I guess I mixed up the tall guy with the dark hair and the funny voices with the tall guy with dark hair and a funny voice.
Nathan Petrelli, you're still Yielded.
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Jan the Intergalactic Aviator: Ooops
Oh silly me, I made the Yield on Petrelli but I accidentally posted a picture of Hank Azaria.
I guess I mixed up the tall guy with the dark hair and the funny voices with the tall guy with dark hair and a funny voice.
Nathan Petrelli, you're still Yielded.
I guess I mixed up the tall guy with the dark hair and the funny voices with the tall guy with dark hair and a funny voice.
Nathan Petrelli, you're still Yielded.
Monday, October 27, 2008
Jan the Intergalactic Aviator: Yield
Short and sweet, my friends.
Gyrobo, you're getting the Yield.
Just kidding, I like you too much.
Nathan Petrelli, you get the Yield, that will give you a little extra time to warm up your nipples.
AMR4 - Week 7 Challenge
As always, elimination is a difficult time. This week Simon has determined that Koma and Sabertooth were the last to reach the Pit Stop. Hopefully this won’t discourage Koma from pursuing the heroic traits that he demonstrated on the challenge last week.
The Pit Stop was at the Marriott Hotel. All the contestants were given a suite for the night along with full access to room service, all compliments of the fine people at the Marriott Hotel. I’d like to give a special thanks to the generous management of the Marriott Hotel. Thank you, Marriott Hotel. Marriott Hotel.
The following morning the teams will again embark on the Amazing Mutant Race. Except for whichever team Jan names who must then sit out their half hour Yield penalty. As usual, before I can give you your itinerary for the week, I must first assign a new mutant partner to a contestant who keeps losing hers. Yes Jan the IA, I mean you. Because of your poor track record with mutants, I have decided to go out and recruit someone who you should not be able to hurt, no matter how hard you try. Why? Because he’s untouchable. That’s right, your new partner is Unus, the Untouchable. He also has the advantage of being someone I don’t care what happens to.
From the Marriott Hotel, everyone will take a taxi to the Orlando International Airport. Once there, the teams will arrange for flights to the Ushuaia airport in Tierra del Fuego, Argentina. There they will find hot air balloons waiting to float them down to Antarctica and the Savage Land. The contestants will follow the red smoke plume to the border lands of Zarhan where Ka-Zar, lord of the Savage Land, will be waiting with the Detour challenges for this leg of the race.
Each team will be given a map of the Savage Land and surrounding territories.
A Detour presents a choice between two tasks, each with their own pros and cons. Once a task has been completed, the contestants must then race to the Pit Stop. In this Detour, the teams must choose between Gene and Scene.
In Gene, the teams must make their way to the citadel of the High Evolutionary in the Atlantea region. There they will find the Evolutionary and assist him in his scientific efforts to perfect the human race. You must successfully redesign humanity to achieve the Evolutionary’s dream of perfection. You will then clone a sample of your design to test your work. The Evolutionary will be the judge of your efforts.
In Scene, the teams will travel across the Savage Land to the Botor region. The Tree People that live there are having their annual festival. It is the place to be for all the various denizens of the Land. A large component of the festival are the competitions. The games are many and varied, including such things as dinosaur-back racing, guarnolope pie eating and giant mosquito catching. To win Scene, each team must claim victory in at least 3 different games. You are welcome to compete in any kind of game you want with the Tree People.
If a team fails in their chosen task, then they must attempt the other task. Once done, the teams will race back to Ka-Zar’s base in the Eastern region of the Savage Land. This is the Pit Stop for this leg of the race. The last team to arrive will be eliminated. And remember, as I always tell my students, no one likes a loser.
The Pit Stop was at the Marriott Hotel. All the contestants were given a suite for the night along with full access to room service, all compliments of the fine people at the Marriott Hotel. I’d like to give a special thanks to the generous management of the Marriott Hotel. Thank you, Marriott Hotel. Marriott Hotel.
The following morning the teams will again embark on the Amazing Mutant Race. Except for whichever team Jan names who must then sit out their half hour Yield penalty. As usual, before I can give you your itinerary for the week, I must first assign a new mutant partner to a contestant who keeps losing hers. Yes Jan the IA, I mean you. Because of your poor track record with mutants, I have decided to go out and recruit someone who you should not be able to hurt, no matter how hard you try. Why? Because he’s untouchable. That’s right, your new partner is Unus, the Untouchable. He also has the advantage of being someone I don’t care what happens to.
