A Gallagher Watermelon-Smashing Highlights Reel is truly a challenge. It takes a mighty competitor indeed to harness such a…a…mighty thing. Indeed, 'tis mighty. Mighty, mighty, mighty.
So. <inspiration!> Set the Reel to Ravels’ Bolero! Ta da! The incessant and recurring action timed to the wondrous melody. Indeed, it is mighty.
Now then, something fitting…something devilish: figure out your 7 degrees of separation while listening to O Fortuna (not the remix).
Indeed.
** your 7 degrees of separation while listening to O Fortuna (not the remix)** has many uses. True story…I once played O Fortuna when a telemarketer called me during dinner. I asked them to hold on while I went to find my dad and then put the phone by the speaker, cranked my speakers up all the way, and let it play till the song was over (about 15min.) Picked up the phone, said he wasn’t here and then hung up :p. Recapping, I counter with a telemarketer.
May you try and handle My Sharona
My Sharona. It’s ubiquitous. It’s catchy. It’s on movie soundtracks and in Taco Bell Commercials…
I am tense with indecision. Do I counter with something even MORE ubiquitous? But Oprah Winfrey has already been played. No-ho! I will counter with the self-importantly obscure. A tragically hip college radio D.J., talking about music at an underground club, over the din of a post-modern punk reggae band that is like, totally reinterpreting the genre.
Posers.
The newcomer enters the ring, countering the post-modern punk reggae band with the Drunken Nazi Skinheads who hate punk mixed with anything else…that should end the genre-bending!
Now for my attack!
A Perfect orchestral C minor chord with an out-of-tune picollo playing Bb!
EWwwwww…talk about fingernails on a chalkboard…
Uh oh…I think my attack is backfiring…
notices blood dripping from ears, runs out of ring as chord continues to play
I scoff at A Perfect orchestral C minor chord with an out-of-tune picollo playing Bb scoff, scoff, scoff. Q: How do you tune 2 picollos?
A: Shoot one!
Now, theoretically, if the picollo player where playing a B flat, yet was out-of-tune (really sharp) so much that it became super-sharp, this might actually blend well. If not you just shoot 'em.
Besides, being in band and music theory classes, I’ve heard my fair share of massacard chords before.
Now feel the wrath of ** a Kwyjibo** a stupid,large African, balding ape with a short temper.
A Kwyjibo? Easily vanquished with the simple application of A Bag of Pork Rinds.
Mmmmmmm (drool) Pork Rinds…
For a renewed assault on the never-thinning ranks of Rochamboka pretenders with which I am surrounded, I shall summon up the techniques I discovered chronicled in the Sanskrit texts of the library of the lost city of Ur.
These texts, inscribed by hand upon dried mud tablets and decyphered with the help of an Afghan who claimed to be the heir to the throne of Bangladesh, detailed the proto-Rochambo competitions held by the Sumerians in the early Bronze Age.
One of their most famous Rochambokas (called “Gruds” by the Sumerians) was called Berizod, and was known for a particularly devious attack, which I shall demonstrate for you now:
Make peace with whatever supernatural forces you feel have custody over your soul as you face Roseanne Singing The National Anthem!!!
speaking of BEACHED WHALES… i mean, Roseanne…
i attack with…(long silence)…
FAT NUDE BEACHES!!!
(ewww!)
Yes, but can nude beaches stand up to:
A spiral uncoiling in n dimensions!
A spiral uncoiling in n dimensions! is no sweat when you got in A in calculus!! Ha!
I fear that this move will be suicidal. But it must be done. Sometimes, when 2 powerful forces combine, an even more destructive 3rd force will come about. This phenomena is known as “synergy”. Sort of like in Ghostbusters, remember “don’t cross the streams”? Well not only am I crossing the streams, I’m tieing them in an evil bow. By calling upon the diabolical forces that is American politics, I am able to pull from the unknown 8th layer of hell…
George W. Bush Jr. AND Jeb Bush!
That should be “an” A in calculus.
Hehe, stupid left brain taking over the right.
Ahhh… just the perfect moment to spring a vast left-wing conspiracy!
Now… who dares to approach me to face my next attack… yes, you, my brave one… come closer… closer…
a-choo!
Yes! You now have my cold! Or is it a cold? Maybe it’s the flu! Or something worse! All we know so far is that I have a sore throat and post-nasal drip, and soon you will too! Go ahead! Throw all the chicken soup and orange juice you want at it! You’ll still be miserable for days! Muahahaha haaaaaaa…
Oh, and by the way, I don’t care if it’s too close to thinksnow’s post-nasal drip, no tissue paper and only the “institutional” toilet paper to wipe with, I really do have a cold and it’s the only damn ammo I can come up with. 
