Category Archives: @Pawela04

Thriller, Thriller Night

This is the story of Wendy.

It was hard on Wendy, being a single, undead gal in the big city.

And her job at the Pumpkin Peeling Plant wasn’t fulfilling.

She was sick of it. So Wendy got dolled up, doing her hair and make-up, then set out to find a new job.

As the train rattled towards Vicksburg, she grasped her purpose in life. “I must

bring an end to the unethical farming and consumption of humans. It’s terrible for the environment.”

Wendy had recently become a member of ZETH – Zombies for the Ethical Treatment of Humans. ZETH was committed to…

…passing Prop-Hu23 in Congress, requiring farms to raise free range humans, thus abolishing the cruel conditions of the day.

Wendy got off the train at Vicksburg and immediately went door to door, spreading the word, getting signatures.

… and the occasional shotgun blasts from the homes of humans who had been hiding out, waiting until the inevitable …

6 hours, 8 signatures and 3 Human Gorditas later, she realized she needed to do something that would have a bigger impact.

Luckily, Wendy was also an accomplished singer. So she went to Vicksburg Plaza, where white collar Zombies took their dinner breaks.

Waiting for her cue, she peeked at a menu. Arm Tartar. Brain a la Mode, garnished with toenail. Intestines & Chips. She shuddered.

She cleared her throat and sang “Free The People Before We Eat The People” at the top of her lungs just outside Hüm restaurant.

The audience called for an encore & more brains, wanting her to sing yet again. This time she’d sing about the new law.

She’d prepared a doo-wop for this performance. “Anyone know how to harmonize?” she asked. Everyone just stared at her, zombie-like.

“I doo–” but as soon as Jacob said that, his deteriorating mouth fell off but…

…he kept singing anyways. He couldn’t enunciate. It was awkward. Fed up, Wendy leveled a shotgun at the crowd. “Now listen up!”

Suddenly, a squeaky voice from the back called out, “I do!” The sun blinded her she could not see his face.

So she pulled the trigger. Buckshot severed Danny DeVito’s right arm, but that wouldn’t stop him from harmonizing.

He had trouble holding his notes, though, because of his constant wincing. And that just made Wendy even more irate.

So she instead broke into an interpretive dance. It was magical.

She moved her arms back and forth, up and down, sideways. It was no surprise that the other zombies followed suit. It was Thriller.

As the Zombies did the Thriller dance, Danny DeVito and the rest of the humans saw this as their opportunity to escape captivity.

Danny and the others made a run for it, but the zombies didn’t budge. They were, well, in a Zombie-like trance.

The group of humans reached a field. DeVito looked over his shoulder, seeing Wendy one last time. “I always…

“…wanted to see her dance,” he said. “It was on my bucket list.” He kept running, surprisingly limber for a short, round old guy.

Like a fullback on the Packers he barreled through a field of zombie secondary dropped like bowling pins on a Saturday night.

DeVito and the rest of the humans kept running and running until they reached Mexico. They crossed the border, free at last.

THE END

So it’s been a while since I wrote a story, and I forgot how fun they are. I mean, we had zombies, the Thriller dance, shotguns and Danny DeVito. Too bad Rhea Pearlman didn’t make a cameo. But good for DeVito to escape and finally be able to live a normal life, albeit in Mexico. But hey – it beats living on an organic human farm. Right?

Thanks to everyone who jumped back in and wrote with me. I really appreciate it and hope you had a good time. @Chrisa_Hickey, @officerpupp, @hwtibbs, @Pawela04, @MusicAdamT and @melmo3 – you all are great. And a special shout-out to @AZHockeyNut, who wrote with us for the first time. Hope you join us again. Oh, and for those wondering, I took the photo myself on Halloween on my way home from work. He/She scared the crap out of me.

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John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt

He was banished to the corner. Again. Seems to be the story of his life.

But he refused to wear pants, and they couldn’t force him, even with…

…bacon on the brain. Thoughts not wavering and with a skillet in tow…

…he stuck his finger up his nose and lamented his sad state of affairs.

Since being banished John Jacob had been trying to figure out

just where his life was headed.

At the same time, upon attempting to find bacon and pants…he heard a sound. Or a bang.

Or even possibly, a clang. It had a distinct ring, but not like a bell had rang. It was definitely not a ding.

