Five Word Game Summary


Forum Games

Paizo Employee Senior Software Developer

Orcus sat on his throne contemplating what evils to unleash upon the weak and innocent.

He mused, scratching his belly, and summoned his revenant minion "yessss masther, how ssserve I?" whispered the obsequious undead monstrosity rasping through yellow tangled teeth "Fetch me my experimenting hat!"

"Right away, your Infernalneth," said the unholy undead commander Asnek.

Moments later when he returned, Orcus was eating a pie. A potpie of meeping ghouls.

Bring forth my wand sluggards lest ye feel the sting of the whip, before you die at my wand's touch! A multitude of skittering forms arose from the depths of a dark pit, with craggy faces contorted in abject terror, yet ready to fulfill Orcus' every desire. Orcus giggled girlishly, an unseemly falsetto cackling, and, with a sweeping gesture, directed his corpselike lackeys on to tear the buried wand from it's ensconcement in the thorax of Thanshakot, an impaled Atropal.

A riot of twitching, tugging undead fiends fed like maggots around the beleaguered Atropal, and a sickening bubble of corruption burst, sending forth a sea of a funksome yeasty venom, and the very prize itself.

The skull-capped wand pulsed in life suckling hues of sickly eerie green and radiated malign promises of eternal shadow.

Asnek cringed before its power, but his master's command echoed in his hollow pate, imploring him-- crash through the Gate so he plunged through, to find himself in the midst of a pentagram in blood in the Atropal's chest cavity where foul energies pulsed and thrummed at the wand's behest.

A putrid stench emanated from what passed for the Atropal's wormholed heart of rotted meat.

"Whose pentagram?", wondered Asnek, raging as he fought for every dream he held dear. "This life...rather, unlife I lead, is nought but hunger and toil at the idiotic behest of a bloated undeserving goat. Orcus, you bag of suet, go fall in a pit of sharpest elder wyrms' teeth!"

He pulled the wand free from its unwholesome receptacle, before stepping back through the pentagram and magically reappearing before his much reviled Lord, whom he presented the mighty artifact with feigned reverence, though he wished to skullbash that ravening ninny until his bloated form lay twitching while meeping ghouls feasted on the repugnant carcass. However, he knew that his lord would perform even more horrible acts upon his eye sockets if he even suspected the servant held such rebel thoughts.

Orcus cradled the abhorrent artifact and died a little inside as its power coursed through his putrid veins. A strange scheme started to hatch in Orcus' mind. A kidnapping and subsequent ransom demand could force the followers of Corellon Larethian to cede to his whimsy but that would wait. Demogorgon was sending his 623rd Legion, the Flayed Ones, to interfere with Orcus' realm. Orcus had perversely tortured Demogorgon's favorite succubus, Vrillia, the two-headed, who had, after much persuation, admitted that it was Orcus who meant to obtain the wand from its resting place, not uh... can't think of anything.

Heathansson wrote:
from its resting place, not

Sorry for interrupting the game, but since you figured it out, I could really use your help. How do you figure out the Titanic Games Stonehenge thing. I tried for several hours, after reading all the clues, and am still totally stumped.

Heathansson wrote:
from its resting place, not

in order to utilise its animate dead abilities, but to fuel an arcane ritual long forgotten by man, or demon, but dimly recalled by ancient Protodevils from the depths of the primordial essence of Chaos itsself. This ritual, if performed with the proper precautions and rare components, is capable of tearing a breach in the very fabric of existence as a wave of primordial chaos would then wash away the life force of the multiverse, replacing it with twisted parodies of time, space, gravity, and freeing Thanatos from the Abyss.

The evil goat-headed demon let loose a hearty laugh at the thought of his enjoyment of the multiverse's transformation into an undead state, over which he would assert dominion.

Under his breath, he uttered "To snuff creation's whimpering flame...

I shall speak Erythnul's name and pestle pound 1,000,000 shames finally ending this dangerous game." With his depravity as mortar, Orcus felt assured that his third incarnation would be as oblivion's pestle to the mortar of reality. Simultaneously, blissfully unaware of the fiendish machinations underway in the Abyss' darkest recesses, a young demigoddess was about to undertake a dangerous quest to rescue her lover, a Prince of the Realm of the Faerie who had recently offended his father with an unseemly and embarrassing soire, involving midget-throwing, accordion-playing and other graceless acts of debauchery best left uncommented on. However, the Prince having recovered his senses from malignant possession, regretted his boorishness and imposed self exile in a distant realm, vowing not to return until he found the legendary artifact, eluded to in the Demonomicon of Iggwilv as the key to defeating the cruel invaders threatening to plant the Abyss with daisies.

Alas, for his quest was hatched from a mad egg, poached in boiling chaos water and steeped in monkey froth.

Orcus gnashed his teeth, cursing his incompetent underlings' failure to foresee this herbally insipid threat "That goddess and her idiot lover... will pay the price of two souls for their interference!"

The demon lord at last passed gas of the most stalactite melting potency. It was also how akilith demons were summoned, beckoned to his audience by the foul stench of his post-alimentary fumings of half-digested abyssal cheese. Such snacks got from the udders of fiendish dire cows of death "Oh, summon wretches... there are those who need steel stabbed into their soft bellies! Go forth with knives for havoc, bury your steely blades in my foe and his get, then return here with their charge, for which you shall be richly rewarded!" Gibbering excitedly, the throng of copiously fanged and taloned otherworldly abominations gathered to sally forth at Orcus' command, leaving only the disgruntled Palace Guard to tidy up the overexcited demons' mess. Snickering, Orcus looked upon the departing bounty hunters with high hopes that demigod and faery prince would meet with swift, messy deaths, and swift resurrections as flumphs and various other abberations as Orcus' mad whimsy commands.

However, the artifact-hunting prince oblivious to the plot against him being instigated by the infernal lord of all undead.

Unfortunately, the doltish prince had rode out totally alone, on his white destrier, only to realize he forgot to bring any magic items at all.

"Vow of Poverty?", he whimpered.

As he rode down the mangy goblins attempting to block his path, he wondered how monks do that thing where they jump so far, as he hewed goblins, his sharp bronze blade cutting huge swaths through the goblin ranks, bits of face and spleen flying like candy from a pinata.

They howled and chittered as the redoubtable prince effortlessly slaughtered the lot of them in a berserk danse macabre. When his demigodess paramour caught up to him, the sight of the sliced and diced goblins and him, standing alone, covered in bile and gore, made her eyes mist in bittersweet adoration.

"My hero!", she breathed. "You twinkle in the life wet... upon your mail and arms. danced like an insane hobo drunk on hard liquor and now you get your reward."

She revealed their clockwork child, Ricky-Ticky-Tavi the clicking only happens in new models.

A child to undo Orcus' mad quest against all life, not to mention that he possessed an adorability unsettling to the minds of mere mortals.

Ticky, the clockwork boy blinked in confusion at his father whose brow had become furled by worry as he noticed the little hand getting bigger.

"What is this? I don't have any more spaghetti! Golly gee willikers, Wally! If dad does nothing about this, he sure as Gehenna will be surprised when the hand reaches 66, for that's the hour it is fated to become a giant wax statue of a wang. Meanwhile, the congressman representing the Abyss received a huge kickback from infernal lobbyists Someone alert the NY Post! The corrupt congressman had arranged meetings with congressional pages in the Wells of Darkness, and according to abyssal e-mail records, souls had been traded without proper paperwork or release forms.

