| MinionZombie's Night of the Living Geriatrics 2 It was Halloween, and as all good little boys, girls and beavers know, it is a holiday of some hilarity and frolics, especially when you hang yourself an incapable sidekick from a tree by his feet and use him as a swing. However, the Captain was not best pleased at this occurrence and instead went about his intestinal clear-out sale in the dark and dingy, not to mention smelly en suite bathroom they had installed since their last adventure. As before, the Captain was just a couple of farts short of a second Hiroshima and he had only been in the confined space huffing and puffing for a couple of minutes. A full scale alert had been called across the planet of Bodily Functions, but this was of little concern to Earwax Boy who was eagerly awaiting the horror movie premiere on the TV in just a couple of minutes time. "Hurry up Captain! The movie's about to start!" he shouted. "Alright! Keep your pants on!" replied the struggling Captain. "Better you than me I'd think!" mumbled Earwax as he turned the TV on. Slowly, a glow befell the room just as the Captain burst from the toxic waste dump formally known as a posh-named dunny. As a mild green mist crawled along the floor from ground zero, the Captain dumped his exhausted ass on the sofa resulting in a small squint from the Captain as the sting hit him hard. Reaching for the popcorn on the coffee table in front of them, the movie suddenly began with a loud crash, shocking the Captain into submission and releasing a slightly beaver-smelling fart. "Ah!" he gasped. "Oh Jesus Christ in a shell suit! Do you have to?" said Earwax, his words muffled under his shirt, which he had pulled over his nose. "If you did less yappin' and more crappin' of an evening we wouldn't be in this mess!" shouted Earwax. "Oh quit your whining and watch the movie." Just then the title for the movie appeared on the screen. "Dawn of the Stale Pizzas" was the movie, and zero stars out of five was its score in the TV Times. Our two intrepid heroes now lay slouched in their chairs like a pair of five-year-olds at a chess championship played by Shakespeare and a dead giraffe. Slowly, as the credits crawling their way lifelessly across the screen from bottom to top the TV began to feel like that five-year-old and decided to end it all, end it's worthless life of glowing cheesy pieces of trash at two incapable lumps of lint. It had wanted to be one of those important TV sets you see at the Stock Exchange or something better than this, it's life was a miserable one and so, the TV tipped itself forward. It fell from the poorly constructed TV stand and collapsed right onto the carpet where it's face smashed open to a sigh of relief from both the TV set and humanity, for Dawn of the Stale Pizzas was really quite terrible. The only use the movie had was torturing the truth out of children at dentists to see whether or not they had been eating chocolate all night long. The Captain leapt to his feet in a state of shock. He dived down to the TV and grabbed it, holding it in his arms. The dials on the left-hand side were broken off or hanging by a thread, the screen was smashed to hell and the future was not looking good. "God damn it! Hold on! For the love of God! Don't do this to me!" he shouted. "Oh for Christ's sake Captain! Give it up already!" shouted Earwax. Then all of a sudden, George Clooney burst onto the scene, crashing the door to the poorly shagged carpeting. "Never fear, for I am here!" he shouted. "George Clooney! Wow!" shouted the Captain. "Eh? Who the hell are you?" he replied. "Why I'm Captain Incapable and this here is my trust sidekick of Earwax." "What the hell is all this? What the hell is this place? Isn't this Ron Howard's office?" "No, this is my house." "Well where the hell is Ron Howard?" "Up my ass for all I know!" "Then he's not here then?" "NO!" shouted the Captain and Earwax. And then without further ado, Clooney burst his way backwards out of the door, drawing it back up into its hinges. "Well wasn't that surreal?" said the Captain. "Not as surreal as a painting made of beavers depicting the Last Supper it isn't," muttered Earwax. "Shut up you incessantly annoying globule of armpit goo, and go and get the portable!" So Earwax boy went and wondered off to his room and dragged the 'portable' down the stairs. However, it wasn't so portable after all and Earwax soon found the larger than life 10-inch TV set landing on his foot, flattening it a la Road Runner cartoons. "Ah! For the love of God! Help me you pea brained bag of nails!" shouted Earwax. "Oh Christ in a shopping cart, do I have to do everything around here?" the Captain replied. He stood from his kneeling position and left the old TV for dead, the wonders of good old classic craftsmanship lost on it. Then just as he managed to reach Earwax who was desperately trying to remove the huge TV set from his foot, the door burst open again. "God damn it!" shouted the figure at the door. "Who the hell are you?" asked the Captain, "and what the hell do you think you're doing with that haircut young lady?" The woman at the door stepped inside the room as she slammed the door behind her. "They're us and we're them," she said. "What the hell are you talking about you insane person you?" asked Earwax. "The geriatrics outside! They're us and we're them! They got the others! The others are dead! My brother! Those old codgers got him!" she shouted. "So I figure you're not on a peaceful trip to visit your father's grave then?" said Earwax. "Well, to tell a funny story, yes." "That wasn't funny, that was quite sad you stupid woman!" shouted the Captain. "I know, I was just trying to divert your attention." "Why?" "You see, it worked didn't it," she replied as she stepping further inside, showing her cropped red hair and emaciated face to the two intrepid losers who occupied this house in which they all stood. "What the hell are you talking about now? You've lost me," said the Captain. "Captain, you could lose yourself in the found box at a lost and found!" shouted Earwax. "Now shut your gob and listen to her, the