From the Marriott Hotel, everyone will take a taxi to the Orlando International Airport. Once there, the teams will arrange for flights to the Ushuaia airport in Tierra del Fuego, Argentina. There they will find hot air balloons waiting to float them down to Antarctica and the Savage Land. The contestants will follow the red smoke plume to the border lands of Zarhan where Ka-Zar, lord of the Savage Land, will be waiting with the Detour challenges for this leg of the race.
Each team will be given a map of the Savage Land and surrounding territories.
A Detour presents a choice between two tasks, each with their own pros and cons. Once a task has been completed, the contestants must then race to the Pit Stop. In this Detour, the teams must choose between Gene and Scene.
In Gene, the teams must make their way to the citadel of the High Evolutionary in the Atlantea region. There they will find the Evolutionary and assist him in his scientific efforts to perfect the human race. You must successfully redesign humanity to achieve the Evolutionary’s dream of perfection. You will then clone a sample of your design to test your work. The Evolutionary will be the judge of your efforts.
In Scene, the teams will travel across the Savage Land to the Botor region. The Tree People that live there are having their annual festival. It is the place to be for all the various denizens of the Land. A large component of the festival are the competitions. The games are many and varied, including such things as dinosaur-back racing, guarnolope pie eating and giant mosquito catching. To win Scene, each team must claim victory in at least 3 different games. You are welcome to compete in any kind of game you want with the Tree People.
If a team fails in their chosen task, then they must attempt the other task. Once done, the teams will race back to Ka-Zar’s base in the Eastern region of the Savage Land. This is the Pit Stop for this leg of the race. The last team to arrive will be eliminated. And remember, as I always tell my students, no one likes a loser.
Sunday, October 26, 2008
Pit Stop
Gather round my small minded children, for I have a tale to tell. It has villains and heroes, romance and danger, but sadly, most of it involves you chavtastic lot in bars or in wet tee shirts, which ruins my story. Let us get on with this, shall we?
Koma: Yes, fish boy, you lines are carp, they reek. Your adventures seem to get closer and closer to bad fanfic porn. Get laid already.
Jan: As the token female, I acknowledge your breasts, then stop paying attention. I have no idea what you were going on about.
Bennett: I hate you for making me look at Scott tucked into bikini bottoms. Hate you long time.
Petrelli: Interesting effort, good team work, if being Emma’s pet monkey is teamwork.
Gyrobo: I will never look at a sandwich in the same way again.
So who is this week’s winner? It was pretty close, but despite making out with what seemed like half the bar, the first to the Pit Stop is Jan. Perhaps she has been gaining a time advantage not having to make sure her partner shows up with her. Xavier should look into that.
Who was last this week? What face will I not have to look at for another week?
Captain Koma.
You’ve made a nice run of it Captain, but you seem very preoccupied by young women who not long ago were in Disney and Nickelodeon movies/shows. To win a race, one must keep their eye on the finish line, not the groupies on the sidelines in tiny tank tops.
Cheers!
Simon
Koma: Yes, fish boy, you lines are carp, they reek. Your adventures seem to get closer and closer to bad fanfic porn. Get laid already.
Jan: As the token female, I acknowledge your breasts, then stop paying attention. I have no idea what you were going on about.
Bennett: I hate you for making me look at Scott tucked into bikini bottoms. Hate you long time.
Petrelli: Interesting effort, good team work, if being Emma’s pet monkey is teamwork.
Gyrobo: I will never look at a sandwich in the same way again.
So who is this week’s winner? It was pretty close, but despite making out with what seemed like half the bar, the first to the Pit Stop is Jan. Perhaps she has been gaining a time advantage not having to make sure her partner shows up with her. Xavier should look into that.
Who was last this week? What face will I not have to look at for another week?
Captain Koma.
You’ve made a nice run of it Captain, but you seem very preoccupied by young women who not long ago were in Disney and Nickelodeon movies/shows. To win a race, one must keep their eye on the finish line, not the groupies on the sidelines in tiny tank tops.
