I’m pretty sure you may have to fight with The Barenaked Ladies over who get dibs on John Merrick’s remains… y’know, seeing as they finally have that million dollars they were all singing about.
OK, except for Steven Page, because he blew it all on a giant mountain of coke.
They also get first dibs on green dresses and Kraft Dinner.
You idiot. You kidnapped Santa Claus!
Mow the lawn? In January? In Chicago? (It is at least proven that Cecil is a Chicagoan, one would think that the CSDs are as well, because someone looking to kidnap him would only need to look in the Second City)
Doesn’t matter if you’ve seen him. I’m saying I haven’t (because of the reclusiveness). So I can’t very well “want to see him again” if there isn’t a first time, now, is there?
King me.
Actually, I only gave the OP a 9, tops. It’s the brilliant followups that pushed this into at least 11 territory.
If nothing else he deserves to have all his demands met for his activity in this thread alone.
I will ask Cecil if he knows where he is, but I make no promises. Dubya is leering at him just now, and that’s making him uncomfortable.
No! They can have McCaulay Culkin. Michael needs those bones. And Bubbles.
Surely not real green dresses?
Don’t be absurd. Santa smokes a corn cob pipe. He also has a button nose, and his eyes have more of a dull black twinkle about them, like some obsidian-like rock.
Well that hardly matters now, does it? He exists, can we not agree on that? And he is here, in the flesh, although tied to a chair. Furthermore, I wasn’t necessarily suggesting that you’d ever see him visually, merely that his presence – his being, if you will, would cease to be free to roam the corporeal plains unless my demands are met, but would instead be free only to roam my bachelor pa…lace, provided he doesn’t use my toothbrush or drink straight from the carton.
No, that’s cruel.
Which, of course, leads us to the inevitable question…
Please tell us you haven’t made Cecil wear a real green dress?
No, I have not. Yet. I thought I’d start with a slinky black cocktail number before working up to the nasty stuff. You can’t just reach for the big guns, there’s no drama in that.
Well, you know it’s hard times all over. Economy is down and everything, but Cecil did answer a question I wasn’t really asking not so long ago, so I prolly oughta try to help him out.
Tell you what, if you can get other people to kick in Demands #1-6, and #8-10, I’ll spring for the Klondike Bar.
LOL! You got J. Peterman! ! I wondered why my catalog was late. . .
So wait, Cecil is Santa Claus? I always knew there was something fishy about that guy. And that explains why he’s blown off my questions–probably cracking the whip on the elves instead of responding to inquiries like he should be.
No, you fool, he has J. R. “Bob” Dobbs!
I don’t think you people quite understand this situation. I HAVE KIDNAPPED CECIL ADAMS. The Cecil Adams. Charming fellow, smart, bit of a wiseacre, smells like a library? I have him. In my possession. He’s tied to a metal chair, the folding sort schools haul out at assemblies. In my apar…lair. And you want him back, I know you do. So I have made my list of demands – simple demands, really, nothing so base as money, that’s just crass. And if you want to have him back as I know you all do, all you have to do is agree to furnish my really rather modest demands.
But I see I am going to have to give a little demonstration to get you thinking along the proper lines here and show you that I am not fooling around here.
Here, listen…
Do you hear that? Those cries of despair and anguish? That’s Cecil making those noises. I’ve propped his eyes open with alligator clips and am forcing him to look at a nude picture of Orly Taitz splayed out on a bearskin rug. (Don’t ask after its provenance, it is a long story and let’s just say I was the loser in that deal. Plus, I’m willing to bet you are at this very moment scrambling to find something – anything – to scour that image from your head.) Yes, listen to those sweet, sweet notes of horror pulled from the very depths of his aching diaphragm – oh! Ooh, that was a good one. I definitely heard the chandelier rattle.
I will leave him like that for a few minutes more, just to get my point across, and so that my villainous dialogue doesn’t drown it out.
I AM NOT KIDDING.
Please, continue.
You don’t understand. All of the mods are stunt doubles for Cecil*. He has modified our DNA to match his. You’re actually holding Czarcasm. And he’s pissed.
**Mindfield ** — I’ma gonna make-a yu an offa yu no-canna refuse.
Yu gonna make with da givvin back of da nice Cecil man.
Or else.
Or else?
Or else I’ma gonna hire da Pirates of Somalia to have a musical battle at sea all ova yu face.
An mebbe, if I’ma really mad? Johnny Depp gonna be da choreographer.
When dey id done wich yu, yu gonna lok-a like DIS!
Yu be good boy, yu listen, yes?
Do you really expect me to believe such nonsense? Please, I’m smarter than that. I asked the CSI: NY lab to do a full analysis, but they said something very rude to me and Flack kicked me in the shins, so I went down the street to a reputable and much more respectful lab above a Chinese restaurant. After some confusion due to the language barrier over whether I was asking them to harvest his organs, they ran every test they could; they even ran out of pipettes and had to use turkey basters, that’s how thorough they were. The results? Well, they were mostly what I expected: That is, indeed, Cecil Adams. Rather surprisingly however, they also found that he was 1/20th part Ojibwa Indian, and a further 1/75th part squirrel. Modern science is amazing.
Pssh. Do you think that frightens me? I keep the entire cast of the New York chapter of the ballet version of the Pirates of Penzance in my closet! And Donny Osmond is the choreographer! And although I wasn’t able to capture the New York Philharmonic, I was still able to abduct the Poughkeepsie Semiharmonic Gestalt who are, if not quite as good, at least twice as deadly.
Bring it.
Hey-no rush on the rescue, Twickster. Mindfield is pretty good with the rope tying, and Mistress says I don’t have to be back until Monday morning.
Maybe you should have read this before you started. Bet you’re sorry now. 
Fiddlesticks. Are you implying Cecil is an impudent little wretch of a mind to make me regret formulating this cunning plan? Or perhaps you are insinuating that Cecil is related in some way to O Henry and thus I should feel bad for kidnapping the descendant of a legendary author? Well, in responds to both, he isn’t, and regardless of his lineage, I don’t. The fact is, Cecil is sitting quietly, hands tied behind the chair, making words on a Scrabble board with his tongue. Or trying to anyway, as my board is in German.
Yeah - let’s just say that everyone who has that image is now the loser in that deal.
My thongue ith thwollen and my lipths are chapped-thend Blithtex ATHAP!
Fruit Roll-Ups that have been worn as innersoles by Mariska Hargitay.
You might not want 'em, but I do.