Worse, the abyssal pages were infected with Mummy Rot, causing unexpected and unpleasant withering of appendages. With a sigh of relief that his visitors were finally leaving, the bartender of Skullrot put the "CLOSED" sign on, which consisted of screaming quasits trapped in acid vats screaming, "don't come in here!", before sneaking out the secret passage that leads to the wine cellar. Abyssal grapes waiting to be stomped upon glistened like fresh toddlers' eyeballs. "Let's take off our shoes before squashing these tender fruit, as our footwear is covered with cleats.", he said aloud. "Holy socks should be thrown in with unholy socks to produce neutral socks." "What???", said Orcus.

"I don't even wear socks! They don't stay up on my goat-leg ankles! Furthermore, I detest garb in general; for my physique mustn't be covered because I know everybody wants you, by Billy Squier, is great for torturing damned souls." Those Orcus was speaking to, watching him in trepidation, removed his rhinestone studded Orcuswand holster and, gawking, said, "Nice wand!"

and chucked it into the garbage recepticle droid, who skittered, crablike, between the half-fiend neo-otyughs wishing it could deactivate its overriding impulse to destroy its taste buds, because the wandholster was suffused with a particularly disgusting bodily fluid from Orcus known as "archdemon jock funk".

However, the droid could not get the foul taste out, no matter how much acid he poured into his flux capacitor. Left with no alternative, it used the wand suicidally in a desperate attack on the voices in its head bashing itsself repeatedly, as radiator fluid leaked from his pores and his retro boosters fired, overheated, and eventually exploded. Ker-blam.

Gouts of fire spread out across the Abyss; the smell of burning droid innards wafted across the blackened fields, while choirs of angels sang in a trilling falsetto, "Duke, duke, waaaaaaahh! Help!!", as they were attacked voraciously by swarms of vrocks under the direction of Dorcas, who was Lord Orcus' out-of-wedlock offspring, and really wanted to please Orcus so he charged through the angelic choir braying like a wounded mule, "Give us the wand! Where is it, you wretched scums!?!"

Unfortunately, the wand-holding garbage droid was far too damaged to control its dimension-warping function before the angels overtook it and gave him a beatdown and then stealing the wand.

Meanwhile, in a tavern in Asgard, the fairy prince was whiling away the hours by regaling his audience with improbable and possibly hallucinated stories of adventure, romance and other balderdash whilst quaffing liberal quantities of stupor-inducing beverages offered to him by his throng of hangers-on.

His senses impaired, he failed to see a shadowy form leaping from a slimy barstool and ambling toward him, wickedness seemingly oozing from its unwholesome visage; gibbering mockingly it drew an impossibly huge enruned falchion and with a swift step, swung the blade at the stool where he sat, sending a spray of wooden flechettes into the neighboring, confused patrons.

The talespinner, quickly sobering, drew what could only be called a fistful of death: the secret maneouver known only to crouching werewolf martial adepts. He assumed the "ornery rhinoceros" stance and clucked like a chicken on methamphetamines. Within minutes, all that remained of the assailant was tattered fleshy shreds floating in stinky pools of loot.

"Finally, a magic weapon!", exclaimed the bard, as he pulled out his masterwork rapier. He'd been expecting some trouble, but the loathsome creature's massive blade was flaccid like boiled spaghetti ; clearly, its magic had been spent in a previous "encounter".

So the bard ordered another "Waterdeep Special", and asked that he keep them coming, as he hated his life. Squeakily, this dame down the bar asked him why he was covered in half-farspawn, flaming leeches.

"Obviously, I'm so irresistibly attractive that everyone just wants to stay reeeeal close... WHAT!?! Leeches??!!"

he exclaimed, thrashing and rolling on the floor like a spastic gnome hopped up on really bad prescription-strength horse tranquilisers chased by a bolus injection concocted by shady mercane pharmacists.

"Wow, good nyborg. What's nyborg," inquired an onlooker as the d.j. started to spin a beat suitable to the thrashings of the abyssal half fiends that had infiltrated the dancefloor and had begun to tango.

The dancefiends' tango style was reminiscent of a swine in a muddy cabbage field - smelly, snorting, and squealing a dissonant rendition of the familiar tune girl from ipenema by Getz, imaginatively interpreted through the use of kazoos and ukeleles. The beleeched fairy prince's plight was ignored by the patrons of the unholy dancefloor. "Nice beatmatching", snarled a tangoing abomination, as he did The Cloaker. Sexily, a scarlet-robed illithid slid across to him, eyeing his bulging backpack. "Got some loot, handsome? Cuz brains aren't the only things that floats my boat", the illithid whispered into his hypothalamus, as his barbed tongue made its ear canal twitch.

The creature stopped tangoing immediately as its dance partner consumed its brain, and began its plot to murder the sun somehow. Now, in the far away land ruled by Orcus' minions, the chill autumn air portended a worsening of its endless winter.

Something wicked awoke from hibernation, with puppy dog eyes and the head of a wet cow, stalking the Abyss for it hungered...it hungered for Twinkies, the unholiest food ever.

Broccoli and green leafy vegetables (Damn you Heathy... I had just edited. Now edited back) should not rise and walk, as they are the harbingers of the vegan world order 1,000 points of light ranch, and should be stir-fried and then just thrown away, as if they wouldn't be missed by those who appreciate the sound of broccoli men screaming.

This enraged the imperial myconid who is known for vengeful bouts of stem-hurling. But he was having hallucinations from eating hunks of his Uncle Shroomy.

The myconids' broccoli deities demanded tribute in the form of a shrubbery; not just any shrubbery, but of different heights, shapes and tastes - they preferred short and succulent to long, much like dwarves usually prefer.

Thus, the myconids needed to quest for the shrubbery of the gods to atone for pouring boiling cheese on broccoli-men, thus blaspheming the sacred rites of the fungus god, Shroominomites.

So the five mushroom paladins and their cohort, Shifty McBackstab, the Hamburglar's psychotic half-cousin from the Everchanging Chaos of Limbo, got this party started. "Quickly", commanded a mailed myconid, "load the cases of Baatezu wine into my gullet." "At once!", replied his compatriot. "It's much more satisfying than Gnomish vermouth." Not pausing to uncork the beverages, the mushroom champion gobbled bottles and potables and fingers and jugs and barrels of womens' skincare ointments: aloe, lanolin, epsom salts, and motor oil.

"Because constructs need love too." The vile ingredients reached critical mass when the mushroom-man chugged poprocks and started hyperventilating. Then, his girth expanded with alarming grace and he began to exhibit signs of critical mass; the molecular structures of nearby broccoli men began to lose its coherence, transforming them into broccoli cheese soup oozes, slithering together into a mound of foulness so vile that even Alice Cooper thought it was unsuitable for the public eye.

Broccoli lovers around the world were strangely aroused as the aroma of steamed vegetables wafted up from the dead and made them salivate profusely. The stems went rigid, and the sap erupted into flames as a celestial cheese sauce poured forth from the innards of the inflated myconid. "Rapture! My cheese sauce is finally ready to boil my foes' flesh! And for dessert, we'll have their spinal marrow, which will go well with little tarts and lemon tea with milk." This was all too much for their retainer. "I hate to think, that just a minute ago, you were completely in one piece, and now your sides are bursting with spleen pirahnas, eating their way towards daylight, so they can catch some rays, get tan, look cool in their Speedos, and eat a cow. Then, he gobbled up the myconid and began to see things as they really were. It became evident that bugs were the messengers of the gods from outer space, like Hastur, and that Cher was the lady on the back of the whale that swims the ethereal skies looking for young pigeons to mutate into fiendish abominations to do her hair. The stars were aligned perfectly for the retainer that day, for at this very moment, a shrubbery artfully camoflaged to look like Jameson Parker or Parker Stevenson was skulking up to attack the questing myconid crusaders with a Ouija board, and a somewhat squishy grapefruit it found, a bad Monty Python sketch and a lethally boring anecdote about siezing the bull by the horns or something like a debate between Jim Belushi and Herve Villachez about women's rights, while snorting angel dust.