The source revealed itself as the chef-shaped kitchen timer, which had fallen onto the floor as its time expired.

John Jacob was relieved. He thought it was his German half-brother, Jingleheimer Schmidt, coming back to finish what he started.

You see, Jingleheimer was a big confectioner. And John Jacob preferred savory. So he shuddered whenever his brother baked.

It’s not that he was bad – no, wait. It was. He put Aleppo Pepper in everything. Including the Chocolate-Dipped Spice Twists

that were ready to be taken out of the oven. The timer had been ringing for 22 minutes. But Jingleheimer was still on his run.

“Let the baking BURN!” said John.

And it did. John cackled, then coughed, in the corner, watching the smoke billow out of the oven. But where was Jingleheimer?

And why, pray tell, did he not put on pants before entering the kitchen this morning? The Inpsectors™ were coming by!

He wasn’t the baker in the family, and the last time he took something out of the oven, it was a disaster. His scars proved it…

John reinserted his finger in his nose, his go-to posture for deep thinking.

John probed his sinus cavity for ideas, trudging through lost notions and manic whims before striking a subterranean concept.

“What if Jingleheimer’s hurt?” John thought. He pulled his pants up and made his way through the smoke to go find his brother.

He found him passed out on the floor overcome by the aroma of burnt buns still clutching plans for Jingle’s Bacon Bun Food Truck.

John grabbed Saran Wrap, put it over Jingleheimer’s mouth, poked a hole, and began CPR. (You never know where a Schmidt has been)

While Schmidt was a terrible baker, he was a masterful flirt. It seemed no woman could resist him.

…and into the black Lincoln Town Car he had been using for his burgeoning limo service.

En route to the hospital, Schmidt stirred from the back seat, a low chortle reverberating in his smoke-filled lungs…

“Who’s this freak?” asked the rich lady with the long black veil that John had forgotten was his fare in the back seat.

“And why’d we stop in that driveway?” she continued. “And now where are we going?” John rolled his eyes, then raised the partition.

“Terribly sorry, ma’am, but we’ll have to make one more stop before taking you to the opera. I’m sure we won’t be…”

Saved by the partition. Jingleheimer would have to deal with the lady’s nagging. John turned the radio up. His favorite jam was on

…the dashboard – strawberry, what was left of his lunch. And now it was nearly dawn. “Man, I’m hungry. Wish I had a…

…piece of toast. Or one of Jingleheimer’s Chocolate Dipped Spice Twists.” As if on cue, there was a knock on the partition.

It was Schmidt. He surreptitiously pulled something from his pocket and flung it at john while the lady was on the phone.

John ducked instinctively, and when he did, he yanked the wheel left, crashing into the Oscar Mayer Weinermobile in the next lane.

The Weinermobile immediately burst into flames. “One dog, well done,” muttered John. He could hear Schmidt & the lady yelling…

…in excitement over the prospect of free hot dogs. John Jacob quickly realized his good fortune as well, and he started yelling.

Everyone was yelling happily. John Jacob, Jingleheimer Schmidt and the old lady went in for a group hug. Then for hot dogs.

THE END

 

“John, Jacob, Jingleheimer, Schmidt.” I used to love that song growing up. So I was psyched at the possibilities for where a story about these two brothers could go. And despite their differences, when it came down to it, John Jacob had his brother’s best interests in mind. And they ended up with hot dogs! So lucky!

Lots of new contributors on this one. Thanks to @swcouture for the photo. And to new writers @rookiephenom, @MusicAdamT, @swcouture and @martinbihl. And of course, thank you to regular contributors @FeliciaCago, @Chrisa_Hickey, @swanieson, @Robotstephe, @nella22, @Pawela04 and @hwtibbs. That was a fun story.

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Monkeying Around

There was no announcement, no warning, nothing. One morning, it was just there. But why? And what was it?

From a distance, it had the appearance of a grotesque gingerbread house, one that would haunt the dreams of kids and adults alike.

It was too late. The abstract structure was not art, it was an ad. USP’s had been seeping into their brains.

“Two all beef patties, special sauce, lettuce, cheese, pickles, onions on a sesame seed bun,” sang Igor, in a trance as he walked by.

With the sequence of words the structure started to come to life.

Roaring to life, sugar stalagmites punched up from the ground, and the unmistakable smell of confection surrounded the passerby.

