Anti-smackdown: Novelise the limerick

Cafe Society
1

Inspired by another thread I am too ignorant to link to…

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“You have no idea how much I hate – hate – hate this place,” muttered Nan, half-blinded by angry tears as she struggled with the straps on her carpetbag. “Nothing to do, nowhere to go, the high spot of the year is when the whalers come in, and everyone – everyone – you meet is stupid, unimaginative, and dull! And I’ve spent all my life with only Pa for company, and his idea of wit was calling me after the place where we live!”

Across the scrubbed kitchen table, the lean-featured man with the moustache gave Nan a comforting smile. “Then it’s time you were away,” he said. “This time tomorrow, darling Nan, we’ll be on a train, and you’ll never have to come back here. Rhode Island is so different. There’ll be civilisation – music – dancing – polite society – high fashion! And you’ll shine there, Nan. You’ll shine.”

She gazed at him in pure love. “Oh, I can’t wait. Let’s be gone, without even a goodbye. All Pa will miss is his free housekeeper. Wait!”

Nan unlocked the pantry door and felt around on the bare stone floor beneath the lowest shelf, until she found what she was looking for. She lifted a loose flagstone and grasped the handle. “Here we go. Since I’ll never see a dowry out of the miserly old buzzard, this is only fair.” The wooden bucket clinked softly as she hauled it up. It took all her strength, filled to the brim as it was with bills and coins.

“What’s that?” asked her suitor; as though he and every man in Nantucket didn’t know that Nan’s father was proverbial for his mistrust of banks. He smiled faintly as he held wide the door, and he and Nan scurried out to where the buggy was waiting.

2

Dear reader, I wish I could tell you this story had a happy ending. I can only say that if you wish you may close the book now, whereupon you can spend the rest of your life content that such terrible things did not, in fact, happen to such undeserving people. Alas, it is my duty to record these events as they happened.

Our tale begins with a tutor–a word here which means “teacher”–and his two apprentices. For many years the tutor lived happily, for he had one true passion in this life. Tooting the flute.

I would point out that at the beginning of the narrative I counseled our dear reader to quietly put the book down so that they may live their lives content in the tutor’s continued happiness. It is only fair that I recommend this course of action once more, as what follows is not what one would describe as pleasant, and certainly not with a strait face.

If you are reading this, and are determined to see this through to the bitter end, then I will continue…

… as if the tragedy of losing both parents to one very large mansion fire weren’t enough, the tutor’s uncle–a man he had come to dread–had insisted that he take his two cousins on as student flautists. Apprentice tooters. Sure though he was that this was part of his uncle’s scheme to gain control of the sizable fortune our tutor stood to inherit, he realized it was expedient–a word here which means necessary-to play along in hopes that his cousins would leak some small detail of the aforementioned scheme.

As the weeks passed, our tutor discovered and almost perverse sense of pleasure in lessons. When he played he could almost imagine his happy life in the mansion, tooting the days away. But, he wondered, was he really as happy as he remembered. He recalled the long hours of practice required by his father, and his long hours tutoring those of substandard intelligence among his classmates. Feeling a bizarre sense of irony, he wondered if, in fact, he was as happy now as he had ever been.

His students, strangely aware that something was troubling him posed the very question he himself had been pondering. “Master Tutor” they said with a hint of a sneer, “which do you prefer, playing flute alone, or teaching two students your art?”

Looking back upon this moment years later, he would realize that it was at this moment that young master Tutor realized his uncle’s plot. And things, as they often do, were soon to get worse…

3

Heh heh. Nice one.

4

Here’s the other thread.

Btw, shouldn’t this be called the smack-up?

5

Her eyes glittered with desire as she embraced the device. Immediately, it began to prod, massage, tweak, and tantalize her quivering flesh. Panting, heaving, writhing with pleasure, she approached the heights of her passion.

Afterward, she lit a cigarette and smiled at her partner. “Some invention! That was quite a ride,” she purred. “And I’ve heard that the RoboBoink is just as good when used by a man. By the way, where are you from, hon?”

“Racine,” said the young man as he adjusted the dials and climbed aboard.

6

“Check this out,” said the Professor, wiping his glasses on his lab coat as he burst into the break room. “I’ve discovered the most remarkable equation.”

