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Lowlander presents: Spongehead and the X-Men
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  • Rants
    4

    Right. So you all know what this is if you've been following Covered_In_Sponges excellent fan fiction threads. If not, you're probably wondering what the foxtrot this sierra is. Well, quite simply, you should check the original versions of these episodic missives here...

    http://boards.adultswim.com/topic/18481/covered_in_sponges-drags-the-x-men-through-various-alternate-universes-the-series-season-2?page=1

    ...and directly compare them to the posts that I've created this thread to hold. Seriously, you'll get a lot more out of a side by side comparison of the two versions. In doing so, I hope that you'll find out a lot about the process of collaborative fiction writing and be genuinely entertained by both the original and the content and clarity edited versions of Sponges' tales that I'll be posting here.

    I mentioned this in Covered_In_Sponges' thread, and I cannot stress this point enough: it takes a lot of time and effort to write. I hope you appreciate what's going on here, but more importantly, I hope you find it as thought-provoking, educational, and fun as I found it to be when I wrote these posts.

    As always, comments are welcome.

    Oh, and a last word of warning, some of the content in these posts may not be appropriate for all readers.

    PARENTAL DISCRETION IS ADVISED FOR READERS/USERS UNDER THE AGE OF 14.

    I have done my utmost to uphold the terms of service with these compositions, but obviously, if there's something outright unacceptable, please let me know and I will edit the content appropriately.

    Thanks and enjoy!

    ASMB Member since March 23, 2004.
    If brevity is the soul of wit, then abbreviation is the death of the soul.


  • Rants
    1

    Episode 1: X-Men: No Class

    “Oh my god, it’s finally winter break!” Jubilee ejaculated with all the enthusiasm of an archetypal American teenager with limited interest and self-worth.

    Clad in her usual under-laundered yellow raincoat, she was first student to burst out of the door of Dr. McCoy’s classroom and into the well-appointed corridor of Professor Xavier’s Connecticut mansion. Small streams of sparks flashed excitedly from her fingertips, which was unfortunate because the triple bean burrito she had had for lunch caused her to unexpectedly and violently fart in her excitement. The ignited gases singed her white cotton panties and left a black web of burnt denim on the seat of her pants that she hastily covered with her hands. Prodigy, who was the next student to exit, had the unfortunate luck to feel the full force of the young lady’s anal explosion in his general direction and, after dodging the blue puff of fire, began furiously gesticulating in an effort to dispel the noxious vapors.

    After a moment of controlled giggling, the other students filed out of the classroom in turn. They chattered like game hens about the plans they had made for the upcoming holiday weeks, one-upping each other in fierce peer competition that belied their personal inadequacies. As gifted as they were, the students were still teenagers and no matter what they had experienced in their lives leading up to that moment, they were still as insecure, uncertain, and petty as every other member of their age group. Their immature prattling filled the halls as they clamored down the hallways toward the dormitory wing.

    I lagged behind the main group in order to escape still more of Bobby’s insensitive remarks about my inability to maintain an erection and turned to see the smiling faces of my fellow members of the XAV club waiting for the others to leave beside the threshold. As the din of retreating students faded into unintelligible echoes, I told my friends I would meet up with them by the dumpster behind the 7/11 in an hour and walked back into the classroom.

    Dr. McCoy was busy gathering up his teaching supplies and loading them into a sizable leather valise that sat propped open on his worn mahogany desk. I watched him work silently; observed the interplay of air currents over his thick, blue fur as he worked and wondered if the twelve inch flexible double-ender that he had confiscated from Marie the night of the fire drill was still in the valise underneath all of the good professor’s physics textbooks.

    “Ah, Mr. Spongehead,” he said with a polite flash of pointed teeth that never failed to remind me of the look of puzzled majesty on the countenance of the alpha male lion I had seen at the Bronx Zoo as it took a massive dump on the Dora the Explorer knapsack I had swiped from my sister and thrown over the fence. “Several of my students have told me some very… interesting things about a recent adventure you led them on,” he added with an air of calculated reticence.

    “Well, hopefully they only told you the good parts…” I replied with a slight shrug as I thought to myself, “...and not the part about how we all were banned from Hot Topic on Earth 3 for unrelentingly sexually harassing the register girl with the blue hair, the lazy eye, and the fabulous rack that even Kitty said she’d be willing to motorboat.”

    “Theoretically,” Dr. McCoy continued as he sorted the last of his paperwork into several manila files and stacked them neatly on the corner of his desk, “couldn’t you have simply chosen to appear in a universe in which there were no bad parts for them to inform me about?” He stared at me for a moment. His deep, pondering eyes seemed to be searching for the truth of me, but I knew all too well that his ability to smell and decode the pheromones wafting off of my body told him more than either his keen eyes or his hirsute ears ever could.

    “I left all of my Magic: The Gathering Cards in this universe.” I glibly confessed. “Seriously: you don’t know how good you have it here. Not only is there a wider variety of anti-fungal creams but most of the Americas in the other universes have outlawed internet porn.” I wiped the thread of drool that had started to climb down from the corner of my mouth up into my vacuous face and asked, “You uh… duh… I mean; can I give you a hand with some of those files?”

    “It’s cool, I got them,” said Kitty Pryde as she stepped out from the wall behind Dr. McCoy. Her lithesome form shimmered almost imperceptibly for a split second and I became uncomfortably aware of a tingling sensation in my nether regions. Fortunately, Bobby’s jokes were accurate for the most part and there was little chance I would suffer the embarrassment of an unwanted erection, even in the face of such impressive stimulation.

    Kitty carried another, almost identical, pair of folders and, at a sign from Dr. McCoy, added them to the stack on his desk. Dr. McCoy thanked her with a nod and, after sweeping the files up into the armpit of his tastefully tailored three-piece suit, where they were certain to attain an odor than not even the most powerful deodorizing agents in any universe could ever fully efface, gestured for us to leave.