Igor has longed to officially change the lyrics to, “two all beef patties special sauce, special cheese”. Now was his chance.

As Igor sang his revision of the classic, his James Earl Jones-ish voice began to shake the sugar walls of the structure.

As small cracks covered the structure, a haze of sugar crystals rose, filling the clearing. Igor found himself unable to see the

large statue of

the Chief Monkey. Igor knew that 80% of monkeys had never even seen this statue. It was a special day.

With complete reverence, Igor approached the statue. But, as he got closer, the hairs on the back of his knuckles started rising

at the sight of the group of monkeys quickly approaching.

He didn’t recognize them and signaled to Tango, the other sentry on duty. “Tango, head back to the village and find Marrick.”

80% of those monkeys had never even seen a person. Igor was getting nervous.

When Igor got nervous he tended to eat. Unluckily for him all he had to eat was

pie. He always carried a tin of French Silk. As the silky chocolate mousse slithered through his teeth, Tango arrived with Marrick.

“Can I have a piece?” asked Marrick. Tango was none too thrilled, considering the fate of the whole monkey population was at stake.

So Tango reminded Igor and Marrick what they were truly fighting for,

which is their right to manufacture and market their product “Anti Monkey But Powder®” to humans.

With it, they thought, they could change the world. But the statue had other ideas. No way was it going to

stop now. The statue has plans of its own and Igor’s teeth tingled, a sign of danger. But why now?

A earthquake earlier in the week apparently had woke up sleeping monkeys.

The earthquake was so large that it knocked over a chair. Scientists believe this is what caused the monkeys to wake up.

Mango Mama arrived. She had a pot of bok choy, tofu, scallions.”Dinner, dig in!” she yelled. Food smelled good, salty.

Igor, Marrick and Tango started eating, forgetting about statues and monkeys so they could enjoy a good meal. Meanwhile

sugar crystals started to melt and the monkeys want to learn to make fire

Mango Mama stomped in the room, yelled “Clear the table. Wash the dishes.” She whisked the pot away,emptied it.

Mango Mama worried, “Storms coming. Skies are angry.” A clap of thunder roared. Lightning lit the horizon.

As Mango Mama left the kitchen and Igor decided it was time…He knew it from this morning. Today was the day a monkey would

meet a real human. Igor was prepared and had read all about their habits. He quickly went to his room, he needed to warn

the others. But the other monkeys were too busy trying to learn how to make fire. “Guys!” Igor yelled. “What’s with the dancing?”

“Dancing?” Mango Mama began. “Is that all you see? Must you always be so duo-syllabic?”

“Duo-syllabic?” Igor retorted. “Must you always be so quinto-syllabic?” Igor was always good for a snarky comeback.

A shock rippled through Mango Mama’s mohawk. She reached behind her petticoat, and pulled out a tall

glass of pina colada.

She took a sip and offered Igor some. But he was too busy patting Mango Mama’s mohawk, wondering what else she might have in there.

With a unicorn holding the glass with its horn & a glowing rainbow mane hawk. At last!

Yes. At last. Igor had finally found the glass-holding unicorn with the glowing rainbow mane. He had been searching for it since

yesterday. It may be only a day to humans, but to monkeys, it’s more like 3650. Roughly. We never said monkeys were good at math.

His daughter asked him to look for it while she was watching Pokemon.

He lost the glass in a drinking contest to that damned unicorn. Who knew that lone horn would be the difference in flippy cup?

Beer pong was always his game to lose. If only he could convince

Mango Mama to partake in a game. He was certain he could avenge his flippy cup loss. He ran to his home and got some Silo cups.

Then 80% of the World’s monkeys showed up thinking it was a videogame pong contest.

Silo cups were unfortunately in short supply due to the jello shots made earlier that day.

The statue, watching all this happen, contorted. In the center arose a pristine, long wooden table with 10 cups on each side.

Igor went to one side of the table, Mango Mama to the other. Marrick played ref. “Game on!” he yelled. Mango threw the first ball.

She missed. Igor’s turn. He tosses his ball, and it goes right in the back corner cup. 1-0. Mango Mama chugs that cup’s beer.

Bbbbbbllllllllllllrrrrrrppppppppphphphphphppppppp.

She finishes chugging, slams the cup down & wipes her face. Mango Mama’s up. She tosses her next ball. Bam! Right in the front cup.

