Splotchy’s Viral Theatre



Apparently this “viral story” originated from someone named “Splotchy.” I have no fucking idea who they are or what a “Splotchy” is, but how many people know the person from whom the HPV they now carry originated either? You just take your lumps (Or warts), and move on in Life.

What else can a brother do?

Special thanks to the Academy, Chuck Norris, Wayne Gretsky, Hugh Beaumont, my Seventh grade English teacher with the Huge Tits sans Bra (Huge Fuckers, and Firm. Damn!).

Oh, and Commander Other.

*From what I’ve seen, this story is fucked up beyond all recognition because it’s being randomly passed around, so, I apologize if there are pieces missing.

I woke up hungry. I pulled my bedroom curtain to the side and looked out on a hazy morning. I dragged myself into the kitchen, in search of something to eat. I reached for a jar of applesauce sitting next to the sink, and found it very cold to the touch. I opened the jar and realized it was frozen. (Splotchy)

“That’s strange,” I said out loud to no one in particular. My fingers slowly reached towards the jar again. My body experienced a wave of apprehension as weighted blanket covering me as I did so. The jar was completely frozen. I picked it up and stared at it, my fingers stung with little knives of chill. “What the…” again I spoke aloud. Then I realized what had happened with a shock. Suddenly the jar flew from my hand. It shattered creating a collage-like mixture of frozen applesauce and glass shards on my kitchen floor, the lid lazily rolling to a stop across the room. (FranIam)

She flicked the lid with her massive big toe. “So, I guess I’ll be having another Camel for breakfast and you’ll be having a breakfast date with the Electrolux.” She lit her Camel cigarette as she turned to open the closet door where we kept the vacuum. “In case you’re wondering how the applesauce got frozen, I seem to recall you insisting that I stick it in the freezer before we went to bed last night.” She pushed the Electrolux at me and it squooshed through the rapidly unfreezing applesauce and the glass shards. “This kind of crap happens all the time when we go drinking with the Brazilians.” (Dr. Monkey)

Suddenly, the front door erupted in an explosion of wood splinters. “Jesus in a bucket! They’ve found me!” I thought as I dove out the kitchen window. My experiments with frozen applesauce, Camel cigarettes and Electrolux vacuum cleaners were supposed to be a secret, but, apparently, they weren’t as secret as I had thought. What would happen if the formula fell into the wrong hands? All my work, for naught! Who had leaked the information? Was it her? Or possibly one of the Brazilians? “Now the damned Department of Homeland Security will ruin everything I’ve worked so hard to achieve!” was the last thing that went through my mind before I was surrounded. (Enriched Geranium)

Totally surrounded, I might add, by secret service agents. A childish gray-haired man stepped between them. He walked as if he were hiding an eight ball in his trousers. Stepping nearer I saw an actual eight ball, (pool table, not drugs) fall out his pant leg. Bruised, a little bloody and a lot confused, I still thought “some guys just can’t deal with their shortcomings”.

“Where’s Pickles?” short and arrogant demanded of me.

“Pickles?” First Brazilians, now pickles, Camel cigarettes and an electrolux? Sweet jesus on a popsicle stick help me make sense of this.

“I know yer shaggin’ Laura. She said you’re into the brazillian. I’d have ta be preznit for another eight years before I had brazillians and brazillians of dollars”. He looked sad. “I bet she tried her erotic applesauce trick on you.” Eeugh. She did try the erotic applesauce trick on me. But I didn’t know I was whispering sweet nothings into the ear of the First Lady. In the snowdrift outside the kitchen window he saw the Camel butts. “Camels! Ha! I knew she switched from Pall Malls for a reason. It’s you. Buddy, I have half a mind to punish you in ways you will never forget. (Jess Wundrun)

“Buddy, you have half a mind,” I responded dead-pan, surreptitiously checking my back pocket for my trusty old .45. It was still there. Warm, silent and deadly. Oh yeah, and unloaded. It’s rather dangerous to sleep with a loaded .45 in your back pocket, after all.

“Don’t even think about it,” one of the short guy’s henchmen barked. And I do mean, literally, “barked”. One of those kind of henchmen. “Toss it over here, you commie scum.”

I tossed at his feet, then did my best drop-and-roll, coming up with the short guy’s eight ball in my right hand. Pausing for a quick calculation of vastly improbable trajectories and velocities, I hurled the ball as hard as I could towards the edge of the countertop, from where it rebounded directly off barking-boy’s forehead and made a quick tour of the other agents, knocking them all out cold before coming to a rest at my feet. I stooped to retrieve it, then held it out to the short guy. “I believe this is yours, little man,” I said coolly.

“Whut? Naw, that ain’t mine. Why on earth would Ah put an eight ball in mah shorts?” He was obviously dazed—perhaps even bespelled—by my magical display of ball-tossing. What a poor, simple-minded little man. Completely helpless without his strings being pulled. Sighing, I made a decision. Perhaps it was being in the presence of the supposed Decider himself. Who knows. Anyway, I did it, and the doing of it was something that promised to change both our lives. “Well, let’s get going, sir. There’s someone I want you to meet.”

“Whut? It’s only 9:00! Ah don’t get mah spankin’ from Condee until elebbin!”

“No, not her. Someone else. Someone you don’t realize has secretly had a crush on you for years.”(Commander Other)

Turning to leave, I tossed the eight-ball into the air, where it landed on the couch. I took the President’s elbow and nudged him toward the door. But before we could step two feet out into the cold winter air, the eight-ball exploded. Shards of black and white splintered toward the ceiling and back down onto our heads.

