Juggling cans of Slim Fast, I counter your sinfully substituted Seven Layer Dip…well, I was about to counter it, but don’t you think this tortilla chip looks sort of like Jesus? Arriba! Es uno milagro!
Does anyone want tickets to The Vagina Monologues? Get your tickets here!
The vagina monologues are silenced with a healthy dose of something in their mouth (The Penis Diatribe?).
Ahhh, that was fun, but this shall not be: the guy that has a million stories to tell and won’t leave your cubicle/dorm room/office no matter how many hints/clues/direct comments you make.
thinksnow, I’ve foiled this guy with a million stories to tell… a bajillion times. This is less a Rochambo gambit than a public service announcement:
Whenever the guy who comes to your office/cube, say hi to him, and before he can really get going, stand up and leave the room. Go to the bathroom. Go check your mailbox. Suddenly “remember” a meeting you have to go to. Do this every time, without fail. He’ll soon move on to other prey. He comes in, stand up and leave. He comes in, stand up and leave. Got it?
In emergencies, you can actually foist him off on other prey. “Hey, guy with a million stories, I need to go to Susan’s office - walk with me and finish your story!” With any luck he’ll perch there and you’ll be free. Effortless.
Since you chose to mine the evil corporate vein, I give you The Accounting Firm of Ernst & Young, LLP during tax season. Tremble before their gray suits and mighty abacus-thingies! Lose yourself in their vaults of receipts!
The Accounting Firm of Ernst & Young, LLP during tax season? Hmm, a perplexing conundrum of the highest order, magdalene. But any accounting firm is quickly dispatched with Happy Hour with $2.00 well drinks!
And now, the audience draws a collective breath, awaiting Busta’s next move. Whispers are heard over the din: “Lazarus Dance?”, “Chris Farley Flop?”, “no no, I wager Cashless ATM O’ Death”…“my, he has a nice ass.” :o Instantly, Busta leaps, arms raised, and suspends in mid-air as the camera pans 280 degress. Deal with ** the embarrassment of a price check at the register while buying condoms**!! D’oh!!
Who cares about public price check on condoms? I’m getting laid!!! (Well, in bizarro Rochambo world, apparently).
I unleash on you the curse of the 12-pack of condoms. You start a new relationship. You make it to the third date, and you start ending your evenings with sex. You decide that instead of buying a 3-pack before each date, it would be much more economical to buy the 12-pack. After all, she likes you! Your relationship is secure enough, you can plan on getting some at least 12 more times, right?
The transaction is complete. The condoms are burning a hole in the bag. You are a man who gets laid enough to buy in bulk. You go home to shower and get ready for an evening of dancin’ in the sheets. The phone rings. It’s her. “Hi, honey! What’s up?”
“We.need.to.talk.”
Mwahahahahahahahahahahahhahahahahahahahaa! Let it never be spoken that magdalene is not evil!
I remember marvelling at Vincent Price’s performance in Curse of the 12-pack of Condoms when I saw it in a small theatre in Bangkok in '73. 'Course it was dubbed into Thai with subtitles in four languages, not including English, but still that old bugger’s screen presence came through.
In the course of the film, it was revealed that an effective counter to the Curse was a pre-emptive application of Skillful Foreplay. Failing that, the film seemed to recommend turning the offending girlfriend into a Wax Figure, but the translation was a little unclear.
At any rate, I’ll counterattack with a technique taught to me by the diminutive Dobe Kung bushmen of the Kalahari: An Exhaustive Re-Examination of the Works of Shakespeare from a Feminist Perspective, starting with The Taming of the Shrew!
Damn. I returned too late defeat the Curse of the 12-pack of Condoms. I was planning to use my practically nonexistant sex life, as I haven’t actually needed a condom in nearly two years. But instead I have An Exhaustive Re-Examination of the Works of Shakespeare from a Feminist Perspective, starting with The Taming of the Shrew! to contend with. Such is life.
Stretch Wellp, I’m heading over to the Sports Bar. I’ll be back… sometime later. Maybe. Don’t wait up.
To counter, I present to you: a half-dozen oompah-loompas… staring at you. There is no singing, no dancing. Just staring. And when you try to walk away, they will follow you. Run, and they will reappear in front of you and block your path. And stare at you.
First, how is it that magdalene’s gettin’ laid in the Rochambo Arena? I thought this was a competition of combat, not Melrose Place. OK, I’m jealous. But I digress.
Scupper presents a unique challenge with an Exhaustive Re-Examination of the Works of Shakespeare from a Feminist Perspective, starting with The Taming of the Shrew. Enough to cause any man to cringe in fear and cower like an 8-year old who just got caught wearing mommy’s expensive lingerie and makeup, while jumping up and down on the bed (I swear I only did it once). Since then, I have learned to control my fear, and as such, I counter with Cliff Notes for The Complete Works of Shakespeare (in paperback and video) and a copy of Shakespeare For Dummies.
And to keep you maggots on your heels (interesting thought), choke on this…Eau du Middle-school Locker Room!!
And I’ll use the sweet fragrance of the middle school locker room on the Oompahs too!! Curses, drewbert!!!
Eau du Middle-school Locker Room is a painful attack, there’s no doubt about it.
It reminds me of the summer internship I spent hunting down alligators in the New York City sewer system. My companion on these journeys of reptile eradication was an aged Cambodian man named Dem Bok who would tell long rambling stories about his journeys throughout the far east as a freelance hitman for the various tongs.
