RokJok
Gold Member
- Joined
- Oct 6, 2000
- Messages
- 4,201
MONKEY TERROR STRIKES TOWN!!
A late-breaking news story from the soggy suburbs of the Northwest United States.
It was reported today that a on a normally quiet street deep in the suburban malaise surrounding Seattle a most un-soccer-mom-like scream was heard issuing from the domicile of a sometimes suspiciously snouted individual known colloqually as PorkJok to his debased and debauched compatriates in Hogdom. A neighbor who lives several blocks away from the PorkJok sty confided in a still-shaky voice, "It was so loud at first I thought it was one of our kids in the backyard celebrating a resounding defeat of his playmates in a rousing game of full-contact basketball, a WWF version of football, or perhaps an extended match of croquet. It was insanely loud. It sounded as if all the hogs in hell had let out a dying screaming squeal at once. I can't get the sound of it out of my head. It was horrible........ horrible........ horri..." At this point in the interview the neighbor came completely unglued, broke down into uncontrollable sobbing while his eyes frantically searched the shrubbery as if he expected to be hog-ssaulted at any second, and he had to be helped by his trembling, speechless, wide-eyed wife across his meticulously manicured lawn into his house. Through the basement windows he could be seen at the wet-bar in his family room trying to stabilize his badly shaken nerves with copious doses from a largish flask of Doctor Walker Blue. His gentle wife, being of a more demure constitution, was gulping Death's Head Tequila straight from the bottle.
Realizing that these psuedo-witnesses would be no further aid to our story until several days and many bad hallucinations had passed, we began a long stalk through the impenetrably ostentatious appearance of civility hanging once more over the tangled cul-de-sacs, cable hookups, bike paths, ball fields, tile roofs, and three-car garages of this again-quiet neighborhood. By surreptitiously sneaking through the taped-off police line at the back of the PorkJok property, we managed to bellycrawl past the tulip beds and barbecue grill in Mr Jok's side yard and get close enough to overhear a furry-camo-bunny-slipper-clad Mr Jok filing his report with the local constabulary, who seemed to be having trouble writing down the report, what with one hand holding their coffee cups and the other wiping away donut frosting smudges from their uniform shirt-fronts. Nonetheless, the porcine suspect was excitedly babbling on about the incident that had precipitated the brouhaha in the area, while waving his arms wildly (monkey-like you might say) in the air and pointing often in the direction of Wauseon, Ohio during his most animated and spastic gyrations. According to my cub-reporter who had tagged along on this story, Mr Jok's frantic flailing looked like a monkey using a urinal wired to 220 VAC. I didn't ask Cubbie how he knew what that would look like.... Some things it's just better not to know.... Especially about your close coworkers.
Ahem!!! Back to the scene of the crime.
From our discreet stance among the strawberry plants and miniature terra-cotta unicorn's of PorkJok's front garden Cubbie and I could hear Mr Jok describing what had happened earlier in the day. It seems that while he was out in his back yard (doing what God-forsaken, despicably sick activities only someone with Cubbie's predilections will ever be able to imagine), Mrs Jok had fetched the daily mail from the front step of the Jok sty. Among the glossy four-color, heavy-stock, 8"x10" size, offset lithograph advertisements begging for either your vote or your dollars (or preferably both) for the local, city, county, district, state, federal, world-wide, universal, or galactic miscreants running for office in this particular election year was a postal package received from a mysteriously vague figure whom we only Mr Jok refer to as "Jerry IveJustGottaBuyMoreOfHisStuff".
Mr IveJustGottaBuyMoreOfHisStuff apparently oversees a meth-lab like operation (or is it puppy-mill like) in the hinterlands of Ohio producing what Mr Jok kept describing as, "INFI, man...Y'know...INFI!!...INFI!!!!!...Like Precious!...Pre-cious!!...Preeeeeee-ciiiiiioooooouuuuuus!!!!!" while drooling uncontrollably from both sides of his mouth. (Which shows what a level-headed man Mr Jok really can be.) However, Mr Jok would burst spontaneously into fits of giddy, girlish giggling as he went excitedly dancing around (in that monkey-like way again) and elbowing the boys in blue in their frosting-smudge-shirted ribs while going on and on about some monkey business that he and Mr Jerry IveJustGottaBuyMoreOfHisStuff had conducted earlier in the week.
