Your collection of stuffed cows is beaten by my Milk Mustache Advertising Campaign.
Yeah, we’ll go with that.
Jim Ignatowski.
*<jr8 stirs groggily from his place on the arena floor.>
Geez, my head hurts…what hit me? I feel like I’ve been run over by a herd of stuffed cows…I haven’t felt this bad since 1972 when I was still battling under the name Englebert Hogenbogenflogen and I inadvertently…no! I mustn’t think of that debacle, that ignominious defeat that forced me to flee the arena in shame, to hide my face in the street, to change my name, my address, my hair color, my car, my Social Security number, my wife, my dog and my underwear, to seek anonymity in remote Patagonia for ten long years, shaving advertising slogans into the sides of llamas….ah, those were more innocent times…O halcyon days of yore!…O verdant pastures of <thump> ow!
<jr8 is shaken from his reverie by a sudden sharp pain, reminding him that he is still lying in the middle of the fighting arena>
What th’…
<fast-moving colored blurs spring sharply into focus>
*AAAAAAAAGH! I’m under attack! *
<jr8 attempts to fend off the attack with the spring-loaded Frank Perdue he keeps up his sleeve for emergencies but it has been damaged in the melee and misfires, showering the ring with chicken parts (albeit extremely tender ones). Thinking quickly, he blocks the next blow with Mikey from the Life cereal ads[I}, which holds off the attack just long enough for him to regain his feet.>
Ha! You thought me finished, but I’m not out yet! I’ll wipe the smile off of your Milk Mustache Advertising Campaign with a damp rag, and your ** Jim Ignatowski** ploy cannot stand against the fury of Tony Clifton! And while you’re reeling from that, face the horror that is the gratingly annoying onslaught of childish taunts! Na na boo boo!
(Yes! I’m up! I’m back in the game! I’m ready to take on the world! I’m…[sub]feeling a little dizzy now, and am just going to sit over here in the corner for a moment…[/sub])
Childish taunts are no match for my rubber suit! “Boing!” Off they go! I’ll counter with a well placed case of **unnecessary suspence /b]…
Oh yeah? Well I knock the block off your attack with my Rockem-Sockem Robots, following up with the All You Can Eat Seafood Bar at Red Lobster[sub]tm[/sub], with a Side Order of Fried Calamari! Eat my squid, miscreant!
The All You Can Eat Seafood Bar at Red Lobster[sub]tm[/sub], with a Side Order of Fried Calamari means nothing to me, as I don’t eat seafood, in fact, I think I’ll have a nice steak. For your feeble attempt, though, you shall find yourself cursed with morning breath. Not just any morning breath, oh no, but morning breath after a night out drinking and eating a gyro before going to bed.
The life of a Rochambo fighter is hard. Really hard. Hard as a rock…no, harder than that. Hard as two rocks. Hard as a word problem in algebra class. Hard as remembering your mother-in-law’s birthday. Hard as Esprix on vacation. Pretty – damn – hard.
And even compared to all the battles I’ve fought, this one was harder than most. It had gone on for nine pages now, maybe more, and things were showing no sign of abating. The floor was littered with the shrapnel of previous assaults and the still bodies of lesser players who had fallen by the wayside. The competition was as fierce as a pit bull with a thumbtack in its butt, and the attacks came as fast and furious as a bunch of wasps with PMS who had been put in a box and shaken up and then let out again. Yes, things were desperate. Very desperate. Especially the analogies – they were as desperate as they come.
My opponent had thrown an attack of morning breath after a night out drinking and eating a gyro before going to bed and stood there sneering, awaiting my next move. It was a good play – you didn’t survive this many pages into a Rochambo thread without having the right moves – and there was a tightness in my gut as I pondered my next strategy. But I couldn’t let my opponent see my fear. Fear is for losers. Show any fear and your opponent will eat you alive faster than Hannibal Lecter coming off a SlimFast diet. “Fear is the mindkiller,” as my father used to say. Or maybe I read it somewhere. No, it was in that Dune movie, the one with Kyle MacLachlan. Whatever happened to him, anyway? Wasn’t he in Twin Peaks?…
The impatient drumming of my opponent’s fingers on the desktop brought me back to my senses. I struck a match and lit a cigarette in that steely-eyed Clint Eastwood sort of way, then realized I don’t actually smoke and flicked the cigarette out of the ring. There was a faint indignant cry of “Hey!” from the crowd that I knew would become a major personal injury suit at some point. But that was later. And I knew what I had to do now.