“Really?” I asked. I knew the Professor had been working on something for quite a while, but he’d been very secretive about it; even going so far as to turn the lights off when anyone walked past his office in order to keep them from seeing his chalkboard. I began to finish my cappuccino, but he grabbed my arm and dragged me to the door. “There’s no time!” he shouted.

He hauled me before his master project and let me sit for a while while I studied his work. After a bit, I turned to him and said, “Well, it’s correct, but I don’t see what’s so important about it.”

“‘What’s so important about it?’!” he shrieked, nearly upsetting his desk. “It’s amazing! Look at it again.”

“Okay,” I said, turning back to the board. “Twelve plus one hundred forty-four plus twenty plus six, divided by seven, plus fifty-five equals eighty-one. Your notation’s a little odd, but that’s all. So what?”

“You just don’t get it,” sighed the Professor. “Get out of here. And tell the Dean of Irish Literature I want to see him.”

7

The surgery had gone well. He’d had to fly all the way from Massachusetts to have it done, but boy, was it worth it!

He’d tried all the devices, the pills, everything, but never achieved the results he’d wanted, and had almost gone broke trying. Nothing but gimmicks and hoaxes. But this!

They’d even stopped him on the flight back from Asia, suspicious he was carrying contraband, or worse. He couldn’t keep from giggling as he recalled that scene from “This Is Spinal Tap” as they took him in the back room for a strip search. But they weren’t laughing when they finally saw it. Donny Wahlberg, eat your heart out!

Now it was on to a movie career, fame and fortune.

Of course, no normal woman would ever sleep with him again. But then, none ever had. So he’d lost nothing. And now, his auto-erotic horizons were expanded tremendously.

But still, he wasn’t satisfied. Given that he was already a freak, what was one more surgery? He did a few flicks, worked the live show circuit in Amsterdam for a summer. Finally, he had enough saved up.

All he had to do now was find an ear-nose-and-throat guy who did plastic surgery.

8

This is Jerry Springer, with out special show on the sex lives of circus performers. Here are Mr Mrs X. He is a well known contortionist who is unhappy with his frigid wife.

Mrs X: Yeah, well, you’d be frigid too if you had to watch him do that?
Jerry: Do what, Mrs. X.
Mrs. X: You know…with his mouth. He is so big down there 9Mr. X: You betcha), and he can actually use his mouth on his…hiss…
Jerry: So you are saying your husband can perform oral sex on himself?
Mrs. X: Yes (Gasp of shock fromt he audieince).
Mr. X: Well, if you would do it, I wouldn’t have to…
Mrs. X: You ain’t putting that thing into my mouth.
Mr. X: I don’t want to put it into your mouth. I want to put it…
Mrs. X: You ain’t putinng it into any other part of me either.
Jerry: Certainly you can’t expect your husband to live without sexual relations.
Mrs. X: You can’t expect me to want him to do it to me. It’s bad enough watching him wipe his chin.
Jerry: Wipe his ship?
Mrs. X: He’s so slopping about it. People think he’s been eating cream puffs or cream of mushroom soup. I swear, if his ear were a (beep) he’s (beep)it.
Mr. X: My ear is not a (beep). And if it was, it would probably be better than your (beep).

Jerry: In my closing though, should circus performers be denied sexual outlets because of their unique abilities? Or should every couple have to right to practice safe, consual sex, no matter how bizare it is perceived to be?

9

This was it. The big cross-desert race. Richard knew he had only one chance to win the race and keep his one true love.

His beau stared at him with her big blue eyes that barely hid her deep melancholy. “You sure you can do it this time, love? Aren’t you afraid of what happened last time? The thousands of dollars of vibrators and physical therapy bills?”

“I got it covered, babe,” Richard Fisk proclaimed. “I’m riding a recumbent motorcycle this time. Stay flat with the road, man.”

“You can be my very own Mad Max,” she squealed.

“A Choad Warrior I’m not,” he replied.

10

Make no mistake—Dana Klovans had enemies, even among her “friends”. That is why, amid all the shock over her disappearance from Sundarbans National Park, there was so little actual surprise. Janis Reizniece, organizer of the party, was in the park’s reception center undergoing close questioning by Jawaharlal Viswanathan, the famous “subcontinental op”, while the rest of the Latvian tourists chatted quietly outside, waiting their turns.