geriatrics are back!" "You what?" "The geriatrics are outside that door! Zimmer frames and all!" shouted the woman. "Typical, just as I get into a movie something like this happens again. I thought we'd gotten rid of all them before?" said the Captain. "No. That was all the processed cheese on the planet Backstreet Britney Spice Saints Boys," replied Earwax. "Oh yeah. Then what the hell is all this then?" "It looks like a modern day update of something from the past, possibly something exploitational and black and white in nature." "Right I see. So why are the old veterans outside again muttering to themselves?" "Because this is a sequel or a remake I'd figure." "Of what Earwax? Of what?" "Your face! I don't know! This chick just lost me. What the hell is going on here lady?" said Earwax. "Well as close as I can figure it, I was walking around in a graveyard as some bastard kept sticking people's names on me and such. I was visiting my father's grave with my brother, who's now a geriatric, a young one, but nonetheless he's claiming his pension as we speak. Anyway, we were attacked by three or four of these braindead medical marvels who seem to have every affliction known to man, but yet still live, or are dead, or something. Anyway, they got my brother, cashed his pension in at the post office and they chased me to this old house where I was staying a while. Then this dude came in, but instead of being strong and well, acting like a man instead of a child, he was running around all over the place, water just on the verge of his eyelids. Anyway, we were there, then this troop of random B-Movie rejects came out of the cellar, what seemed to be the home of bad acting. Anyway, there was this red headed bitch, but we slapped her out of her inane acting skills and torched her in a bungled petrol heist, some more people died, a guy shouted, somebody shot a duck and now I'm here," the woman said. Our two intrepid heroes just stood there, or at least made a good slouch in front of her. "Sorry what did you say again?" said the Captain. "Yeah, what the hell are you rambling about you insane woman! Aren't you the extreme of your twin sister or something? I read about this in the paper, or saw it on Montel Williams or something," muttered Earwax. "Well actually it was Jerry Springer, but we don't have time to talk about that now, we need to get our asses out of here before it's too late! We need you're truck!" she shouted. "My truck? I don't have a truck, I have a conservative family automobile that runs on bi-fuel," replied the Captain. "Well okay, we need your piece of shit to get us out of here!" "But the thing's out of gas, I guess we'll just have to deal with these things our way, come my sidekick, follow me!" said Captain as he valiantly tripped over his own feet, crashing into the door as he proceeded to grab Earwax by the wrist. "Your way?" asked the woman. "Yeah my way, now stand back, we've handled this before." Our two intrepid heroes stepped outside, and sure enough there was a veritable frenzy as the old folks meandered around the shopping malls in their loose fitting clothing, their slacks hiked up past their armpits and their stance little more than that of their sitting posture. Gripping in their hands was their bus passes, expired, but nonetheless apparently still in date if you used the old system of things, whatever that was. At the corner of the street on which our heroes lived was a whole group of them, and as the noise of the Captains shrieking alerted them, he reached for his pocket and pulled out that picture of Joan Collins again, hoping to God it would work again. He aimed, threw it in their direction, but it was no good, they had grown tired of her, or maybe they're just forgotten who the hell she was again, after all, three yards of make-up can do that to some people's audience attention grabbing capability. "It looks like you're going to have to do more than that to get their attention so you can blast 'em Captain!" shouted Earwax. "And you don't think I know that already you puddle of beaver sweat?" mumbled the Captain. Then it struck him, it struck him quite literally between the eyes, an Easy-Shopper-Rider, right in the kisser. The small contraption of old folk transportation was right there, it was loaded with all the features one could want, comfortable seat, a throw rug for your legs, power aided power-power steering, a windscreen made from a lens so thick it could quite literally sink the Titanic and last, but not least, Mint Imperials in the glove box and an issue of "Ain't It Grand To Be Old" magazine on the wall papered dashboard. "I think it will be alright if I aim this sucker at them dead on," said the Captain as he angled the mode of geriatric transport towards the advancing hoard of the undead geriatrics. "Are you sure this is going to work?" asked Earwax. "No time to think about it mate, this one's a chancer." So the Captain let his contraption of geriatric desire speed towards the bingo-loving crowd of false teeth factory investors and in a moment of some tense nature giving them all time to think of why toast always lands butter side down, the small, whining cart of geriatric desire and death crumpled into the crowd resulting in an unusually large explosion sending pension books, mints and cardigans flying for miles. The terror was over; at least for a little while they'd figured it. So it was left for Incapable and Earwax to clear up the mess, but instead of bothering they left the lazy council workers to do it instead, and our two pathetically lethargic grifters wondered off back to their home, throwing the insane, rambling red head out of their house and onto the street, never wondering how on earth she had managed to get to the planet Bodily Functions. Well, so ends another bizarrely weird story of the geriatric invasion of New Fart City, Bodily Functions. Now watch out for beavers crossing the roads and old ladies asking you if they can "smell your brains", as their intentions are probably not that nice. And remember, stay in school, and stay bored for a little longer avoiding the world of work. |