The cause of all Mr Jok's rambling and babbling (and the subsequent upsetting of the neighborhood's typically tranquil repose) had transpired when Mr Jok opened the package from Jerry IveJustGottaBuyMoreOfHisStuff. It seems that the package contained some sort of Terror-ible Monkey that Mr IveJustGottaBuyMoreOfHisStuff had sent to the Jok residence for the purpose of conducting ultra-high-level research into the tensile yield limit of monkey musculature under stress and duress. However, the usually sufficient simian shipping restraint system of double-sided folded corrugated zoo-quality cardboard cage contstrained from expansion via liberal application of recycled cello-pro-fane tape, bearing the fading fingerprints of some shagalicious Wauseonesque femme-conspiritor whom rumour reports is not where many citizens of Hogdom seem to think she should be, had suffered seriously at the hands of the postal elite who had been entrusted with the transmission (transgression one might say) of this package from its Ah-Hi-Ah origin into the unsuspecting possession of the suspect, Mr Jok.
Due to the failure of the shipping restraint cage to sufficiently control the wild gnashing of the Terror-ible Monkey within the package, the savage simian had managed to extend its muzzle over an inch from the confines of the cardboard cage and chewed its way to free air, as Mr Jok discovered when he went to unwind the overlaying paper cover of the cage. Mr Jok reports that only by his dextrous and adroit snatching back of his fingers as the monkey lunged did he avoid life-threatening (or at least digitally damaging) injuries to his upper extremities. Watching Mr Jok's eyes as he described this terror-ible ordeal, it was clear to both Cubbie and I that Mr Jok was still very much in the horrifying, nauseating grip of The Fear. However, Mr Jok conveyed to the constabulary that once he had regained his composure and changed into clean pants he tamed the wily monkey by diverting its attention by playing a video tape of a lumberjack chopping contest he'd archived from the Red Plaid Shirt Channel on cable TV. Mr Jok said, "That's one of the many nice things about all the stuff I get from Jerry IveJustGottaBuyMoreOfHisStuff. It's always a sucker for a wild session of chopping."
Once the monkey had been subdued to a point that Mr Jok could get the cage open without endangering any irreplacable parts of his anatomy, the beast was cautiously and tentatively dragged out by its barely exposed butt into the open air. At the mere sight of the monkey's sinuous contours and extraordinarily rugged exterior coverings, Mr Jok was so struck by the raw beauty of the beast that he inadvertantly let forth a high-decibel uncontrolled scream of delight, "YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE-HAAAAAW!!!!" This no doubt was the shriek that had so disturbed the quiet demeanor of Mr Jok's locale and its inhabitants. Having warned Mr Jok to insure that no such outbursts ever happen again, the lads in blue then headed out to answer a radio call for assistance in untangling rush hour traffic, which could be any freeway in the area at any time between 06:00 in the morning and 20:00 in the evening.
After the police had left, this reporter approached the suspect and asked if it would be possible to actually lay eyeballs on the ferocious monkey. Mr Jok assured us it could easily be done and led Cubbie and I into the deep inner recesses of his blacklight-lit velvet-Elvis-painting lined sanctuary where Cubbie was allowed to take a few quick snapshots of the simian Terror which are amalgamated into the 70 kb photo linked below. Mr Jok noted that this could very easily become the unit from Jerry IveJustGottaBuyMoreOfHisStuff to fulfill some futile Holy Grail-like search apparently perennially undertaken by he and other Hogs of the realm. Whoever they are, they seem to recognize each other by the smell of INFI embedded in their fingerprints, the furtive glances always looking to sniff out some bit of INFI that the other Hogs have not yet found, and the shuffling gait of those walking under a heavy burden of INFI.
As for the monkey, the back of the beast was covered in the same diffused and shaded rough-textured camo crinkle-coat as its sides. But the area from the spine onward, starting at its forward thumb groove down between the rigid micarta plates of its lower abdomen to its butt, all the way around the butt, up the bellyside of its abdomen, and extending up through the narrow neck of its choil was bare of any such covering. Instead it glowed from within with a faintly menacing gleam of its INFI soul. Mr Jok noted that this monkey had a hand-interface better than anything else he had ever gotten from the Wauseon horde. He said something about how they must be giants who live in Ah-Hi-Ah, because so many of the units he had held from them had hand-grips too large for his mitts, except this one and some of its more Basic antecedents now lost in the shifting mists of twisting history and fading memory.
As we left him, Mr Jok sat gazing at the monkey cradled in his lap, lost in an INFI-induced rapture dreaming dreams of far forests and lakes where all the trees were for chopping & whacking, the glades bustled with elk & mulies & bearded toms & hares, and the waters ran full with salmon & trout & ducks & geese all swimming their way to an appearance on a dinner table accompanied by gravy & bisquits & yams & desserts & vintage wine & steamed veggies that were chopped with Wauseon wares.
http://www.oz.net/~malinski/busse-tm-nope.jpg
A late-breaking news story from the soggy suburbs of the Northwest United States.
