The Passion of the Roboshrub III
Scientists have been arguing over countless theories for thousands of years. One theory is that Joseph H. Smith once said that “If you work hard enough, you can be anything you want to be.” One thing scientists can agree on, though, is the validity of this statement. How can anyone be so certain that hard work yield rewards? The lives of two boys named Vincent O’Neil and Gregory Wellings is living proof of that.
It was a beautiful crisp autumn morning. The air smelled of burning leaves and hickory. A morbidly obese Vince O’Neil was riding his bike home from school, his mouth watering for a slice of turkey. It was Wednesday afternoon, and he had a four day weekend ahead of him. What better way to spend it than to relax and eat a huge Thanksgiving dinner? Vince was so busy thinking about his already-bulging stomach that he was caught completely unaware as someone careened into him, knocking him off his bike. While his bike seat was overjoyed at its newly found freedom, Vince was nursing a seriously scraped knee. Looking up, he saw his arch-enemy and best friend, Gregory Wellings.
“OW! What’s wrong with you?!” demanded an angry Vince O’Neil, tears streaming down his blubbery face.
“Calm down, Vince. I just came to tell you my great new idea- and you’re in on it!” responded Gregory.
“What do you mean I’m ‘in on it’? What idea?” asked an interested Vince O’Neil, wiping the tears from the mound of lard he called his right cheek.
“This is Thanksgiving weekend, right?”
“Well, yeah. What? Are you gonna sell some turkeys?”
“No, Vince. We’re gonna MAKE turkeys!”
“Come again?”
As the hours wore on, Gregory explained his diabolical plan to Vince, about how they would “build” their own turkeys out of scrap metal and sell them at the local Mall of America. Vince wasn’t too keen on the idea, but Greg had some really nice diagrams and charts in his backpack, and explained their massive scheme. Each of the scrap turkeys would be “autographed” by Colonel Sanders himself. They would then be auctioned off for hundreds of dollars, the proceeds going right into Gregory’s pockets and Vincent’s insatiable gullet. Then Vince asked the inevitable question.
“Is that legal?”
“Technically no, but if we get caught I’ll just use you as a scapegoat.”
“But this whole thing was YOUR idea!”
“Vince, this is the only way we’ll get enough money to accomplish our shared dream of becoming the richest middle schoolers in the world. Do you really want to walk away from that?”
“Well, no…”
“Then what are you worried about? Let’s go down to the dump right now and get us some turkeys!”
***
The next morning one middle schooler and one morbidly obese middle schooler set up shop outside the Mall of America. What they were selling couldn’t be any rarer—turkeys autographed by Colonel Sanders himself. Many people ridiculed them, saying things like, “It’s called “Kentucky Fried CHICKEN’, not turkey!” to which Vince and Greg replied, “Stop politicizing Thanksgiving.”
They had started at eight a.m. It was now noon. Not a single scrap turkey had been purchased. Vince was starting to think the bottom was falling out of the scrap turkey market when a gold Cadillac pulled up to the stand. An old man with a thick glasses and a white beard got out and walked up to the boys.
“All righ’, which one o’ y’all been usin’ ma name wit’out permishun?” rasped the old man in a thick southern drawl akin to Foghorn Leghorn.
“Who are you and what are you talking about?” asked Vince, a knot forming in the pit of his massive stomach.
“You know who I am! I don’ need ta tell y’all anythin’ ‘cept ta stop impersonatin’ ma signature!”
“Sir, are you saying that YOU are Colonel Sanders? Because Colonel Sanders is dead—”
“Dead tired o’ y’all little riffraff thinkin’ you can make a quick buck off the Colonel! I worked ma whole life fer ma fortune, and y’all think you can just use ma name recognition fer yer own selves?! No sir! I’m gonna make sure y’all pay! Get ‘em, boys!”
Just then, two of the biggest, angriest dogs Vince had ever seen in his life jumped out of the Cadillac, snarling and biting.
“Uh, Greg, I think we should—Greg?” But Greg was nowhere to be seen. He must’ve run when the Colonel showed up! thought Vince. Then he ran as fast as his canckles would carry him.
***
“We definitely got ‘im.” said a comfortable Colonel Sanders, ripping the flesh off a chicken wing. He passed the bucket to his companion.
“I just can’t thank you enough, Uncle Ben,” seethed Gregory Wellings to his uncle, who was now pulling off the fake wig and beard that gave him the appearance of Colonel Sanders.
“Greg, what do you have against that fat kid anyway?”
“In camp last year, he ate my lunch every single day for a week before I found out it was him. I’ve hated him ever since.”
“But I thought you two were friends…”
“No, I always had it out for him. I pretended to be his friend for fourteen months just so I could pull this Thanksgiving prank on him. It took a long time and it was a lot of work. But it all paid off.”
Uncle Ben took off the thick Colonel Sanders glasses.
“Greg, you’re evil incarnate, you do know that.”
“What? He ate my lunch! For a solid week!”
“You made him think a man came back from the dead to sue him.”
“Whatever. Let’s go home.”
It was a beautiful crisp autumn morning. The air smelled of burning leaves and hickory. A morbidly obese Vince O’Neil was riding his bike home from school, his mouth watering for a slice of turkey. It was Wednesday afternoon, and he had a four day weekend ahead of him. What better way to spend it than to relax and eat a huge Thanksgiving dinner? Vince was so busy thinking about his already-bulging stomach that he was caught completely unaware as someone careened into him, knocking him off his bike. While his bike seat was overjoyed at its newly found freedom, Vince was nursing a seriously scraped knee. Looking up, he saw his arch-enemy and best friend, Gregory Wellings.