One evening, after we’d bagged a sixteen-footer in the basement of the Chrysler Building, Dem was taken unawares by the beast’s mate and dealt a mortal bite to the midsection. I came running when I heard the creature’s angry hissing, but only arrived in time to see the old man put the beast down with a shovel strike to the cranium.
As Dem lay dying, he passed on to me the secrets of the Rochamboka cult which he had once led in Laos. He was only able to pass a few techniques to me before his croc-rent body expired, but this one should prove most efficacious:
48 Hour Marathon of Rodney Dangerfield films, None of Which is Caddyshack or Back to School!!!
Haha, I know the secret to make any movie (or anything at all) funny…Jack Daniels. So a 48 Hour Marathon of Rodney Dangerfield films, None of Which is Caddyshack or Back to School!!! is deflected by a bottle of Jack at 3am.
Here’s a taste of the evil pop-up windows that just keep coming!
ha!
the “bottle of Jack at 3am” is countered by…
the 55-year-old drunk biker-dude, that looks like Willie Nelson, who keeps trying to grab your a$$!
(ewwww…that’ll sober you up!)
Scupper’s tale reminds of the time I bushwhacked through the Urubamba River Canyon Cloud Forest enroute to Machuu Pichuu to uncover the Legend of Pachacuti Inca’s death. It was during the exploration of the great Incan ruler Huayna Capac’s tomb that I discovered the mystical, and sometimes medicinal properties of a rare plant known as the Ollantaytambo Rose*, or Black Death to the unitiated.
With careful preparation and skillful application, just one drop from this deadly extract can disable a grown adult with violent abdominal pain for days. Or, if prepared differently, it can make a supple and fragrant facial moisturizer. It was only after three consecutive days of rigorous and death-defying escapes through rat-infested catacombs and trap-laden corridors that I was able to bring the hallowed secret of the Black Death to the modern world.
Which brings me to my next sortie. To counteract the 55-year-old drunk biker-dude, that looks like Willie Nelson, who keeps trying to grab your a$$, I throw into the ring a J. Peterman Catalog, replete with romantic, verbose, and overstated copy, much like my longwinded, fantastic, and completely unrelevant yarn above!
And to totally disorient you, ponder the mystery of American Cheese and attempt to discern its true molecular makeup. Dare you answer the question as to what food group it really belongs to?!
After many hours of meditation, I have come to realise that American Cheese is not food at all, but merely yellow in solid form, thus leaving me free to counter a J. Peterman Catalog, replete with romantic, verbose, and overstated copy with The cast of Frasier wearing nothing but gimp masks!
I think you’ve made a translation error, Busta; Ollantaytambo normally translates as “Sweet Gypsy”. On the other hand, the caterwaulings of Mr. Orlando can be just as toxic to the unprepared.
The cast of Frasier wearing nothing but gimp masks is a fearsome sight indeed. In response, I don my protective gloves and goggles and remove from its lead-lined case a videotape of the Pokemon 2000 movie (even with the special gear I am only able to handle this deadly item due to my having been inured to it through gradual repeated exposure). I hurl the foul thing at the cast of Frasier, who are immediately chased off by a screaming horde of ten-year olds.
And for my next trick, I lob Dolly Parton’s breast implants at you in a high arc. Incoming!
Dolly Parton’s breast implants are no match for Brittany Spears denial.
Interstingly, every story in the J. Peterman catalogue read like a tale from my life, so I’ve no need to regale you with them. Instead, I will cut to the chase any blow your mind with the irony of a Scotsman cloning a sheep.
That should, of course, have read “…cut to the chase and…”
Announcer 1: jr8 treads on dangerous ground as the judges detect a re-insertion of Pokemon-related throws from earlier in the tournament.
Announcer 2: Looks like they’re going to allow it. Something about different media. They are going to hit him with a 2 minute penalty for the use of the 10 year olds, though.
Announcer 1: That’s gotta hurt.
Announcer 2: That’s the biggest penalty we’ve seen here since Busta Rib got red flagged for tangential storytelling.
Announcer 1: That was a B.S. call.
Announcer 2: You think the penalty was too harsh?
Announcer 1: Oh, no, I just think they should have hit him for that unlicenced American Cheese he threw.
Announcer 2: Whoah, look out, here comes Scupper into the ring.
Announcer 1: Looks like he’s maneuvering to counter thinksnow’s Irony of a Scotsman Cloning a Sheep.
Announcer 2: Tough throw, that. At least an 8 on the metaphysics.
Announcer 1: Yeah, but Scupper looks unperturbed.
Announcer 2: You know, I hear he spent three years in a Guatemalan insane asylum pretending to be a lunatic while communing with ancient Mayan spirits.
Announcer 1: Maybe they taught him that move! Wow, I haven’t seen anybody throw A Massive FDA-Ordered Product Recall since the Russians pulled out of the tourney in '83!
Announcer 2: That cheese is history. And what’s this he’s attacking with?
Announcer 1: It looks like … dear God … it’s A Gallagher Watermelon-Smashing Highlights Reel!
Announcer 2: That man has no shame.
Announcer 1: Of course, the crowd’s got to be wondering how getting rid of previously-eliminated Cheese is going to help Scupper against that Scottish Sheep-Cloning Irony…
Announcer 2: Not to worry, he seems to have forgotten all about it because of that Rock of Crack he smoked before hitting “post” on that last message.
A two-minute penalty! You…cannot…be…SERIOUS!
Oh, man…are you BLIND, ref? It was a defensive maneuver! DE-FEN-SIVE! Use of prepubescents is CLEARLY allowable when defending against pop culture-based attacks! Whaddaya think Frasier is – an art film?!?
[sub]Geez, this really blows…[/sub]