Cheers!
Simon
Friday, October 24, 2008
Dude, Where's My SHARC?
I sat up and rubbed my eyes. “Where are we?”
Puck sat next to me, conked out on the steering wheel of a minivan I’d never seen before. My head was hazy, like I’d spent the night on the floor of a jail cell. I pulled the keys out of the ignition, studying the keychain markings: a small logo that only a NASCAR fan—
“What a night!”
Puck jolted up, scrunching his eyes in the penetrating morning sunlight. “What?” He stretched.
“Do you remember anything?” I shook him. “There’s a block on my memory. Did we win the challenge?”
“Hand- han- hang on, I’ll check my voicemail,” Puck said groggily. While he punched in his passcode, I got out and checked our new ride. It was covered with a thin film of godawful decals and looked like it’d been through the mill.
“Whose minivan is this?” I muttered, pulling up the stuck trunk. Oh fuzz.
Puck slide around the side of the car. “I’ve got four calls from women asking me out, so I think I won the ‘Flirt’ challenge. I don’t know it you won—”
“We killed Richard Petty.”
“What?” Puck jumped back, unable to register the crumpled body wrapped in a blanket in our backseat. I popped off the cowboy hat and touched its face.
“So cold.” Thinking quickly, I uncapped the spare gasoline canister and doused the blanket.
“Richard Petty? What?”
Using Puck as a meaty shield, I ran to safety as the minivan exploded in flame.
Puck coughed up a lung as burning embers rained down on us like sulfuric snow. “What happened last night? Where’s the SHARC?”
“I don’t know, Puck.” I nodded slyly at the looming ‘City Limits’ sign. “Let’s go on a fact-finding mission.”
“What’s the idea?!” I scoffed. “That might have hit me!”
Puck grabbed my collar and dragged me to the curb. “Get down, y’fool!”
The cops wasted no time cuffing both of us. Whenever I tried to express my love of all living things, I only got a billy-club to the mouth.
“You’re lucky Richard Petty dropped the charges,” the lanky cop sneered as he shoved me into the back of his puny Floridian squad car.
“Richard Petty is alive?!” I exclaimed. That got some arched eyebrows.
“You stole his dress manikin and the $150,000 worth of clothes on it,” Officer Lanky charged.
“I had to, yo!” Using the hidden arm they forgot to cuff, I pulled out a recent poll. “Nobody votes for a vice president from the bargain bin! I need designer apparel!”
“Well, Petty might not want ya, but what’s left of Daytona does.” The sheriff held a newspaper to the back screen, keeping both sunglassed eyes on the road. The front page was a photo of a raging beachfront inferno. The picture below the fold showed a lot full of firetrucks up on cinderblocks, their tires slashed.
“So we were in the wet t-shirt contest?” Puck chimed creakily.
“You were in the last wet t-shirt contest. There’s a ban now,” the lanky cop rattled. “Now how’s my ailing mother-in-law going to make ends meet?”
“You boys’re lucky they reattached Charlie Sheen’s hand.”
Puck and I exchanged concerned looks on our way to the slammer.
Fresh off his one phone call, the cops relocked the cell door with Puck staring me blankly in the eye-sockets. “I’m a superhero. In jail.”
“Miguel was just telling me about how he flipped six houses in Cuba,” I waved to the languid Latino drooped on the bars like a rag doll. Yep, Florida was a lazy peninsular paradise.
“I reached Yvette,” Puck continued, immune to the tropical atmosphere. His Canadian immune system must be too strong for the rumba beat. “She’s wiring the bail money. The people of Daytona want our heads, but Yvette knows Bill Bronsky, the new mayor of Daytona. Apparently, the mayor can pardon anyone of any crime within the city… and also call for the execution of anyone within the city.”
“That’s what I call the ‘royal treatment,’” I clucked. “Lunk-head.”
We had a roundtable discussion with Miguel and two homeless drunks and a disgraced ex-congressman for the next half hour. This was excellent preparation for the vice presidential debate I’d snubbed three weeks ago. Any public pronouncement on my part— nay, from any person of my prominence, must be prefaced perfectly with precipitous platitudes, to prevent premature prevarication.
