She made bubble noises as Scott reminded me that we already got the antidote and were supposed to be heading for the S.H.A.R.C. vehicle before the ability to breathe underwater wore off. "Stop harassing snorkelers and come on," he said.
Scott, our camera man and I squeezed back into the cramped transport for the second time and were on our way to Orlando.
"I hope we can visit Disney World while we're there," Scott said excitedly. "It's the gayest place on Earth!
That reminded me that we still had a promise to Mephisto to keep. He wanted Walt Disney killed, but I don't even know where they're keeping his body. But I knew someone who might....
"Let's do it," I said.
"Do what?"
"Go to Disney World!"
Scott clapped and we made a quick stop at Disney World, Orlando.
"Who are we looking for?" Scott asked.
"Whom," I corrected.
"I don't know," he replied confused.
That's when I spotted the beloved vermin.
He was dancing with....sliced bread?
"Can I join?" Scott asked.
"No," I replied. "I need you to stay out of the way. I've got some baggin' and taggin' to do."
I approached the whimsical mouse. He greeted me. "Hello!"
Quickly, I pulled my gun and shot the two dancing slices of bread. "Let's not make any more of a scene than we have to," I said aiming at the rodent.
"You'll pay for this! Do you have any idea who I am!" he shouted in defiance. "My best friend's an anthromorphic dog!"
I tied him up as a crowd gathered nearby.
"Look!" one on-looker spoke up, "Bluto's kidnapping Mickey!"
"He's lost weight too," another added.
I looked over at Scott and nodded toward the crowd. He walked over to them and said, "Show's over, everyone. Come back in an hour for a repeat."
Sighs were heard all throughout the crowd as they dispersed. I quickly stuffed Mickey into my duffel bag and raced back to the S.H.A.R.C. vehicle. Unfortunately, our captive made it an even tighter squeeze in the tiny vessel.
Soon, though, we made it to the Courtyard Marriott on Richard Petty Boulevard and met with Richard Petty.
"Let's do Flirt!" Scott shouted. "We could probably just make out with each other for a minute and that would count."
"Good idea," I said. "In that case, we're doing Shirt." I looked over his muscular pectorals and added, "Or rather, you're doing shirt."
Scott frowned as he put his hands over his pecs. "I don't know if I'm comfortable with that."
"I don't care."
Scott and I arrived at Daytona Beach and made our way carefully through the horde of drunken youth. "Woo hoo! Vote Obama!" they shouted.
Finally, we arrived at the location of the wet t-shirt contest. Scott whined, "I don't know about this," as we approached the gathering of young sexy peoples.
"Relax," I reassured him. "I'll make sure you finish in first place."
"How?" he asked.
I tossed a bucket of water on him and said, "Just do your thing and I'll do mine."
As Scott worked his stuff on the beach, I eased up near Charlie Sheen, our celebrity judge. "That one there is a prostitute," I commented."Really?" he asked intrigued.
"Oh, yeah," I went on, "and a dirty one too."
"Dirty, huh? How so?"
"Um...you know, the usual dirty stuff. Up for anything....doesn't use mouthwash....wears the same underwear for weeks...."
Charlie Sheen simply said, "Oh, boy," as he became entranced by Scott's performance. My subtle manipulation certainly played a role, but Scott rose to the occasion as well.
Charlie Sheen whistled loudly and made some wooing sounds. This caused the other drunk coeds judging the contest to do the same thing. After they all quieted down and stopped air-humping, Charlie announced that Scott was the winner. He then whispered to me his hotel room number and asked me to have Scott stop by.
"That's great!" Scott said when I told him the news, "I can't wait to visit in private with Charlie Sheen!"
"You can't go, fool," I said, shattering his dreams, "we have to get to the Pit Stop! And after that, we've got some enhanced interrogation to perform on an animated mouse."
7 comments:
I hate it when I can't breath underwater. It's almost as bad as when I can't breathe underwater.
Hmm...sounds like you're referring to a non-existent typo. Or you're turning into Gyrobo.
I was robbed...I'm so much hotter than your partner.
You certainly do like playing with your gun a lot, Bennet. I wonder what Freud would say about that.
I wonder if I gave you a make over like in those movies if you'd look all awesome. You know, if I took off your glasses maybe you'd look like George Clooney. Wouldn't that be cool?
Hang on was scott castrated. If so that explains a whole lot.
But not why Emma is with him.
Listen, no one tortures The Mouse. Not even *I* would stoop that low.
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