With a sneer of my own I push back my serape and counter morning breath after a night out drinking and eating a gyro before going to bed with the lightning-fast rebuff of shaving my tongue and gargling with Lysol. There is an audible gasp from the crowd: either they had been impressed by this bold stroke, or my fly was undone again. No time to check now, though, for it is time to counterattack. In a blaze of glory, I unleash a double blow of Rice-a-Roni, the San Francisco treat AND a year’s supply of Turtle Wax – for that hard shell finish! Have at you!
Rice-a-Roni, the San Francisco treat will make a nice addition at my first cousin’s aunt’s granmother’s best friend’s hairdresser’s daughter’s wedding. I’m sure I can find a spot in my garage for ** a year’s supply of Turtle Wax – for that hard shell finish ** to go along with that year’s supply of chapstick that I won on Jipparody last month.
And now, feel the embarrasment of ** being caught in “the act” by your mother!!**
Ahh, the old Rice-a-Roni, the San Francisco treat AND a year’s supply of Turtle Wax – for that hard shell finish ploy, huh? Well, as you’ve noted, the life of a Rochambo-er is hard, hard like Jamie Pressly’s abs, hard like Differential Equations on acid, and yes, as my worthy opponent stated, hard like Esprix in SF. Damn hard.
To make it here, you’ve got to be just as hard, or, conversely, soft. Like a reed in the grass, like the limb on a tree, you must be able to bend to attacks without breaking. You must be able to ponder your defense and plan your attack while observing the styles and techniques of others, as you will invariably be forced into combat with all comers sooner or later. Such is the life of a Rochambo Master. Such is the life of one that is to be, or not to be, as the case may be, involved in the glory that is: Rochambo.
Now, to my defense: I feed the Rice-a-Roni to Esprix, since he is now in SF and probably in need of nourishment, after his vigorous activity. The Turtle Wax, a bold and tight attack, finding every chink in my armor, every nick in my coat, ends up being an unexpected boon, for as you say, it gives “that hard shell finish.” So indeed, I bend to this attack and embrace it, making it my own.
Fair is fair, though, and such an assault deserves notice and a fair rebuttal, thusly, I send you a hill of beans and the pain that is a long distance relationship. Tremble, fair Master, your time is coming soon.
Not many people would have had the nerve, the sheer grit, to try such maneuvers, and I salute you for it. But it will avail you nothing, for I will strip your attacks of their potency (ouch!:eek: ) by putting my fingers in my ears, closing my eyes and shouting “LA LA LA I’M IGNORING YOU LA LA LA I CAN’T SEE YOU LA LA LA I CAN’T HEAR YOU LA LA LA”. In the face of such sheer denial, no force can succeed.
I sense that perhaps my opposition have begun to anticipate my strategies and thus are able to block them before they can achieve full force. In which case, a more indirect approach may succeed where others have failed…
Quietly, and without much ado, I return fire with…
a gazebo.
I see my worthy opponents’ puzzled looks, a cautious relaxation of the tension that builds up in anticipation of an attack. There is a pause while they wait for the metaphorical other shoe to drop. And then, a moment too late, they realize the truth…
gazebo
…a funny little word, really…
gazebo
It has both the “g” and the “z” sounds, plus that “o” ending like “gazpacho”…gazebo…but it’s got that “b” in it too, which is also a funny sound…gazebo…and slowly it begins to pick up a rhythm of its own… gazebo… gazebo… gazebo… gazebo…* you start to titter as it forms itself into little poems…*
Gazebo gazebo gazebo,
Gazebo gazebo gazebo.
Gazebo gazebo
Gazebo gazebo
gazebo gazebo gazebo!
…and that’s when the helpless laughter begins…oh, how insidious!…but can you defend against it?!?