Wait a minute… Where did all the monkeys go?

The monkeys look on in anticipation as Igor chugs the beer.

Wait a minute… Where did all the monkeys go?

Mango Mama & Igor trade shots. He hits one. She hits one. He misses one. She misses one. And on until they’re down to one cup each.

The monkeys are riveted. Mango Mama’s up. If she hits this shot, it’s over. Igor will never be able to face his daughter again.

She takes her shot. It’s a high arc-er. The ball moves, almost in slow motion. Right at the cup. Is it going to go in?

With a plop it goes in. Igor hangs his head in shame until it bounces back out.

Apparently one of the jello shots made it to the beer pong game.

Igor didn’t care. Because now it was his turn. For all the marbles. Errrr…glass cup. Make this shot, and he can go home.

He throws his ping pong ball. It’s right on target. Could this be it? Could this be the shot that avenges his flippy cup loss?

As an extra surprise the winner flies home on the Unicorn with the rainbow mane.

And the ball misses! Having lost again he flips the table, downs the jello shots and walks away a sore loser.

THE END

So this story brought back memories from college. Monkeys, unicorns, crystals…wait. I mean beer pong and flippy cup. Yeah, that’s it. Our friend Igor could have had a happily ever after, except he sucked at drinking games. Too bad for him. Guess he shouldn’t have been so confident in his abilities. And the photo wasn’t too key in the story. Oh well. I tried to loop it in a little at the end, but let’s face it, beer pong playing monkeys are way more interesting.

Thanks to myself for providing the photo. Ha!

And thanks to all of today’s writers: @Robotstephe, who wrote early and late. @kevinegan80, who made a surprise appearance. @swanieson, who turned Igor from a winner into a loser. @hwtibbs, who brought Tango and Marrick into the story. @Guert, who has an infatuation with 80% of the world’s monkeys. @Pawela04, who jumped in earlier in the day, then came back with the sound of Mama Mango chugging her first beer pong cup. @AnalystQueen, a new writer (we love new writers!), who introduced Mango Mama into the story. @kvpops, another new writer (we love new writers!), who, despite the time difference between here and India and the cultural nuances was able to contribute. @nella22, who writes pretty much every single time, and helped keep the story moving when there was a little bit of a lull. @vnarvasa, who claims she was sober when she wrote her first tweet tonight, yet it made no sense. @1god, another new writer (we love new writers!), who made Igor have something to play for. and @rickmurray, whose MO seems to be to jump in late with a tweet just before going to bed, and this time, he brought college drinking games into the mix.

Good stuff. Thank you all. Like I said, I can’t do this without you guys.

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Feeding Frenzy

He snapped the last button, secured the final strap. The moment he had been practicing for was here.

Peeling himself off the wall was the only hard part about being a spokes banana.

The rest of the job “appeeled” to him so much! The money, the screaming fans, and, most especially, all the fruit he could eat.

He scarfed one more piece of fruit. He was ready. As his entrance music began playing, the crowd started chanting his name.

“Apple! Apple!”

The audience was filled with kids and grownups alike. They had traveled all the way from Southern French Guiana to see Apple.

This was his most important gig yet; his first since signing with Louis Vuitton.

He grabbed the microphone. It smelled like

an exhaust pipe. This instantly reminded him of his uncle Tuck, all those years ago, of that afternoon in the woods.

Apple’s lip quivered at the memory. Uncle Tuck versus a female Grizzly. It hadn’t been a fair fight.

As soon as Uncle Tuck had saw the bear he ran so fast all that could be found of his was a banana peel

And his car’s exhaust pipe. They never did find Tuck. And now Apple couldn’t get the thought of his uncle out of his head.

But still, he had to keep going. He started speaking into the mic. “Are you

ready for dinner, buds?” Apple was the newest zookeeper in the San Diego zoo’s monkey forest. And LV was their new sponsor.

Better monkeys than bears: Tuck was mauled to death during the ’08 recession as the Bear Stearns-sponsored bear (in a bear market).

Apple got along great with primates. All animals, really. His problem was people, especially…

The guy from Chaquita that kept calling to try and sponsor

a new branch of the company that is well known for their bananas.

But he pushed those thoughts aside. “I’m a professional, Dammit.” The light momentarily blinded him, and his throat itched.

Apple clucked his throat to alleviate the itchiness. The monkeys, though, thought it was a mating call.

