2008 Essay Contest Entries

Entry #1 from Darth Squidius

Why I might not go to Bonnaroo this year.
By Darth Squidius

Subjects: Leonard Nimoy, Tazer, Waffle house, Prune Juice, Port-a-potty

It was the 2nd day of The Tennessee State fair and I’ll go ahead and put it out there, I don’t care for big rides. Call me whatever you want but it’s just not worth the risk. Just because some drunk, smelly human has saved enough beer money to buy a 2nd hand Viking Ship, and thinks he is also qualified to operate it, doesn’t make it safe. Anyway, I do like the little ones like the Gravitron or The Ferris Wheel. I guess that’s all beside the point. The main reason I went was for the legend Leonard Nimoy. Poet, Actor, what I thought was an all around nice guy. Nimoy inspired me when I was in the 7th grade. I wore Vulcan ears to school until they suspended me for it. I still think “The Search for Spock” is the best Star Trek movie and I hate Next Generation. Although Nimoy reprised the role of Spock in 2 episodes.

Unfortunately, when you have a Star Trek addiction as strong as mine, friends are a hard thing to obtain unless you find people who have similar, well problems I guess. This is where my friend Kenny comes into play. We met in the 7th grade. The day after I showed up wearing Vulcan ears, he came the next day wearing his. After that we were inseparable. After we were suspended together we would have Star Trek parties that included playing Star Trek RPG games, Star Trek movie marathons, and trying to quote whole episodes by heart. The day of the fair, Kenny was suffering from an intense bout with his allergies, and his mother being the over protective woman she was made him stay home. I guess this is the part of the story where I should say that Kenny is 24 and I’m 23. When you have an addiction as strong as ours maintaining a career or a social life is a hard thing to do.

So I had to go alone, well not alone, my ‘97 Geo Metro whom I’ve lovingly named Kirk and I went together I guess. After a few turns through the shadier side of downtown Nashville I make it to the State Fairgrounds. I pay for my parking, I get my little admittance stub and wander into the fair. One of the few things I love about the fair is the smells. Cotton Candy, funnel cakes and random meats on sticks invading your sinuses all at the same time is a surreal thing to endure. It reminds me of Bonnaroo, one of my other passions. Of course I indulge in a corn dog. I have a little spare time, Nimoy isn’t on for another 5 hours, but I figured I’d get there early. I have so many questions but the first for me is the most important. “Why was the title of your first autobiography, “I am not Spock”, and the title of your 2nd autobiography, “I am Spock”? I figured it’s obvious. The first title alienates the die hards like me and the 2nd one embraces us, a kind of push and pull, love/hate relationship with his biggest role, all the while trying to please the Star Trek freaks. There’s just a part of me that thinks there’s more to it than that.

Three corn dogs and a gallon of cola later, I’m left feeling a little backed up. I have constipation problems. Luckily I keep 2 pints of Prune Juice on me at all times in a Star Trek thermos for just such an occasion. I drown my insides with half of the purple goodness and I wander my way to the line forming in front of the booth. I’m 3rd in line. The first in the line has a vintage Star Trek fanny pack with matching sweat bands. He has a vintage Star Trek T-shirt that has permanent sweat stains. I also notice that his hair hasn’t been washed or combed in at least a month. Line dweller number 2 is wearing the original Federation Uniform. Yes, he had Vulcan ears. I on the other hand was not a freak. I didn’t really go out of the way to look like a treky. Well, I did have my Search for Spock shirt on, along with my Trek socks, and my live long and prosper bracelet, but that was all. At least I shower, you know?!

Well 2 hours in, the line has grown around us, we’re surrounded by 10 other people. The rest all seem to be wearing the uniform of the Trek fan. Not the turn out I would expect for Nimoy but the world has moved on I guess. Anyway the prune juice is starting to kick in. I still have an hour to go before my man, my legend, my hero comes to his podium and fills me with inspiration. I know I need to make room in my body first. I approach the Federation man in front of me.

“Here to see Spock?” I inquire meekly.
“Actually, I’m here to see Leonard Nimoy, the man who played Spock,” he swiftly replies.
Through the course of conversation, I find that the fellow’s name is Andy, and he’s more of a Dr. Who fan than a Treky but has it in his head that the 2 stories are connected and thinks Nimoy has the answers. Anyway as luck may have it, Andy likes prune juice. He likes it a lot.
“I like prune juice a lot!” Andy exclaims after I offer him the elixir from my thermos.
“Well do me a favor Andy. There’s a port o potty about 30 feet around the Tilt a world, how’s about I give you the rest of my juice and you watch my spot while I dispel some excrement?” I wince while I wait for the response.

I’ll save you the course; he took me up on the offer. I ran like a cheetah on hot sand until I made it to the port-a-potty. What took place in that plastic room was one of the great dukes of the 21st century. I’m pretty sure the plastic changed a shade or 2 before I left. Anyway, Andy made good on his word and saved my place. I’m almost sure someone from behind hit me with a funnel cake but I was too scared to look back and confirm.

Moving forward, Nimoy takes the stage, well, fold out table. He gives us a little live long and prosper and mentions his part in the upcoming Star Trek film “Enterprise” and then takes his seat and awaits us. The first of the fiends between Nimoy and I takes his turn. I can’t hear what he’s saying at first but I can tell he’s a little worked up. He’s almost manic and he eventually starts to cry. Nimoy stands up, gives him a hug and sends him on his way after signing the man down with a black marker. Andy takes his turn and gives him a salute and a handshake and starts on him with his Dr. Who propaganda. Nimoy calls it hogwash, literally…

“That’s Hogwash,” says Nimoy.

And eventually Andy tires of the conversation and wanders back towards me with my thermos. I take it and jam it back into my side cargo pocket and wait for Nimoy to give me the signal. It seemed like it lasted forever. The anticipation was killing me. Then with his beady little black eyes Nimoy looks and waves towards himself. I approach.

“First and foremost Mr. Nimoy I have to say that you’re an inspiration to men and women everywhere. Not only your role in Star Trek, but your film direction, and your poetry have all touched me on a personal level and have affected me in ways you’ll never know.” I gleamed as I talked.
“It was because of you that I found direction in my life, I finished school in hopes that one day a federation would be born. I read your poems of love and life and dreamed for something more. You are my hero, forever and ever.”

He smiled in an odd way. I wasn’t sure at the time, I’ve never seen lust in any woman’s eyes, but now, I’m definite that he had lust in his eyes.

“I’m glad my work has had an impact on you, it’s always touching to have a fan want a part of you inside them.” Nimoy said in a sly tone.