    The three of us walked at an even pace toward the offices in the scholastic wing of the mansion. As we passed the men’s room, a smell of burning marijuana drifted past us. For her part, Kitty was unperturbed by the scent. I, however, was deeply concerned: if the faculty suspected for a second that I had once again illegally imported another key of Ultra-Mexican hyper-weed from the cartels of Earth 7, then I would face almost certain suspension and another of Professor X’s long diatribes about the dangers of introducing exotic species into a non-native environment.

    If he had noticed it, and I was certain he did, it was of less consequence to Dr. McCoy than the matter at hand. “So,” he ventured, “I gather you’ve come here to watch as we’re beset upon by dinosaurs again?”

    A handful of younger students were daringly taping up a crude doodle they’d drawn of Ms. Monroe trapped inside of a coffin with panic on her violently scribbled face to the front of her classroom door. Inside, she was approaching us at a good pace, but as yet was still oblivious of the ne’er-do-wells at work and I couldn’t help but notice the accuracy with which the three boys had depicted her firm, milk chocolate jugs.

    “Wow, how did you guess?” I lied as we stepped through the doorway at the end of the hall.

    “Well, I’m out then,” said Ms. Monroe as she passed. “I’ve dealt with enough angry, horny dinosaurs for one lifetime.” As Dr. McCoy turned to watch her go, she flashed a meaningful look back at him that suggested an unsavory encounter I had never before imagined.

    “I’ll say,” agreed Kitty as we passed beneath the bronze bust of Professor Xavier into the main office.

    Inside, Scott Summers and Jean Grey pulled files from one of the large cabinets that populated the back of the office. As the sunglasses-attired man sorted the documents on a table, his paramour bent over to retrieve more paperwork from a low drawer and afforded us all an excellent view of her magnificent rear end. Across from them, Logan leaned lazily on a counter top with a cup of coffee in his leathery hands and brazenly leered at Jean’s taut buttocks as well.

    “Duh… wow… I mean, hey guys!” I cheerfully said.

    Kitty and Dr. McCoy joined the others at the filing cabinets and set to sorting them into the drawers when Jean wasn’t in the way. They all nodded to me and continued with their work: work that I couldn’t help but suspect would have been more efficient had they just passed the files between each other instead of immediately and counterproductively sorting them into the cabinets first.

    “So, der… Anybody got any fun plans for the break?” I asked in my most casual voice.

    “As a matter of fact, yes,” Jean sarcastically replied as she shut the filing drawer hard on Dr. McCoy’s massive arm. He reflexively let out a small yelp of protest, but everyone there knew that he couldn’t have been injured. “We have essays to grade,” she explained, “lesson plans to finalize for next semester, and I’m reasonably sure that we’re going to have to renovate the dorm bathrooms ourselves because none of the outside contractors we’ve hired to do it in the past are willing to work for us ever again.” She sauntered over to the middle of the room and cast a not wholly disapproving glare at Logan who quietly took a sip of his coffee as he turned his gaze away from the straining tightness of the buttons on her lemon colored blouse.

    “Don’t you wish you could just, get away from it all for a few days?” I asked. “Maybe you could take a nice, little tropical vacation for yourself… maybe?” It sounded like a weak pass at her.

    “We don’t have time for that type of thing,” Scott interjected with evident ire. Paperwork in hand, he joined Jean at the table by Logan, sent him an equally irksome look, and opened the top folder of his stack. He removed a red pen from his shirt pocket, flourished it menacingly, and started to read through the first packet of term papers. I had been in Mr. Summers’ class on geopolitical trends last semester and he had expressed his disapproval of my final thesis “The Blindness of the Free Market Economy to the Needs of the American Public” by dying almost every page with sanguine ink.

    “It wouldn’t take any… derp…. time at all, really,” I warily suggested as I picked up the coffee pot and poured myself a cup. As I emptied a dozen creamer cups into the drink, Logan shook his head at me in disapproval. “What can I say,” I explained, “I like my coffee like I like my women.”

    “Don’t let Storm hear you talking like that,” cautioned Jean with a maternal air. “She’s already thinking about going to the NAACP to protest the lack of diversity in this school.”

    “She’s right too,” Logan grunted.

    I took a sip of coffee and, surprised at the taste of it, looked into the cup to see that the creamer I had added to it had curdled. As I put the cup down in disgust, a glimmer of a smile crossed Logan’s lips.

    “Anyways,” I continued unabated, “like I was saying, you know? If you let me, I could actually get you guys back here moments before you even left. In fact, I could time it so that when you guys walked into the room, you were all already in here grading the last of the papers. How does that sound?”

    “That sounds like a contradiction to everything we know about the current laws of physics and space-time as a closed system,” replied Dr. McCoy. He had stopped filing papers and stared at me as he added, “I, for one, would love to observe something like that.”

    “Plus, having doubles of ourselves would certainly help us get these things graded faster,” agreed Jean. A strand of her fabulous hair had drifted out of the bun she had put it in and she unconsciously chewed on it as she spoke. Not for the last time, I found myself intensely focused on the way that her mouth worked when there was something in it.

    “Yeah, and the whole ‘tropical vacation’ part of it: let’s not forget about that,” remarked Kitty.

    “That’s the part I trust the least,” replied Scott. I could tell that he was still bitter from earlier. To him, a tropical vacation with me as the tour guide meant worrying about what was happening while he was away as the rest of us ogled the girls in their bikinis. “So what’s the catch?” he asked.

    “No catch,” I innocently assured him. “Just a couple of days of fun in the sun on an exclusive island resort-”

    “What island?” Scott suspiciously interrupted.

    “It’s off Costa Rica," I began. "The beautiful and exotic Isla Nublar-”

    “No thanks,” Scott said with finality as he turned back to his work. “I’m not going to run from goddamned dinosaurs again.”

    “Oh come on,” I whined. “We’re going to be going in… like, a…. duh… month or two before Hammond brought in visitors.
    You know, when everything was still running smoothly and the biggest problem was some handler getting s---faced on madeira and having his head ripped off because he threw up into the original velociraptor pen. It’s going to be so great you guys! They have a… duh… huge… uh… water park, an 18-hole golf course, a freaking gondola, AND f---ing dinosaurs. Seriously you… uh…. guys! Why aren’t we on our way there right now?” I looked to Logan for some spark of enthusiasm on his grim, ageless face.