The lights dimmed, soft carnival music began to play and the room took on the familiar odor of Vaseline and whipped cream.

LV was testing a new fabric, of which Apple’s costume was constructed. Fashioned into a human-sized banana, it was about to

undergo a stress test like no other. The monkeys were hungry. About to tear Apple the human banana to delicious pieces.

LV began by making trunks and travel bags. Was Apple unwittingly wearing what would become his own body bag, or would it hold up?

But before a claw was laid on him, the ghost of Louis Vuitton’s mustache appeared and issued a stern warning.

“Ne pas faire l’amour avec ma banane!”

But the monkeys kept getting closer, ignoring the ghost’s warning. Apple needed to get out of his suit. Fast.

If only he could find the zipper in the blasted suit.

He got to the zipper just before he was taken into the monkeys’ clutches, escaping. The monkeys were left holding a flat banana.

Though he was out of the banana suit he was left with only his

coordinating yellow, LV boxer shorts,

The ones he had been meaning to replace since they had a large

portion missing on the backside due to Apple being a flat banana.

Fortunately, Apple’s endorsement deal included getting a Louis Vuitton logo tattoo back there, so no one was the wiser.

In fact, the display was a great success, winning Apple a coveted VP of Marketing position.

“Congratulations, Apple,” said his boss, Orange. “You showed you could handle the pressure of monkeys during mating season.”

“Now lets see how you handle a friendly round of competitive karaoke.”

They headed to the bar, where Apple wasted no time picked out his favorite jam – “Killing Me Softly” by the Fugees.

Apple and Orange spent the rest of the night battling on the karaoke stage. Anything to get Apple’s mind off of Uncle Tuck.

THE END

 

This one left me wondering a lot of things. We had Apple, the guy dressed in a banana suit, who went from feeding the monkeys at a zoo to becoming the VP of Marketing. Where though? The soo? Louis Vuitton? I will say this – how could you NOT feel for him after what happened to his Uncle Tuck? Wait..what happened to his Uncle Tuck??? So many unanswered questions.

Thanks to @natapava for supplying the photo. She’s a newb, or noob, so we’ll take involvement any way we can get it. And thanks to @swanieson, @courtcan, @Guert, @paulmtracy, @officerpupp, @jimmydoestea, @Pawela04 and @jsetlak for writing today. Special shout-out to @ChrisDavisCW who’s also a noob and added a pretty funny line, as well as @Robotstephe, who saw my karaoke skills firsthand and STILL decided to jump in on a story. I must not have sucked as bad as it sounded to me like I did.

 

 

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A Daughter’s Journey

It had only been a few days since the operation, but Cassidy was finally ready to test her new legs out.

Her movement was shaky, at best. Cassidy discovered her inner beauty after the accident, and she was ready to move on.

She herkily-jerkily stretched out her top right limb and placed it down slowly. It held together, just like the doctors promised.

“We can rebuild you,” they said. “We have the technology.” They were right. Could everything the doctors promised Cassidy be true?

She reached her limb that’s second from the top out and put it down awkwardly, her doctors’ words still fresh. BAM! Two for two.

A sudden gust of wind shook her balance. The door to Utica flung open. She steadied herself, but she was no longer alone.

“Hello?” Cassidy asked timidly. “Anyone there?” No one responded. But she could feel someone, or something, in her presence.

“Surprise!” Thirteen inhabitants spun from the shadows. The Louveen Brothers broke into a bluegrass version of Brass Monkey.

“That’s my song!” screamed Cassidy. She immediately began tapping legs 3 and 7 to the beat, completely engrossed in the music.

Without warning, leg 4 fell off.

One of the Louveen Brothers picked it up and noticed the hollow middle. He dragged his knuckles against it to add more percussion.

A stranger arrived with an octagonal package for Cassidy. The room fell silent. This could only mean one thing.

“My replica UFC octagon!” yelled Cassidy. She had saved up enough UPC points from a summer Pepsi promotion to mail away for it.

It was the final piece for the soft drink flotilla. The partygoers gathered round, anxiously awaiting the sign.

All eyes were on Cassidy as she used legs 1, 3 and 8 to open the package. Just then, black smoke shot out and covered everything.

Awakening. Days later. Miles away, perhaps. In a room full of anarchist arachnids. “Dada?” she asked.

