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FB: potatoe vs Butler
Larlar
consecutive normal brunchesModerator, ClubPA Mod Emeritus
consecutive normal brunchesModerator, ClubPA Mod Emeritus
potatoe
Butler
Butler
Choose-Potatoe's-Misadventure
By Butler and Edward Packard (not Mully)
You awaken in a darkened room. It is dark. You have no memory of how you got here and your head hurts. I mean seriously, not even a fucking candle.
You climb to your feet and slowly grope your way around the walls. This is a small room, but there are three doors leading out from it. The first door feels quite warm. The second, sticky yet oddly sensuous. The third door is actually either a grue or Borfase.
What will you do?
By Butler and Edward Packard (not Mully)
You awaken in a darkened room. It is dark. You have no memory of how you got here and your head hurts. I mean seriously, not even a fucking candle.
You climb to your feet and slowly grope your way around the walls. This is a small room, but there are three doors leading out from it. The first door feels quite warm. The second, sticky yet oddly sensuous. The third door is actually either a grue or Borfase.
What will you do?
Open the hot door:
You enter an inferno. Or rather, a disco inferno. There are more mirrorballs and lasers than you can count, and everywhere people are dancing, moving, doin it etc. Upon closer inspection, many of them appear to be steelworkers or extremely close acquaintances of steelworkers. “Relaxâ€, by Frankie Goes to Hollywood, is playing on the sound system.
Through the throng of pectoral muscles and impeccably trimmed moustaches, you see Potatoe sitting at the bar. He is wearing the gimp suit his mother made for him and looking especially vulnerable.
Do you:
Through the throng of pectoral muscles and impeccably trimmed moustaches, you see Potatoe sitting at the bar. He is wearing the gimp suit his mother made for him and looking especially vulnerable.
Do you:
Offer to buy him a drink?
You walk over to Potatoe and offer to buy him a drink. He stammers his agreement, instantly seduced by your willingness to make eye contact with him. He orders a What What In The Butt with extra ice and the two of you get to talking.
Potatoe tells you his life story, starting with his conception as the result of an hilariously botched hysterectomy, moving on to his early childhood living in the ventilation ducts of a pet food cannery, the first time he was mauled by geese, how he once guest-starred as a children’s birthday clown on Two And A Half Men…
God, what a boring twit.
The hell with this, you think, and lunge towards him, successfully biting off the cornea of his right eye. You immediately spit this down his throat, causing him to gag as the aqueous humour in his eyeball oozes down his face. He topples from his stool, cracking his head on the corner of the bar with exactly the sound it makes when a useless tool dies, and crumples messily to the floor as a ruined corpse.
The barman notes this, sighs, and closes his tab.
THE END
Potatoe tells you his life story, starting with his conception as the result of an hilariously botched hysterectomy, moving on to his early childhood living in the ventilation ducts of a pet food cannery, the first time he was mauled by geese, how he once guest-starred as a children’s birthday clown on Two And A Half Men…
God, what a boring twit.
The hell with this, you think, and lunge towards him, successfully biting off the cornea of his right eye. You immediately spit this down his throat, causing him to gag as the aqueous humour in his eyeball oozes down his face. He topples from his stool, cracking his head on the corner of the bar with exactly the sound it makes when a useless tool dies, and crumples messily to the floor as a ruined corpse.
The barman notes this, sighs, and closes his tab.
THE END
Insult him in the most devastating way you can imagine?
You walk up behind Potatoe and touch him on the shoulder. As he turns around, his eyes light up with hope. You can see he is thinking, “Could this be the one? Have my nights of playing minesweeper and jacking off to the happy face icon finally come to an end?â€
They have. Smiling sweetly, you say, “Your face is like the buttocks and anus of the bass player for an Iron Maiden tribute band who is 43 and does not have a day job. And you smell like too much Axe.â€
Potatoe’s eyes slowly well up with tears. You can almost hear his heart breaking, but not quite. (These steelworkers certainly play hard.) You offer him a shard that has fallen off one of the mirrorballs, and give him the down-the-road-not-across-the-street lesson, because damned if he can even get that much right on his own. Eventually his vascular system does its remorseless work, and the world is finally free of Potatoe, whilst you are free to finish his white wine spritzer and join those fine young policemen in the dancing cage.