    “Come on, this sounds fun, right?” I finished like a junior varsity cheerleader who was trying to convince one of the other girls that Tad wasn't good enough for her even though she'd played with his thing under the bleachers when they were supposed to be off buying art supplies for the FBLA homecoming parade float.

    “Yeah, why the hell not,” he said gruffly. “I’m in.”

    “I must admit,” Dr. McCoy ventured, “I’m quite intrigued by the prospect of ‘quantum leaping’ into Jurassic Park. But how would the people there react to my blue, furry self? Mutants were still unheard of in 1993. Would the park workers still let me onto the water slides?”

    “Don’t worry about it,” I assured him, “I can totally take us to a universe with a mutant friendly Jurassic Park.”

    “Wow, Professor McCoy,” Kitty sycophantically goggled, “I can’t wait to see how you look on the beach!”

    “Same here,” said Dr. McCoy with a slight chuckle. Kitty blushed slightly and he quickly turned back to his files when he understood how she had interpreted his remark. At the table with Jean, Scott shuffled his paperwork around importantly and muttered something unintelligible to her under his breath.

    She frowned.

    “Well, all right, then,” Dr. McCoy said with his most erudite tones. “You can count me in too. Theoretically, if the other universe is identical to ours except for the fact that mutants are openly accepted by society, then I think we have a moral obligation investigate it. We could learn much there about ourselves as well as how mutant tolerance was achieved.”

    “Professor,” Kitty carefully asked, “would you want to live there?”

    “I’ve thought about such a place for many years,” Dr. McCoy mused, “but I realized long ago that my place is here and that it is my responsibility to strive for equality here, not to laze in some idyll far from ignorant minds in need of opening.”

    I didn’t give two s---s about what Dr. McCoy was talking about. I had spent the last few minutes mentally imagining Jean and Kitty spread eagle on lounge chairs spreading sunscreen onto each other’s upper thighs while Scott waited at the bar for another half-dozen Harvey Wallbangers. Glistening, firm, well-manicured fingers frantically rubbing thick, white paste up and down their firm legs, probing ever closer to the most secret of places…

    I was disturbed from this moment of erotic reverie by the sudden realization that no one was speaking and all eyes, even Scott’s bespectacled ones, had turned to me.

    “Well,” I drawled for time in which to think of something convincing to say, “I probably have a moral obligation to go to all of the universes out there and try to put the flames out. I mean, there are an infinite number of them out there, right? Uh… because everything exists, you know, forever and ever in… duh… all directions. I mean, yeah! I could just transport every mutant from this universe into one of the infinite others out there. But… uh… you’d all be the doppelgangers of yourselves. I could swap you out with your counterpart, but that’d be another moral quandary, right? Would any of you willingly subject your other self to all of the… uh… negativity you would be attempting to escape?”

    The teachers’ faces were blank stares; all except for Logan’s who I like to think had shared in my vision of Jean and Kitty on the cusp of an earth-shattering lesbian encounter and had lost himself in it as he stared at the dregs at the bottom of his coffee cup. For her part, I was glad that Kitty still had some interest in my plan. "Soon..." I thought to myself.

    “Scott, Jean,” Dr. McCoy said at last. “Are the two of you coming?”

    “Come on, Scott,” Jean insisted. “I think it could be fun. We don’t even have to look at the dinosaurs. We could just relax by the pool or go snorkeling, or play water polo.”

    “I don’t care for watersports,” Scott grumbled unhappily. If nothing else, the man was consistent.

    “Or you could explore the genetic labs,” I hastily suggested. “And the whole island is a massive botanical garden full of rare and formerly extinct species. Dude, you can even go to the spa all day. In fact you could just spend the entire vacation there and leave the rest of us to do those things you don’t want to like watersports.” Another long strand of drool had descended from my mouth at this last. Using a practiced motion, I swept it up into the sponge that is my head as discretely as possible. If the others had seen it, they made no indication that they had.

    “In fact,” I unctuously enthused, “call room service and have them feed you while you’re getting a three-hundred dollar massage from a ninety-two pound Chilean girl who knows how to... uh... walk on your back! Baby, we’re goin’ all out.”

    “All right, fine.” Scott said with a sigh. “Jean and I will come along too.” Jean looked lovingly into his eyes and hugged his arm endearingly. I wondered to myself if he ever let her go down on him because her sudden mood change certainly suggested that she would be more than willing to.

    “God damn it, Spongehead!” shouted Professor Charles Xavier as his hover chair drifted lazily into the office and gently bumped the counter top where Logan had still been off in his own thoughts. “Where are you taking them this time?”

    “Oh, man. You are totally coming with us too,” I chortled as he stopped to float among us. “But you’ll have to switch back to a wheelchair just in case we need to cut all of the lines!”

    ASMB Member since March 23, 2004.
    If brevity is the soul of wit, then abbreviation is the death of the soul.


  • Banned
    2

    Stop stealing other people's thunder.

    Hail to the king.


  • Rants
    1

    Episode 2: God Kills, Man Loves, Woman Inherits the Earth

    “Duh Duhh, duh Duhh! Duh-duh-duhhhh -duh-duh DUH-DUHHH!!!” I bellowed with wide eyes and a stupid expression on my prodigious, water-absorbent face. Huge flecks of spittle spewed forth from my weirdly misshapen lips to land in a sticky mess on Scott Summers’ blue leggings.

    When I inhaled deeply in preparation of the next few bars, I choked on my own drool and sputtered violently. The other X-Men in the InGen helicopter had been sitting in annoyed silence. But, at the sight of my violent convulsions, Jean Grey unfastened her seat belt and sprang to my assistance. Her vast bosom was mere inches from my eyes as she leaned in close, lifted my head in her delicate hands and asked, “Spongehead! Are you having another episode?”

    “If it stops him from singing that awful song,” volunteered Scott, “then, I say let him be, Jean.” He had been fidgeting the entire ride and generally insufferable to be around. However, I took a smug sense of satisfaction from his inability to tie the two female parts of his seatbelt in a knot and secure himself when the helicopter had started its rough descent.