A booming voice echoed around her. “Where’s the package?” it asked. Lightning struck. Cassidy had lost the package in the smoke.

Cassidy didn’t know what to say, so instead she tried to run. Without leg 4, that proved a little difficult as she stumbled.

The lightning struck her 5th leg, and she went flying. “I told you not to come back without the package,” the voice boomed.

“But but but but but…” Cassidy shuddered. She couldn’t even get the words out. “You disobeyed me,” said the voice in anger.

Lightning struck again, this time on Cassidy’s 8th limb. She screamed mercifully. Out of nowhere, the Louveen Brothers appeared.

They broke out into a bluegrass version of Live’s “Lightning Crashes.” Everything came to a halt. The booming voice began sobbing.

Cassidy was sobbing too. “Please, not the bluegrass!” She begged.

“This song reminds me of your inner beauty, Cass,” the voice said in between sobs. It then tried to sing along with the chorus.

Cassidy had finally earned her father’s love & respect. And it only took the Louveen Brothers two covers for it to happen.

THE END

So Twitter was down today. And that, apparently, made it tough to search the storyline. At least that’s what I heard from a few regulars, and I’m sticking to it.

Thanks to @courtcan for the photo that launched this story. Thanks to @jimmydoestea for jumping in right away and to @Pawela04 for going back and forth with me all day. And a quick shout-out @FeliciaCago for the last second line right as I was wrapping up.

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A Witch’s Brew

“Let there be rain!” she declared. To her surprise, it began pouring. Did she really just do that?

She wondered what else her powers could get her. “Let there be shoes,” she cried and there she was, at Manolo Blahnik!

Ellen couldn’t believe it. The correspondence witchcraft course had worked. She’d started it on a whim, but now she had new shoes.

A late night junkie, she was all in after Erik Estrada promised “powers Harry Potter’d be jealous of” between Cosby Show episodes.

It was a wonder she even saw the infomercial. She was working on a thesis about the political meanings of Cosby Show sweaters.

However as she looked around the room at the piles of paper only surpassed by the colors of the sweaters, she felt that she needed

a break, a life, a husband who would fit all these sweaters, she turned to her tv & vanilla frosting when what did she find?

“Claire, is that you?” he exclaimed. “No, I’m not Claire, there’s no more Claire. Only Ellen,” she said as he looked around & saw his sweaters.

Ellen couldn’t believe how well her correspondence witchcraft course worked. First rain. Then Manolo Blahnik. Now Cliff Huxtable?

Cliff went to Ellen’s door and immediately began trying to fix her doorbell. Meanwhile, Ellen wanted to keep testing her powers

“Let there be music!” Immediately, a shortish man in a suit appeared behind her, holding a boombox. It was playing a mix of…

bluegrass and whale songs.

The suited man reached in his trouser pocket and pulled out a small bag that resembled Michael Gross. He handed it to her.

She took the bag and examined its contents: one marble, a Slim Jim, and some weed. “Yep,” she thought, “Michael Gross.”

Not knowing who Michael Gross was she waved her hand & turned the bag to look like the judges on @NBCthevoice @ceelogreen 1st side.

“Crap!” yelled Ellen. She loved Gross, the Family Ties dad, ever since last week’s marathon. Elsewhere, Cliff tested the doorbell.

The sky open and thunder shook Ellen’s windows. Lightening hazed her vision momentarily. Coming to, she realized all was taken away.

Lacking a pure heart, Ellen had only temporary magic. She needed to find the only one who could purify sins: Patty Blagojevich.

Patty was nestled in the corner booth at Harold’s Chicken Shack on East 53rd street, reading palms as usual.

Ellen headed to Ravenswood to track down Patty. She’d certainly be home from her reality show foray by now.

Ellen found a note on the Blagojevich’s door: “Will return by 3. On the south side getting chicken & a weave for Rod.” She sighed.

Ellen stammered as she approached Patti, “I… I just…” The two locked eyes. “It’s fine,” Patti said. “You can touch my bangs.”

Ellen didn’t want to touch the hair but cut it. The crisp hair, the faint scent of AquaNet – perfect for her next potion.

Ellen shook Patty’s hand, remarked how it resembled a man’s hand then left. She only needed two more ingredients for her potion.

With Cliff still at the house messing with the doorbell & entertaining CeeLo & The Voice judges, Ellen was in no rush to get home.