I said, “Mr. Nimoy,”
“Leonard” Leonard interrupted.
“Leonard, could I buy you some food, maybe somewhere outside of the fair where we can talk a bit longer. I’d love to pick your brain.” I finished.
“That sounds delightful. Wait for me here in 2 hours or so. I refuse to leave without digesting something in your presence.” Leonard spoke with a majestic eloquence.

After our brief conversation, and him accepting my invitation I kind of lost a bit of my mind. I had to call Kenny and tell him the news. Kenny was madder than ever and begged me to get Nimoy to him.

“PLEASE, I BEG YOU!!!” Kenny exclaimed pathetically over the phone.

Alas, I had my own agenda and taking Nimoy to a place to divert his attention from me wasn’t part of it. I had the harsh realization that I only had 16 dollars on me and I offered him food. What in the world was I thinking? My only options were fast food or Waffle House. Walking back to Nimoy’s booth I kept mulling over my options. I didn’t know how he’d take either offer.

“He’s Spock; he’s not going to want smothered hash browns.” I thought to myself.
Leonard approached me before I had a chance to approach him.

“So what shall it be?” Leonard asked.
“How do you feel about Waffle House?” I asked.
“Sounds excellent, I could really go for some smothered and covered hash browns. I love everything smothered and covered actually.” Leonard said in that strange tone that I swear didn’t find suspicious at the time.

We make it to the casa de waffle and conversation starts. I go with my first question and he gives the answer I thought he would. He also adds that he found more than a bit of himself in the character of Spock over the years than what he originally noticed at the time of his first autobiography. He felt like playing Spock had also had an impact on him as well.

“So in a nutshell, Leonard is Spock and Spock is Leonard, all the while being separate.” Leonard sums it all up in one neat sentence.

We go on to talk about his poetry and his film career. Did you know that Leonard had a short lived career as a musician? It was unintentionally campy but around the time the “Lord of the Rings” trilogy was large his version of “The Ballad of Bilbo Baggins” had a generous amount of airplay. Leonard talked and talked and talked and talked to the point where I thought I was going to lose my mind. That’s also where the footsy started. Throughout the meal I had noticed that Leonard had taken his shoes off and would occasionally rub his foot on my ankle. He would chalk it up to being accidental and occasionally would apologize but I was beginning to feel uncomfortable.

Eventually there seemed to be no end in sight. We were at the Waffle House for nearly 2 hours and he hadn’t stopped talking. I stopped asking questions 40 minutes ago and resorted to nodding. He kept touching my leg with his feet! His silky socks running smoothly up my leg. I was slowly dying. I was afraid to go to the bathroom because he might follow me. Something inside me said not to ditch Leonard by running out of the diner because the man has been my hero for so long, so I didn’t. I was constantly and frantically trying to decide what was the appropriate action to take and then it happened…I got a text message from Kenny.

Spock followed me to Kenny’s. He drives a Delorean. It’s almost in mint condition except for a few cigarette burns, but Leonard made it a point to let me know he doesn’t smoke. Anyway, we made it to Kenny’s. I let Leonard knock on the door. As he answered the door Kenny started to cry.

Just as I had thought, Leonard’s talking never ceased. In fact he started over for Kenny. At first Kenny was into it as was I until it kept going. I started to play “Call of Duty 4” on the XBOX 360 upstairs. I left them alone for what had to be hours. Out of the gunfire and violence from the game I heard shouting. I went back downstairs to investigate.

“You keep rubbing your feet on me and it needs to stop! You need to leave Spock!” Kenny screamed with a mocking tone.

Kenny had his tazer in his hand. Quick sidetrack here, Kenny has had this tazer for a few years now. He was mugged outside the premiere or “Revenge of the Sith” and swore to never be a victim again or whatever. He even took a kickboxing class that everyone including the instructor tried to tell him was just for women.

“You need to embrace change in order to live…long.” Leonard chuckled in that creepy tone.

That’s when Kenny had had enough. He went at Nimoy with the tazer. Out of nowhere Nimoy defended himself with the Vulcan Nerve Pinch. I couldn’t believe it, it actually works! I ran down the rest of the stairs trying to help my good friend but because of the pinch Kenny’s arms were spastic and I’m not sure but I think Leonard had his hand down the front of Kenny’s pants. That was the last thing I remember seeing because that’s when Kenny’s tazer jabbed me in the ribcage. According to Kenny I flapped like a dying chicken right into his mother’s coffee table which was glass. I woke up in the hospital with a shoddy stitch job on my bicep awaiting a surgery to fix some severed nerves.

According to Kenny, Nimoy left after the blood flowed. Apparently Nimoy has Hemophobia, which is a fear of blood, and fled the scene. We didn’t want to press charges. After all the man was our hero for so many years, we didn’t want to ruin it for the other fans out there I guess. I haven’t cared for Star Trek since. My love died that day. I have another surgery scheduled for June 9th. I think I’ll be in recovery for 2 days. I don’t know anyone willing to push me around in a wheelchair at Bonnaroo, and I also don't want to rip out any internal stitches so I think my hopes for seeing Gogol and Death Cab at Bonnaroo are dead. I hope all you guys at Inforoo have a good time in my place and I’ll leave you with a bit of advice,

“Let your heroes be your heroes, and nothing more.”

Entry #3 by superbek


Well, here goes nothing!!!


A Tale With More Action Than Fractions!
By: superbek

Key Words:
Group 1: Ron Jeremy, Paul Reubens
Group 2: taser, whoopee cushion
Group 3: Waffle House, phone booth
Group 4: prune juice, Pepto-Bismol
Group 5: accordian, clown (John Wayne Gacy), toy monkey, port-a-potty


We go every year, you know... to Bonnaroo. My friends and I pile up, the four of us between two cars and we drive over 500 miles from Florida to Manchester. First, there is Tara, a roo virgin and quite the sassy red head; Tiffany the pagan vixen; my cousin Jaymo; and of course, myself. Jaymo's friends are always jealous of him because he goes to roo with three lovley ladies... little do they know, he's totally gay.

Well 2007 was no different from any other year, meaning we began our journey around 5pm Wednesday evening. All seem to be going well and I began to doze off during "Banana Pancakes" while Jaymo navigated towards utopia. At about 3am I was suddenly disturbed from my beauty rest by a loud "bang!" Startled, I looked out the window, saw smoke and began yelling for James to pull over. Naturally, Tara and Tiffany followed suit.

* * *

About 2 hours later, we found ourselves filing into a local Waffle House in Lenoir City, Tennessee - 3 hours away from Bonnaroo. After slumping into a booth, ordering coffee and breakfast, we began to talk about what had just happened to us.