THE END
They have. Smiling sweetly, you say, “Your face is like the buttocks and anus of the bass player for an Iron Maiden tribute band who is 43 and does not have a day job. And you smell like too much Axe.â€
Potatoe’s eyes slowly well up with tears. You can almost hear his heart breaking, but not quite. (These steelworkers certainly play hard.) You offer him a shard that has fallen off one of the mirrorballs, and give him the down-the-road-not-across-the-street lesson, because damned if he can even get that much right on his own. Eventually his vascular system does its remorseless work, and the world is finally free of Potatoe, whilst you are free to finish his white wine spritzer and join those fine young policemen in the dancing cage.
THE END
Open the sticky door, just touch it one more time while you’re deciding, oh that feels decadent:
It seems that you have stepped into a… a realm, one consisting of little other than imagination. One could almost call the quality of the imagination… unadulterated? You give up on trying to describe it and take a better look around.
You are in a room the size of a football stadium. A giant waterfall of smoky barbecue sauce pours from the far wall, sheets of cured beef hang from buffalo-wing trees, pork -crackling grass crunches underfoot and Gene Wilder is standing slightly too close to you.
“Like all celebrities born in 1933, I have gone senile and opened a magical tasty meat factory,†he says. After a while you realise he is staring at your crotch and slowly move away.
Surely, you think as you look about in wonder, surely you have choked on a Kobe beef-steak and gone to carnivore heaven. Shedding your clothes with practised ease, you frolic across a miniature prairie of salami slims, nibbling delicately on every new morsel you encounter, each more savoury and nourishing than the last.
As you crest the next rise you can see a commotion starting in the small valley below. Some pastrami-skinned Unfa-Lunfas are rolling a gigantic garlic meatball across the ground like adorable little dungbeetles, but have stopped in their task to argue with a pale, sad little man wearing faded capri pants and a My Chemical Romance t-shirt. It is Potatoe.
As you get closer you begin to make out what the argument is about. The Unfa-Lunfas were moving the meatball to a secret loading dock when Potatoe stopped them, insisting that they let him have a bite. They have refused, thus inciting his inarticulate wrath. He is in the middle of shouting something about the constitution and immigrant labour when he sees you approaching and waves you over to confer with him.
What do you advise Potatoe to do?
You are in a room the size of a football stadium. A giant waterfall of smoky barbecue sauce pours from the far wall, sheets of cured beef hang from buffalo-wing trees, pork -crackling grass crunches underfoot and Gene Wilder is standing slightly too close to you.
“Like all celebrities born in 1933, I have gone senile and opened a magical tasty meat factory,†he says. After a while you realise he is staring at your crotch and slowly move away.
Surely, you think as you look about in wonder, surely you have choked on a Kobe beef-steak and gone to carnivore heaven. Shedding your clothes with practised ease, you frolic across a miniature prairie of salami slims, nibbling delicately on every new morsel you encounter, each more savoury and nourishing than the last.
As you crest the next rise you can see a commotion starting in the small valley below. Some pastrami-skinned Unfa-Lunfas are rolling a gigantic garlic meatball across the ground like adorable little dungbeetles, but have stopped in their task to argue with a pale, sad little man wearing faded capri pants and a My Chemical Romance t-shirt. It is Potatoe.
As you get closer you begin to make out what the argument is about. The Unfa-Lunfas were moving the meatball to a secret loading dock when Potatoe stopped them, insisting that they let him have a bite. They have refused, thus inciting his inarticulate wrath. He is in the middle of shouting something about the constitution and immigrant labour when he sees you approaching and waves you over to confer with him.
What do you advise Potatoe to do?
“Hold on, you want to eat more? You are already so fat even fat people resent the amount of fat you carry because it is noticeably decreasing the amount of fat available for their own consumption. Fatty.â€
Potatoe sighs and pats his flabby gut. “You’re probably right,†he moans. “Guys, don’t worry about the meatball after all. Could you get me something with tofu instead?
The Unfa-Lunfas all gasp with horror, except for the one closest to Potatoe, which gently pulls on his hand. Smiling condescendingly, he kneels down and offers his ear for the Unfa-Lunfa to whisper in, which it promptly bites off with astonishingly sharp and pointy teeth. Potatoe screeches in pain and staggers a few steps away before the others bring him down once and for all.
In between bites, the Unfa-Lunfas begin to sing a catchy little ditty, which falls into rhythm with the sounds of ripping and tearing guts:
Unfa Lunfa dunfa dee doo
That’s what you get when you mention tofu
Unfa Lunfa dunfa dee dee
There’s no tastier beast than a fucking hippy
You quietly make your escape while the unfa-lunfas are distracted by Potatoe’s carcass. Creepy little bastards.
THE END
The Unfa-Lunfas all gasp with horror, except for the one closest to Potatoe, which gently pulls on his hand. Smiling condescendingly, he kneels down and offers his ear for the Unfa-Lunfa to whisper in, which it promptly bites off with astonishingly sharp and pointy teeth. Potatoe screeches in pain and staggers a few steps away before the others bring him down once and for all.