“OW! What’s wrong with you?!” demanded an angry Vince O’Neil, tears streaming down his blubbery face.
“Calm down, Vince. I just came to tell you my great new idea- and you’re in on it!” responded Gregory.
“What do you mean I’m ‘in on it’? What idea?” asked an interested Vince O’Neil, wiping the tears from the mound of lard he called his right cheek.
“This is Thanksgiving weekend, right?”
“Well, yeah. What? Are you gonna sell some turkeys?”
“No, Vince. We’re gonna MAKE turkeys!”
“Come again?”
As the hours wore on, Gregory explained his diabolical plan to Vince, about how they would “build” their own turkeys out of scrap metal and sell them at the local Mall of America. Vince wasn’t too keen on the idea, but Greg had some really nice diagrams and charts in his backpack, and explained their massive scheme. Each of the scrap turkeys would be “autographed” by Colonel Sanders himself. They would then be auctioned off for hundreds of dollars, the proceeds going right into Gregory’s pockets and Vincent’s insatiable gullet. Then Vince asked the inevitable question.
“Is that legal?”
“Technically no, but if we get caught I’ll just use you as a scapegoat.”
“But this whole thing was YOUR idea!”
“Vince, this is the only way we’ll get enough money to accomplish our shared dream of becoming the richest middle schoolers in the world. Do you really want to walk away from that?”
“Well, no…”
“Then what are you worried about? Let’s go down to the dump right now and get us some turkeys!”
The next morning one middle schooler and one morbidly obese middle schooler set up shop outside the Mall of America. What they were selling couldn’t be any rarer—turkeys autographed by Colonel Sanders himself. Many people ridiculed them, saying things like, “It’s called “Kentucky Fried CHICKEN’, not turkey!” to which Vince and Greg replied, “Stop politicizing Thanksgiving.”
They had started at eight a.m. It was now noon. Not a single scrap turkey had been purchased. Vince was starting to think the bottom was falling out of the scrap turkey market when a gold Cadillac pulled up to the stand. An old man with a thick glasses and a white beard got out and walked up to the boys.
“All righ’, which one o’ y’all been usin’ ma name wit’out permishun?” rasped the old man in a thick southern drawl akin to Foghorn Leghorn.
“Who are you and what are you talking about?” asked Vince, a knot forming in the pit of his massive stomach.
“You know who I am! I don’ need ta tell y’all anythin’ ‘cept ta stop impersonatin’ ma signature!”
“Sir, are you saying that YOU are Colonel Sanders? Because Colonel Sanders is dead—”
“Dead tired o’ y’all little riffraff thinkin’ you can make a quick buck off the Colonel! I worked ma whole life fer ma fortune, and y’all think you can just use ma name recognition fer yer own selves?! No sir! I’m gonna make sure y’all pay! Get ‘em, boys!”
Just then, two of the biggest, angriest dogs Vince had ever seen in his life jumped out of the Cadillac, snarling and biting.
“Uh, Greg, I think we should—Greg?” But Greg was nowhere to be seen. He must’ve run when the Colonel showed up! thought Vince. Then he ran as fast as his canckles would carry him.
“We definitely got ‘im.” said a comfortable Colonel Sanders, ripping the flesh off a chicken wing. He passed the bucket to his companion.
“I just can’t thank you enough, Uncle Ben,” seethed Gregory Wellings to his uncle, who was now pulling off the fake wig and beard that gave him the appearance of Colonel Sanders.
“Greg, what do you have against that fat kid anyway?”
“In camp last year, he ate my lunch every single day for a week before I found out it was him. I’ve hated him ever since.”
“But I thought you two were friends…”
“No, I always had it out for him. I pretended to be his friend for fourteen months just so I could pull this Thanksgiving prank on him. It took a long time and it was a lot of work. But it all paid off.”
Uncle Ben took off the thick Colonel Sanders glasses.
“Greg, you’re evil incarnate, you do know that.”
“What? He ate my lunch! For a solid week!”
“You made him think a man came back from the dead to sue him.”
“Whatever. Let’s go home.”
Summoned into Existence via Gyrobo | 12:22 PM
There have been 6 Cries of Anguish:
That was a fun story. Good Job.
I once received a urgent phone message at work that said to call Mr. Sanders A.S.A.P.
When I made the call, it was to KFC. My old boss was always playing fast ones on me.
They sure to make good chicken fingers.
This whole post was caused by a Thanksgiving special I watched about Colonel Sanders and his gravy obsession.
Hey Gyrobo,
You seen the Mothman prophecies?
I ought to prank call you with my 15k modem. Scare the hell out of you!
PS> How you get transparent background in MS Paint?
Damn...
I condemned this thread.
Sorry G.
Michael should have known that the real Mr. Saunders is a Col. in the Poultry Commando Legions. He can't just go phoning people--the line could be bugged. He always uses decoys and doubles. I'd watch out for that old boss of yours, could be a spy or malcontent of some sort.
You can't get a transparent background in Paint. You need a high quality image editor with a color replace function. I use Animation Shop Pro.
And yes, I'm fully aware of the poultry commando units. I headed one for ten years before the "incident".
Post a Comment
<< Burn!