"So the wrecker service said 1 - 3 days till the part comes in?" inquired Tiffany.

I nodded solemly in reply.

"But what about roo...?", began Tara.

"I don't know," replied James, "We barely have the money to get the car part. So from the looks of it, we are stuuck here untill then."

Just then a man with wild curly hair and a thick mustache found his way over to our table.

"Excuse me, ladies..."

We looked up at the man and realized we were face to face with none other than Ron Jeremy.

"Pardon my intrusion, but I couldn't help overhearing that you are strapped for cash and I'm in the movie business, see, and I'm looking for some raw talent."

A look of disgust fell upon our faces. Well everyone except Jaymo, who suddenly perked up and looked rather alert.
Tara set in instantly.

"I don't know who you think you are Mr. Man, but you can keep that business (pointing to his crotch) to yourself."

"Well babe, my name is Jeremy, Ron Jeremy and that is an awfully purty mouth you have there."

And with that he walked away.
No one said much more until after we finished eating. Then Tiffany began to show her concerns.

"Who does he think he is!?! Celebrities!"

"I know, right?"

"Just because we're hot, doesn't mean we're dirty," Tara insisted.

And then Jaymo spoke up.

"Uh... listen girls, I was thinking we could really use that money. Maybe we could get the car fixed and still make it to 'roo by Saturday."

Tara rebutled, "Gross dude! I can't believe you would ask us to do that! I'd never -"

"Yeah, but I would," grinned Jaymo.

Nobody else spoke, we paid our bill and headed for the door.

The girls and myself stood outside smoking a cigarette as we watched Jaymo sit down beside Ron and begin to chat. Shortly there after we saw the star shrug and hand his server some money. The two men got up and walked out of the resturaunt, ignoring us as they walked past us and over to a port-a-potty in a nieghboring parking lot,.

Seven minutes later, Jaymo came stumbling out sweating profusely and guzzling prune juice. He walked with pain towards us, a distinct smile upon his face. We asked where he got the prune juice and he simply shrugged and said he didn't know, Ron gave it to him along with 300 dollars.
"And I'm glad he gave me the prune juice, I really need it! Have you ever seen his movies?"
I gaped open mouthed at him. He wasn't just Jaymo, he was Jaymo the Flame-o.

We stayed in a hotel that night, still bummed that we weren't at roo. Never the less, visions of hippies still danced in our heads.

We awoke the next morning to a horn honking outside our hotel room. We gathered around outside, only to be greeted by a funky colored bus driven by a clown closely resembling a sadistic serial killer. The clown jumped out with an accordian in hand and began a little jingle:

"Bonnaroo, Bonnaroo, where for art you?
His wish is my command, so here! Take my van!
Ron said "That's one fine piece of ass,
But ask for you kids to, "please stay off the grass"

He bowed politly and skipped away.

Enthusiasticly we jumped on the bus and all seemed right, for it was only Thursday!
We were about to set off when we heard music coming from the back of the bus. We hurried to the rear only to find a toy monkey banging cymbals.

"Over and Over and Over...
like a monkey with a minature cybmal,
the joy of repitition really is in you.
over and over and over..."

Suddenly, Tara lunged forward and stunned the monkey with a taser. The toy shorted out and fell backwards.There was a note on the bottom of the toy that simply stated:
"Daddy didn't give affection
And the boy was something that mommy wouldn't wear
King Jeremy the wicked
Ruled his world..."
. - - R. Jeremy

For a moment, no one spoke but instead, looked rather confused.
Finally, I put us back on track.

"Tara! Why would you bring a taser to Bonnaroo anyway?!?!"

She shrugged and simply stated, "You said there might be a taser show!"

"LASER show - not TASER!!"

"Hmph. Well how 'bout that?", she smiled devilishly.

Noticing it was time to go, Tiffany plopped down in the driver's seat right on top of a whoopee cushion.

"Stupid clown!", she exclaimed with a few other choice words.

We arrived in Manchester three hours later and upon approching Bushy Branch Rd, we noticed a sign that said " Bonnaroo Left."
So we turned around at THE gas station and headed for home, much to our dismay.

And that's when the strangest thing happened... as we pulled out of the stations parking lot, I looked back and saw Paul Reubens standing in a phone booth, chugging Pepto Bismol and I couldn't help but wonder if he too, had happened upon Mr. Ron Jeremy.

That was what happened to my group last year on our way to Bonnaroo. I have been trying to tell them ever since the lineup came up that 'roo didn't really leave. But they absolutely refuse believe me. Honestly, I just think they're scared of a little adventure...

Entry #5 by harrisonford

Martha Stewart – Cheese Grater – Tattoo – Jack Daniels – John Wayne Gasy

I've never been to Bonnaroo and I suppose that I won't make it this year either, since I'm serving five consecutive life sentences for downloading music off Napster, thanks to some prick named Lars. When the po-po nailed me, I was already on probation for shooting a man in Reno, just to watch him die. I always thought you got three strikes, but apparently catching a beef for stealing music is serious business. But women's prison isn't so bad. The only tough part of my stretch in the big house was when SHE walked into my cell. I could have escaped so many times to attend the ‘roo, if only SHE hadn’t fallen in love with me.

It was early one morning when I woke up to the sound of my cell door creaking open. It was the warden, and he had my new cellmate in tow. Now, I enjoy the LPGA and WNBA as much as the next house frau, but I've never been attracted to another woman until I saw her. She smelled of Glade air freshener and heavy starch. Her hair was perfectly styled and she carried a bouquet of fresh flowers. I was stunned for a moment, but she broke the silence by reaching for my hand and pleasantly saying "Hello, my name is Martha. Martha Stewart." I was in love. But Martha was no jailhouse whore, and she played hard to get until the end. After months of wooing her without success, I fashioned a makeshift shiv from a cafeteria mop handle. When I showed Martha my handiwork after lights out, she finally gave in and made love to me. And that’s when my sweet, sweet Martha began to turn into my worst nightmare. I immediately realized she had grooming issues. For someone so interested in curtains, you would think she would occasionally maintain her carpet, but making love to her was like licking a cheese grater. As I lay there, my tongue throbbing in pain, Martha told me I was the best she ever had and that she would never leave my side. The next day, she proved her words by going to the prison tattoo parlor to get a shoddy tat of my jail gang nickname across her back in giant, boldface letters - “I LOVE LADY OF RAGE MORE THAN POTPORRI”. Big as life. It was embarrassing to be around her at shower time.