“Time to go,” the sheriff finally said, waltzing in and unlocking the cell door with a large blue key looped ’round his little finger. “You’ve got a guardian angel looking out fer ya, that’s fer dang sure.”
I froze. Huzzah! A flashback: Tabu. Loud music… mustard spilling everywhere… and I totally raised the roof!
“Koola koolay! Puck! I think I know what I did last night!” I bounced. If Puck was smiling in solidarity with my happiness, he hid it well.
“See you a-round, bo-bo,” Drunken Stanley hiccuped from the cement, unable to sit up. “R’member what I said ’bout short selling.”
“And you remember what I said about making a shiv from sculpted toilet paper.” I held my head up high. Justice, my justice, had prevailed.
“Oh. Oh. Ah. Pfffff… pfffff… ungh. Ungh. Pfffffff…”
“There you are,” Yvette called from the club’s entrance.
Tabu may be a popular nightspot, but at 11:00 A.M. it was only a mildly active (but nonetheless exclusive) daycare center. I had to dress Puck up in a sailor suit to pass him off as a precocious 1st grader just to get in. He now watched me from the fenced-off dance floor with about twenty small children.
“Quiet. I’m about to get a psychic reading. Yes… we were totally here last night…”
“I’ll say,” the bartender grunted as she poured a tray of apple-juice mugs. “And he was wearing the same sailor suit.”
“You didn’t happen to see if either of us made out with any of the patrons, did you?” Puck asked, straddling over the fence with the hand-eye coordination of a Chinese acrobat.
“Oy, I wish I could forget. You set up a fricken’ booth.” She popped a DVD into the side of the bartop big-screen, showing a very graphic scene that made several of the smaller children cry.
“Sweet Amnesiac Disjoint of Makeout Point!” Now that was some first-class flirting.
“What about me?” I held up a $20 bill. “Michael Jackson says I was here last night.”
She waved me away. “Benjamin Franklin says otherwise.”
“Are you daft, woman?! Benjamin Franklin is a fictional character.”
“You were here, too, okay?” She fast-forwarded.
“Did I use witty pickup lines?”
She nodded. “You got slapped many times.”
“Did you fall from heaven? ’Cause you look like hell.”
“That got you slapped.”
“Is your name ‘Magnet?’ ’Cause you’re bipolar.”
“That got you slapped.”
“Are you from Tennessee? ’Cause you’re a redneck.”
“She was from Tennessee, and she put two live weasels down your pants.”
“Did anybody ask me if there were live weasels down my pants, or if I was just happy to see them?”
“You did, and you slapped yourself.”
“This is critically important,” I leaned o’er the counter, putting a $50 bill down. “General Custer wants to know if I was making out with anybody last night.”
“You spent the whole night making out with a full-breasted, hot…”
“There’s only one way that sentence could be made more awesome.”
“…grilled turkey sandwich.”
“AW SNAP IT ENDED IN THE WAY THAT MADE IT THE MOST AWESOME EVER ROFL!”
“Then we lose, right?” Puck trashed the preppy sailor cap that pulled his ensemble together. “A sandwich isn’t a patron.”
“He bought it four drinks.”
“And in Florida, that makes it a person! Hot diggity daffodil!” I kicked down the metal front door, letting the children run free in the streets. “Be free, children!”
“I’ve never been so confused,” Yvette kvetched on our way to the SHARC. She’d had it washed and debuffed, I just remembered!
“It’s victory at any cost, my dear,” I spun, “according to Florida statute, any corporate entity — in this case, a sandwich — can be taxed and represented in court as an individual.”
“That’s totally bogus.”
“Puck, that sandwich was my soulmate. The hour we spent together was more real than our friendship.” I licked my fingers. “I’ll never forget what we had, and I’ll be a consarned varmint if’n I let y’all talk trash about my precious southern belle!”
“Calm down, Gyrobo,” Yvette pleaded, keying open the SHARC.
“I will not calm down,” I exploded, sealing myself within the vehicle. “What we had was delicious and low-fat. Puck, I respect you professionally, but you’re dead wrong on man-sandwich relations.”
My stomach rumbled with righteous pride. A man needs to stand up for what’s right, no matter the indigestion it causes.
