HE KILLED A CAT?!?!?!?!?!? My Mom’s best friend knows the Evil Eye, ETF. Plus I think my great uncle twice removed or something might have some Mafia connections. Call us any time.
So, since I am new to this thread, exactly what does a guy have to do to get himself killed around here? Would it be a sin to unthaw EddyTeddyFreddy and unleash his evil powers upon the face of the earth once more? Let me know please.
Welcome to our little House of Death, moejuck - where the killin’ is easy - especially for those that mistake EddyTeddyFreddy for a male. Heh.
On August 7, 2005, you’ll make a decision that you’ll regret for the rest of your life (At this point, of course, your life at this point is running on empty.) You decide to talk a walk in your local park - and lookie there, a swing set! As you plant yourself in the swing seat, a mutant ninja turtle crawls up from the sand pit nearby and gulps you up in one single bite.
EddyTeddyFreddy, unthawed and unharmed, giggled from a distance. Her evil powers intact, she strutted off the playground as the ambulances arrived.
double “this point” - where’s that damn edit function?!
(sigh…) Poor Blonde – impaled herself on the very point she was so desperately trying to eradicate. But she deserved it, after all, for snatching the latest chunk of fresh meat – er, ah, I mean the newest denizen of this thread, when ETF had already marked down the miscreant for a suitable “got my gender wrong, huh?” demise.
So it was that, one fine and sunny morning on May 3rd, 2006, moejuck went out for a friendly game of kick the can with his new neighbor, a pleasant-looking middle-aged woman. moejuck did wonder why the woman was wearing riding breeches, and why they had such a thick layer of animal hair all over them, but the woman blithely deflected all personal inquiries with a quip or question for moejuck.
The game was rolling along, when the woman took a shot at the can, and kicked it over the fence of the neighborhood grouch. “Shucks!” said moejuck. “I guess that’s the end of our game.”
“Oh, no, not at all,” said the woman. “I’ve got a can that would be perfect. Hang on a moment; I’ll go get it.” The woman trotted off to her garage, and emerged a few minutes later carrying a silvery canister.
“Sorry it took so long,” she said; “I had to dig it out of where I’d left it. Here, why don’t you take the first kick?” And with that, the woman placed the can on the street and backed away.
moejuck ran up to the can, which was rather larger than the usual, and seemed to have some sort of plastic-looking stuff smeared at one end. He paid no attention to these details, though, as he was winding up for a really good kick. Just as his foot was midway through its arc to the can, he noticed that the woman had flung herself behind the nearest car, and thought, “What the”–
KA-BOOOOOOM!!!
EddyTeddyFreddy crawled from behind the badly damaged car and stood up, brushing random bits of dirt off. “Call me a guy, huh?” she smirked, and strolled off to feed her cats before heading out on a trail ride.
moejuck, all you have to do to earn an untimely departure from this vale of tears is to devise a suitably (a) amazing, (b) gruesome, (c) funny, or (d) hopefully all of the above death for the person that posted before you. You will then be cut off in your prime by the next poster. :eek: 
…now I know what happened to kick the can…
moejuck, now covered in mutant turtle stomach acid and minus all limbs, plots his revenge on Ms. ETF and Blonde. Little did either of them know of his incredible pain tolerance, or the fact that he rarely used his arms and legs at the same time.
Both of the sinister “females” receive packages via UPS in the mail only 1 week after the supposed death of the indestructible moejuck. On top of the package sits a plain, white envelope. They open the envelopes only to uncover a mysterious white powder inside. Horrified they call in the CDC, the WHO, the FBI, the CIA, and CNN (they needed some disposable bodies). After a complete inspection the powder is determined to be Sodium Chloride. Feeling more confident, each decides to open their respective packages.
Inside the plain brown box lies a bottle of wine with a card attached reading: “From your secretly alive admirer”. With so many attempted murders under thier belts, they knew it was hopeless to try to deduce who had sent the package. The wine was obviously poisoned, so they both decided to test it on their pet cats. Fluffy and Morris both survive the test, giving the perception that all is normal.
ETF and Blondethen sit down with a good book and a glass of the wine by a nice, warm fire. Suddenly thier respective fires start to burn a little out of control. Looking at their bottle of wine they notice that it reads “inflammable” and both decide to toss thier merlot onto the roaring flames. Both perish in the resulting fire with the maniacal laughter of moejuck ringing in thier ears.
Grim Reaper: moejuck, that’s a clever start. Just remember: never, ever, kill cats or mess with Blonde’s hair, and you’ll do fine. By the way - you really need to have that electrical plug in the kitchen repaired. Heh.
Blonde, next Sunday you´ll die as a result of severe head trauma, caused by a falling coconut that was being carried by two african swallows.
Ale, you will die when you visit a local winery. You will suffocate when every orifice is sealed off when you fall into a vat of corks.
Upon seen Hugh Jass step in this literal abattoir door, the Grim Reaper Social Club permanent members, BellaDellaItalia, Blonde, EddyTeddyFreddy, SanguineSpider and you humble servant Ale all rush screaming and yielding assorted concussive, piercing and pointy objects at Hugh Jass the deranged party trips over the entrance rug and falls over him, crushing the newcomer to death; it wasn´t pretty or sophisticated, but sure enough it worked.