And so I began to hate her. God knows how many times I tried to end our romance, but every time I told her it was over, she flew into a manic fit and began redecorating our small, dingy cage. It was ridiculous. As she became more obsessed with me, our cell became her den of Good Things. Soon our entire cell block looked like a wedding party in the Hamptons might break out at any moment. I finally quit trying to end the relationship after she freaked out and landed me in solitary confinement for four months. Hysterical after hearing me break up with her for the umpteenth time, Martha tore down my poster of Rita Hayworth to put up a shabby chic curio shelf she had crafted for me in the wood shop. Poor, stupid woman didn’t know I had been tunneling for years behind that poster, hoping to hit the sewer line and make my escape to Bonnaroo. The only thing worse than living with Martha was solitary - “the hole” was a fate worse than death. So I decided to accept that I would be hers forever. But I never stopped trying to run for the farm and she never stopped foiling my plans. During a soccer game against our Nazi captors, Martha whiffed on what would have been the game winning goal. She got a perfect centering pass, but she was too busy trying to get the grass stains out of her pants with a sensible mix of lemon juice and tonic water. If she had only scored, I could have all escaped while the team celebrated. But we lost, and the guards taunted us mercilessly all the way back to lockup. She got me caught on my best escape attempt, after suggesting some lotion for my cheeks as I exited on a stretcher, wearing a dead guard’s face.

The guards began to hate her too. Tasteful decorations, carefully constructed bows, and practical, yet elegant place settings overflowed into the hallways. The guards frequently slipped and fell on toile and doilies when they made their rounds. Martha was always making stupid comments about improving the cafeteria food – “why don’t you add a dash of cinnamon!” “if you’re on a budget, spice it up with a splash of tabasco!” Suggestions like these are kryptonite for federal employees working in our prison system. The guards frequently turned our cell looking for a reason to punish her.

Eventually the other inmates began to hate her, and hate me for having her as my Ann Coulter. Most of the girls snuck in cigarettes and Jack Daniels, but Martha always tried to sneak in roasted halibut and zucchini with a rich butter sauce. The guards could smell it a mile away, and confiscated our contraband every time. Once, while everyone was working out in the yard, she tried to paint the barbells white, plant an herb garden, and add a bed skirt to the weight bench. She almost started a riot.

And suddenly, as quickly as she had arrived, she was gone. My world was new again. My fellow inmates and even the guards couldn’t believe she was gone. We threw a celebration party the likes of which had never been seen on cell block four. The warden hired Pogo the Clown, several strippers, and howler monkeys by the dozens. We played Melissa Etheridge and Indigo Girls records at full volume until the sun came up. We danced, sang, and threatened to stick a shank in each other’s gut using that funny voice you get after sucking on the clown’s helium tank. The party ended when Pogo actually did stab a few people in the gut and mumbled something about a crawl space under his house. The guards broke it up and hauled him away. Sometimes I think that party must be what Bonnaroo is like, but I guess I’ll never know for sure. You all have fun in June, and think of me. Someday I’ll get out and be there with you. Now that Martha has left, I feel my chances to get sprung are much improved.

Entry # 7 by oopsikillednana

The Apes of Wrath

The blow-up doll was the hardest thing to explain. The ounce of junk and the stun gun could be glossed over, and it was easy to make up a story about the burn marks on Ron's chest, but how is one to explain a male blow-up doll in the back seat?

It all started in Miami, where my friend and I were killing time before heading up to Tennessee for the big show. We had been drinking for several hours in a horribly cheesy bar just a few blocks from the ocean when I turned to him.
"When are we leaving, Eddie?"
"The morning, I guess, after sunrise. I don't know, we‘re fine. Not now, I'm god damn hammered."
I mulled over his answer. I was certainly ready to get on the road, but he was right. We were in no particular rush. We had stocked the car with buffalo jerky, Jack Daniels, and three different brands of baby wipes. We had five cases of water, two tickets, and over two thousand dollars, for...souvenirs. Just as I was calling the barmaid for another round, a man walked up to us. Shirtless, leather jacket and blue jeans, thick mat of chest hair, total Guido. He ordered three drinks, though, so when he sat down on the other side of Eddie, neither of us complained. His named was Ron, and he asked us what we were getting into.
“We’re goin’ to the happiest place on Earth, Ronnie, got tickets and all that shit, Bonnaroo, you know about that?”
Eddie could be really rude sometimes, but Ron did know about that. And he ordered three more drinks.

When I woke up, Eddie was leaning back over the seat, shocking Ron repeatedly with a stun gun and screaming at him in some awful, beastly tongue.
“Shut!” TZZZZT “UP!” ZZZTZT “SHUT” TZZTTTZ ”UP!” ZZTTT
Ron murmured and pushed lazily at Eddie’s hand.
“Jesus Christ Eddie, calm the quack down, sit down!”
He did. Ron’s head lolled back into the seat, and he mumbled something I couldn‘t understand.
“Are you quacking serious? All that doodie he was talking about, man?”
“What the hell happened last night, Eddie?”
“You mean this morning?”
“What?! Where the hell are we?!”
“Twenty miles south of Lake City. You’ve been driving for hours, man. You even refueled once. What the hell’s wrong with you?”
“Me? Why is this guy in our car?”
“You said he could come with us. You said there would be scalpers in the line, it wouldn’t be a problem, do you not remember that?”
“Why the hell were you just using a stun gun on him!?”
“He’s been talking since we got out of Weston, you heard it, you were talking to him.”
Ron looked up at us, gargling liquid nonsense. I noticed, for the first time, that I was driving. I didn’t slow down.

We stopped at a Waffle House. Everyone needed to get their minds right. I ordered the All-Star Special, scrambled, sausage, triple hash browns instead of grits, smothered covered and capped. Water. While Ron went to the bathroom to change his pants, Eddie caught me up on what I had missed.
“He’s been talking about the most terrible doodie ever since we hit the Everglades.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know, a lot of it’s nonsense. And he’s been shooting heroin.”
“Heroin?”
“Yeah, heroin, the whole time. You told him it was cool. Soon as we got going, he started chattering, saying all kinds of doodie. He knew your name, your middle name. He used your full name. He started going to town with a blow-up doll in the back seat, and I had to zap him. Threw the doll out the window.”
“A blow-up doll?”
“Like in the catalogs.”
“And where did the stun gun come from?”
“I carry it.”
“Right. So why don’t we just leave ol’ Ron here at the Waffle House and call it a day?”
“We can’t, man. I don’t think we can. He’s got this…thing…it’s a monkey. There’s something about it, it’s not right. I mean right now, I swear to God, I could swear it’s looking at us.”
I looked out at the parking lot, at the toy monkey now sitting in the rear window of our car. It was facing away from us. Ron came out of the bathroom with his jeans in a duffel bag and sat down in our booth, shivering violently. He stared at the table, he stared at my waffle, and he stared at his hands, but he would not look at the car.