Puck sat next to me, conked out on the steering wheel of a minivan I’d never seen before. My head was hazy, like I’d spent the night on the floor of a jail cell. I pulled the keys out of the ignition, studying the keychain markings: a small logo that only a NASCAR fan—
“What a night!”
Puck jolted up, scrunching his eyes in the penetrating morning sunlight. “What?” He stretched.
“Do you remember anything?” I shook him. “There’s a block on my memory. Did we win the challenge?”
“Hand- han- hang on, I’ll check my voicemail,” Puck said groggily. While he punched in his passcode, I got out and checked our new ride. It was covered with a thin film of godawful decals and looked like it’d been through the mill.
“Whose minivan is this?” I muttered, pulling up the stuck trunk. Oh fuzz.
Puck slide around the side of the car. “I’ve got four calls from women asking me out, so I think I won the ‘Flirt’ challenge. I don’t know it you won—”
“We killed Richard Petty.”
“What?” Puck jumped back, unable to register the crumpled body wrapped in a blanket in our backseat. I popped off the cowboy hat and touched its face.
“So cold.” Thinking quickly, I uncapped the spare gasoline canister and doused the blanket.
“Richard Petty? What?”
Using Puck as a meaty shield, I ran to safety as the minivan exploded in flame.
Puck coughed up a lung as burning embers rained down on us like sulfuric snow. “What happened last night? Where’s the SHARC?”
“I don’t know, Puck.” I nodded slyly at the looming ‘City Limits’ sign. “Let’s go on a fact-finding mission.”
***
The first people we ran into in town was an overweight cop (his novelty badge marked him as the sheriff) and his lanky partner. “Get to the ground,” they shouted. “Make me,” I shouted back. It was all good, clean fun until they fired the first warning shot.“What’s the idea?!” I scoffed. “That might have hit me!”
Puck grabbed my collar and dragged me to the curb. “Get down, y’fool!”
The cops wasted no time cuffing both of us. Whenever I tried to express my love of all living things, I only got a billy-club to the mouth.
“Richard Petty is alive?!” I exclaimed. That got some arched eyebrows.
“You stole his dress manikin and the $150,000 worth of clothes on it,” Officer Lanky charged.
“I had to, yo!” Using the hidden arm they forgot to cuff, I pulled out a recent poll. “Nobody votes for a vice president from the bargain bin! I need designer apparel!”
“Well, Petty might not want ya, but what’s left of Daytona does.” The sheriff held a newspaper to the back screen, keeping both sunglassed eyes on the road. The front page was a photo of a raging beachfront inferno. The picture below the fold showed a lot full of firetrucks up on cinderblocks, their tires slashed.
“So we were in the wet t-shirt contest?” Puck chimed creakily.
“You were in the last wet t-shirt contest. There’s a ban now,” the lanky cop rattled. “Now how’s my ailing mother-in-law going to make ends meet?”
“You boys’re lucky they reattached Charlie Sheen’s hand.”
Puck and I exchanged concerned looks on our way to the slammer.
***
“…can’t even sell it for market value. And that’s after we completely replaced the plumbing— o hai Puck lol!”Fresh off his one phone call, the cops relocked the cell door with Puck staring me blankly in the eye-sockets. “I’m a superhero. In jail.”
“Miguel was just telling me about how he flipped six houses in Cuba,” I waved to the languid Latino drooped on the bars like a rag doll. Yep, Florida was a lazy peninsular paradise.
“I reached Yvette,” Puck continued, immune to the tropical atmosphere. His Canadian immune system must be too strong for the rumba beat. “She’s wiring the bail money. The people of Daytona want our heads, but Yvette knows Bill Bronsky, the new mayor of Daytona. Apparently, the mayor can pardon anyone of any crime within the city… and also call for the execution of anyone within the city.”
“That’s what I call the ‘royal treatment,’” I clucked. “Lunk-head.”
We had a roundtable discussion with Miguel and two homeless drunks and a disgraced ex-congressman for the next half hour. This was excellent preparation for the vice presidential debate I’d snubbed three weeks ago. Any public pronouncement on my part— nay, from any person of my prominence, must be prefaced perfectly with precipitous platitudes, to prevent premature prevarication.
“Time to go,” the sheriff finally said, waltzing in and unlocking the cell door with a large blue key looped ’round his little finger. “You’ve got a guardian angel looking out fer ya, that’s fer dang sure.”
