Thread Killer: Reloaded

Ok, now I have a sweet tooth! And the nearest Sonic is about 45 minutes away! :angry:
 
I pass 3 on the way to class everyday. Sometimes I'm late for my first class too, can't imagine why. :D
 
That was a good movie, in some ways it sucked, in other ways it was good. I mean, I just didnt approve of a Rambo-like revolutionary war guy.
 
it may have been bloody, but Mel had that tortured soul about him...you know, not wanting to do it, but having to do it....kind of like the backstreet boys.
 
weird...kind of like thebackstreet boys, but they didn't rule, just 100 percent wrong...wrong wrong wrong.
 
Never... if I told you I was Donald Trump, would you all try to rob me?
 
Depends on if I was able to "take care" of your security guards... :ph34r: :lol:
 
I fear the destructive powers of the 37...does that count? I also fear Avacor
 
i just can't believe that Derrike Cope won the Daytona 500...at least they brag about it on the avacore commercials
 
Yes, that was a long time ago he won it, only reason why is because Dale Earnhardt on the last lap blew a tire.
 
So there I was, naked, crazed from the intense heat, and burried alive in sour cream. As the last rays of the summer sun glinted off the windshield of the '75 Maverick that was in so many ways the cause of this connundrum, my thoughts returned once more to Mabel. Ahh, Mabel. Those full lips, deep mysterious eyes, large full breasts...if only she wasn't a Holstein. But Mabel was gone. Where? I know not. The heiffer left me here to die in the cruel sun, and still my love for her burned me in a way that no sun ever could.

Life is a constant struggle, but never more so than when a man finds himself submerged in dairy products in the wastelands of Delaware. So many memories...so many regrets. How different my life would have been if I had never moved to Barcelona in the winter of '88 to attend that ill-fated bartending academy. All my friends encouraged me to do it, and it did have its moments of blissful mediocrity, but I swore then as I swear now, I would never again respond to one of those exciting career opportunities they print on matchbook covers. Unless it involves Amazing Sea Monkeys...those little guys rock.

Suddenly, I notice that my right foot has found purchase. A rock maybe, perhaps nothing more than a tree root, or even a discarded Pizza Hut box. But something solid nonetheless. Will it support my weight enough to allow me to escape this hellish death? I must try, try, try to live! I slowly turn my enlarged and swollen ankle in hopes that this will be the neat little McGyver trick that will allow me to save my miserable carcas.

My foot glides across the surface of whatever that is down there. Why oh why was this pit filled with sour cream? That stuff's slick. Just my luck to find myself in a pit filled with foodstuff, and it's something as nasty as sour cream. Why couldn't it be peanut butter? It's not as slick, plus I kinda dig peanut butter. Especially the creamy kind. Yummy! But nooo-oooo, I have to trip over my own shoelaces and get stuck in this slimy mess. And the incredible irony is, this wasn't the first time.

Just when I start to think my foot will never stop sinking, it stops. Thank God and Greyhound, it stops. A chorus of "Proud Mary" runs through my head, as it often does in situations like this. Focusing all my strength, all my will, all my other stuff, I push against the solidity of the solid solidness of the solid thing I am now solidly standing on. It feels solid.

Inch by agonizing inch I start to rise out of the sour cream that has held me prisoner for the last fourteen and a half hours. Hope springs in my overworked heart. My nipples get really hard. I mean cutting glass hard. My shoulders rise above the muck...God I smell awful...and then, just as my left arm is pulled free, I see her.

Mabel.

I cry out to her. "Mabel! For God's sake Mabel, help me! Don't leave me here to die like a rat in a trap. A rat in a sour cream trap. I'm sorry I hurt you. I was foolish. For the love of all that is holy and Adkins approved, Mabel, get me out of here!"

She looked directly at me, chewing her cud as only she can chew cud. I wondered again how much cud a good cow chewed if a good cow could chew cud. And let me tell you, sports fans, Mabel was a good cow. She looked at me, chewing away, the dying sun's amber rays reflecting off her muddy and feces stained hindquarters, and said the only thing she could say.

"Mooooooo!"
 
Later that same day, after the harrowing experience in the sour cream, Mabel and I started trying to patch things up between us. The damage had been done...but could it be undone?