This so confused the myconid paladins that they reverted to dancing in a circle like unusually demented vegetative Morris dancers who drank prune juice and wrote haiku poems about the plight of poor Britney Spears and her rancid cooking techniques.

The myconids, totally spastic by any standards already, then began suddenly spewing spiraling scintillating spores as they sought to call the Godzilla Mushroom Battleforce Ultra to annihilate their foes. However, GMBU was not receiving sporecalls at the High Hall of Mushroom Might.

He was on a date with a foxy ogress at a swank sushi bar in Sigil, the City of Portals, when a Yugoloth named Pubert burst through the door and excitedly started shouting, "everybody get a droid and let's linedance!"

People look at him crazy.

"You mean a druid, right?",, said a snarky, clever, and generally disagreeable berk, before the sensate babe in the corner seized him by the hair and consumed his brain like so much pasta salad. "Shplort." She was a day tripper.

This whole scenario proved too much for the drunk Nalfeshnee by the pooltable, who proceeded to bite the eight ball before breaking into a frenzy and tossing cuesticks like darts.

Skewered and bleeding bystanders scattered like Paris Hilton's entourage at a library, leaving only a faint aroma of skanky perfume and a sense of unease from the waist down. Meanwhile, the aforementioned ogre babe had trouble opening her car door and had to pry it away from the grasping hands of her reluctant kobold boyfriend.

When she finally emerged, the anguished kobold lothario was wailing like a sissypants. Ogrebabe pushed him in the back seat and fastened his baby-seat belt, opening his Spongebob fruitsnack package and jabbed his throat with a crescent kick. Then she fed from the spurting blood out of his left nostril just to clean him up proper. The snarky kobold, however, was not as helpless as the skanky ogress was led to suspect; unfortunately for him, his powers were useless against her massive, taut iron thews and nattily pointy moustache. Overmatched, the kobold attempted to flee, but the seatbelt was too comforting, in a kinky sort, to abandon. Glumly chewing fruit, the kobold did accept his bosomy fate. "Great scott!", he mused, "I may have to take a dump some time, ; all that Mexican food is really sticking to my innards, and reacting badly to juicy grells I've been eating." He felt like a volcano of asstounding size was about to spew brimstone and burning ash and magma, and noxious toxic gases and an army of fire elementals and salamanders, and fire weasels, and flamingos, and swarms of fire mephits.

Preparation H was no help, nor was Pepto. "Gurgle gurgle", hot pink lava made a hissing sound as it spewed from the crack in the red dragon egg he had eaten for breakfast and through the sphincter of his navel, burning the car seat, seat belt, and left door, thus opening a gaping hole to the underworld of Sigil, into which he stealthily fell face-first. "My nose!"

he cried as blood spurted from his now-truncated proboscis. "I nging I moke ngy ngoth, " he gurgled, before he drowned in the Pool of Inextortable saliva. The ogress mourned the end of Britney Spear's marriage more than her kobold lover's pitiful demise - after all, he did steal all her money to buy D&D minis and rare Magic: The Gathering cards and borrowed her shoes without putting them back afterwards. Happily, the ogress was killed by the annoyed GMBU for being a fat git without manners.

Her body was found amongst the castoff refuse of 1,000 non-sequiturs. "How metaphorical", the penguin in the gaudy vibrantly multicolored dress and cheesehead hat said, staring at the slowly putrefying salad Rosie O'Donnell never ate.

"This sure makes you think long, and hard, I might add, about starving dungbeetles in the endless frozen wastes of Montgomery Ward stores nationwide. We penguins have the unfortunate habit of tangential rambling whilst vulgarly exposing their scaly feet to the mouths of leopard seals."

It then waddled off to contemplate the nature of cheese, something it did often when it badly needed to fart. Later, and by later we mean before, the penguin had binged on all you can eat stenchkow dairy products buffet, sponsored by Taco Bell Restaurants. He had been especially fascinated by the troll jerky, which regenerated 2d4 h.p. per round. Average penguins can consume 15 pounds of edibles in a single sitting, but this gluttonous little Grazz't gets all the ladies AND Kostchchie, and his sister.

Now, where did he go? Ask Iggwilv, maybe she knows.

However, as sages know, it really depends on one thing: the alignment of the stars and whether St. Cuthbert had a boner at the time.

O' the cudgel--I see that Cuthbert's mighty armament has lost some of its luster without the invention of Viagra For Weapons - it bolsters the stamina, you know. St. Cuthbert's not scared of Rosie O'donnell, but his mighty loins quiver at the mention of oozes.

Thus, his fathful believe extermination of the gelatinous cubes of Rubix, which is south of Cubix, and just a little north of Jubilex County, where the Hulk first turned green, should be all the rage.

Cuthbertites' primary church-sanctioned extermination technique for oozes, vermin, aberrations, and people who talk during movies who have no business talkin' during movies (am I right?), or any other fragging time.

is to douse them with a jug of moonshine from the Font of Abundantly Plentiful Corn Squeezin's, a pint of low-grade roadside lemonade and a Fharlanghn's drunk with Oliddamara again

Vattnisse wrote:
low-grade roadside lemonade and a

partidge in a pear tree.

Unfortunately, there were no oozes for the children this year, because Gene Simmons had slurped 150,000 of them backstage during his latest ungol dust binge.

So Ace Frehley, when he sought an oozy creature for squiggly copulation, thought to himself, "even by my standards, this is just some natty loafishness.

I make myself sick." So Solomon Grundy, born on Sunday, said, "sure, Ace, whatever", and whacked him with a shovel when he turned away. Dazed, and confused in bat country Ace said, "woah, where's my drummer, Anton Fig? He backed outta the gig at the Palladium and flew off in search of Leonard Nimoy, who ....wait...am I talkin' aloud?!?!?!"

Ace was missing a few Budweisers. He noticed this fact but then promptly went catatonic and 'spaced' for three hours while aliens probed him to determine whether it is true that K.I.S.S. really stands for Kyuss Is Super Sexy. "Ew", said some random valley girl, (good one btw) "that is, wow, like, totally grody, okah. Like Kyuss, is totally like 30 years old and, like, can't be critted." Ace contributed to her delinquency, by buying her a canary -shaped decanter of amaretto and rotting flesh, which she placed delicately between her legs, where even obyriths fear to tread.

But not Gene Simmons. He is therefore not an obyrith.

After he got arrested for molesting a dead otyugh, he inserted his malleable tongue into his cellmate, Adimarchus. "Nice weather", he said to the Titan next door. "It's raining blood.", responded the leprechaun in cell five. But then the troglodyte roommate of the leprechaun, who was locked up for killing himself five times, just sneered.

This all confused Obox-Ob terribly.

Then Lolth said to me "It's raining drow - halleluiah!" which was the opening sentence of The holy book of kobolds that they keep in their safe deposit boxes because they was always getting ripped off by ethereal felchers. Or filchers.