Luckily for me I was wearing my “Applesauce Addiction 12-Step Program” hat, because those shards were burning! I ducked through the doorway and looked back: The President’s hair had slowly started sizzling. He stood with his usual doofus grin and stuttered, “But I thought I was gonna get to meet me a new filly! Where’d she go? Does she think burning hair is sexy?” (NotSoccer Mom)

As I stood there watching the imbecile’s hair smolder, I remembered I had a bag of marshmallows in the car.

“Sit down, and don’t move. I’ll be right back.”


I race to the car to retrieve the marshmallows, and just as I turn back ready to enjoy a nice snack, things, as they often do when Chimpy’s involved, completely fall apart.

Chimpy’s hair is an inferno, and the stupid shit continues to sit there, not moving a muscle.

“Wha’…huh…uh…eh…?,” he mutters, “Muh hair’s gone nuculur.”

I rush toward him, against my better judgment, to extinguish the flames.

“You’re a goddamned idiot, and if I could I’d let you burn, but until I get the answers I’m after, I need your sorry ass.”

I push him to the ground, but before I stomp out the flames, I pull a Camel from my pocket, and light up off the top of his head.

“I guess you’re good for something after all.”

Once the fire is extinguished, Chimpy starts rolling around on the drive grabbing at his charred skull, which now resembles a melted circus peanut with a bunch of gravel, and random strands of hair stuck to it.


“Damn dude, you’re fucked up. There’s no way in Hell you’re riding in my car like that. You’ll stick to the head rest like a piece of bubble gum, and I just cleaned the interior. I even vacuumed… wait…Eureka! I’ve got it.”

I race to the trunk, and there she is staring up at me like a long lost friend, my Electrolux. I quickly remove the bag, and hand it to the Chimpster.

“Here Chimpy, put this on over your head, and no matter what do not take it off or I’ll be forced to turn you over to the Brazillians.”

I throw Chimpy in the backseat, and I jump behind the wheel.

“Wha’, wha’, wha’ are yuh gonna do ta muh?”

“I’ll do whatever it takes to make you talk Chimpy, even if I have to shove that Electrolux up your ass, and turn you into a popsicle. But first we have to stop by Citgo. I’m out of Pickles and Applesauce.” (fairlane)

I’m supposed to pass this on, but I have no idea who already has it, and who doesn’t.

If you’re interested, please help yourself. This story deserves an ending.

(Addendum) I’ve been advised to pass this on to the one, and only Distributor Cap.

DCNY- It’s all yours my brother.


~ by fairlane on December 9, 2007.

16 Responses to “Splotchy’s Viral Theatre”

  1. You really don’t know Splotchy? You should. He knows his way around the world of music too. Check him out.

    And this story does deserve something- I hope someone picks it up. Whether or not that happens, I will forever be “praising” the Burning Bush image! And the electrolux bad image that follows.

  2. I look like an idiot (fortunately to no one, but myself) for laughing out loud, even now. Oh, Oh, I don’t think DCap has caught this thing and I have been eying him for this “Pickles” strand.

    Someone keep it going. This one is brilliant, I heartily agree with Fran that Fairlane, you and Splotchy should blog meet (If you have a strand, he’ll be around shortly, don’t you worry,) unless that is akin to a meeting of matter and anti-matter. (I’m not sayin’which is which, nor would I know.)

  3. I’m tempted to make an amusing comment but all I can think of is..
    what the duck?

  4. I should have tagged one of these guys, what was I thinking. This is is an excellent rendition.

  5. A classic Fairlane. I’m glad someone tagged you. I avoid it because when I make eye contact with you, you ask me to write something.

    Yeah, boss, yeah.

    (hugs, cause I know you love ’em)

  6. From frozen applesauce to the burning Chimp. This was fucking great. I love reading all the weirdass brainwork of you internets loons.

  7. Lighting a camel with the top of W’s smoldering head? Brilliant.

  8. “Muh hair’s gone nuculur.”

    holy cow this was hysterical! i don’t know how it even got to you from me, but thank god it did. you’re an excellent writer and comedian.

  9. Quite lovely!

    For the record, I have no idea what a Splotchy is, either.

    Thanks for being infected.

  10. tonight the story shall continue

  11. Is it going to be made into a movie? 🙂

  12. This is getting funnier as I’m following it. Somehow I had the feeling that it was going to come down to Bush.

    You did a great job, fairlane!

  13. the story has reach its exciting climax……..

  14. Fran- No, I do not know Splotchy, but I have a feeling in a moment I will.

    Frieda- For some strange reason, I think Splotchy, and I are destined to meet.

    I have passed it on to DCNY per your request.

    Susan- I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again, sometimes you just have to throw, and caution to the wind, and say, “Duck It!”

    Wyld- Glad to make your acquaintance. Come back anytime.

    DCap- It’s either that or say something that might result in a slap across my face.

    Besides, we love your posts.

    Randal- On behalf of Internets Loons everywhere, I thank you kind sir.

    PNYC- That was a last second edition. I’m glad you approve.

    NotSoccerMom- In these worrisome times, I do what I can.

    Splotchy- I think a couple of people were wanting us to meet.

    Nice to meet you.

    DNCY- And what an interesting finish it was.

    I would have guessed the Butler in the Billiard’s Room, not the Applesauce on the Distributor Cap.

    PoP- Only if it’s a movie based on a true story.

    ME- You’re making me blush.

  15. Fairlane, I was feeling sorry for myself a bit too much after my last job went sour. Then I lost the meds and the ability to concentrate for longer than a rhesus monkey with a crack habit.

    Now that I have a job I’m starting to get the meds bought again and thinking about writing again.

    I’m posting a poem next. Does posting a poem on the internet count as a copyright in de facto or is it just silly to even ask the question?

    Gods bless you, Fairlane.

  16. RP= I think anything posted on a website is automatically copyrighted.

    As for life, yeah, it can be a real mother fucker sometimes.

    I’m glad to see you around again.

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