When we finally got back on the road a half-hour later, I wasn’t really sure whether I knew more or less about our situation. Ron was terrified of a toy monkey, Eddie was weary of it, and I didn’t know what to think about it. I certainly hadn’t seen it do anything. Ron wouldn’t even tell us where he found it. When we got in the car he just curled up in the back seat, looking out the window and sweating, shooting heroin every 15 minutes. The inside of his duffel bag looked like a nightmarish fourth-world doctor’s office; needles, alcohol, gauze, and a fearsomely large bag of smack. I wasn’t thrilled about it, but it seemed to have a calming effect on him, so we let him be.

It was a quiet car ride. And then we started passing the corn fields. Eddie was the first to speak up.
“Check that corn out, man, are you seeing that? You can see yellow, it’s ripe. But it’s June. Don’t people harvest in the fall?”
He was right. All around us, the stalks were drooping toward the earth. Some of the husks had split open and wilted off, revealing bloated golden kernels that gleamed in the afternoon sun like multifaceted insect eyes. I was so absorbed in this natural oddity, I did not immediately notice the tapping sound coming from behind me. By the time I realized it was the monkey’s two-inch cymbals crashing together, Ron was talking.
“I will take your heart. I will take your soul out of your body, as though I were God. I will not be satisfied, with the little words you say to me. I will not be satisfied, with the touch of your hand, nor the sweet of your lips alone. I will take your heart for mine. I will take your soul. I will be God when it comes to you…”
“SHUT UP!”
But if Ron could hear Eddie, he wasn’t paying attention. He opened a bottle of Jack Daniels and poured it down his pants, his eyes rolling back and his mouth frothing.
“Tonight the waves march in long ranks, cutting the darkness, with their silver shanks, cutting the darkness, and kissing the moon, and beating he land’s edge into a swoon.”
The smell of liquor in the car was already overpowering, and Ron was still writhing around in the back seat. I was a little worried that he might light himself on fire, but after a single glance at Eddie I forgot about the alcohol. He was shaking, curled up against the door and his seat, and it looked like he had already succeeded in pulling out several clumps of his own hair.
“The lazy, laughing South, with blood on its mouth. The sunny-faced…“
Eddie had already had enough. He lunged into the back seat, whipping Ron across his face with the stun gun and shocking him frantically. Ron screamed and pulled a deflated blow-up doll - this one male - from his bag and started trying to strangle Eddie with it. Between both of their growling and choking, and the crackle of the stun gun, it was no surprise I didn’t notice the police car waiting at the end of the cornfields until he was behind me.

We woke up a couple of hours later in the Milton County jail, sore from the beatings the deputies had given us. The charges were severe: felonious possession of narcotics, public misconduct, lewd and lascivious, open container, possible sodomy. No phone calls, no money for bail, and an arraignment date in late July. Occasionally, we could hear Ron talking to himself somewhere down the hall.
The first morning there, Eddie asked the guard who brought us our eggs about the monkey. She just looked at him, shook her head, and threw our trays down on the floor. Nobody would tell us anything, nobody would even talk to us.
All we could do was sleep. And dream of Tennessee.

Entry # 9 by jackowcko

I love Bonnaroo.

It is, hands down, the best music and arts festival on the face of the planet. There is nothing that I look forward to more each and every year. When this year’s line-up was released, I was so overwhelmed with excitement that I literally sharted at my desk. Yes, I farted with glee, and a little bit of poop came out with it. The stench quickly became very unbearable. It resembled the reekage of navy beans smeared all over Ron Jeremy’s sweaty taint. At this point, I knew I had to do something. My only option was to run to the bathroom and make my own pair of underwear. Luckily, I have quite the experience with changing my grandmother’s diapers that I was able to conjure up my own underwear contraption with paper towels, duct tape, tobasco sauce, and mozzarella cheese. Some would say that I am the MacGyver of diaper making. Problem solved! I came back to my desk and began to daydream of Jack Johnson as a headliner. Jack Johnson headlining is the best part of the lineup to me because, let’s face it, what are the odds of Jack Johnson headlining any other music festivals this year? That is when the phone rang.

I had been selected as a finalist for the latest contest being put on by my local radio station. The grand prize of this contest is to appear in a major motion picture with none other than Paul Reubens! I’m not going to lie. Paul Reubens is my childhood hero. I own every episode of “Pee-Wee’s Playhouse” on high definition DVD. Paul Reubens and boomerang bow-ties go together like Mr. T and bling-bling. I am sure that we all wish we could pull off a boomerang bow-tie as beautifully as Paul Reubens. The contest was to take place the following Saturday. Excellent! Perfect timing! Once again, I had become so overwhelmed with excitement that I sharted again. I really need to lay off the prune juice. What can I say? Prune juice and pancakes for breakfast go together better than ketchup and applesauce. Yum!

Several diapers later, I had found myself welcomed by the Saturday morning sun. It was the day of the contest, and today would be the day where I would compete for a spot in Paul Reubens’ new movie. I arrived at the radio station that morning eager to learn the details of the contest I would soon be participating in. The three finalists were blindfolded, loaded into a van, and driven out to the middle of nowhere. When we finally arrived, I could detect a very earthy aroma in the air. “Something smells delicious,” I thought to myself. I took off my blindfold and found myself at a nearby petting zoo. I was surrounded by cows, sheep, goats, pigs, gator, and possum. In the corner of the pen were three frying pans, three baseball bats, three tasers and a large bonfire. Then the rules were explained to us.

The three finalists were to be placed in the pen with all the animals. The whistle would blow and we were to man our stations. Each of us would grab a taser and a baseball bat. The baseball bats were to defend ourselves from our opponents, as well as the feisty gator. The tasers were a little more complicated. As the rules were being explained to me, I began to realize that I was competing in the most twisted game of Fear Factor that I had ever experienced. We were to chase down the animals and taser them in their scrotums until their testicles were to fall off. After we had gathered the testicles, we were to fry them using the frying pans and bonfire, and indulge. The finalist that had eaten the most testicles at the end of the 30 minutes would get the opportunity to appear in Paul Reubens’ next movie.

My mouth was already watering. Luckily for me, I managed to skip breakfast and was getting extremely hungry. Possum testicles sounded delectable, and I was definitely ready for that whistle to blow so I could munch on some tender testicles.