    “I hope… duh… intended to,” I replied when I had regained enough control that I could speak. The helicopter bounced up and down more violently as it dropped through more of the updrafts. This had the splendid effect of causing Jean to lean in even closer to where I was seated and I could feel the cotton of her top brush my nose. Outside, the magnificent, lichen-riddled and ivy-lined cliffs above the island’s heliport plummeted by spectacularly. I however, had eyes only for the alluring sights that jiggled and shook right in front of my face.

    I nestled there for a moment until Jean regained her balance and straightened up. “Lighten up, Scott,” she admonished her boyfriend, “and try to be a little more understanding of what others are feeling.” Then, with a quick, playful wink at me, she sat back down next to him.

    “This turbulence is quite erratic and very upsetting,” observed Dr. McCoy. “Someone should go check on the professor.”

    “You were the one who insisted he leave his hover chair, Spongehead,” Scott coldly reminded.

    “No, no,” insisted Kitty, “I’ll go and see if he’s all right back there in the cargo hold.”

    “He is,” Jean said simply.

    Suddenly, clouds parted in my mind and the glee of realization bore up my thoughts like a phoenix on the rise. Jean Grey was a mind reader as well as a telekinetic! I had forgotten that once again. The salacious thoughts about her that had raged like rapids in my stream of consciousness were known to her!! And what of the wink she had given me?!! It was all too much for me to bear so I turned my attention to the scene that unfolded just us as we landed hard and with a heavy thump.

    “Okay,” admitted Jean. “NOW someone should go check on the professor. In fact, Kitty… you’ll find his adult diapers in his overnight bag.”

    As the whine of the helicopter died down to dull swishes, a ground crew of uniformed men and women began the process of securing the airship to the landing pad. Past them, the island stretched out as far as I could see: all greens and browns that reminded me of the toilet bowl after I ate that Halloween Whopper. It was truly beautiful.

    One of the crewmen gestured for us to board a waiting jeep, but Dr. McCoy insisted on using a nearby port-a-potty and immediately sauntered off toward it at a lope. Logan casually followed him so he could light up his cigar away from the refueling station and was inevitably enlisted to help the blue-haired fellow inside the door. As the rotors came to a stop, I clearly heard him say, “Try not to get anything in there on ya’, bub.”

    As Jean had predicted, Professor Xavier had needed to change his undergarments as well. But to Kitty’s good fortune, Scott was given that unhappy task. I smiled weakly at her as she walked back from the relative privacy of a nearby hut and she said, “I’m beginning to suspect that’s the only reason the professor keeps Cyclops around these days.”

    “That’s enough out of you two,” said Jean. “Come on, the others will ride after us in the other jeep.”

    I couldn’t believe my luck! In light of my revelation about Jean Grey’s psychic abilities, she had just made sure that both she and Kitty would be in the jeep all alone with the driver. Quickly, so as not to appear overeager, I turned my thoughts to baseball, roadkill, Gemma Arterton’s inability to act: anything to make me stop thinking about what I hoped would be the most amazing way for a young man, even a young man with a sponge for a head, to lose his virginity!!

    The jeep ride made me giddy and lightheaded, but as we turned a corner around one of the cliffs an unhappy sight greeted me.

    “Aw, s---!” I exclaimed. “This isn’t Jurassic Park. It’s lousy f---ing Jurassic f---ing World!”

    “So what?” Kitty contemptuously asked.

    “So, it’s not where I wanted us to go,” I grumbled. Jean and Kitty had dubious expressions on their faces, but I quickly reassured them, “It’ll be fine. Trust me. Besides, this way Hank can go on the water slides.”

    “Call him Dr. McCoy, Spongehead,” Jean reminded me with a matriarchal lilt in her voice. I realized then that not only had I little chance of a scoring a three way with the her and Kitty, I suddenly had even less of a chance of avoiding a potentially disastrous dinosaur attack.

    The ornate docks were packed with shuffling people as we approached them. Up ahead, the line for the monorail stretched back to the gangway of two massive cruise ships that were currently unloading passengers in a scene directly lifted from the movie Jaws. The already overfull courtyard that served as the waiting area bustled with eager visitors and gave off a rank scent of sweat, greasy popcorn, and overheated consumer electronics that grew more pungent the closer we got to it.

    “Man, I am glad I didn’t bundle a cruise.” I said looking at all of the tourists filing down the gangways like ants out of a hill that was slowly filling with sulfur dioxide. The tourists were more photogenic than I had anticipated, but that was of small consequence compared to the opportunity I'd missed to find how flexible Kitty and Jean were in the back seat of a jeep.

    “Still, duh… there’ll be no standing in line for us!” I said. “I sprang for the Exclusive A-Ticket Super-Hardcore Insider’s Tour, or the EATSHIT, as they like to call it in their… uh… television commercials. In addition to skipping to the front of every line with the professor in his wheelchair, we’ll also get to stay in the penthouse suites on the top floor of the sumptuous Isla Nublar Hilton! I even expect they’ll have One Night in Paris on the Spectrovision!!

    “What’s One Night in Paris?” asked Kitty.

    “You’ll find out when you’re older,” sighed Jean Grey.

    “Hang on,” I continued undaunted, “here’s the brochure. According to this, duh… our every need will be catered to by a full concierge staff consisting of educated, (what’s this word?) uh… multilingual professionals. We pride ourselves on our staff training and assure you that even our housekeepers have high school diplomas. You and duh... your party will have unrestricted, guided access to all of the facilities on the island, including those not accessible by the general public.”

    “Sounds dangerous, but go on,” interjected Jean.

    “Seriously: What’s One Night in Paris about?” repeated Kitty.

    “Hush, now,” the undeniably sexy, redheaded woman replied. “Go on, Spongehead, please.”

    “On your second day in residence with us, you are cordially invited to attend a special EATSHIT luncheon meet-and-greet with the chief executives of Jurassic World.” I read aloud, before quickly adding, “I’m planning on doing an Ian Malcolm impersonation during the entire thing. It’s going to be hella… duh… boss. Ah! Here comes the other jeep.”

