, there’s only one tried and true way to whittle down a list of applicants.

“Hey, everyone!” I shouted, hurling Travis out the steel door into a growing snowbank while using my other hand to toss a symbolic gauntlet on the studio floor, “Last one left alive gets the job!”

Three or four laser beams singed the door as I quickly slammed it shut and chained it. As I helped Travis up (a debt he could never repay), bestial wailing and screams of terror, warcries and unheeded pleas for mercy, flooded the restrictive air.

I opened the bags of cocoa mix as Travis unlocked the hovercraft’s front door and set up the portable hotplate. We scooped up two cups of snow and put it on; we’d need to continuously add to it as the snow melted. It would take a while, so we set off in the opposite direction to build a snowman.

Smiling contentedly, the two of us were patting down the snowman’s midsection when a human head smashed through the studio’s bulletproof glass window and landed right where we were going to put the snowman’s head!

“Can you say ‘serendipity?’” Travis joked. “Who do you think will end up on top? Smart money’s on Questionable Mark. Or maybe Overkill.”

I ignored him and straightened an old felt top hat on the head while slipping lumps of coal into the vacant eye sockets. “Go check to see if the water is boiling yet. I don’t want any bacteria in my cocoa,” I bade him, burying two arm-like branches in the snowman.

Ah, how relaxing. Nothing could ruin this perfect day — except a stampede of rhinoceroses. But that was just impossible. For one thing, rhinoceroses don’t live in this part of the world. They also could not exist in this climate, and certainly couldn’t stampede in such a thick forest.

Rhinoceroses are basically fat unicorns.