At the sound of the whistle, I dashed to my station to grab my bat and taser. I had a strategy all planned out. One of the contestants already had bowed out due to his strange fear of frying pans. It was down to me and one other opponent who ironically enough was called “Large Marge.” If you have seen “Pee-Wee’s Big Adventure” you know what this reference is too. It looked like I had my work cut out for me with another dedicated Paul Reubens fan. I raced around tasing farm animals left and right while dodging the mighty swing of Large Marge. I would randomly scoop up the scrotums as they fell to the earth. I would grab about four scrotums at a time before peeling them open and plopping the testicles into my frying pan. When they reached the proper level of juicy deliciousness, I gobbled those puppies down like John Goodman does a bucket of fried chicken. After 20 minutes, I had found myself with a slight lead over Large Marge. With only 10 minutes remaining, I had to kick it into high gear. I began to carry the scrotums in my hand 4 at a time while getting my heels nipped by those pesky gator. When I ran out of hands, I was able to hold about 3 scrotums in my mouth at one time. This strategy definitely paid off as my lead against Large Marge began to grow. After the 30 minutes were up, I had eaten around 40 testicles, and was indeed the winner of the contest! Mmm. That was some good eating.

My lifelong dream of appearing alongside Paul Reubens had finally come true! Shooting for my scene was to be held June 12-15. Wouldn’t you believe it? Bonnaroo weekend. The one event I look forward to every year. Not to mention, Jack Johnson was going to be headlining this year! I’ll probably never get the chance to ever see Jack Johnson headline another festival. I had become so upset about missing this year’s Bonnaroo that I sharted. Sorry Bonnaroo, looks like I’ll be seeing you next year. Save a spot for Jack Johnson next year for me!

Later that week, I had received a letter in the mail containing the details of my role in the new Paul Reubens movie. I was to be a special guest musician in a scene featuring Gogol Bordello! Little did the contest organizers know, I can play a mean accordion. I think my accordion skills will mesh tremendously with the music of Gogol Bordello. Who knows, maybe they’ll even let me join their band!

So my Bonnaroo friends, it saddens me to say that I will not be able to join you at this year’s festival. I will be with you in spirit. Remember, to see me in Paul Rebens new movie in Summer 2009!

Bonnaroooooooo!!!

Entry # 11 by aintnofreedom

Blondes Have More Fun.

