rICEDoUTyUGO ~ A story to teach

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A story to teach
Good evening, all. I shall now take a break from my usual sleep-deprived diatrabe to present a few warnings for public consideration. I am here to tell you of Randall Banister. I am here to tell you of Randall Banister, and I am here to tell you of the wrongs done by Randall Banister. I am here to tell you of Randall Banister, and I am here to tell you of the evils done by Randall Banister. Right from the beginning, I sensed that Randall Banister was a man of questionable ethics. I sensed something amiss... an air of thinly-disguised halitosis, that made one look twice (and then wish they hadn't). Rail-like, then and tall, Randall Banister passed himself off as a modest, well-to-do gentlemen. Standing there, boasting a beard and a dark gray trenchcoat, he bid me the time. "Ah, " I responded, still in a sleepy haze, "Perhaps, positing that I could locate my watch, I would look, and give you an accurate estimate. But alas, I have neither seen it in years, nor given a whit." "Your speech, should it be written down," he began, "would include far too many commas for comfort. And what sort of man doesn't have a watch with him?" My irritation at his breath issues then turned to mild irritation for his discomfortingly accurate observations in regards to my comma deliminated, excessive verbiage. So, I responded. "Cram a marmoset, you purveyor of expired eggnog!" I tossed out. "Obviously the same type of man as you, as you seem to be without one yourself." "Now, now," he responded. "There's no need for rudeness! I indeed have a watch! Unfortunately, its battery ticked away its last millivolt, and after replacing it, I must set it anew! Your attitude needs a coochy-me-coo!" I was fast becoming infuriated with his insolence. "Don't force me to ram a Lincoln Continental up your anus, fuckbag. I may be old enough to have burped Methusalah's grandfather, but I can still tango when I need to tangle!" With that, we switched to a 3D view and the battle music began. "Hahaha! You have made a mistake, old man!" he cried, taking a swing with his bastard sword. "235 DMG" appeared in the sky. "My goodness my pectorals!" I cried in shock, surprised with the viciousness of the initial attack. "That was good, but this shall be better!" I cried, describing complex runeic symbols with my hands (don't tell the church I do this stuff, please). "312 DMG" appeared in the sky. He then collapsed to one knee, clearly hurting. "I did not want to have to do this... but you make it necessary." He looked me in the eye. He looked me in his eye, then stood up, and in a swift, controlled motion, plunged his sword into the ground. The thing I knew I was on my back, staring at the stars (and the numbers "23562 DMG" appeared). His sword had magical properties beyond what I could have ever expected, I realized. I had, unfortunately, picked the wrong taco to tangle with. "Ha ha ha, foolish old man! You shall now respect the name of Randall Banister." With that, he was gone. I hung on to my life, and made it back to town in time for tea the next day (side note: no teatime is complete without Cheez Whiz and the funky fresh stylins' of Jesus). As one could understand, I was considerably irked at Mr. Banister. However, I did not hear of him for years. Then one day, my favorite soap, "Three cacti and a cuckold" was rudely interrupted with a political ad. Mr. Banister was running for the senate. "We'll see about that, Randall Banister!" I cried, grabbing my coat with a gleam in my eyee. Ten minutes later, I was securing the club on the steering wheel of my Buick Century. One can never be to careful. That task completed, I rushed towards the open-air stadium, towards the the platform of Randall Banister. Not just the political platform, but the actual platform - he was standing on a giant, red-velvet covered structure, running up a rhetrorical storm. Locating the positions of the cameras, I charged towards him. He was within my sight. I had him. Revenge would be mi- I then tripped and fell on my face. "262621 DMG" appeared in the sky. Randall Banister turned his attention to my fallen form. "Someone get that man some ice!" He calmly ordered. I saw a few flashes, as I was photographed. I was shocked - the ordering of ice for my comfort and safety was a generous offer. Randall Banister went into my good graces once again. The following day, he visited me in my hospital. Seeing him come in, I prepared to welcome him warmly. Then, however, I noticed that there were something off in his look. Stiffly glancing behind him to make sure the nurse was nearby, his demeanor changed entirely. His lip curled into a nasty, threatening shape, practically pointing to his twisted nose and hairly left nostril. "Listen to me," he began, halitosis in full swing, "If you mess with my campaign again, I will cram the kremlin so far up your ass that you'll be pissing vodka for the rest of your life! I am NOT afraid to use compound interest equations!" Shaken, and unable to do anything in my weakened state, I sat there, staring and petrified. As he left, I turned over the events in my mind. Then I halled out my laptop, and posted to this web site: "I once again question the ethics of Randall Banister. >:(" Now, after further considering the situation and recovering enough to defend myself, I have decided to post a public warning, and hopefully stop the election of Randall Banister. A vote for Randall Banister is a vote for ultimate annihilation and destruction of anything cute and cuddly. A vote for Randall Banister is a vote for chaos. A vote for Randall Banister is a vote for evil. Please heed my advice. RTQP out.
Posted by Reverend Tedward Q. Porktanker @ 2003-12-26 03:25:39
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