It was reported today that a on a normally quiet street deep in the suburban malaise surrounding Seattle a most un-soccer-mom-like scream was heard issuing from the domicile of a sometimes suspiciously snouted individual known colloqually as PorkJok to his debased and debauched compatriates in Hogdom. A neighbor who lives several blocks away from the PorkJok sty confided in a still-shaky voice, "It was so loud at first I thought it was one of our kids in the backyard celebrating a resounding defeat of his playmates in a rousing game of full-contact basketball, a WWF version of football, or perhaps an extended match of croquet. It was insanely loud. It sounded as if all the hogs in hell had let out a dying screaming squeal at once. I can't get the sound of it out of my head. It was horrible........ horrible........ horri..." At this point in the interview the neighbor came completely unglued, broke down into uncontrollable sobbing while his eyes frantically searched the shrubbery as if he expected to be hog-ssaulted at any second, and he had to be helped by his trembling, speechless, wide-eyed wife across his meticulously manicured lawn into his house. Through the basement windows he could be seen at the wet-bar in his family room trying to stabilize his badly shaken nerves with copious doses from a largish flask of Doctor Walker Blue. His gentle wife, being of a more demure constitution, was gulping Death's Head Tequila straight from the bottle.
Realizing that these psuedo-witnesses would be no further aid to our story until several days and many bad hallucinations had passed, we began a long stalk through the impenetrably ostentatious appearance of civility hanging once more over the tangled cul-de-sacs, cable hookups, bike paths, ball fields, tile roofs, and three-car garages of this again-quiet neighborhood. By surreptitiously sneaking through the taped-off police line at the back of the PorkJok property, we managed to bellycrawl past the tulip beds and barbecue grill in Mr Jok's side yard and get close enough to overhear a furry-camo-bunny-slipper-clad Mr Jok filing his report with the local constabulary, who seemed to be having trouble writing down the report, what with one hand holding their coffee cups and the other wiping away donut frosting smudges from their uniform shirt-fronts. Nonetheless, the porcine suspect was excitedly babbling on about the incident that had precipitated the brouhaha in the area, while waving his arms wildly (monkey-like you might say) in the air and pointing often in the direction of Wauseon, Ohio during his most animated and spastic gyrations. According to my cub-reporter who had tagged along on this story, Mr Jok's frantic flailing looked like a monkey using a urinal wired to 220 VAC. I didn't ask Cubbie how he knew what that would look like.... Some things it's just better not to know.... Especially about your close coworkers.
Ahem!!! Back to the scene of the crime.
From our discreet stance among the strawberry plants and miniature terra-cotta unicorn's of PorkJok's front garden Cubbie and I could hear Mr Jok describing what had happened earlier in the day. It seems that while he was out in his back yard (doing what God-forsaken, despicably sick activities only someone with Cubbie's predilections will ever be able to imagine), Mrs Jok had fetched the daily mail from the front step of the Jok sty. Among the glossy four-color, heavy-stock, 8"x10" size, offset lithograph advertisements begging for either your vote or your dollars (or preferably both) for the local, city, county, district, state, federal, world-wide, universal, or galactic miscreants running for office in this particular election year was a postal package received from a mysteriously vague figure whom we only Mr Jok refer to as "Jerry IveJustGottaBuyMoreOfHisStuff".
Mr IveJustGottaBuyMoreOfHisStuff apparently oversees a meth-lab like operation (or is it puppy-mill like) in the hinterlands of Ohio producing what Mr Jok kept describing as, "INFI, man...Y'know...INFI!!...INFI!!!!!...Like Precious!...Pre-cious!!...Preeeeeee-ciiiiiioooooouuuuuus!!!!!" while drooling uncontrollably from both sides of his mouth. (Which shows what a level-headed man Mr Jok really can be.) However, Mr Jok would burst spontaneously into fits of giddy, girlish giggling as he went excitedly dancing around (in that monkey-like way again) and elbowing the boys in blue in their frosting-smudge-shirted ribs while going on and on about some monkey business that he and Mr Jerry IveJustGottaBuyMoreOfHisStuff had conducted earlier in the week.