    Like an eagle who suspects a cuckoo to have laid eggs in his nest, Scott Summer leaped out and ran up to our jeep. “They say we’ll have to take another chopper up to the roof of the hotel,” he said breathlessly. “It’s the only way to get past this mad press of people. I’m not changing the professor’s undergarments again!”

    The second helicopter ride was without incident, but I didn’t need to be a mind-reader to know that Logan wanted to smack the smug look of satisfaction off of Scott’s face when he managed to buckle his seatbelt as badly as I did.
    A group of well-dressed men and women walked across the rooftop helipad towards us as the rotors of our second aircraft slowed down.

    “These fine folks are our personal duh... concierges,” I said as they guided us single-file through the double doors into the hotel. Inside, arranged in a semicircle on the elegant Persian rug that dominated the space, another group of hotel employees stood ready to carry our luggage.

    Inside the elevator that carried us to the penthouse floor, I found myself in close proximity to Dr. McCoy. He had been sweating prodigiously since we had landed and dabbed his hirsute brow with an embroidered handkerchief. But this did nothing to diminish the rank stink coming off of him that reeked like a mixture of molding spit pea soup, horse manure, and petrochemical byproducts.

    It reminded me of my trip to New Jersey on Earth 1.

    “So, uh… how’d it go in the port-a-potty?” I nervously inquired.

    Dr. McCoy let out a low growl between bared teeth and I quickly busied myself by re-reading the brochure I had taken from the jeep.

    Even the concierges greedily gulped in fresh air as the doors opened and let us out into the grand atrium that was our common room.

    “This way, please,” said the man with my luggage as he led me into one of the adjacent rooms.

    “Oh man, I want to feed one of every duh… dinosaur species on this island,” I said as I bounced on the king size bed in my spacious and well-furnished suite. As I passed him a five-pound note for a tip, he handed me back our itinerary. “I also want to pet one of ever duh… dinosaur on this island,” I added, only to be met with a questioning glance from the young fellow. “Write that down,” I insisted. “It’s happening, mother---er.”

    “If you say so, sir,” said my concierge dutifully. “You’ll find that the ranger uniform you requested is hanging up in your cedar chest, sir. It has been specially equipped to signal the common room sound system whenever you enter it to play appropriate theme music.”

    “That’s awesome!” I chortled. “Cyclops can lick my taint, now!!”

    “Again, if you say so, sir,” the concierge continued. “However, there was a slight misunderstanding in our men’s attire department. Due to an oversight, the ranger uniform may not be to your liking.”

    I opened the double doors of the cedar chest and had to wipe fresh drool off of my shirt.

    “Oh, dear god. Is that what I think it is?!” I asked in dismay.

    “We have amazing corporate licensing agreements here in Jurassic World,” the concierge said as he walked away.

    Ten minutes later, I walked back into the common room and the lyrics, “I wanna be the very best, like no one ever was!” blared through the speaker system in quadrophonic glory with full accompaniment. I hastily searched my person, located the transmitter chip inside of a lapel, and stomped it into the hardwood floor until the music stopped.

    “Nice hat,” remarked Logan around his cigar.

    “I guess you’ll want the professor to fiddle with your pokedex, huh?” Scott added helpfully.

    I was tempted to tell Cyclops to go f--- himself, but remembered my manners and set about surveying the space in greater depth instead.

    The common room featured, a kitchenette with two stovetop ovens, several overstuffed chairs, an eighty inch flatscreen television that dwarfed the one in my suite, and a stocked bar featuring top shelf bottles of hard liquor and a variety of imported beers. Logan, disappointed by the absence of Molson Golden, was about to open up a bottle of Heineken. But Scott joined him behind the bar, took down a bottle of Bacardi 151 and said, “Let’s start off strong and work our way down, okay?” He took a long pull, nodded in satisfaction, and passed the rum to Logan.

    “You look like you need it, bub,” replied the grizzled man before taking a longer pull on the bottle than Scott had.

    A moment later, both men turned to watch as Jean Grey entered the room in a bright red, off-the-shoulder dress that perfectly accentuated her flawless figure. A felt another tingle in my nether regions and wanted nothing more than a stiff drink to help me cope with it.

    Professor Xavier and Dr. McCoy were out on the large balcony deck that ran along the common room lost in some conversation of theirs. Kitty joined us a moment later and together we unsuccessfully solicited the three grown-ups for a share of the rum. Jean Grey said some particularly pointed remarks about how drinking could stunt Kitty’s growth.
    However, just as we sat down at the large table that overlooked the balcony and the park beyond, the elevator bell chimed. The champagne I had ordered for the group had arrived! As the flute glasses went round, Dr. McCoy wheeled the professor inside to join in. Together, we all had a fine toast celebrating our safe arrival and the promises of the days to come.

    After everyone had taken a polite sip, I shot Scott and Logan a look of defiance, went over to the bar, fixed myself a whiskey sour just like my grandmother used to make, and drank it without complaint or incident. For her part, Kitty amused herself sipping the champagne with dignity of a lady who shops in the petite section in order to satisfy a misguided perception of her personal beauty. My sudden, fervent hope was that Kitty Pryde would get tipsy enough that I could get her alone, convince her to pour the rest of the bottle into my head, and then have her slurp it out of me because body shots would then be fair play.

    “All right,” I said as I slammed down my empty tumbler and started to fix myself another drink, “It’s about 5:20 right now. According to the itinerary, we can catch the last mosasaur feeding show for the day at 7:00 before we head down to Main Street for a late dinner and cocktails.”

    “Spongehead,” Professor Xavier said evenly, “some of us are still a little winded from the helicopter rides.”

    “Hey, it’s like I said, you all can… duh… do whatever you want to here!” I managed without slurring. Having a sponge for a head makes all the alcohol hit you significantly harder. “Just ask a concierge, and they’ll do their utmost to fulfill your request. Oh, and don’t worry about the cost, it’s all on the house. Just remember: our EATSHIT meet-and-greet luncheon with the park executives starts at 11:30 tomorrow.”

