Do you remember this previous thread?
Here’s the story, pieced together in all its… glory (edited for spelling and punctuation errors). Enjoy. 
So there I was, stranded in BFE. It was dark, and starting to get cold. The hospital was miles away, and I was out of gas. I looked up and down the highway for an approaching car, but no vehicle save mine was visible. Sand blew across the road, and the quiet deepened.
Unfortunately the spicy chili that I ate earlier now made me break the silence with a resounding fart. It also broke one of the windows: a crack all the way across. Which was unfortunate because just then a confused yearling bull moose crashed into the already weakened window, and showered me with shards of glass.
Thankfully, my heavy denim jacket protected me from all but a few shallow cuts. With a heavy sigh, I started walking. However, I had forgotten to tie my shoelaces, yet again, so I tripped over them for the third time that day. I fell face first into a giant pile of moose poo. Can this day get any worse?
As I cleaned the moose poo off my upper lip, I looked over my left shoulder, and saw my high school crush, stifling their laughter. I straightened my tie and adjusted my sombrero, before bashfully ducking into a nearby store.
Noticing there was a masked man with a gun that was pointed at the store clerk (who looked like Apu), I subdued him (the masked man, not Apu) by pushing my sombrero over his head).
The masked man struggled underneath the sombrero. “Fool!” he cried. “I am the Mysterious Masked Superhero! The store clerk is–mysteriously absent. We need more cheese, dammit!”
“But the barns are full enough as it is!”
“Well, that settles it,” said the rancher, “We’re going to have to sell the farm.” And with that, the wind caressed the tops of the corn, and the desolate rustle filled the silence between them.
The scarecrow’s tattered rags twisted in the breeze. It silently monitored the landscape with a knowing but malevolent gaze. As the corn in my immediate view went from flowing vertical to flattened horizontal, a trick of the light made the scarecrow seem to wink in my direction. But it was the light that was bending–the light from the UFO.
As the UFO shimmered into vision, I saw the scarecrow raise a tattered hand in greeting, waving in a circular motion… widdershins. The thought came back-- widdershins. Glad that I had the latest issue in my back pocket; I quickly communed with nature and thumbed the UFO for a ride.
On the way there, we stopped by a far-off and distant planet for a snack. The problem, of course, was that once we got there, none of the local vendors would accept our Earth currency. They would, however, accept male deer as currency. Good thing we strapped a few to the roof of the UFO. So, we had enough bucks to pay them. But it was what we received in change that disturbed us.
Meanwhile, some kid slurping on a chocolate milk shake lifted his head and saw the reindeers in the sky. Unfortunately, he looked up just at the moment that Blitzen decided to unload a large, fluffy reindeer doot, which arced gracelessly through the sky, narrowly missed his forehead, and landed with a resounding SPLOOTCH! right in his milkshake. The sound was an unpleasant reminder. “Crap!” he said, as he threw down the milkshake and went off to the bathroom.
In a strange cosmic duality, the received change was nothing other than the aerated, chocolate milkshake-colored reindeer poop. Of course, Santa Claus was well familiar with this sort of “change”, as he usually has to pick it out of his beard every December 25th. And each year on the 26th of December, Santa made solemn vow to not feed the reindeer his famous “Cheesy Bran Muffin Corn Niblet Delight” reindeer feed… this vow was always forgotten by April 3rd, the second most famous day in April.
It is the 3rd of April, and Santa distinctly remembers that he is supposed to, well, remember something on this important day (well, the second most important day of April) and all that comes to his mind is “…” Suddenly, Mrs. Claus comes into the room and asks a question that not only jogs Santa’s memory, but incites him to an anger that would shock those who only know him as a jolly old elf.
“Honey” purrs Mrs. Claus…“isn’t this the anniversary of that day, long ago, when Rudolph miscarried?”
Santa whirls on her, screaming, “It wasn’t a miscarriage! It was an ABORTION! AN ABORTION, DO YOU HEAR ME?!? Because he couldn’t bear the thought of bringing another of YOUR CHILDREN into the world!!!” Mrs. Claus, furious, cuffs him across the face to shut him up. She then grabs him by the wrists, restraining him.
She quickly runs to the box on the wall marked “In Emergency Only”, opened it and pulled the lever, initiating a status of Defcon 5. The North Pole was in lockdown.
The situation was now looking desperate. Only a code blue authorisation would relieve the lockdown and let anyone out of the North Pole. For code blue to be recognised by the Grotto computer system, Santa, Mrs Claus and Rudolph needed to enter their passwords and turn their keys simultaneously. But Rudolph was at the vets recovering from a nasty STI.
“I have Rudolph’s Key!” shouted a nattily-attired elf, reeking of sawdust and Drakkar Noir. “Sometimes, it’s good to develop relationships and be close to your co-workers.” As he came to a running stop, bowed at the waist in exhaustion, he held out the key in his tiny hand.
“Christ” muttered Santa, sneezing violently as the three keys turned. Had he seen that Elf before, with the oversized 70’s sunglasses, turban and badly trimmed mustache?