In between bites, the Unfa-Lunfas begin to sing a catchy little ditty, which falls into rhythm with the sounds of ripping and tearing guts:
Unfa Lunfa dunfa dee doo
That’s what you get when you mention tofu
Unfa Lunfa dunfa dee dee
There’s no tastier beast than a fucking hippy
You quietly make your escape while the unfa-lunfas are distracted by Potatoe’s carcass. Creepy little bastards.
THE END
“Fuck ‘em, just eat the damn meatball! You have rights! These colours don’t run!â€
Knocking the nearest Unfa-Lunfa out of his way, Potatoe buries his head in the side of the meatball, gnawing away like some emo maggot. No sooner has he done so than Gene Wilder comes screaming over the hill in a golf buggy made of beef jerky, bellowing obscenities and hurling gnawed ham bones with his free hand.
“THAT MEATBALL WAS A PRESENT FOR DOM DELUISE YOU AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAASSSHHOOOOOOOOOLE!!!†he screams, and slams into Potatoe at 50mph. His mangled corpse hurtles through the air, limbs flailing like a ragdoll, before splashing down in the smoky barbecue river and sinking without a trace.
“Oh dear,†you say after a moment, “won’t he compromise the flavour?â€
“Tim Burton didn’t,†replies Gene Wilder, gently cupping your testicles. “Now, come along. Let me show you my bratwurst mines. Yes, my bratwurst mines.â€
“Let me show you them.â€
THE END
“THAT MEATBALL WAS A PRESENT FOR DOM DELUISE YOU AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAASSSHHOOOOOOOOOLE!!!†he screams, and slams into Potatoe at 50mph. His mangled corpse hurtles through the air, limbs flailing like a ragdoll, before splashing down in the smoky barbecue river and sinking without a trace.
“Oh dear,†you say after a moment, “won’t he compromise the flavour?â€
“Tim Burton didn’t,†replies Gene Wilder, gently cupping your testicles. “Now, come along. Let me show you my bratwurst mines. Yes, my bratwurst mines.â€
“Let me show you them.â€
THE END
Man fuck that Gruefase:
Without speaking a word, you begin to make sweet, passionate love to whatever that thing is. Is that its armpit? Its nostril? You don’t care anymore, and neither does the Gruefase. Gradually you and your worries are washed away by wave upon wave of ecstasy and backhair. You thought you had given up on love, but it turns out love never gave up on you.
Finally you drift off into a blissful slumber. Elsewhere, at some point in the night, Potatoe dies of a ruptured prostate. C’est la vie.
THE END
Finally you drift off into a blissful slumber. Elsewhere, at some point in the night, Potatoe dies of a ruptured prostate. C’est la vie.
THE END
Larlar on
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Posts
But to be fair, Potatoe's was pretty fucking sweet too.
farsidethe [11:12 P.M.]: it is so bad
WhipstitchZombie [11:12 P.M.]: HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA
farsidethe [11:13 P.M.]:
WhipstitchZombie [11:13 P.M.]: oh, fuck me, jesus, ow
farsidethe [11:13 P.M.]: I am stuck like this for at least another month
farsidethe [11:13 P.M.]: it sicks out like that
farsidethe [11:13 P.M.]: I can't put it down
farsidethe [11:13 P.M.]: he somehow created a cowlick it is so awful
farsidethe [11:14 P.M.]: i hate you
farsidethe [11:14 P.M.]:
creative!
Did you piss off the hair stylist?
JordynNolz.com <- All my blogs (Shepard, Wasted, J'onn, DCAU) are here now!
He has written both his entries, and they've both been out-fucking-standing.
vote +1
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JordynNolz.com <- All my blogs (Shepard, Wasted, J'onn, DCAU) are here now!
at least butler's was classy, i applaud him on actually pulling off the text-entry decently
but at least i would go out with an explosion of menstrual fluids
your = belonging to you
their = belonging to them
there = not here
they're = they are
I.. ..just,
Wow.
SO CLOSE
eggscellent
your = belonging to you
their = belonging to them
there = not here
they're = they are
Potatoe, when you pulled out the shotgun I was like, "Well that's a pretty lame ending", but then the pepper shield thing happened and oh my God so brilliant.
Was TFS supposed to be bleeding from an operation or having his period? I mean, it's hilarious either way, I'm just curious.
I mean really. Try to keep up.
your = belonging to you
their = belonging to them
there = not here
they're = they are