So, while visiting my friend Pat in New York last September, he suggested we go out to a local jazz bar. Things started out fantastically. We had been knocking back more than our fair share of Shirley Temples when I noticed a stunning blonde from across the room.
“Dude, check her ou…” I started, but he cut me off.
“Don’t even think about it, man” he said. “She’s bat sh*t crazy.”
“Aw, come on Pat. How do you know?”
“She’s here all the time, she’s a real…”
I left before he could finish his sentence. The piano man was playing a version of Tom Wait’s “Straight to the Top” and I felt like I was floating across the room. As I approached the luscious lady, I realized there was something familiar about her. I thought maybe I’d seen her in a porno or something, but if that was the case, Pat would have never tried to stop me from putting the moves on her. He’s a much better friend than that.
Before I could figure it out, I was already hovering over her table. When we made eye contact, I knew it was all over.
She looked up at me with her stunning brown eyes, slowly brushed aside her bangs, smiled at me coyly. My heart skipped a beat and I slowly stammered out a meek greeting.
“Why hello there,” she replied in a perfectly monotone voice. “Why don’t you take a seat.”
Giddily, I followed her instructions. Before conversation could even go anywhere this mystery blonde snapped her fingers and two glasses of ice and Jack Daniels appeared before us.
“Have a drink, darling,” said the blonde.
Conversation sparked quickly and I came to know quite a bit about this woman. However, she avoided the question every time I asked her name.
Things had been going relatively smooth until the piano man began a cover version of Sufjan Stevens’ “John Wayne Gacy Jr.” and our dialogue turned to killers and jail time.
“I spent some time in prison,” the blonde said matter-of-factly. “It wasn’t that bad.”
Intrigued and a little unsettled, I inquired her about her experience and why she went to prison, but she yet again dodged my questions.
“Oh, I’m surprised you didn’t hear about it in the news,” was her only reply.
Growing weary of our conversation, the blonde said she was leaving and invited me back to her apartment. I must have had a few too many shots of JD, because I somehow thought it was a good idea.
~~~
When I entered her apartment, I first noticed just how nice her decorating was. This woman really knew her feng shui. However, before I could comment on it, she shoved me onto the bed and strattled me. I laughed and tried to escape her grasp, but somehow I found myself shackled down.
She whispered in my ear to be still, before slowly creeping towards her closet. As she opened it, she revealed the largest collection of sex toys you could imagine. But this wasn’t your typical whips+chains S&M deal, this woman had a plethora of cooking appliances to get her jollies from. Spatulas, egg beaters, turkey basters, kabob sticks, you name it, she had it. When she finally emerged from her closet she was wearing a corset and holding a cheese grater.
As she sauntered her way toward the bed, I just laid there in horror at what she might to with such a menacing looking piece of kitchen ware. She came closer and closer until I could feel her hot breath and the cold metal grater against me skin.
Then she softly spoke to me... “I am going to make you… the best… omelette of your entire life.”
I was stunned and terrified. Stammering, I protested. “But, I… I don’t like eggs!”
She smacked me across the face. “You will after tonight!!”
Pulling a portable cooking set out from underneath the bed and began violently and orgiastically cooking up a storm. When it was all said and done the blonde presented me the most heavenly looking breakfast food item I’ve ever seen.
“Eat it, b*tch!” she demanded as she clutched her electric mixer tightly.
I was in no position to argue and swiftly obliged her.
Her claim that this would be the best omelette of my life was an understatement. It was amazing. I almost came. As I looked it up her eyes, she knew. I didn’t even have to say a thing. I was all hers.
The rest of the weekend remains a blur of whiskey and shared debauchery between the two of us. However, when Sunday came around the blonde told me that she had a “very important meeting” and that I should probably go back to work in New Hampshire on Monday anyways. It was her way of kicking me out.
I knew it couldn’t last and she was more than nice about it. She gave me $50 to help on the way home and let me stay in her apartment to take a shower after she left for work.
As the hot water ran over me, I reflected on the weekend. Pat was right, this woman was freakin’ crazy. But I loved it all.
After I got out of the shower and was drying off, I noticed a strange marking in the mirror. A blotch of color on my ass. As I looked closer, to my horror, I found it was a tattoo which read: “Proprety of: Martha Stewart Living,” complete with the logo and K-mart symbol on the bottom.
It hit me like a frying pan. The woman was Martha Stewart. She had branded me. It must have been when I was blacked out. “At least it has some pretty good color. It’s pretty well done,” I said to myself.
~~
About three weeks later, I received a cell phone message:
“Hi, this is Martha. Um, well I don’t know how to tell you this, but I’m… We’re pregnant. I won’t know if it’s a boy or girl for a while, but it’s due on June 13th and I’d really appreciate it if you were out here. Well, um thanks, and don’t bother calling me, my people will contact you.”

That’s why I might not be at the ‘Roo this year.

Entry #13 by TheDude

MARTHA WORLD ORDER
By: Dr. Kyle Gerrard Stark The First

The last thing I remember was nine very erect inches of man flooding into my rectum in a Porta-John outside a Waffle House in North Hollywood. It was all Paul Reubens’ fault. Little did I know that this event would be the catalyst of every single minute of my life that has since past.
I had recently moved out to L.A. a few months earlier and had met Paul through a mutual friend. It was about June of ‘93, a couple years after his rather public embarrassment, and he was in a real bad way. He was completely broke, both spiritually and economically, and had to resort to renting out the second bedroom of his apartment just to get by. His previous tenant was an artist who had bled to death in the room while he was preparing an exhibit involving his genitals and an industrial sized cheese grater. It was really a shame too because word on the street had him pinned as the next revolutionary of the art world.
Anyways, I was well aware that a little blood never done any harm, as I had had the pleasure of learning when I went through my menstrual flow fetish phase, and seeing how I was currently homeless, I asked Reubens if he would like to rent the room to me. Besides, I was totally sympathetic to his legal matters. I mean, who hasn’t beaten their meat in public? Back where I’m from it was practically a rite of passage. Couple times a week the whole gang would get together in Grandma’s cellar and we’d celebrate “Super Special Super Secret Super Family Fun Time”. That’s what Uncle Leonard used to call it. But then again, as everyone in our family knows, he always was the eccentric one. Apparently he was even on some science fiction television show in the late ‘60’s, but ended up blowing all his savings when he agreed to become the sole financial backer in an off-off Broadway production of “Send In The Clowns: A Government Conspiracy In Promotion of Coulrophobia: The Misunderstanding of A True American Folk Hero by John Wayne Gacy Jr.”
Which leads me back to the cellar, for as a means of supporting himself, Uncle Leonard had devised an ingenious plan! He would bottle my ejaculate and sell it as Goat Milk. As a matter of fact, from ‘81 to ‘84, I was the leading supplier for 70% of the eastern seaboard. So if you were ever in New York, Philadelphia, Washington, or Boston and drank some Goat Milk during those years, it was more than likely a sampling of my own homemade brand!! Well would you listen to me, getting all carried away and stroking my own shaft; the point is I had no problem with Reubens and seeing how I had nowhere else to live I signed on the dotted line and sealed my fate forevermore.
The first couple of weeks weren’t too out of the ordinary. During the day I would head off to my job at the local Blow Up Sex Doll factory (You’d be surprised, the industry’s a lot bigger than you’d expect) and Reubens would do whatever he did and then at night we’d crush a 40 of Jack Daniels and watch old reruns of Charles In Charge. Some nights, if he was drunk enough, and with just the right amount of encouragement, he could regale you for hours with stories of his days spent playing Accordion all over Europe in a travelling gypsy band. We weren’t living the high life by any means, but it wasn’t exactly down in the dumps either. Then, around the fifth week, I noticed Paul had a rather school boyish hop to his step. He was up to something. Something good, something school boy good, and I wanted in. So one night, after we polished off the better part of a bottle of Uncle Jack, I confronted him.
“Say Paul, lately you’ve been doin’ pretty alright for yourself.”
“I’m getting by.” A sly grin crept across his face. He had revealed his ace card.
“I know you’ve got something going on, and I’m sick of being left out in the cold. I want in.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Don’t circle jerk me around man! I’m not blind. You don’t think I notice how much stuff you’ve been buying lately?”
“What stuff?”
“What stuff!!! WHAT STUFF!!! How about the god damn 6 foot tall replica of the Cymbal Banging Monkey? You didn’t think I wasn’t going to notice that little purchase?”
“Well yes, obviously,” he responded sarcastically, “we were in dire need of a conversation piece in the living room.”