Meanwhile, the Elf wriggled down the chimney of a nearby house, in search of his lady love… Who was in the arms of a goblin. The sight of a spotty green bum going up and down was the first thing to greet the Elf as he shimmied down the chimney. The Elf reached for the axe that always rested by the fireplace…
And was startled to see the axe being held by the straw-strewn arms of a sinister scarecrow (left-handed, naturally), poised to deliver a goblin-cleaving chop!
“Stop!” said Alice, as she held something disturbingly organic on her hands, “I’ve found your… religion. It expressly prohibits violence, so put the axe down now or I’ll shoot you with this Glock .45!”
The scarecrow opened the tear in his facial bandanna and let out a dry, wheezy chuckle…“You cannot killlll meeee…I ammm onlyyyy strawwww… The goblinnn mussst dieee…the elf maiden is miiiiinnnne…”
“YOURS?!?!” bellowed an incredulous voice. “Yours?” The voice, rich with Bronx inflection, boomed up from the staircase, followed almost immediately by the elf maiden. “I ain’t been yours fa SIX FUCKIN’ MONTHS, ya dumb baaaastad! We broke up, remembah?!” Upon entering the room, the elf paused. “Who da hell are all these people?”
I cowered in the corner, deftly slipping my sack of doorknobs from my satchel. I swung it slowly, in anticipation of Fiorella LaGuardia’s descent down the staircase.
“And you thought I died in 1947, huh? Remind me to tell you about the Dead Guy Re-Elfifcation Program…after I kick your ass from here to 57th Street. Ain’t no friggin’ way a stuffed scarecrow and a loser with a sack of doorknobs are taking me down!”
Outraged at being ignored by Fiorella LeGuardia Alice opened fire with her Glock, icing everyone in the room except the scarecrow who mentioned that he was immune to fire. “Oooopsie,” said Alice as she tossed a lit match in the scarecrow’s direction before leaving the hut, whistling merrily.
As LaGuardia lie dying, his elfified heart pierced with several near-perfect examples of hollow-pointed wonder, he watched the scarecrow run screaming into the white-cloaked winter wonderland. “All the sonofabich had to do was use the fire extinguisher… all he had to do was use…” The ‘thunk’ of his head caused his gold chain to quiver, announcing the departure of the 3rd-greatest Mayor of New York City.
Everyone was hosed. The thread waited for a sign of life… a diseased reindeer, an animate scarecrow, a Taliban elf, a maniacal fat man in a red suit… and waited.
And as the delicate, veriform snowflakes fell to the ground in dense waves of silky ice-crystal, a single vegetative hand reached over the threshold into the quiet house. To the home at large, the Scarecrow was heard by no-one to declaim… “I’m back, and this time I’ve brought Malachi. Oh, and a pumpkin as well. There may also be cider.”
Although there was apprehension at first, the smell of warm pumpkin pie and the taste of the hard cider quickly made the stranger and the family feel like longtime friends. Longtime friends, that is, until a family member - the family member one would least suspect was capable of such a thing - committed such a gaffe, such a faux pas, that the ensuing turmoil in that room made the Vandals’ sack of Rome seem like a game of badminton at the Ladies’ Club by comparison, for sheer chaos and depravity. It all started when…
Amy realized that despite having had lesbian lovers all through high school and college, she had been living a lie – she was strictly autosexual. Yes, autosexual. And, having admitted that to herself, she was forced to admit something else: there was only one auto for her. How could any other vehicle pleasure her like Otto, the '68 Buick Skylark that had been her ride all through high school? The Skylark whose peculiar engine thrumming and protruding seat springs had, in the flower of her young womanhood, taught her what it was to die the little death? Otto - the very name was ecstasy on her lips!
Just as Amy was losing herself in her autosexual reverie, the phone rang. Grudgingly, she answered the call. “Is Linus there?”, a young girl asked plaintively – almost tearfully.
“No Linus here. However, you can talk to Good Old Charlie Brown.”
“Never mind,” she said, still sounding as if she was on the verge of tears, “I’ll just call back later.” There was a telltale click, then nothing. At that very moment, the oven timer dinged. Damn, the brownies! She hoped the English teacher got a particularly large serving when she left them in the teacher’s lounge.
The English teacher, wandering by a few minutes later, picked a brownie up and ate it idly while logging onto the Internet at her computer. “Oh wow!” Mrs. Puryear mused through the drugs, “My hands are, like, glowing! Far Out!” She began to strike up a lively conversation with the bird at the windowsill while she listened to her finger nails grow, who suggested she go to the web site “Auto Sex dot com.”
Her husband, notably distressed by the sudden intoxication of his wife, was nevertheless intrigued by the new interest she seemed to discover. The bird was irrelevant – the instructions on the website were… Wait. “That’s not for cars, is it?”
She spun around in her desk chair, eyes wild, nostrils flaring. “W-well, what’s wrong with me looking at Camaro listings?” Her voice quavered, but she made up for it with volume. “Maybe I want to feel the thunderous acceleration as I grasp the stick in my hand. It’s more than I’ve been getting around here lately!”
Just then, as luck would have it, a candy-apple red 1985 IROC Z-28 came screaming around the corner. The Camaro’s tires screeched to a stop outside Amy’s window, and the door opened, revealing the driver to be none other than…
(Anybody up for a sequel?)