Or ethereal filchers even. So I'm now confused. What is ethereal filchers got to do with Nikko McBrain anyway? And where in the world is Godzilla? Somebody punch the alarm! Megalon is attacking. MechaBarbaraStreisand is terrorizing puppies and pinching babies so somebody call Robert Smith already. "Man, I want pneumatic drills in all my fingers like that guy." Unfortunately, ten Oozing Demigods were already in place on the gaming grid.

On the NINTH day of Christmas my true love gave to me, Nine nilbogs norking, eight Age of Worms a-aging, Seven Sphinxes sphinctering, Six Sorcerers slutting, Five Golden Wyrms, four calling vrocks, three French Maids, Two dragon turtles, and a demon lord that's only CR3.

Dashing through the snow, in hopes of Christmas slay, o'er the barrows we go, cackling all the way! ... I'm dreaming of a White Spawn Christmas at a Half Elf's in-laws Frosty the Snowman, is a very evil being plotting his takeover, with a corn cob mace and a wand of frost and two eyes made out of ioun stones. "This is LUDICROUS!" shouted Ludacris, as his corncob grill fell out You know Prancer and Shadowdancer and Dascher and Nixon, Frehley's (that is, I P Frehley) Comet and Stupid, and Dander but do you recall that most heinous reindeer of all-- Demogorgon, the two-headed demon reindeer, had two very shiny noses, to better sniff out the bad children, who Santa Claus then infests with mummy rot whilst laughing, "ho ho ho," as their noses fell off and up the chimney he flung their decapitated heads, before the cops showed up with scrolls of curative magic and staple guns, to aid reattachment a la Piffany from Nodwick.

But then, Malburria, Lord of uncomfortable shoes, decreed "Ye people of Earth, be not flabbergasted; Klaatu Niketo Barada Reebok Adidas shall henceforth be the chant that you will shower too! For you all offend my olfactory sensibilities, as well as just look funky, you stinky hyena-headed freak. Also, yo' mama's so fat, when she withdraws, a swarm of titans can park their double-wide trailer homes in a really unfunny punchline.

So big mamma, as she waddled through some threatened area, was peppered with ballista bolts and halfling skiprocks, since the idea was to kill her and make it look like the Sex Pistols did it.

But they screwed up and Johnny Rotten had an alibi; he had already died from a broken heart because Siouxsie Sioux was SO over him, having met an intriguing accordionist who had 57 fingers and almost as many toes. But what truly endeared him to the punk rock princess was his accordion cover of the classic Iron Butterfly psychedelic opus standing on his head. Sid Vicious had once sung the "I'm a little teapot" song but now he couldn't remember whether ammonia COULD mix with LSD without causing bowel disruption in a devastatingly projectile manner.

He had to know, so he tested it on Christina Aguilera who tripped and fell on some conveniently scattered d4s. "Ouch", wailed the diva wannabe, "I detest Britney Spears; she's a talentless sleaze with delusions of being as cool as Christina!"

Naming herself in third person, which she picked up from her idol, Bob Dole, had previously failed to create respectability much like anything else she attempted, but she thought it could possibly work this time; or she could go get her name tattooed on her forehead with a staple gun.

Eighty staples later, she collapsed only to be revived by Alan Alda, who had jumped out of a clown car to inform her she'd misspelled "pachyderm", and would therefore be banned from the elephant picnic and its associated festival of the great stomping of the grapes. This led to a marked improvement in the quality of people that historically fart while head-stapled at pachyderm picnics as the elephants stamp on their children and make them cry out in pain and amazement at the awesomeness of the elephants' pedicured feet. Inscrutibly, Klinger appeared, all dressed in skintight studded black leather, carrying a sequined bag of holding containing the Wand of Orcus and some chocolate petit fours.

Alan Alda freaked out and took a hot shower, scalding his eyeballs. He yelped and Hot Lips Hoolihan came running only to clumsily fall on a CR 86 gaebolga trap, pink mist blooming in the Fisher Price Sea Monkey Torturquarium (Tiny Torturer™ implements sold separately) and Frank Burns put on strips of BJ Honeycutt's skin to do his Xipe dance to impress Traci Lords's mama.

Hot Lips wasn't so impressed with the dance, and said "I've seen better moves on The Lawrence Welk Show; those Billy Idol's Polka Jam players make your moves look like drunken tapirs playing chess." Frank Fazetta's paintings of these scenes, blurred the line between reality and fanciful fiction, as they portrayed Lovecraftian horrors and nightmarish visages of psycho ex-girlfriends screaming "why don't you still call" me? Don't you love me?" The Florida Gators are #1.

Heathansson wrote:
"The Florida Gators are #1,"

said the mentally defective werewolf, "fried angel wings are tasty." Then he ate the painting.

Meanwhile, in other news, Gandalf recently chose to change careers to be a lumberjack in the wilds of New Jersey and chop down lots of ents, whom he'd secretly detested because they made fun of his choice of Hydrox cookies and his use of Depends not to mention what really galled him the most, the smug, snotty, bratty, beligerant way in which ents boast about the immense size of their beards. "Their chatter is naught but the singsong of chainsaws attached to the right arm Of Peregrine Took, played by Andre the Giant. The chainsaw-wielding hobbit snorted live fire ants using a mithril straw, then poured tabasco sause up his nostrils while performing a headstand.

Finally, he drank Doctor Pepper again, through his nostrils, and declared, "I'M THE LIZARD KING!!!"

Then, this crazy dude, named Bob Brains-in-a-Jar, the Bodiless Hobo asked them for some change to buy a Mr. Goodbar from Ms. Badpudding from East Greyhawk City, home of the priesthood of chocolate and peanuts with a chaotic snarky alignment.

Ms. Badpudding's powers came from Xeg-yi and Xag-yi Reese's Peanutbutter Chocolate Crisp Ritual of Exalted Pancakes with nifty toppings from St. Cuthbert's own pantry. This earned Ms. Badpudding a big black eye from dieticians who back their suggestions with threats of Devil Doom Evil and personalized diets of wheat germ and brussel sprout flavoured tofu with plain yogurt for dessert.

Unsurprisingly, Ms. Badpudding struck back with barbequed ribs, french fries, and a rollingpin. She pummeled the Wee Jas outta that celery-eating dietician - in fact, the vapid ulutations aside, Ms. Badpudding cooked the dietician into a pie, along with some kenkus, vegepygmies, pureblood yuan-tis and yakfolk and a one-eyed, one-horned flying miniature triceratops, which Ms. Badpudding was saving for Thanksgiving, but the resulting pie would probably please certain pie munchers in the city of New Orleans.

Ms. Badpudding's evil sister, Glenda Badpudding, lacked the traditional goatee of the Ogreton Badpudding women, and was thus unsuccessful at facial grooming, since her bald chin stuck out like a 20-year-old at a Who concert wearing a business suit. So she glued some dog fur to a hotdog bun and wore it as a mask -deterring Heathansson, Wee Jas blasphemer extraordinare and grell-liver paté connoisseur, from ever eating hotdogs again.

Meanwhile, in another dimension, Tetsuo, which is Dwarven for "tofu", an essential component used in casting Mordenkainen's Noxious Souflee, was not merely a character from a series of children's books but a living, breathing, farting derro minion of Orcus--named Justin Timberlake, his high squeaky voice dealing 20d6 sonic damage.

In some parts of the countryside, glass shattered and spleens ruptured as Justin walks again.