Yes, Scupper, the field is indeed congested with pretenders to the Throne of Rochamboku, like a dance floor that swells to the tune of “We Are Family”. I noticed you must hail from the South, as your dialect betrays you (e.g., “rochamboka”). No matter, your skills are well-respected in this dojo.
In light of this, you will surely recognize the precursor to the Three Ways of Call Waiting. In the wrong hands, it can only spell disaster in the form of disconnections and the ever-present mis-speak to the unintended target. But in the hands of a master, such as myself, I wield its deadly power to confound George W. Bush Jr. AND Jeb Bush, a fairly easy task under any circumstance. Killing a fly (or flies) with a tree trunk? Perhaps, but all in the name of demonstrating my intimidating prowess in the dark arts of Rochamboku! :eek:
And to thin the ranks and separate the wheat from the proverbial chaff, I advance with an encantation from the Untoward Circle of the High Priests of Arrogance: “Bite Me”!!
"Bite Me" indeed. Well, it has come to this. I didn’t want to do this. Learning it killed two of my learned masters and truamatized thousands. You’ve left me little choice. The gloves do not fit.
Now for the attack, you don’t stand a chance- you must acquit.
must I acquit? I am no star-trek uniform-wearing idiot juror! I am the rightful heiress to the throne of Rochamboku. No one tells me what I must do.
I tear the ill-fitting gloves off, and knit OJ some cosy striped mittens and a matching scarf. It gets cold in jail.
OJ’s cosy striped mittens and matching scarf will not help him with the problem of a 300-pound cellmate named Bubba.
I want to lodge an official complaint about the recurring use of the post-nasal drip offense, which I first used on page 4, and which has since been reused twice by cheap imitators. The fact that the refs have seen fit to let these blatant fouls pass without comment (when I get booked for some stupid thing that was PERFECTLY LEGAL (damn right I’m still bitter…) clearly indicates a official bias against me. Hmph.
Anyhoo…since I’m annoyed, I’m in a mood to annoy everyone else, so I’m releasing Regis Philbin into the arena and going off for tea (Earl Grey, hot).
I knew it was only a matter of time before Regis Philbin was deployed - only the threat of mutually assured destruction had held my own hand until now.
Faced with a preemptive strike, I knew that once he was in the ring, he would NEVER, EVER, SHUT UP, NOT EVER. How to silence him? The windwills of my mind turned. The attic of my mind was ransacked. Would a vow of silence suffice? Should I rip away his answer cards and force him to be a contestant on Win Ben Stein’s Money?
Or should I plug his pie-hole with the ball-gag worn by The Gimp in Pulp Fiction? Yes, yes.
And that, good sirs, is my final answer.
And to ensure the Almighty Evil Philbin is silenced forever, I shall get medievil on his ass.
Yeah, that oughta do it…
Now, I’m free to open my arsenal…arsenal? Arsenio? Yes, the Arsenio of Doom! Haha…and you all thought he was lost in the bowels of crappy TV land…behold the mighty finger!!!
idiotboy, thank you ever so much for that visual.
Arsenio Hallshall be forever relegated to the class of celebrities who appear regularly on Hollywood Squares. He is easily overwhelmed by white people who try to emulate black people in a goofy way that is painful to watch, symbolized by the new film Save the Last Dance.
For jr8, purveyor of post-nasal drip, I will now play something even more insidious:
those dried up bloody boogers you get at the tail end of a cold, that won’t come out when you blow your nose, and remain there, itching, until you run to the bathroom to secretly extract them by picking your nose, only to have them replaced by legions more of their booger compatriots.
Announcer 1: Ooh, just when we thought the talk-show bucket was scraped when jr8 threw that Philbin, here comes idiotboy with an Arsenio!
Announcer 2: Yeah, but it looks like Scupper’s got the Arse’s number; he’s throwing the somewhat transcendental Famous by Association.
Announcer 1: Watch that big-fingered freak run like a whipped dog.
Announcer 2: And it looks like Magdalene’s picked up another penalty for her Gimp Ball-Gag throw. The judges are saying that the Gimp did not in fact wear a ball gag in Pulp Fiction.
Announcer 1: I don’t think Mag’s too happy about that one. But watch out, here comes Scupper’s attack!
Announcer 2: It looks like … yes, it is, it’s a Creationist vs. Evolutionist Great Debates Thread!
Announcer 1: Ooh, the fur’s gonna fly now!