Fuckin' everything explodes in that movie: Cars, heads, kid's asses...
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With one sharp, determined kick, the little plastic sheet rattles off its hinge and swings open. You find Ron hugging his knees, rocking back and forth on the toilet. He has wildly applied lipstick all over his face, and is singing something about âfeeling prettyâ quietly to himself.The End.
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You kick at the surprisingly hearty plastic door again and again, only to rebound uselessly off of it. Ron mistakes your pathetic blows for polite knocking, and informs you in a choking voice that it is âoccupado.â After several minutes of begging, pleading, apologizing, and ultimately dropping to your knees and singing two verses of Journeyâs âOpen Armsâ for him while the rest of the cabin laughs at you, he relents. He emerges from the bathroom oddly composed, pats you on the head, and seamlessly trots off to offer drinks to the other passengers. With no time to spare, you shove a finger down your throat and bring the drug bags up. You frantically rip into each bag, downing their contents as fast you can. After a foul feast of prophylactic-and-vomit flavored mystery drugs, you once again take your seat next to the ratty conspirator. âDid you flush it all?â He asks. The hatred you feel for yourself at this moment actually borders on the hilarious. You stifle a giggle. A giggle which is impossible to stifle, because the shaking of your own ribs tickles you, which makes you giggle more, and this ridiculous situation is pretty funny, which makes you giggle more, which makes your ribs tickle again, and all of this is irrelevant now because the time vortex has opened up, and the entire front half of the plane is being swallowed by the pastel swirling of the Underverse.Page 4
Well, that wasnât a good idea.The End.
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You rise from your seat, hurriedly remove your pants (you are supremely confident that they will have evolved out of the need for pants in the future) and do what all onlookers will later agree was an objectively bitchinâ cannonball right through the space-time continuum.
"Sweet! Now do a bellyflop into a parallel universe!
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You prepare yourself for their approach, knowing - with that peculiar, undefined certainty that only an all-you-can-eat buffet of mysterious narcotics can bring - that they are here to put you on trial for all of mankindâs crimes against them.
FOR HERE PRESIDES THE SNAKE-JUDGE. AND ALSO LIKE...THE...THE BIRD-STENOGRAPHER.
The End.
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You take a step for the raft, and at the first hint of motion, a screeching cacophony of feral cries and rampaging beasts sounds behind you. You break for the boat, leaping the last few feet at full speed. You hit the boards of the raft on your side, and your momentum pushes the boat outward, down the river. The entire jungle is screaming for your blood. The beasts of the air assail and peck at you; the beasts of the water slam into the underside of your boat and nip; the beasts of the land stand futilely at the shore, alternately roaring and calling you names. One lion is simply repeating the word âaaaassshooooleâ over and over again. Itâs really starting to hurt your feelings.
Also there were cavemen, because there's just not many covers with monkeys AND spaceships on them, okay?
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âWell, hell yes!â You answer, slapping the comforting paws aside and striding towards the man. You seize his raygun, turn on the darkness of the cave, and spray it down with white hot laser.
"This Friendship has sailed, you empathizing monkey bastards!"
"No, we'll join the planetary war in a second - this fuckin' bird thinks he's better than me!"
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âHelp,â you scream, as the leaves swat at your open mouth âhelp me, Robocop!â âMy nameâs David,â the man snaps back from the open stairway. âFucking whatever, Johnny 5, just shoot the god damn plant.â âNo,â he answers, his voice quavering, âyouâre really mean and I donât like you and Iâm going home.â You inhale deeply, preparing to scream the loudest obscenity possible, cycling through your mental rolodex of robot-based epithets, but the plant has already sealed over your mouth.
"Suck my dick, Bicentennial Man!"
The End.
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The vines flap frantically about your face and jaw. You rear your head back, open your mouth, and tear a bite out of the leaf nearest you. The whole plant recoils in pain. âMy mother always told me,â you say, quietly furious that you canât reach your sunglasses, âto eat my vegetables.â You seize mouthful after mouthful of the attacking plant, until finally it begins to withdraw. But you ain't having none of that; you pounce on the cowering shrubbery and devour every inch, down to the stump. Then you turn and spitefully vomit the partially digested mess back onto the root system, because vegetables are for hippies and gross foreigners. Across the meadow, a group of stunned human soldiers in full battle gear are watching slack-jawed. You confidently stride over to your fallen weapon, grasp it, and raise it over your head as you face the assembled crowd. âWell come on, you bastards,â you bellow, âdo you really want to live forever!?â With a supportive scream they follow your charge, firing wildly into the density of the jungle. A battle is a pure, whole, and simple thing; a battle is something you know how to do. As the animals die wetly beneath your feet, you have a feeling you will like this new future.Turn to page 11.
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âJesus, what the hell happened here?â Leiutenant Danielson bent down to examine the broken, twisted body, kicking away fluffs of cotton and errant cloth scraps to do so. âFlight attendant says he just went berserk. Cannonballed off the plane onto the runway, broke into the terminal, ran through the security checkpoints, stood screaming in the fountain for a minute, where he reportedly yelled to that frizzy-haired little blonde kid over there that he 'was not an asshole,' then came in here,â Detective Johnson gestured to what remained of the safari-themed giftshop they stood in. âWell, what in Godâs name did this to him, then?â âHe did. He did it to himself. The cashier, a Mr. David Spencer, says he got into a fist-fight with some pre-packaged salads - mostly Cobb, by the looks of them - and then just started tearing into the stuffed animals like a maniac. Demolished every single one, then just kind of twisted up into a ball and died.â âWait, what? Then what bent all of his limbs backwards?â The rookie seemed green, stifling a sickness. âWillpower, Danielson. Pure, unrestrained force of will,â Johnson answered. âHell of an afternoon,â Danielson said, standing and turning away just a bit too quickly. âAfternoon? No, this whole thing took a minute and a half. From plane to man-ball: Ninety seconds.â Danielson resigned from the force the next morning. He currently volunteers full time at the Serene Shores Rehab Center in South Beach. He still suffers from night-terrors and Post Traumatic Impotency.The End.
Sex scandals were rampant in the supposed Golden Age ... they were just easier to cover up.
Forget 'morale-boosters,' we'd rather have the money.
Who writes this stuff?
Trends among women trigger a level of contempt that's way beyond what is deserved.
Buckle up. This article is gonna be wild.
I know this only because that's what people told me.
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