"Now THAT'S evil.", quipped Orcus.

Cameron nodded in agreement, as additional piercing squeals emanated from Nibbles, Orcus' favorite pet ghoul, who'd just swallowed the squeaky toy given him for Obox-obmas.

Then, Santa Thabnurc'nurc'uloth said, "Ho ho HOBMOBMACHBWAHAHAHA (*reverb*) everyone", as the clock struck midnight. Children put out flesh cookies and curdled milk to attract the jolly ooze templated ogre to eat, so that he wouldn't search the house for more cats. Once, there were millions of kobolds, enough for him to stick on spikes for decorating his colossal Obox-obmas tree in the old pagan way, hanging entrails off the gutters, pinning half-dead kobolds to the heads of naughty children, and calling 900 numbers on His Evil Abyssal Cell Phone of Ineffable Doom. "What's that schlorping up the chimney," asked the severed animated kobold head on top of the tree.

"Is it the Joyous Ooze Lord Juiblex and his dancing liver, a highly accomplished organ filled with egg nog?" Sadly, it was only Malconthet with Rudolph the red nosed dretch scrounging for leftover gingerbread men in the ruins of the nuclear blast at Santa's workshop at the Abyssal North Pole.

However, the gingerzombies were not scared of the dretch at their feet. "Man, it's wee.", said Ginger Grant, the first gingerzombie to confront the sniveling dretch as it screeched, horrified at Ginger's poor word use.

Ginger Rogers, who was stepping out of a gilded coffin, raised one eldritch finger and lubricated it, proceeding to slide it into the trembling dretche's moist and demonic yet fruity, in a tainted sort of way, left ear with great force: Bigby's Wet Willy cast defensively. Gross as it was, it actually cleaned out the sinuses, and allowed for easier casting of arcane (but not divine) spells of a nasal and annoying nature, which caused unrest among the kleenex golems of the Icewind Dale municipal water management district, whose job was to regulate the flow of both water and water-resemblant Wonder Twins, who were known for their defiance of conventional physics, but not comicbook stuff; between you and me, they were very idiotic and should be dwelled on any further.

Meanwhile, in the sewers of his mind, JoBob the Creepy contemplated ways in which he could explain the Champions rules to those who lacked the ability to understand "the chant".

This exercise in futility was made even more difficult by the obscure nature of his affliction, which caused him to Bob his head to and forth, upsetting the delicate equilibrium of the multiverse. Sea Monkeys, as divine beings of great salty flavor, are good for adding chewy crunch to most otherworldly made toasted snacks bought anywhere this side of the Mississippi river, where the women are men and the men are constantly conflicted about it.

As the cool wintry blow -fish returns to its hatching grounds in the canals of Demogorgon's realm, most other creatures get the hell outta the Lower Planes to spend the winter vacation amongst the skiing people, but not this goofy fish. I, Jacques-Yves Cousteau, must brave the fiery River Styx with my friend, Monseur Roboteau, in an attempt to discern what? I forgot what I intended to plan to think! The Underwater Crusader Earth Fightingforce, a group formed to oppose The Frightful Legion of Coelocanths and their insidious plan to bring back sea scorpions, plesiosaurs, and sponges, assembled in the deepest darkest depths of the merry stream that ran through the moist depths of Orcus' frigid nether realm, where dark spirits and other unnatural beings wipe out klingons. Orcus, when learning of the klingons' fate, screamed loudly and dramatically, "COOOOOOOOOOOOOOOONNNNNNNNNN!!!"

and then resumed weeding his abyssal cilantro garden. It was filled with all kinds of myconid bounty hunters, courtesy of Shrooms 'r' Us, where a mouldy piñata cost 91 cents.

The cash-strapped myconids furtively snuck behind the assistant manager to sell bootleg Star Wars booster packs, when -- SHPLORT -- a spoiled burrito landed right on A. Red Mc Smiley's left ettin head, thus almost ruining the game by using seven words instead of five. Oops! The stupid dookey-headed ettin was primed and ready for launch.

When the ignition lit, the giant's two heads were too large, causing the space shuttle to spiral out of control and into that Farscape show.

"Great balls of `splode!", cried Twiki to Muffit the daggit as the shuttle careened into Captain Adama's Winnebago Ship: "The bastards have a Lite Brite!"

The resulting explosion caused a tear in reality's fabric, as the cosmic sewing machine was sabotaged by intergalactic anarchist githyanki who don't give a damn about cuts or fabrics. Instead, they want entropy by the old-school way of blowing up the big baloon that is anchored in the Abyss' lowest level hidden under Prince Orcus' purple motorcycle. Dig if you want to find Jimmy Hoffa.

These days, Jimmy is sorta hard to understand, with his decayed vocal cords, and poor undead brain functions. His subtype has become difficult to determine: part rotted corpse and part aberration with sixteen templates. Dang, it was the multi-headed, oozy fiendish celestial deathtouched half-illithid umbral aquatic, urban, titanic, legendary, desert,, half-troll, insectile, feral and mummified half dragon; whose name was Irr, and he came to meet girls on the Prime Material Plane with his buddy "Mister Monkey", a trained chimpanzee who had the ability to lay golden eggs. Curious, George seized the egg-laying chimp and took him to the Ministry of Truth to determine how the eggs were gilded when they emerged; could it be that the creature had glands of Midas touch fiendishly grafted by a succubus plastic surgeon with hands of gold and a winning smile, who also sold phony flood insurance, or tried to convince Dagon that floods were a serious problem.

By the way, Dagon has totally never even cared about that whole flood thing, or insurance of any kind because he switched to Geico, and was buddies with that lizard and when the cavemen ate his lizard pal, Dagon became slightly miffed, and proceded to dismember him for weird science class for demons. "Observe, class, as I pour seasalt and gunpowder

drunken_nomad wrote:
I pour seasalt and gunpowder

Into this handy dandy new arquebus that fires hellfire and pingpong balls in a cone 600' long. Also, it's made to burn the fur off of curious marsupials who get too close to his daughter so they can kidnap her and trade her for pogs.

Once the marsupials were dead Thoth Amon began the ritual to, I don't know, make a tasty club sandwich, with morningstars, relish, pickles, mustard and elm sap. "Dam Sandwiches", as wizened troglodyte loremasters call them, due to their tendency to clog the lower intestine, thus it's strongly advised you keep your hands INSIDE the car so you can still take part in the driving antics in the ensuing wet explosions.

With this sandwich, however, he could taste the wriggling, spicy, jalapeno Kyuss worms, as they spasm and twitch in the buttery goodness of Smucker's new grapes of wrath greenslime jelly (now with added sodium!). Orcus filled his face with fatty leftovers from the Superbowl party at Graz'zt's. Graz'zt was happy with the hors d'oeuvres he laced with arsenic just before the goat-headed boor arrived with three hamsters and a grimalkin.

Imagine Graz'zt's surprise when the succubus popped out of the tray, six chocolate covered gerbils! "What the f@#k?" exclaimed Graz'zt as he began to weep acidic tears that burned his body, which had acid resistance.

The Demon Prince then decided to be peaceful, and friendly and only devour souls on heavy medication for psychotic episodes of binge-eating and crazed debauchery, but he would no doubt renege on this, because, let's face it, he's a reneger from way back who really shouldn't be trusted with anything. He's a frigging archdemon.