So she continued on her quest to find the other 2 ingredients for her potion. Up next: a blobfish fin.

The blobfish had been known to frequent the Redwood Tap, so that was her first stop.

Ellen, forgetting her witchcraft powers, texted “Redwood Tap Chicago” to G-O-O-G-L-E to find its address. She awaited the response.

Google texted back:

Ellen thought maybe she misheard the bar’s name. But she trekked to Elgin anyway.

Ellen got there, but alas, no blobfish. “Wrightwood Tap, not Redwood,” said a Komondor bellied up to the bar taking whiskey shots.

Not to be out done, ellen asked the bartender for the rest of the bottle of whiskey, and started drinking it like bottled water…

After chugging a bottle of Early Times, Ellen set her sights on the Wrightwood Tap. Drunk, she called Cliff to drive her there.

Cliff was busy testing the doorbell, so when his “Get Low” ringtone went off, he barely heard it over the barrage of ding dongs.

Cliff picked up just in time. “Be there in an hour,” he said. “Nope, haven’t fixed it yet.” He hung up and headed out to get Ellen.

Cliff got to a drunk Ellen right as she and the Komondor started karaoke. “Let’s go find your blobfish,” Cliff said. Ellen burped.

Cliff gave Ellen coffee to sober her up for the drive. Pulling up to the Wrightwood Tap, they saw the slimy fish at the jukebox.

“Hey blobfish,” Ellen slurred when she got inside. “I need your fin.” Meanwhile, Cliff asked the bartender if they had a doorbell.

The blobfish, tired of being harrassed for his bloblike body, acquiesced. Ellen burped again, took his fin and dragged Cliff away.

Onto the 3rd and final ingredient – a lemon. Ellen told Cliff to take her to Jewel. “You don’t need more alcohol,” he said.

They got to Jewel, and Ellen went to the produce aisle. Cliff, however, went to find the manager to ask if they had a doorbell.

Ellen grabbed a ripe lemon, paid for it, then dragged Cliff away again. She needed to get home to look at her Potions 401 syllabus.

They made it home, and Ellen looked at her notes on making a potion. Cliff went back to doorbell, while she got the cauldron out.

She dumped the ingredients in the cauldron – Patty Blagojevich’s bangs, a blobfish fin and a lemon – heated it up and stirred it.

Ellen stirred the mixture until became a frothy liquid. She poured it in an old flower vase because she didn’t have any beakers.

Now, the final exam. If the potion worked, Ellen would receive a certificate of completion from the witchcraft school.

She followed the exam’s directions, which said to pour the potion on a sheet of paper. She had no idea what would happen.

Almost instantly, the paper began smoking. Ellen was riveted. Cliff, not so much. He kept working the doorbell, oblivious.

The paper was now shaking before morphing into a person. But not just anyone – Erik Estrada. “Congratulations,” he said to Ellen.

He handed Ellen a certificate of course completion. She was a certified witch! She jumped for joy, only to be interrupted by Cliff.

“I fixed it,” he said. Ellen had lost her patience. “Abracadabra Alakazam, get rid of this annoying man.” And poof! He was gone.

If only she could find a potion now to stop the doorbell from ringing.

Ellen practiced her witchcraft all night. The only time she stopped was to order the Slap Chop, a Snuggie and Nutrisystem.

THE END

This was a fun one. I loved it. And no, it doesn’t have anything to do with me writing about the last 20 tweets. Someone had to get a drunk Ellen home safely. Anyway, there were a lot of great pop culture references in this story, from Cliff Huxtable to Michael Gross (Family Ties’ Mr. Keaton) to Patty Blagojevich’s bangs. Who knew Ellen would need those precious locks?

Thanks for writing, everyone. I’m especially honored that my old co-worker @Pawela04 jumped in. He tweeted four lines, and those four tweets were his first four tweets. EVER. That’s pretty cool. Also, thanks to @BlackDreams for the continuous plugs. It’s always nice to have a more ambassadors. Hopefully she’ll pick up the little nuances the more she contributes. And I could never do this without my reliable stable of writers @kikiandkyle, @hwtibbs, @FeliciaCago, @jimmydoestea and @thatgirlmari – you guys save me and make the stories so good. So thanks for humoring me and writing time and time again. And to @swanieson – you managed to sneak a line in just in time!

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