    I raised my tumbler for another toast and added, “I’d like to thank each and every one of you for coming with me on this… duh… experience. In the words of John Hammond, ‘creation is an act of sheer… duh… will. Thank you all for joining me in it.’ Now, let’s all drink up and go watch a great white shark get bit in half by a humungous marine reptile from the… duh… late Cretaceous period. They’re going to let me ride out on the crane and manually release the leftover shark half from the wire into the crowd.”

    “Sounds dangerous,” advised Jean Grey. The champagne had brought a fresh blush to her cheeks that gloriously offset her hair. Scott and Dr. McCoy pretended not to notice. Logan smiled grimly, shot a quick glance her way and made his way back to the bar.

    “Not at all,” I assured her. “Then, after that, I’m going to jump in and pet it!”

    “I’m sorry, Spongehead, but-” Dr. McCoy attempted to interject.

    “I am petting the f--- out of that mosasaur,” I cut in angrily. I drained my second whiskey sour, cleared my throat and petulantly added, “And I’m doing it right now.” I slammed the empty tumbler down on the heavy shaker table and turned to go. “I hope to see some of you out there in the audience,” I finished weakly. “But like I said, it’s all your choice. It’s your vacation too, after all.” With that, the elevator doors opened and I was whisked off to see the sea monster.

    “What do you think?” asked Scott as he turned to the Jean, who sipped her champagne and perused a pamphlet map that detailed the park attractions.

    “I don’t know,” she said with a moue. “There is a lot to do here,” she reluctantly admitted. “Maybe tomorrow we could visit the Spa in the morning, catch up with the others for lunch and finish at Ruth’s Chris for dinner. Oh! Then we can ride to the top of the gondola lift: the view would be amazing at sunset.”

    “I meant about this whole situation,” replied Scott. “Does anybody else feel like this all seems a tad… unreal?”

    “No, Scott,” the professor said with conviction. “All of this is very real. And I’m absolutely certain our being here will lead to some sort of catastrophe.”

    “Personally,” Logan remarked as he tossed the empty bottle of rum into the sink, “that’s half the reason I decided to come along. But until then, Charles, I’m going to go watch that shark get bit in half and make sure that Spongehead doesn’t bite off more than he can chew as well.” He loaded up the pockets of his jeans and coat with as many bottles of beer as he could conspicuously conceal about his person and ran for the elevator. Kitty and Dr. McCoy joined him and together all three of them descended into the park.

    “Logan’s right,” said Jean as she put the brochure down and arched her back provocatively against her chair. “If something is destined to happen, then the only thing we can do is try to be prepared for it when it does. But that doesn’t mean we can’t enjoy ourselves a little bit while we try to figure it all out.” She turned to Scott and confidingly added, “We don’t even have to go out. We could order room service and lock ourselves away in our suite until tomorrow. And if you want some fresh air, we have that Jacuzzi right out there on our private terrace. Come on, what do you say?”

    “All right, fine,” Scott replied with an air of exasperated surrender. As stoic as he pretended to be, even he was unable to pass up the temptation of soothing hot tub action between bouts of wild, telekinetic, vacation sex.

    Moments later, Charles Xavier sat in his wheelchair on the balcony overlooking the monument to tourism, hubristic genetic re-engineering, and rampant product placement that sprawled out before him.

    “You are a very foolish person, Spongehead,” he thought out to me.

    “Why don’t you trust me, Charles?” I mentally retorted.

    “I thought you were out getting ready to feed your dinosaur,” the professor shot back.

    I had to put down my cotton candy and hold my hands to my temples. There was a lot to think back to him. I began with, “Okay. First off: it isn’t a dinosaur. It’s a marine reptile that existed at the same time as the dinosaurs. That distinction is very important. Second, I am going to feed the mosasaur, and I’m goddamned excited about it. And third; what the hell, man? What’s with the lack of trust in our relationship? I know all about your little switcheroo with that frantic schizophrenic, you call Morph last season; trying to dig up dirt on me. Seriously, what is it with you? And don’t you dare dodge the question this time!”

    “I do not trust you, Spongehead, because you are inherently untrustworthy,” Charles replied with practiced severity. “Your very existence, your ability to manipulate the fabric of reality on such a profound level, the irresponsible ways in which you use that power, and the fact that half the time all you can think about is sex are an affront to everything I know and believe to have value. You are an agent of chaos.”

    “You flatter me,” I thought in earnest. “But actually I consider my alignment to be true neutral: everything I do balances in the end.”

    “That sounds like something you heard on Seinfeld, Spongehead,” quipped the professor.

    “Listen,” I admonished him. “Take some advice from the others. Relax for a bit. Enjoy yourself. There’s no sinister ulterior motive at work here, I just wanted to go to Jurassic Park and I figured it’d be nice to have you guys along with me. I know things aren’t going exactly according to plan, but take the better things that are happening all around you now for what they’re worth. I’ll tell you what: the mosasaur feeding is in little over an hour. Tell Jean to stop riding Scott long enough for the two of them to get cleaned up and we’ll all meet up for dinner and cocktails on Main Street like I suggested.”

    “Very well,” the professor thought back at me. “You make a compelling case and, even if it turns out to be a trick, being in close proximity to you will allow us greater foresight into the dangers that I fear await us all.”

    “F---, yeah!” I shouted aloud. A family of conservative Christians, their hair neatly parted and their clothes immaculately maintained in severe simplicity, had been walking next to me up until then. But as I swore with happiness, the parents steered their impressionable young offspring away from my into a nearby Disney store where they were certain to purchase a number of anthropomorphic animals that would serve to remind the kids what being wholesome and morally sound is really all about.

    “Sorry,” I continued with the professor. “The mosasaur enclosure is just up ahead. I think I might have just caused an exponential spike in Disney stock in this universe. That’s too bad: they haven’t bought Lucasfilm here yet.”

    “That’s not the kind of disaster I meant, Spongehead,” quipped Charles.