Graz'zt decided to be friendly towards all his lemure "children", and bought them each a brand spankin' new subscription to Better Homes and Gardens so their abyssal azaleas would thrive without the required amount of time or care; instead, they simply turned souls into fertilizer.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, strangely wholesome things were afoot: Eladrins and virgins were gallavanting around with the Backstreet Boys in a Mousketeer envisioned fantasy in light pastels and soothing imagery, with ballerina hippos, dancing with elephants and ostriches in senses shattering Technicolor with music provided by Austrian waltz orchestras as, all the while, the diabolical forces were plotting the Return to Bald Mountain the musical - the evil alternative to Disney's usual Rated G offerings ; this song-and-dance adventure would feature musical numbers a la Bollywood, Glen Danzig as the leading pit fiend, Gilbert Goddfried as a sexy incubus, and, evillest Marilyn Manson as Marylin Monroe.

"Now that's evil", smirked the pocky bastich called Crappy Smurf as he de-linted his bellybutton, farting and burping at the other talent judges. "Seriously, it never ceases to amaze "brapp" me how AMAZINGLY AWESOME the "brapp" acoustics are in "brapp" the attic of my "brapp" Granny "brapp" Smurf's Mushroom "braaa-aaaa-aaaap" and Fungi Emporium. Aaaah, that cabonated catoblepas brain juice was "urrp" smurfalicious both times I tasted it, on the way down "urrp" and up "braaap" -and, it shall be just as good when it comes back down again, and up and... HEY! Put down those kidney beans, you cheeky monkey! ". However, it was too late; Irving stole the letterjacket and Michael Richards had commenced his rant against the tanar'ric "wingbacks".

It was an Unsmurfy day in the squelchy kingdom of the Mud People from Yuggoth for they had run out of body lotion to keep from getting moon burned. For the fungi formerly known as "Fun Gus," it was long past dinner time. "What luck", said Mr. Wigglecorkscrew the pig, "once again I avoided the Big Bad Wolf by paying Red Riding Hood to keep tempting him with pic-a-nic baskets so that I can be left uneaten and unpooped. Huzzah." The crafty pig had learned algebra to a ninth-grade level because he was not a pig meant for the spit.

He was a countin' pig, born and bred. Calculus was more dear to his heart than that old time rock-n-roll.

He could count upside down, inside out and, most incredibly, on his fingers, which he had grafted onto his trotters by good old Dr Giggles, fleshwarper, scholar and all-around raconteur.

His fingers were useless for becoming a flautist, pianist, or court stenographer, but he used a temp agency to take his bar exam. "Your Honor", said the pig substitute, "obviously you could use a drink, so I'll be brief. I am your father." With that, the judge declared the pig Best Dad in the World.

However, evil lawyers immediately objected on grounds of possible shenanigans and were overruled by Poppa Povich, a noted paternity expert.

"Objection," cried the Honorable Mr.

Cochran. "If Chewbacca lives on cheeseburgers and cherrycoke, then my new weight loss program will undoubtedly cause him to vomit as he attempts to run up my credit card bills and make himself pretty." "Sustained", the judged hollared drunkenly, "I wanna boogie! I wanna boogie! Millenium hand and shrimp! Buggrit." Without warning, the judge then threw a book at him which exploded in a ball like a madman's pinata feverdream caught in a fiery blender.

"Spin, damn you frollicksome Pinata, and give daddy some CAN-day!!!"

said the strangely purple smurf: he had already drunk four wimpy celestials under the table and peed on their halos.

However, a dark-garbed stranger challenged the inebriated smurf to a thumb-wrestling contest, confident in his druid-like green thumb class ability, which enabled him to channel the spirit of Courtney Love and espirit of courtly love to bring pwnage upon the dead and the living alike.

The event was televised. ESPN8 and on Nickelodeon; why I didn't watch was because it clashed with 'Neighbours'. All I watch is "neighbors." Nothing else will do. Please help me I'm stuck in a hole, surrounded at all sides by a buncha brits screaming 'bout the evils of d&d gaming and Paranoia and Traveler, as the most wicked of them according to Jack Chick, who possesses great insight into depravity if only imagined and fictionalized, by his scitzo other self, known simply as "The Chick".

The emailies attacked en masse.

However, the bronze-armoured Spammic cataphracts with their cat-o-nine-tails and catapults surrenderd before the molemen(folk?) could dig under their defences and exploit the Spammic forces' weakness: preservative baths. The ironclad tanks ' armour rapidly degraded when exposed be too much for him; So they used foamrubber pads to clean the oven quickly, to bake Spamorific Spammic pizza-pies.

The tomatomen, the beetboys, the weak and oppressed revolted to all beef patties special sauce on a sesame street bun; which they loaded into the hillbillies' truck and moved to Alabamana. They then set up a greasy spoon establishment, offering the states first and finest all-you-can-eat gourmet catfood buffet, which is fine fare in Alabamana.

The Celery Cabal sent their fiercest assassin stalks to bring back the head of Lettuce Man as punishment for his attempt to imcabbagate the Cabbage Woman, an affront to her honour as well as her Cabbagehoodly nobility. KREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEOOOOOOOOOOOOOOWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWNNNNNNNNNNNNK went the celery assassins' deadly crossbow bolts clipping one badly placed leaf as the nimble Lettuceman acrobatically mixed Bloody Marys to counter the poison from the crossbow bolt. "Thassssh a good annnidote", and fell into a salad shooter. The ensuing cole slaw had the "cole" subtype due the arcane device's slicing, dicing, and mincing of everything in sight, including words, which it mangled worse than George Bush on a dire cocaine bender.

Meanwhile, at the Soup Bar, Dick Cheney was helping himself to a heapin' helpin' of Peruvian nose candy, which helped his reaction times to pop-up geezers coming outta the underbrush with bass guitars and crosses that are not entirely buckshot-proof.

His grandaddy, Lon Chaney, done beat his big eared head `til thar weren't nothin' but a lump of meatloaf and a big glob of evil.

"Give me my Loknar," exclaimed Walter Mondale in a high-pitched girlish squeal, "or I'll tell Jimmy Carter on you. Give Hanover Fist 36,000 zulacks, Captain caveman and the teen angels McGilla Gorilla, Thundarr, Ookla, Princess Toadstool, and make it snappy!"

Then Mondale, feeling his oats, got his presidentin' lasso and decided to punch a dogey, if you know what I want for my birthday, then you'll get me that antfarm! HA HA! SONIC THE HEDGEHOG! Anyway, the moral of this evil, evil infomercial is that anything applied directly on the computer screen has the risk of transmitting the strange condition known as creeping porphyric lurgy fungal chronic antisemoplanioplastigraphtomanicitis ...on fire.

"That sounds terrible", said a sufferer of advanced mummy rot who noted the irony of the clear complection they recieved as a result of the black bile Clearasil ointment from Dagon's loins. In many ways, the bilewretch of Britney is going to shave the heads of rabid monkeys as part of the Ritual of Moist of a sacred initiation. The K-Feds of the world will scurry and hide like rats when their music careers flop like a fish on asphalt under a purple sun. Doom and humiliation will stalk these floppy-fished alleyways, and the spleen of Britney's bald faced wrath needs to be removed. amputations became necessary, lest the whole world be blinded by the light wrapped up like a mummy in a festish shop.