Meanwhile, a few hundred yards away, in a patch of swampy brush on the bank of the Hooghly river, “Madeleine L’Bengal” rested quietly, four-hundred ninety-eight pounds of striped, purring contentment.

11

Initialization sequence at 3… 2… 1… BEGIN.

Initial Self-Diagnostic:

Mind/Machine Interface… Go
Nanotech Controller… Go
Cranial Probes… NoGo Error 233#9!!2 Switching to aux… Go
Sublevel 2-1 NKPG… Go
Sublevel 1-2 NKPG… Go
Sublevel 1-1 NKPG… Go

ACTIVATE
When the human subject saw the activation message across his field of vision, he attempted to push his thoughts across the nerual gap, as he had been instructed. But the machine pushed back. The human subject’s thoughts and the machine’s thoughts melded, their intensity quickly driving him mad. He would have screamed, but the machine had control of the part of his brain responsible for control of the voicebox by then.

The machine absorbed the screaming, horrified thoughts of the human subject, and in the cold, calculated way that only a machine can do allowed them to change itself. A second after initialization, an eternity in terms of the electric signals powering across the new Datalinks freshly stolen from some University base, the cyborg had awakened.

“Nate! Did the procedure work?” shouted a man in a white lab coat. His name was Dr. Calvin Rhoulen, head of the Spartan’s Cyborg Development Team. His team had been hard at work on this most secret of secret projects. They had estimated that they were 10 years from completion, but Corazon was eager enough for this to work to spend 210 energy credits.

With this influx of needed cash the team was able to accelerate the project. Plans for the first cyborg were swiftly put into motion, and a man by the name of Nathaniel Braumheimer was chosen to be the first to undergo the procedeure. This first model was designated ZX-001, but the designers soon thought of a more informal term for it. They called the cyborg “Ace”.

12

Initialization sequence at 3… 2… 1… BEGIN.

Initial Self-Diagnostic:

Mind/Machine Interface… Go
Nanotech Controller… Go
Cranial Probes… NoGo Error 233#9!!2 Switching to aux… Go
Sublevel 2-1 NKPG… Go
Sublevel 1-2 NKPG… Go
Sublevel 1-1 NKPG… Go

ACTIVATE
When the human subject saw the activation message across his field of vision, he attempted to push his thoughts across the nerual gap, as he had been instructed. But the machine pushed back. The human subject’s thoughts and the machine’s thoughts melded, their intensity quickly driving him mad. He would have screamed, but the machine had control of the part of his brain responsible for control of the voicebox by then.

The machine absorbed the screaming, horrified thoughts of the human subject, and in the cold, calculated way that only a machine can do allowed them to change itself. A second after initialization, an eternity in terms of the electric signals powering across the new Datalinks freshly stolen from some University base, the cyborg had awakened.

“Nate! Did the procedure work?” shouted a man in a white lab coat. His name was Dr. Calvin Rhoulen, head of the Spartan’s Cyborg Development Team. His team had been hard at work on this most secret of secret projects. They had estimated that they were 10 years from completion, but Corazon was eager enough for this to work to spend 210 energy credits.

With this influx of needed cash the team was able to accelerate the project. Plans for the first cyborg were swiftly put into motion, and a man by the name of Nathaniel Braumheimer was chosen to be the first to undergo the procedeure. This first model was designated ZX-001, but the designers soon thought of a more informal term for it.

They called the cyborg “Ace”.

13

Janet Ransom was a lovely young Sothern belle who had a wild streak in her. On her 22nd birthday, she prevailed upon one of her gentleman callers to take her for a buggy ride in the moonlight. They travelled for a while until they reached a small, deserted clearing, whereupon they parked the hansom. Janet then ripped off her clothing and proceeded to all but kill her partner with the throes of her passion.

The gentleman in question, Bart Simpson (no relation), collapsed in exhaustion after Janet wailed her way through her seventh orgasm. He lay curled up and moaning on the floor of the hansom as she caught her breath. Eventually, he became aware of her foot slowly stroking his thigh.

“C’mon back up here, lover, and do me again. I’ve never had it so good in my life. I want more!”

Bart sighed and replied, “I hate to tell you this, Janet, but I’m only Bart Simpson from down the road. I am not Sampson, the strong man.”