I froze. Huzzah! A flashback: Tabu. Loud music… mustard spilling everywhere… and I totally raised the roof!
“Koola koolay! Puck! I think I know what I did last night!” I bounced. If Puck was smiling in solidarity with my happiness, he hid it well.
“See you a-round, bo-bo,” Drunken Stanley hiccuped from the cement, unable to sit up. “R’member what I said ’bout short selling.”
“And you remember what I said about making a shiv from sculpted toilet paper.” I held my head up high. Justice, my justice, had prevailed.
***
The overflowing glass began to boil against my forehead. We were here.“Oh. Oh. Ah. Pfffff… pfffff… ungh. Ungh. Pfffffff…”
“There you are,” Yvette called from the club’s entrance.
Tabu may be a popular nightspot, but at 11:00 A.M. it was only a mildly active (but nonetheless exclusive) daycare center. I had to dress Puck up in a sailor suit to pass him off as a precocious 1st grader just to get in. He now watched me from the fenced-off dance floor with about twenty small children.
“Quiet. I’m about to get a psychic reading. Yes… we were totally here last night…”
“I’ll say,” the bartender grunted as she poured a tray of apple-juice mugs. “And he was wearing the same sailor suit.”
“You didn’t happen to see if either of us made out with any of the patrons, did you?” Puck asked, straddling over the fence with the hand-eye coordination of a Chinese acrobat.
“Oy, I wish I could forget. You set up a fricken’ booth.” She popped a DVD into the side of the bartop big-screen, showing a very graphic scene that made several of the smaller children cry.
“Sweet Amnesiac Disjoint of Makeout Point!” Now that was some first-class flirting.
“What about me?” I held up a $20 bill. “Michael Jackson says I was here last night.”
She waved me away. “Benjamin Franklin says otherwise.”
“Are you daft, woman?! Benjamin Franklin is a fictional character.”
“You were here, too, okay?” She fast-forwarded.
“Did I use witty pickup lines?”
She nodded. “You got slapped many times.”
“Did you fall from heaven? ’Cause you look like hell.”
“That got you slapped.”
“Is your name ‘Magnet?’ ’Cause you’re bipolar.”
“That got you slapped.”
“Are you from Tennessee? ’Cause you’re a redneck.”
“She was from Tennessee, and she put two live weasels down your pants.”
“Did anybody ask me if there were live weasels down my pants, or if I was just happy to see them?”
“You did, and you slapped yourself.”
“This is critically important,” I leaned o’er the counter, putting a $50 bill down. “General Custer wants to know if I was making out with anybody last night.”
“You spent the whole night making out with a full-breasted, hot…”
“There’s only one way that sentence could be made more awesome.”
“…grilled turkey sandwich.”
“AW SNAP IT ENDED IN THE WAY THAT MADE IT THE MOST AWESOME EVER ROFL!”
“Then we lose, right?” Puck trashed the preppy sailor cap that pulled his ensemble together. “A sandwich isn’t a patron.”
“He bought it four drinks.”
“And in Florida, that makes it a person! Hot diggity daffodil!” I kicked down the metal front door, letting the children run free in the streets. “Be free, children!”
“I’ve never been so confused,” Yvette kvetched on our way to the SHARC. She’d had it washed and debuffed, I just remembered!
“It’s victory at any cost, my dear,” I spun, “according to Florida statute, any corporate entity — in this case, a sandwich — can be taxed and represented in court as an individual.”
“That’s totally bogus.”
“Puck, that sandwich was my soulmate. The hour we spent together was more real than our friendship.” I licked my fingers. “I’ll never forget what we had, and I’ll be a consarned varmint if’n I let y’all talk trash about my precious southern belle!”
“Calm down, Gyrobo,” Yvette pleaded, keying open the SHARC.
“I will not calm down,” I exploded, sealing myself within the vehicle. “What we had was delicious and low-fat. Puck, I respect you professionally, but you’re dead wrong on man-sandwich relations.”
My stomach rumbled with righteous pride. A man needs to stand up for what’s right, no matter the indigestion it causes.
When Petty Thanked His Sponsors and Emma Iced My Chest...