After she dropped me off at my beach house, I quickly showered. Ever tried to get caked on sour cream off your naughty bits? NOT a simple task let me tell you. I completely demolished three tooth brushes before I got all that stuff off of me. Still, I felt remarkably refreshed and eager to tackle the problems that had driven Mabel and I apart.

I dressed in my best pair of forest green Robin Hood pants, the kind with the cuffs all jagged, and a Moses Malone Washington Bullets replica jersey. Mabel just looooves Moses. I donned my most festive sombrero and headed over to the barn where Mabel lives. The soft summer breeze blew between the hairs on the tops of my feet, and instantly I thought of Panama. Ahh, Panama. Drinking virgin grasshoppers and listening to the strolling musicians as they played "Living On A Prayer" on their flamenco guitars...the ocean breeze wafting just the faintest aromas from the chemical fertilizer plant across the wharf...limping from the spider bite on my left foot...the memories flooded me with a strong sense of nostalgia.

As I approached the barn, I could hear Mabel's little transistor radio playing a familiar tune. I knew tonight was going to be special. Nothing, and I mean nothing, puts Mabel in the mood like hearing the mellow strains of "She Bop". Tonight was going to be one for the ages!

As I walked into the barn, I saw her. The moonlight was spilling through the crack in the roof where the man who owned the farm had fallen from that helicopter last September, and it played itself on Mabel's voluptuous haunches like an artist plays his paint across the canvas. My breath caught in my throat...my heart skipped...and I coughed up a hairball the size of a medium pumpkin. Mabel's head turned, and our eyes locked. Hers so dark and liquid and mine so bloodshot and runny. "Mabel," I cried. "You look positively stunning this evening. Is that a new bell?"

"Mooo," she replied.

"Come to me Mabel. Come to me and let's run from here. Let me take you back to Montreal where our passion first kindled. Let me make all your sorrow, all your pain, all your cares and worries vanish into the cool Canadian nights. We'll go tonight, my darling, tonight before Farmer Brown can get into that little power scooter chair of his and stop us!"

"Mooo-ooo," she said.

"Yes. Yes my love. All you want. Every day, every night, every minute! I swear it!" I love it when Mabel talks dirty.

She turned, taking one final look into the small mirror that hung in her stable, and tossed her tail. My, she was a saucy little girl this evening!

Just then I heard the sound I dreaded most in this world, except maybe for the sound of styrofoam being rubbed. Oh, and fingernails on a chalkboard. I hate that one too. OK, so it was the sound I dreaded hearing the third most...wait, there's Conway Twitty too. Anyway, the sound I really really didn't like hearing. Farmer Brown's little power scooter chair thing was approaching! The terrible irony coursed through me like a bad burrito. So close, and yet so not close really when you stopped and looked at it!

The bitter tears of loss filled my eyes. I had to get Mabel out of this barn and fast. But how? Oh how would I ever do it? How I ask you how? For God's sake man tell me how?

I was quite puzzled.

But not my Mabel. With a bellowing cry akin to Rosie O'Donnell at an all you can eat buffet, Mabel vaulted over the door of her stable, scooped me up in her hoofed front legs, and barrel rolled directly toward Farmer Brown's little power scooter chair thing. I lay in her arms,legs, whatever and watched the world spin over and over and over and over and over again. Yeah, it was five times I'm pretty sure. I braced myself for the impact. I knew it wasn't going to be pretty.

It wasn't pretty.

Farmer Brown's little power scooter chair thing went flying across the yard and landed upside down in a puddle of mixed mud and hog feces. Why anyone in their right mind would pile hog feces up in a barnyard is beyond me, but I never really applied myself to the agricultural arts either. Farmer Brown went flying the other direction, sailing over Mabel's broad yet stunning back and landed just inside the barn. Mabel wasted no time. She dropped me like one of Elizabeth Taylor's husbands and bolted toward the door.

That's when we first saw the State Trooper car in the driveway.
 
Lemme guess, Howard gets shipped off to Nam the very next day, Tony leads the football team to the state finals until he's deployed to Nam, and Ashley goes to college?
 
The story almosts sounds like the Wonder Years now, or American Dreams or something.
 
You know this celebrity crazed hollywood is always looking for someone idolize and give huge amounts of money to, in this case, it's a unanimate carbon rod.
 
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