“Alright listen, it’s not even about what you’re buying, as a matter of fact I actually kind of like the monkey. He really ties the room together. What I don’t like is you shiving me out of some potential money. Come on Paul, if it wasn’t for me you wouldn’t have been able to pay your rent last month and you’d be out on the streets.”
“Okay fine, I’ll fill you in, but you can’t tell anyone else. I’ve suffered enough trauma already.”
“No worries bro, my lips are sealed.” (At least until you tell me.)
“Okay..... Here goes nothing......” He was pausing, looking for an out. (That wasn’t going to happen.)
“Well...”
“.....”
“WELL!”
“I’m a fluffer for porno films.”
“What in the quack!” (What in the quack!)
“What! Don’t tell me you haven’t sucked anyone off before!”
“I mean, well yeah, who hasn’t slobbed a little cob before? But that was back in boy scouts, everyone was doing it!! A fluffer is on a whole other level though, come on!!”
“It’s a legitimate and extremely valued position. And it’s only growing too; they say by ’95 there’s going to be a whole cottage industry devoted specifically to fluffing. If you’re looking for fast, easy money, look no further.”
“Well I can’t deny that, that’s for sure, but I don’t think I could do it full time. I’m just not gay enough.”
“Don’t worry; it’s totally not gay if you don’t have feelings any towards the person.”
“That’s true.”
“See! Say how about you come down to the office and you can watch me work and see if you would be interested in it. Like you said, you need the money, and like I said, this is where it is!”
“Ok, fine.”
“Excellent!”
I don’t know if it was me or the booze talking, but by 10:00AM the next morning, I was up to my tonsils in weiner. And I don’t mean to brag, but I was good. I’m talking the first time peanut butter and jam we’re introduced to each other good. I could have an actor up and ready for his scene in less than 20 seconds. What can I say, my mouth was a natural. And word spread fast. By the end of the week I was fluffing all of major stars of the industry. Before I knew it, I had Mr. Ron Jeremy himself quivering between my lips.
After meeting Ron Jeremy the journey down the rabbit hole picked up a feverish pace. He introduced us to worlds we had only dreamed of. The next eight months were a whirlwind of debauchery. One day I’d be pleasuring an Academy Award winning sausage on a balcony overlooking the Champs-Elysées, and the next I’d be snorting pure Columbian out of the anus of a super model. Everything else was mostly a blur; besides the daily bottle of Pepto-Bismol at 4:00 in the morning (semen never seems to sit well in the stomach). But all was not right with this world, for it had a dark underbelly that few dared to traverse. I had been hearing rumours of this so called “Electro Sex Therapy” in many of the circles I travelled in, but only the most insane of the famous would confirm its presence. Without Gary Busey, I probably wouldn’t even be alive today. Celebrity Taser Sex, as I later found out was what the insiders called it, was unlike anything I had ever come across. Right as they were climaxing, celebrities would shock each other into unconsciousness. I had to bear witness to some of the most depraved and heinous acts ever committed. I shouldn’t have been surprised; you can’t put anything past the liberal fascists of Hollywood. It was more than just the sex though. They were engaged in a whole underground society that permeated right beneath the surface. Anyone who was anyone was involved. Even the media agreed to keep it under wraps; all because of one woman, and the unparalleled fear she inspired. All because....... of Martha Stewart. I had long suspected she was behind it all. I tried to tell Reubens about the evils of Martha but he wasn’t having any of it. He couldn’t believe I wanted to leave right as they were so close to achieving M.W.O. (Martha World Order). Once you get involved in the underground world of Celebrity Taser Sex, it’s a slippery slope all the way to the bottom. Paul was slipping. Slipping hard. He was like a preemie out of the womb. At this point I was raising suspicions among the faithful. They were questioning my loyalty to The Martha. I had to get out. I booked a one way ticket to Beijing, if there was anyone left in the world that was not under her spell, it had to be the Chinese. But it was not to be, for in the airport I received a message from a baggage handler (Yes she is charge of the airline industry as well... don’t you get it? She controls EVERYTHING!) to call Mr. Paul Reubens, he was with someone I might very interesting. Damn! No matter how hard I tried, they weren’t going to let me go without a fight. I ran to the nearest payphone, called up Paul, and waited for it to connect.....
“Hello?”
“Reubens!! Listen to me!! It doesn’t have to be like this, you can still get out!!!”
“Get out?? Ha! Now why would I want to do a thing like that? Especially when I’ve just found a brand new friend to play with... say hello Leonard.”
“Uncle Leonard!” I couldn’t believe they found him. If only he didn’t go to so many of those god damn conventions!
“Oh, you mean to tell me? No way! You two are related? What a coincidence!”
“You illegitimate child!”
“Now now, is that any way to talk to the man who holds your uncle’s life in his hands?”
“Just tell me what you want Reubens. I can’t take this anymore!” (I couldn’t take it anymore.)
“You know the Waffle House on Rodeo Drive in North Hollywood? There’s a Porta-John out front, proceed there and wait for further instructions. If you take longer than 15 minutes to get there, or you call the authorities, who we happen to control, then your uncle is dead.”
I raced as faced as I could across town and pulled into the Waffle House parking lot with 2 minutes to spare. I couldn’t believe I made it. As I proceeded to make my way over to the Porta-John, I could see my Uncle Leonard and Paul Reubens watching from inside the restaurant. It took every last inch of my strength from rushing inside. I knew as soon as I turned to make a move towards my uncle he would be dead before I could complete it. I continued over to the Porta-John, opened the door, and went in.
As I waited inside, and the temperature rapidly began to rise from uncomfortable to unbearable, I could only begin to fathom the sheer lunacy of what lay before me. Would I be able to rescue Uncle Leonard? Would I even be able to rescue myself? These were questions with answers no man could predict; only time could peel back the layers of uncertainty and at the present, seconds were passing for days.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the door was ripped from its hinges and a mix of sunlight and cold air ripped into the Porta-John. I could see a towering silhouette before me, but my eyes had yet to adjust. And then, like the thunder of the gods, a voice shook me to my core.
“I do not take kindly to deserter’s young man!” It was her. It was Martha Stewart. She was even more imposing in person than I ever imagined.
“Good, I was never a part of your army anyways!”
“Fool! Don’t you see? You were a part of The Martha Army the minute you stepped foot into Commander Reubens’ house! You were being bred from the very beginning!”
“No! Liar! I don’t believe you!”
“It’s true...” said Reuben. He had made his way outside, still clutching onto Uncle Leonard. Behind him I could see the movie heroes of my childhood amassing into a united front.
“...I’ve been working for Martha long before any weiner ever touched my lips.”
“So none of this was true? It was all just a bunch of lies?” My whole world had been flipped completely upside down, it felt like my head was going to be explode, but absolutely nothing could prepare me for what happened next.
“There is only one truth,” Reubens bellowed.
“MARTHA!” The rest of the celebrities responded in unison.
“And now,” Martha said, “you will become an example to all! For now and forevermore! For all who even dare think of betraying me, may this be considered your one and only warning!”
“YEAH!” Cheers rang out through the throng of celebrities. And then, in one swift motion, Martha ripped off all her clothes, and staring me right in the face, was a big, giant, throbbing weiner. Martha Stewart had a penis? Martha Stewart had a penis! Oh. My. God. Martha Stewart was a man!!! From the gasps coming from the celebrities, I could tell that this was news to them as well. I knew this was my one and only chance. I looked at Uncle Leonard, and from the gleam in his eye, I knew he was thinking the exact same thing. We both made our move. He managed to get away from Paul Reubens and get his hands on a gun. The rest of the celebrities were starting to clue in on what was happening. It was the last I ever saw of him. As I went to make my escape from the Porta-John, Martha overpowered me. She slammed me back inside where my head rattled against the toilet. The naked Martha man was hovering above me.
“Now boy,” Martha screamed at the top of her lungs, “Are you ready to feel what it’s like to be truly violated!” And with those words, I felt a searing white hot pain crawl up inside me. It all went black shortly thereafter.
When I came to there were celebrities’ bodies everywhere. I have no doubt it was my Uncle Leonard who saved my life. But it doing so, he lost his own. As I already said, most of the celebrities of the world died that fateful afternoon. All the ones you see populating your precious movies and television shows are really just drones in The Martha Army. Ever since that day 15 years ago I have been on the run, and they have been on the hunt. For the past nine of those years, I haven’t been able to stay in the same city for longer than 28 hours. This is why I don’t think I’ll be able to come to Bonnaroo this year. At first you would think that hiding yourself among 80 000 people would be a great way to maintain your survival but that’s only because they want you to think that!!! They are EVERYWHERE!!! I know this is supposed to be a contest entry but I don’t even want the ticket, just pass along this message, before it’s too late!!! Before they can gather their strength again!!! Before it becomes Martha World Order!!!