Hello there my fellow competitors. I have to post quickly because Emma is looking for me. She’s a little perturbed about our latest challenge. I should have known it would turn out that way, but I was blinded by the possibility of seeing my lovely Emma participate in a wet t-shirt contest, but let me start at the beginning.
We made it back to the airlock and got our antidote with no problems at all. We even managed to make it to 
the yield onto Jan. We passed the trip in companionable silence. Once we arrived, we found one of my greatest idols, Richard Petty, waiting for us with our two detour options.
Richard Petty smiled a big cheesy smile and greeted us.
“I’m glad you made here today. I can tell from your expressions it was like living a dream. Your SHARC ran great; you must have Good Year on that thing…I’d like to take this moment and thank my sponsors for bringing you here today. HootersRestaurantNationalFreshSaladDressingsClassicFordMotorGoodYearCokeColaTide&MaxiPads. Now, on to business.”
In his hands were two envelopes with directions for each task, flirt and shirt. I could tell by
Emma’s body language what she thought of the shirt option, so I spoke quickly, saying we would take the flirt detour. Emma seemed surprised, but nodded her approval. Petty, confronted by the beauty that is Emma, shoved the envelopes into his pocket and grabbed her hand trying to flirt with her.
“Ya’ know Emmie. You remind me of my first wife. She was a looker too, thanks in part to CoverGirlClariolAlmayRevlon&PlasticSurgury.”
While Emma was eyeing him, clearly debating the consequences of harming the man who was supposed to greet all the contestants, I stealthily slipped the envelopes out of his jacket and switched the directions from the shirt envelope into the flirt envelope before returning them to his pocket. It was a stroke of genius on my part.
When Petty took a deep breath, I broke in and suggested we get on the road. Petty handed Emma the envelope and said, “Oh yeah, oh yeah. Here y’all go. I’ll be rootn’ for you darlin’.”
Not wasting any more time, we took off before he could start thanking more sponsors. When we arrived in Daytona, the contest had already started. Various catcalls could be heard from the boardwalk. Emma was breathing rather heavily and her jaw was clinched. She turned to face me. “If that Tabu singles’ club is not located next to this wet t-shirt contest, you’re a dead man.”
I tried to pull my best innocent act. “What? How could I have known the directions were wrong? It must have been Richard Petty's mistake.”
“You don’t fool me Petrelli, and I’m not going to participate in a wet t-shirt contest. You are!”
“but…Emma…I know you could win.”
Throwing a t-shirt at me, Emma emphatically stated, “No buts Petrelli. Put this on now. I'll wait for you in that gazebo”
I did as I was told and she led me onto the beach. As soon as our feet hit the sand, everything went quiet. Charlie Sheen stood up, burped loudly, and pointed to Emma. “Look! Boooobs!!!!”
That Charlie Sheen…He is eloquent. I glanced to Emma to see her reaction, afraid that none of us would escape this contest alive; but before I could intervene, someone…several someones threw four coolers of water at her all at the same time. The co-eds went wild. There was screaming and howling right up to the moment Emma slapped me, and then I stopped.
I just knew we had this contest in the bag now, until someone…who shall remain nameless. (Bennet) Yelled, she can’t be in the contest, she isn’t wearing a t-shirt. After Sheen disqualified her from the contest, there was a lot of groaning and complaining; at least until Emma told me to shut up.
She then grabbed my arm and forced me up onto the stage, where I was forced to shake and flex my pecs. The crowd was torn. I feared all was lost, when suddenly I felt a cold chill spread acro
ss my chest. I looked down to see ice forming on my pectorals. I knew instantly Emma was responsible. The crowd burst into applause. At the encouragement, I sped up my gyration for the crowd. When I finally left the stage, I thought I had the contest in the bag but Alas that darn Bennet foiled me again by dressing his partner up in drag. #$@# Him. Well, at least I got second place and that is enough to move onto the Pit Stop.
The only thing I have to worry about now is Emma taking revenge on me for switching the envelopes. I think I’m going to go hide in the sauna. A nice hotel like the Marriott is sure to have one.
Mission Six: Seeing It Through
"Give me the antidote!" I screamed at the bewildered Atlantean. "Don't make me ask twice, because I won't."
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."
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."
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