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Hell Hath No Furry
By kyle | October 19, 2009
Mother Nighte fell hard and lose over Capitol D.C. Newswright Zackery Palin sat tap-tap-tapping at his Compaq Presario model 7AP140. He had a dead line. “Finish you’re dead line or you’ll be lyin’ dead.” had been the word from ‘pon High. Dr. Maxx Hardcore, the Editer And Cheaf of the Capitol Poast, was the guy who said that thing (about dead line).
So now Zackery was cought ‘twist two hard thing’s. The paper was hot on the Press’s. It just needed Zackery’s page 1 section A artical to be done, but write now, that was zilch nada zip. Zackery did some stuff that showed how he knew not what to right stuff such as, Surfing the Information Superhighway, rittering this way and thine whilst blasting the song that goes “I’m riding around in my automobile”, and Nerf.
Finally: A Lastidge Effert. “This otta be good…” said Zackery in the instrouviant manner of a Chandler Binge. He opened the Male Bag. “Into my bag of Trix…” he continued. He shuffled a few letters about. Finally: the Mother Load! Nay. The Greasy Greasy Grandma Load. He red:
“Deare Womb It May Concert:
You don’t know me, but I’m a Yes Man (Jim Cary. Little joke their.) fore Precedent Borat Abamo. You didn’t hear this from me, but Follow the Money. Jerry McGwire? Nay. Real Life.
Furthermore,
Fill Hardman, age 42
Los Chulopos (this is the city that is like Las Angelos in the story)”
So Zackery hoped on his Hogge and sped into the tumescent night. He broak a traffic law. Suddenly, he followed the Money. It brung him write to the White House. Or should I say, Black House, for’n this was one presedant whom was darker than Roc on BET. “I prefer One Night at McCool’s on Comedy Central” quiped Zackery.
Zackery Palin pushed the button at the gate. “Whom shalt seak entrée?” came the reply. The voice? ‘Twas downright Lurchian. Zackery shuttered all the way down into his FILA sock’s and Soap brand shoe’s. But Zaq was cleaver. Thou he urg’d to retart “I’m Bart Simson, whom the hell are you!” he bit his tounge, like Drabble biting on a donot. “It’s the Male Man,” he scuttered. “I have a special delivory for Mr. Prez.”
“Come right in!” Mr. Male Man said Larch.
Zackery trodden the path to the front dore. He knock’d, a rein of paradiddle’s ‘pon the whorey gates. The dore opened like Star Track. Inside? Oprah music as far as the ear could ‘ear. “Mozark,” mused Zackery. Learnéd.
Suddenly, “presidant” Borat Ben Ladin Abamo appeared. “Who are your?” he said.
“That’s not importent. I followed the money. I have prove your a Muslin and a Socialest. Go back to Africa. I’m not rasist.”
Precedent Abaomo shot him a 48-tooth Patrick Ewing Smile. “Who would beleave you? Your just a insignifigint Flee. I’m a Big Dog on the poarch. Stay of the poarch.”
Zackery declared: “Your a mad man! You’ll never get away with this!” He floamed at the mouth.
But Abomo looked at him with rath. In hine rage, he looked just like Mike Myer—and I ain’t talkin’ Austin P!
“Bedtime for Bono,” quod he. The room fill’t with green gas. Zackery thought “How appropriant,” remembering the “Hoof arted” novelty T he was spoarting that day. Then he hit the hey.
Zackery woak up in a dumster. His cloth’s were replace with Rag. He had black crap smear’d across his face like Hulk Hogan’s bierd when he was Hollywood Hogan. On his head, a crampled hat. On his hand’s? Fingerless glofes. Their trying to make me look like a Crank Pot, a mear harmless homeless! he relized.
But what They didn’t no? He had used his Tigre Talkboy to recoard the hole convorsation with Obomo. “Hell hath no furry…” thought Zakk.
The storey hit the head lines the next day. Abamo didn’t have a berth cert, so he was sent to the middal of the ocean to live and work in a cave. Zackery Palin won the Noble Price for his stoary. Moreover, the mayor of Capitol D.C. made him the new precedent. His first law was, No Socialest. “Wierd stuff.”-Johnnie Carsen
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