P.S. Man, am I in a long-winded mood today. It must be that hill of beans I ate… 
Damn you thinksnow. I now realize my days are numbered. ** The pain of a long-distance relationship** is one I am all to familiar with. I’m on my second one now. Only 1,162 miles away. But, as always I shall persevere. If I were alone you would have killed me, but I have the will to live. Not for me, but for her. My true love. For my Emily.
As I lay on the floor choking on my own blood and drenched in sweat, she is the one thing that encourages me to get up. I would throw curses at you like Eddie Murphy with a stick up his arse but my mind is filled only with her. Slowly, I bring myself to my knees and begin to breath again. All is a blur. Shaking like a grandma on crack I pull myself up to my feet and spit out my left incisor. “Thinksnow…now it’s personal.”
Now I shall counter by taking a can of Coke and shaking it up for 36 hours staight, covering it with a bag of pop-rocks candy and then placing this make-shift bomb straight up thinksnows ass.
While considering my rebuttal (no pun intended), may I just say “Ouch.”
And FTR, I was going to commend you on your stalwart position and unflagging devotion, but now, well, go suck an egg. In fact, sit on it while you’re at it.
I’ll be back.
When thinksnow hands you eggs make an omlette. Then throw it right back at him!
I haven’t seen this many Ballistic Egg-Dishes used in the ring since Ute Kuugenschava cut down Yuri Vladamalkin with a Poached Eggs On Toast/Eggs Benedict double whammy at the Eastern European Regionals in '88.
However, I am schooled in the lost art of asenontee vee, and therefore I counter this assault with The Ronco Inside-The-Shell Egg Scrambler! That ought to bring this ovarian carnage to a quick end.
And now for my attack: The Sound of Fingernails on a Chalkboard!!!
Mmmm…omelette <deftly catches flying egg dish>
While I eat this, I will amuse myself by ensnaring you in a clever trap. Now, to escape my trap you must defeat recursion! But, as everyone knows, to defeat recursion you must first defeat recursion! Muahahahahahaha!
<sudden horrifying thought>
cykrider, you didn’t actually sit on that egg before you made the omelette, did you? :eek:
magdalene marches into the arena. Unshowered. Unforgiven. And undeterred. Glad she avoided the pain of a long distance relationship - the last one damn near killed her. Glad she broke her fast at home, was not remotely tempted by ckryder’s ass-omelette.
And glad that the can defeat recursion with the endless loop recursion that is Lite rock hits of the 60’s, 70’s, and 80’s.
Reaching into her bag of tricks, she pulls out the one thing she knows will have Geek Boys ducking for cover:
Dodgeball.
With a What Time is It, Mr. Fox chaser.
In order to defeat recursion by defeating recursion, I invoke the all-powerful Circular Reference justified by Spurious Logic!
And for the assault, I present for your consideration:
A John Woo Action Sequence!
I’m off the board for an evening, and what do I get for it? I’m hurled into a vat of MacDonald’s grease!! cykrider, you bastard!! Well, like a phoenix rising from a vat of oil, all drippy and a little pissed off, Busta Rib has returned to the arena to strike vengence upon thee!! Thankfully, my years of training with the 16 Bronzemen of the Shaolin Monastery has taught me to survive in a vat of MacDonald’s grease for hours without any ill effect, with exception that it’ll take days to get that smell out of my hair. And you’ll pay for my drycleaning!!!
So, it has come to foul play, I see. Rice-A-Roni, ass omelettes, and the unforgivable long-distance relationship!! Have you people no shame?! To bring dignity back to our beloved sport, I deflect the John Woo Action Sequence with the Sountrack from Saturday Night Live. That’ll take the melodramatic cinematography right out of your sails!
As I survey the landscape, I realize…this place is a pig sty! Who’s gonna clean up this mess? Which leads me to my next offensive: you are all sentenced to a day of Domestic Chores, including dirty laundry, taking out the garbage, doing the dishes, vacuuming, and the dreaded cleaning of the bathroom tiles!!! Eat my Pine Sol, you scoundrels.
I think you mean Soundtrack from Saturday Night Fever, unless there’s some album out there by G.E. Smith and the Saturday Night Live Band I’m not aware of.
And did you miss the fact that I fished your ass out of the fryer with Dawn, The Grease Cutter?