The cause of all Mr Jok's rambling and babbling (and the subsequent upsetting of the neighborhood's typically tranquil repose) had transpired when Mr Jok opened the package from Jerry IveJustGottaBuyMoreOfHisStuff. It seems that the package contained some sort of Terror-ible Monkey that Mr IveJustGottaBuyMoreOfHisStuff had sent to the Jok residence for the purpose of conducting ultra-high-level research into the tensile yield limit of monkey musculature under stress and duress. However, the usually sufficient simian shipping restraint system of double-sided folded corrugated zoo-quality cardboard cage contstrained from expansion via liberal application of recycled cello-pro-fane tape, bearing the fading fingerprints of some shagalicious Wauseonesque femme-conspiritor whom rumour reports is not where many citizens of Hogdom seem to think she should be, had suffered seriously at the hands of the postal elite who had been entrusted with the transmission (transgression one might say) of this package from its Ah-Hi-Ah origin into the unsuspecting possession of the suspect, Mr Jok.
Due to the failure of the shipping restraint cage to sufficiently control the wild gnashing of the Terror-ible Monkey within the package, the savage simian had managed to extend its muzzle over an inch from the confines of the cardboard cage and chewed its way to free air, as Mr Jok discovered when he went to unwind the overlaying paper cover of the cage. Mr Jok reports that only by his dextrous and adroit snatching back of his fingers as the monkey lunged did he avoid life-threatening (or at least digitally damaging) injuries to his upper extremities. Watching Mr Jok's eyes as he described this terror-ible ordeal, it was clear to both Cubbie and I that Mr Jok was still very much in the horrifying, nauseating grip of The Fear. However, Mr Jok conveyed to the constabulary that once he had regained his composure and changed into clean pants he tamed the wily monkey by diverting its attention by playing a video tape of a lumberjack chopping contest he'd archived from the Red Plaid Shirt Channel on cable TV. Mr Jok said, "That's one of the many nice things about all the stuff I get from Jerry IveJustGottaBuyMoreOfHisStuff. It's always a sucker for a wild session of chopping."
Once the monkey had been subdued to a point that Mr Jok could get the cage open without endangering any irreplacable parts of his anatomy, the beast was cautiously and tentatively dragged out by its barely exposed butt into the open air. At the mere sight of the monkey's sinuous contours and extraordinarily rugged exterior coverings, Mr Jok was so struck by the raw beauty of the beast that he inadvertantly let forth a high-decibel uncontrolled scream of delight, "YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE-HAAAAAW!!!!" This no doubt was the shriek that had so disturbed the quiet demeanor of Mr Jok's locale and its inhabitants. Having warned Mr Jok to insure that no such outbursts ever happen again, the lads in blue then headed out to answer a radio call for assistance in untangling rush hour traffic, which could be any freeway in the area at any time between 06:00 in the morning and 20:00 in the evening.
After the police had left, this reporter approached the suspect and asked if it would be possible to actually lay eyeballs on the ferocious monkey. Mr Jok assured us it could easily be done and led Cubbie and I into the deep inner recesses of his blacklight-lit velvet-Elvis-painting lined sanctuary where Cubbie was allowed to take a few quick snapshots of the simian Terror which are amalgamated into the 70 kb photo linked below. Mr Jok noted that this could very easily become the unit from Jerry IveJustGottaBuyMoreOfHisStuff to fulfill some futile Holy Grail-like search apparently perennially undertaken by he and other Hogs of the realm. Whoever they are, they seem to recognize each other by the smell of INFI embedded in their fingerprints, the furtive glances always looking to sniff out some bit of INFI that the other Hogs have not yet found, and the shuffling gait of those walking under a heavy burden of INFI.
As for the monkey, the back of the beast was covered in the same diffused and shaded rough-textured camo crinkle-coat as its sides. But the area from the spine onward, starting at its forward thumb groove down between the rigid micarta plates of its lower abdomen to its butt, all the way around the butt, up the bellyside of its abdomen, and extending up through the narrow neck of its choil was bare of any such covering. Instead it glowed from within with a faintly menacing gleam of its INFI soul. Mr Jok noted that this monkey had a hand-interface better than anything else he had ever gotten from the Wauseon horde. He said something about how they must be giants who live in Ah-Hi-Ah, because so many of the units he had held from them had hand-grips too large for his mitts, except this one and some of its more Basic antecedents now lost in the shifting mists of twisting history and fading memory.
As we left him, Mr Jok sat gazing at the monkey cradled in his lap, lost in an INFI-induced rapture dreaming dreams of far forests and lakes where all the trees were for chopping & whacking, the glades bustled with elk & mulies & bearded toms & hares, and the waters ran full with salmon & trout & ducks & geese all swimming their way to an appearance on a dinner table accompanied by gravy & bisquits & yams & desserts & vintage wine & steamed veggies that were chopped with Wauseon wares.
http://www.oz.net/~malinski/busse-tm-nope.jpg