    “Just promise me you’ll do something fun,” I finished. With a flourish, I took the paper cone that I had been eating cotton candy out of, dumped the sugary remnants from it, and placed it on top of my head like a cap. This had the uncanny effect of creating in my mind’s eye a barrier akin to Magneto’s helmet that would prevent Professor Xavier from communicating with or guiding me for the foreseeable future.

    Charles sat on the patio more alone than he had been mere moments before. Jean was approaching climax in the other room and had also effectively blotted him out from her mind. The professor let out a long sigh and ruminated on all of the excitement out in the park. There were so many happy people down there, he considered.

    A moment later, he rolled himself back into common room, picked up the brochure that Jean had been reading, and announced to no one in particular, “All right, Jimmy Buffett’s Margaritaville it is, then,” with all the gravity and emotion of a futuristic troubadour with an inkvine scar.

    It was the first wheelchair accessible eatery he had found in the brochure that didn’t serve Indian food.

    ASMB Member since March 23, 2004.
    If brevity is the soul of wit, then abbreviation is the death of the soul.


  • Banned
    2

    You don't put enough anime references in your faux literary bullshit, therefore I don't care and neither will any one else.

    [REMOVED TO CONFORM WITH LOCAL AND INTERNATIONAL CENSORSHIP LAWS]


  • Check It Out!
    1

    This rivals the masterpiece that is XvAvP


  • Rants
    0

    Hey, thanks for that. Seriously.

    ASMB Member since March 23, 2004.
    If brevity is the soul of wit, then abbreviation is the death of the soul.


  • SwimPunk Banned
    0

    What are you doing exactly? Are you editing his fan fiction?


  • Lord Of the Munge Façade
    1

    I think its like, a fanfiction based on my fanfictions.

    So Luuv hooked me up with a custom rank.

    Which means I only have two more prizes to claim, plus an image sig.

    So that's where we stand.


  • Rants
    0

    Yes, I am editing it.

    I'd been ruminating doing a straight up parody of Covered_In_Sponges' fan fiction since he first started posting it. but the more I read of it, the more I came to appreciate the extent to which it improved as it went along.

    I had some free time this weekend and thought, "Well, I've put it off long enough, why not see what an edited version reads like?"

    So I took a crack at it.

    As I worked, I discovered that there's a ton of potential in the story, not just for narrative direction, but also for humor. I put some more of that in, added a dash of Fraser to the narrator's character and world view, increased the salacious content (because this is fan fiction after all), and tightened up the prose. Then I posted it in his thread.

    So, with Sponges' approval, without which I wouldn't have proceeded here, I'm going forward with it. The reaction to my version of what is wholesale his story has been positive thus far, and that makes me very happy. The process of editing it is also quite enjoyable. In fact, it's most fun when I hit a sentence of his and recognize after a minute or so that it reads perfectly well the way that it Sponges phrased it.

    So I'll keep going with it. Like I said, it's fun work and it's nice to have something lighthearted to play with for a change.

    ASMB Member since March 23, 2004.
    If brevity is the soul of wit, then abbreviation is the death of the soul.


  • Lord Of the Munge Façade
    0

    alt text

    So Luuv hooked me up with a custom rank.

    Which means I only have two more prizes to claim, plus an image sig.

    So that's where we stand.


  • Rants
    0

    covered_in_sponges said:

    I think its like, a fanfiction based on my fanfictions.

    I like to think of it as my taking the role of Sir Walter Raleigh to your Kit Marlowe; only without all of the executions and assassinations.

    ASMB Member since March 23, 2004.
    If brevity is the soul of wit, then abbreviation is the death of the soul.


  • Rants
    0

    Episode 3: The Fulfilment of Maureen McGovern's Prophetic Song

    Bright, equatorial sunlight shone through the jungle canopy above me when I awoke the next day; illumination that was filtered through verdant growth and reflected back to me in dappling rays that glinted off the muddy ground in which I rested.

    However, the beauty of the scene was offset by the odious scent of stale urine that wafted off of my ranger trousers. The leaves of the trees were as dry as the cracked earth that surrounded where I had passed out. The mud, I surmised, had not come from any rain or morning dew. I sat up slowly and performed a quick manual evaluation of my head to see if it had soaked up any of my pee.

    Mercifully, it had not. I did, however, spend considerable effort shaking dirt out of it.

    Most of my ranger costume had gone missing the evening before. I couldn’t remember all that had happened, but I recalled handing out all of my toy pokéballs to random women in exchange for getting a “peek-at-you” from them in return. My smartphone was dead, so there was no way to find out how successful the endeavor had been, but it had stayed dry through the night. However, I had been clever enough to use my backpack as a pillow, and slung it onto my shoulder as I stood up. Wooziness thrummed through my body like a blaring trumpet announcing an episode of Cowboy Bebop.

    My hands fumbled uselessly as I untied my shoelaces, removed my boots, my pants, and then my Aquaman underoos. This last item was crusty enough for me to want to get rid of it posthaste, but I had the foresight to wipe my behind with it before unceremoniously tossing it up into a bough where several colorful parrots were enjoying a quiet breakfast. When they chirped back at me in annoyance, I balled up my equally soiled finger gloves and threw them in their direction as well.

    The position of the sun told me that it was early morning. I crept away from my haphazard overnight camp through the gnarled roots, lichens, and undergrowth of the jungle. The sound of a meandering river, all bubbles and foam as it coursed through its outside turn, became audible.

    But, the gentle, white noise of flowing water was abruptly punctuated by the soft, repetitive huffs of a large animal that lay just beyond its banks. I inched down a rise of the uneven terrain and lay still within the copse in order to assess the creature from a distance. I was very happy that I had decided to take a dump right before this encounter, but suddenly wished I’d had the foresight to cover my runny turds.

    The yellow and brown striations of the creature’s back, which also reminded me of my recent bowel movement, shifted almost imperceptibly as I carefully slunk on my belly down towards the sandy bank. Its long tail twitched menacingly in the humid morning air exactly the way that flags don’t. Concern that the river wasn’t loud enough to mask the sound of my movements gripped me as the dinosaur snapped its head in my direction and slowly lowered in my direction. A splotch of teal surrounded its searching eyes and spread down past its crocodilian jaws to fade amid the less conspicuous hues of the rest of its body.