Speaking of fetish shops, Payless had voodoo dolls on sale for seventy nine souls apiece - a bargain, considering how much souls usually go for around American shopping malls. This deal was for shallow souls only, and Paris and Nicole were were the first to get in line behind britiny spears to buy a nightvision camera knowing full well that they needed to document their soullessness it sells on the internet for only four payments of "shame and disgrace" when found please return to Bill Clinton, for close inspection for internship Void where prohibited. Speaking of Richard Marx, did anybody see her shave his back on Hannity & Colmes last night? It was all a left-wing conspiracy to create a man-o-lantern out of the already dessicated Strom Thurmond, to control the raging hordes of blood sucking lobbyists who even now plan the glorious demise of the once great and now not great person of renown, the one known as CAAAAPTAIN CAAAAAAaaaAAAVEMAAAAAN!!! However, the Cavemeister was too engrossed in playing Diablo II to pay any attention to the invisible robot sneaking up behind him planning a wedgie with a +6 to entangle and immobilise the flat-footed unsuspecting fruit-of-the-loom-wearing victim. This unseemly ploy could have only been orchastrated by Cardinal Richileau, that righteous leader of celestial and fake sects alike - he is not Morey Amsterdam or a sandwich, nor is he a mutated office drone--he is THE ONE AND ONLY ALL KNOWING cross-dressing bedwetter in all of the nine known hells. Even though he wears a diaper, soiled, and a hat, pointy, to go with his robes, velvet, he has occasionally been known to do the Hustle while simultaniously insulting all on the paizo swim team. Jerry opened the pantry, only to discover that the Hustle was coming back to haunt the disco bandits known as the Frito Banditos! "DO THE HUSTLE", demanded Orcus.

NO! shouted a disco bandit, "I'm in the Rick Dees section -- I don't have to waddle my Disco Duck darier ". Orcus created a disco-zombie from the offspring of a gargantuan Stay-Puft marshmallow man and a miniature fire elemental. Regarding his lack of chocolate and grahamcrackers Orcus made the best of camping on the isle o'dread by roasting a few natives and serving them with pineapples, baby carrots, and a nice herb and butter sauce. Whenever Bobby the Flayer shows up we'll put the casserole in so he can suck the brains of Strom Wakeman and his mutant lemur henchmen: Jimmy the Obese. In a previous life, Jimmy had been known as Jimmy the Weedy; however, after after the surgery, "SHE" now goes by Mary Jane. Her paizo avatar is shared by none other than Kate Beckinsale d&d's pinup girl. Lost treasures of that most ancient and mysterious order are now eagerly hunted down and collected by Jimmy the Weed and Johnny the Whack, two brothers capable of reciting Oklahoma! in its entirety from memory. Also, choreographers from Tarrasque: The Musical decided to thrash their heavy metal upon the vulnerable ears of young i-pod cultists everywhere with licks most unholy and most unlistenable.

When the Tarrasque found out he rose from Halong Bay and in a furious display of circular logic and doubletalk that would make Zagyg cry like a sissy celestial, all like, "UHHHBLUHBLUHBUH I'M ZAGYG, I'M CRAAAAAAZY LIKE THAT; I'LL SLAP THIS KOBOLD JUST TO SHOW HOW WACKY I AM." Noodly pastafarian deities snickered derisively at their pirate clad minons of "dread pirate pimp daddy morgan".

The terrasque then slapped Cher, for daring to criticize Sonny.

"Dude", roared the Tarrasque, "Sonny's the bomb. What the hell." Cher broke down in tears and wished the Terrasque dead, misspelled name and all. "Drek!"

shouted the 2nd edition metahuman "Cher killed some dude named Adam Sandler. I think he must have done something really confusing and redundant, like shaving hardcore funny like playing "Running on Empty" to the tune of duplicate entries created without making any sense at all.

Meanwhile, at the Devo Ranch, they were whippin' it up with the Girl U Want who was a coalminer's daughter whoms skills were coveted by dwarves and gnomes alike. Anyone like Kirth Gerson could also.

Lately, however, the dwarves were turnin' this mother out with Boo-oo-oo-ootzilla! and Doctor Funkenstein, tearin' this plane a new one.

These funky dwarves paid 12$ to catch a glimpse of the ankle of the demure yet full-figured Bertha the All-Eclipsing, and her twin sister, Mulva the Unremarkable. Some of the gals, including Doris, and Gina, refused to show off their money-makers on the grounds that funky dwarves shouldn't wear sunglasses at night. Although if paid in sardines, they'd bare all.

After removing the sunglasses, the resulting tan lines looked like stoned anemic racoons and their embarassed blushing made them look like teenagers on prom night.

Of course, since dwarves have rampant unibrow and muttonchop growth, sunglasses often become entangled, and, as dwarf personal grooming usually only happens once in a mating cycle of the blue cheese moon, their overgrown faces weigh their heads down mightily and fuzzily. Moreover, dwarf members of the "hair for men club" actually donate shorn locks to Cousin It, to make him "more beautiful" according to a survey conducted among the members of the Charles Addams Piltdown Man Preservation Society, showed in a Dwarven Monthly article.

Other articles included "Dwarf Tossing: How To Go The Distance" Also, "Gnomes: Cousins or Potential Fire Hazards" won a Pulitzer Prize for best copperplate etching in a comedy or public fruit-hurling event. Best New Spell went to Beard Power, Greater, from the Complete Hippie supplement.

An honorable mention went to the new feat, "mighty bombastic pronouncement", which enables a character to say "tureen of marzapan" without activating their gag reflex.

Finally, best roleplayer went to the rouge rogue, feeling blue and lonely, like that song which gave him a green face to match his smart and elegantly classy dinner jacket of yellow and orange tartan shoulder frills. Snubbed was newcomer Shrimpo the Wonder Plebe, who was simply too glamourous for the audeince, causing much blindness /deafness. "Fort saves all around!", he said with a wicked head twitch. "Cause I'm castin' the big one! Taste some of my powerful Plebean hookiepoo you sanctimonious, abberrant, demonic bastiches." His beard then lit up with righteous, blazing, heavenly fury and lit up those damned half-dragon gnomes that have been the bane of the gardeners everywhere. Eldritch beard flaring, he uttered the baleful incantation: "Unta gleeben glouten globen...p-TANG!" Which caused the Rouge Rogue and his pet mutt, Lang, to collapse as if they had smelled Willie Nelson's sweaty booze and vomit stained hat.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, vice-theocrat Wun Hung Gai was busy reinventing religious dogma. "Hopefully, I'll apotheosize by Monday," he NULL mused, polishing his otherwise unused hardcover copy of Dianetics by L. Ron Hubbard, autographed by Robert Heinlein and sold by Donlad Trump for a hefty billion Deutchmark profit. Carrot Top produced a plumed, seven-headed, prosthetic ...um..., something. "What the hell is that you freak?" asked senor Wentzas with his handmouth in his eareye. "Is it soup yet? I'm hungry," exclaimed Orcus, who'd been nearly forgotten amidst the hubbub of Carrot Wentzas, and Heinlein. Projectile vomiting is not just a hobby it's something Orcus demands in homage to his mother's cooking.

Thus, all the dinner guests lined the dark street where Orcus regularly busked and as one or another started retching, the spewing fountained like water in gutters during a Texas flood; with a slightly greenish tint.

Orcus served up piping-hot tureens of demonettes in a lava sauce with tasty kidney pies (made with real human kidneys) and Joe Pesci said, "figgedabowdit, why are you givin me all dis flippin stuff, ya t'ink I'm gonna eat any of this without tabasco sauce? Orcus, you big flippin' flip! I'm gonna kick you in the family jewels, you ugly little angel want to be I'll put yer flippin' head on a stake in my living room; I'm flippin' crazy!"