After that the members assembled to dring tea and exchange poisons recipes.
** Ale ** was visiting an aunt in Ecuador. The nice aunt was a fine cook, and prepared a fine traditionnal meal for ** Ale **. ** Ale ** was deligthed. Family, a good meal, a good local liquor, life is good… until…
Aunt: “Mmm… Those guinea pigs are tasty, but not enough spicy. Do you want more ginger, Ale?”
** Ale ** suddely realized what was the local receipe and, disgusted by a such horrible treatment to such nice and tiny creatures, choked to death.
Here we go again! After cats, French frog is killing guinea pigs… When will the slaughter be over? :eek:
Me? answered ** French frog** OK, but check this out: http://boards.straightdope.com/sdmb/showpost.php?p=4470714&postcount=19
** Breaking news! ETF sued by PETA ! **
Today’s recipe:
Two shallots, finely minced
One ounce cognac or sherry
Two tablespoons butter
Pinch of marjoram
One pair of large frog legs
Melt butter in skillet over medium heat. Add shallots; saute until just softened. Add frog legs; saute, turning often, until firm and cooked through. Remove from skillet. Add marjoram and cognac or sherry; turn heat high and cook, stirring constantly, for one minute or till sauce thickens. Pour over frog legs and serve with rice pilaf.
[culinary sidetrack]
Wow. It’s been 2 receipes I’m reading from you and I’m drowning in my own mouth-watering!
If there is a dopefest around here and you’re cooking, let me know! 
Hey, I won’t even kill you this time. Next poster, proceed.
[/culinary sidetrack]
:smack:
The cream! I forgot the cream! You can add a splash of cream to the sauce when you’re reducing it after removing the frog’s legs. Not vital, but it makes it that much richer, and helps thicken it.
:smack:
EddyTeddyFreddy, as I read your recipe, I thought to myself “Damn! How could she have forgetten the cream. <<cringe>> How embarrassing is that…”
You’ll enjoy just one heavenly bite of french frog’s legs - and then his legless torso will crawl ever so slowly out of the trash can - and proceed to heave a butcher knife into your back.
Yes, in theory if he had no legs, he couldn’t throw anything. Details, details.
Quite right; I died of embarrassment when I realized my horrendous blunder. Score one death for french frog! :o
Ah, actually, if he had no legs he’d find it difficult to crawl, now, wouldn’t he? Although, assuming he still had his arms and hands, he could pull himself along with them, and would find it quite easy to heave that knife into my gourmandizing back, eh? Score another death for the valiant if somewhat reduced frog. 
Methinks it’s Blonde’s turn to expire from embarrassment. 
Not if he morphed little wheels! And would my error in leaving that point out come EVEN close to forgetting the essential ingredient - cream - from the recipe? Pu-lease.
May the next poster send ETF six feet under with much ado.
**ETF ** is relaxing in her humble, yet frou-frou Aspen ski cabin sipping a cup of warm hot chocolate. Suddenly she hears a most disturbing noise, the unmistakeable sound of a small snowball falling from the top of the Rockies, slowly rolling downhill, morphing into an Indiana Jones size ball of destruction. Knowing that the entire area will soon be covered with at least 14ft of snow, she decides her only option is to get out her trusted earth-drilling machine and tunnel to the other side of the earth.
She puts on the earth drilling backpack and fires up the drill. Just as she breaks through the frozen tundra, her entire cabin is blasted with the white powdery death.
ETFdrills for hours. She digs through many layers of the earth, passing all sorts of goblins and troll on her way. The earth finally starts to soften, and she knows she must be getting close to the surface. Just when all looks to be safe, her earth-drilling battery pack gives out. Seems that ETFnever took to the Energizer Bunny craze, and would now pay the ultimate price: She has buried herself alive. When authorities finally uncover the body, they determine that she was a mere 72inches from the surface, and was attempting to shove daisies through to the surface to create an airway.
Cruel, cruel fate…
Heh. Six feet under and pushing up daisies, huh?
moejuck was singing the blues. He couldn’t get his mojo working. He’d lost that loving feeling, and it was gone, gone, gone. He’d been down so long, it looked like up to him, there at the Heartbreak Hotel. Had he been born under a bad sign? Only the lonely knew how he felt.
moejuck decided to hit the road, Jack. “Maybe on a magical mystery tour I can find my way back home?” Somewhere over the rainbow, maybe love would find a way?
After a long, strange trip, he found himself walking in Memphis, up to the gates of Graceland. The Duke of Earl said, “Only fools rush in,” but let moejuck enter. There stood the King, in his blue suede shoes! moejuck offered him 18 wheels and a dozen roses, and timidly asked, “What’s it all about?”
Alas, the King said, “You ain’t nothing but a hound dog! You’re a dead skunk in the middle of the road, and you’re stinking to high heaven!”
moejuck cried him a river, then went down to the crossroads and took that spoon, that spoon, that spoonful of Love Potion Number 9. He turned a whiter shade of pale, and became a ghost rider in the sky.