"You bore me, midget", replied that filth-covered Lord of Madness: The Mad Monk Grigori Rasputin great great uncle of Colossus; (the one they don't claim) because he's the paintingest mutant As Rasputin got ready to stutter and repeat himself again Joe Pesci drew his handcannon then stepped back to admire the gold filigree on the teeth of Colossus, which shone like a beacon of justice on a dark, stormy night.

Rasputin the Monk broke his proboscis as he nosebutted Danny's steel like sternum and then went mad, flailing about and screaming, "Hellboy, my child, why you gotta spoil my flava?" At this point, breakdancing occurred in the old folks home to the delight of the dancing marvelous magical Wilber Waldo who, until then, had been bored at the retirement home; his dancing feet had atrophied and his coordination sucked, but with prayer to Hastur Hastur Hastur, he overcame his deficiencies and owned the retirement home's dancefloor dancefloor dancefloor. Having done The Hustle, the Disco Duck, the Carrion Crawler and the Waltz, he proceeded to the Otto's Irrestisible Funky Chicken and, finally, pop-locked until his pants fell and pulled a groin muscle.

"Yes! I have muscles!", howled Wilbur, fainting into the beandip.

Which made Melba mumble, "Yea, watch where yer flexin' Herc." Meanwhile, on the other side of the multiverse, adventurers were beating the crap out of anything that moved - currently, it was that f@#%king space hamster and his faithful companion, The Great Gonzo, a gnome bard.

"Eat some greatclub, gnome", yelled Bob the Fighter, as other mooks approached him in a manic mook mania! Bob swung his greatclub but rolled a 1, necessitating a d% roll to see which one of his favorite "Precious Moments" figurines pose he'd have to imitate before falling prone, amusing all the members of Gonzo's band.

Gary Coleman's in the KFC!! KFC is GARY COLEMAN! K-F-C *man, I hate being at the top of the page*, chanted the inbred monks of the flying hubba bubba monastary located in Spokane, Illinois. "Why would the fatbeards invade Missouri without a well-balanced breakfast first? Some pancakes, bacon, and eggs Don't forget the whole milk! called their over-reaching mother, "And put on jackets and gloves!"

Little did the monks know that loaginess, a favored enemy of those who enjoy meditation, had an unpredictable incubation time and did 8d6 secondary Dex damage 2d% years after ingestion.

But after opening a can of out dated Spam, they remembered Orcus on his throne.

The Prince of Undead finally stroked one horn and opened the can of outdated spam saying, "Well, it won't hurt if I repent afterwards, right?" "Famous last words." uttered Obox-ob which did nothing to stop Orcus' demonic undead half-farspawn flatulence.

"Fool", brayed Obox-Ob, "such trifling flatulence is nothing compared to the might of my throbbing wisdom tooth, this thing hurts! The Elder Wickeds' impacted fang had secretly been infused with celestial cavity creeps, who attacked in conjuction with Underpants Gnomes to create a two-front war against that guy from the record store that thought he Kords holy gift to gaming and the Gnome god known as Stunty the Annoying. This strange and twisted individual, can can and will make you do things that don't tickle anyone, but brings him joy.

"I am the evil twisted STUNTY and you will bow down before my awesome diminutiveness at my eye level, you bloody stiltwalking wangtard git-faced taintstick! I command it, and so will it be." After much hemming and hawing and redundancy, and hemming and hawing and some more hemming, and some more redundancy and obfuscation, he went for the "xorn" look which had been so popular eons ago in the Abyss.

Nowadays, however, anybody who's anybody wears an onion on their left hand and a tomato on their sammich 'cause it's the new style, better recognize.

Thus, Stunty, Ferris, and Orcus the Beastie Boys templated trio, buffed up for their encounter with enchanted codpieces, and scrolls of Bigby's Insulting Finger, Mordenkaien's Gaseous Hound and Otto's Irresponsible Dunce. So prepared, they ventured forth into the greatest adventure to ever play on Oxygen - yes, it is that good! "Did I just miss something?", cried Oprah, who feared demons had just invaded her studios.

So she gave them free '70 AMCGremlins and told them to read Parenting with Fire.

Thus equipped, the demons went to listen to their 8-tracks specifically The Fifth Dimension, Cream, Kool 'n the Gang, The Who, Black Sabbath, and Prince.

But only the Xanadu soundtrack resonated with Tom Cruise’s fury as the infernal 8-track device chewed mercilessly on the precious Bay City Rollers' "Saturday Night." Stifling a yawn, he erupted like a wildeyed freakmongering yakman stuffed uncomfortably into the caldera of the bunjeejumpers' echoing lament.

At which point the aforementioned 8-track player finally and utterly metamorphosized into a Spawn of Kyuss, lord of bass guitar, comedienne, and denture wearer. Worms crawled in and worms crawled through Kyuss' intruments as they tried to make it sourkraut while Tabbykins the fiddle-playing kitty screamed in rage at the wicked echidna who scissorlocked his spiny little legs around the Kitty's head, thus causing much hairball expulsion and strange noises.

The kitty put away fiddle and drew bastard sword. "Now, pray for mercy from Puss Iiiinnnn Booooooots! *reverb* Fear my keen blade and sharp wit mreeow! I will dice thee, thou vile and villainous villain! The wicked echidna summoned marsupial looked as a purple roper with cowboy boots on his fiendish basilisk steed, looked through his unoculars at a coyote "well that's something you don't...

see every day- coyote wearing a fur coat! And it's summer fer cryin' out loud!!!"

YO HO, YO HO, A bottle a Brass Monkey! And thet's one funky monkey, funky! The roper rode of into the sunset with its furry campanion and its loyal sidekick.

At least that's the story they want you to believe.

The truth, however, is that they snuck back into town under cover of darkness and stole all of the town's western apparel, for the Roper was a fiend for fashionable Amerikaanse broek van het cowboyleer and cheese in a can for tasty viddles, indeed. When ropers feast on canned cheese, have your gasmasks in good condition, as this triggers their version of Otto's Irresistable Flatulence and Bigby's Wrathful Discharge, empowered.

And with the combo of such powerful weaponry, no one is safe, not even the arrogant drow who consider themselves "too black ta kill, suckah".

Nay, not even the guardians of the Mighty High Pineapple could withstand such an onslaught of madness, murder, and mayhem! However, strange entities were intrigued by the puzzle box. Its latch resembled the holy orifice enjoyed by many a clown as warm, quiet place to drink oneself into sweet oblivion while its exotic exterior resembled a gilded black cube of ebony and ivory, living in perfect harmony. Inside, was a Happy Fun Ball(tm) bouncing to the beat of a country/punk/electronica band, it was owned by Orcus but rented out for parties.

However, Orcus charged dearly for a three nipple stipper from the Nuclear Plant bar down town in the red light ward of Waterdeep, where Mirt "the squirt" McFeely went to "explore" himself on a disturbingly increased basis. Ducks were scared of Skullport, so they ducked into Undermountain, where Halaster Blackcloak was reorganizing his garage for the sale of old junk , such as his magical pool-table, fishing tackle made of preserved illithid innards, and a stuffed aboleth that still oozed slime all over your best suit.

By sale's end, Halaster had almost recovered the losses incurred during the Great Dungeon Riots of the Year of The Great Dungeon Riots. Successful, Halaster gleefully counted his loot and cackled madly to himself. "Gol


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