    I farted loudly and violently. It was fantastic at first, but, as I clenched my cheeks to mute the sound of my uncontrollable anal zephyrs, the sound from my behind became more mosquito-like.

    Across the river, the baryonyx issued a low hiss and the small fan of quills on its skull stood erect.
    I thought for a moment about my continual lack of morning wood, and considered that waking up in a wood in the morning might actually count.

    As I floundered in my attempt to find a way to cleverly phrase the experience to Bobby and the other students who mercilessly teased me at school, the eight foot tall dinosaur slinked into the river. Its head ceased to bob in the current at once and it issued another sinister hiss through keen teeth.

    “Hey, now,” I said as I slowly stood up and held out my hand out in reply. The creature’s lips gracelessly curled back to reveal even more fearsome, needlelike teeth. “Who’s a good dinosaur?” I continued as I advanced with careful steps. I hoped that my urine soaked pants would suffice to cover up the incredibly pungent armpit odor that struck me like a blow as I raised my hand and showed the dinosaur my open palm.

    Carefully, with my other hand, I fished one of the two dozen cans of exotically flavored spam I had purchased from the Hilo Hattie on Main Street the night before and set the key between my teeth. With a twist of my neck that made the baryonyx pause midstream, I unsealed the container and let the lid drop to the sand.

    “Is it you?” I asked as dinosaur slowly rose from the water and stalked closer. I was still unsure this would work. I chanced a glance at the can to see what kind of spam it was and was horrified to read the legend, “smoke hot and spicy flavor” above the familiar images of sliced lunchmeat.

    “Hey now, that’s a good dinosaur. Yeah, that’s a very good dinosaur,” I cooed as I lowered my hand and pulled out a generous portion of artificially flavored meat out of the can. The baryonyx stopped ten yards from me. Its tail slashed through the air expectantly. I could smell it more than I could smell myself, which was a relief in several ways.

    Then, without hesitation, I tossed my fistful of spam towards it as hard as I could.

    It landed right between us.

    A sudden memory of Colossus gently telling me that I had failed my tryout as the quarterback of the school football team flashed before my eyes and was gone as quickly as it had arrived. I stifled back a sudden urge to cry.
    The dinosaur leapt forward and pounced on the processed meat with one quick movement of its legs. It snapped it up with a wetly and seemed to consider its flavor before quickly swallowing it with birdlike grace and opening its toothsome maw in anticipation of more.

    “Yeah, that’s a good dinosaur,” I said as I stepped nearer. The hook-shaped claws on the creature’s forepaws trembled up in the sand before me. Millions of years of evolution had led to an adaptation that allowed this dinosaur to snag and rend fish like a polar bear. It hissed at me and sent a spray of reptilian spittle into my face that was quickly absorbed and smelled oddly of the perfume department at Macy’s: a weird amalgamation of scents never designed to work in tandem with one another that offends the nostrils and makes you question the motives of older women.
    I reached out to touch its leathery hide, but it did not shy away or attack me. Hesitantly, I placed my free hand on its rough, scaly skin and brushed it. The creature allowed this for a moment before snapping violently at my other hand. I was quick enough not to end up like Agent Coulson and the fierce bite only fell on the half-empty can of spam that I had been carelessly holding the whole time.

    What happened next happened very quickly.

    The baryonyx swallowed the spam, can and all, smacked into me with its considerable girth and sent me sprawling to the sandy ground. As I reflexively struggled to wipe my eyes, it began to tear my backpack with its many teeth and pinned me to the ground with a single foot whose claws rent the seat of my paints and spread open my buttocks. Then, it began to feed on the contents of my backpack with ravenous crunching sounds.

    A fountain of hot s--- burst from my behind and cascaded down onto the animal’s foot with a smell like an open sewer after Cinco de Mayo. At once, the baryonyx roared and ran away across the river with my backpack in its mouth.

    I laid there stunned and wept.

    As I watched, the majestic beast dropped the green backpack from its mouth and gobbled each of the remaining cans of spam down in rapid succession. A moment later, it reeled sideways into a Williamsonia tree, lifted its head up in obvious discomfort, whined ferociously, and collapsed in a heap. I could barely see it, but I’m certain that its pink tongue lolled impotently out of the side of its jaws a moment before the dinosaur experienced its death rattle.

    After a few minutes, I stopped crying. I got up removed my boots and what was left of my trousers aand waded out into the river to rinse off. The water was warm and soothing. I took care to soak it up and squeeze it out of my head until my thoughts became less muddled.

    The baryonyx still hadn’t moved. I was certain that it was dead. But, seeing no better course of action, I removed my blue blazer, shook it out and cinched it around my waist so as not to abrade my junk on the dense jungle undergrowth that I was headed back into.

    I hoped get out of the enclosure with enough time to spare for a return to my suite and a long, hot shower. I could charge my phone and see if any naughty pictures were on it. I could listen to J-Pop as I soaped up my seemingly permanently flaccid member. I could put on some aftershave and pretend I was an internationally famous criminal mastermind. I could put on a pair of clean underwear too.

    A guttural squawk rang out as soon as I went back into the underbrush. A pair of metriacanthosauruses, whose approach I had missed during my ruminations, threaded their way through the trees towards me.

    They were slightly shorter than the baryonyx which I had left dead across the river, but they were bulkier. Their shorter snouts and the small bony protrusions above their eyes marked them for what they were. I unexpectedly remembered crossing through their section of the enclosure the night before and was unhappy to recall that my attempts to feed and pet them had been welcomed up until the point that I had kissed on of them on the nose. Clearly, they had been following me; tracking me.

    “Hunting me,” I whispered through tremulous lips. They exchanged a rapid series of guttural squawks with each other and one of them peeled away from the other to circle behind me. I realized with a sense of dread and an ominous rumbling in my guts that they had cut off my retreat.

    “Hey now,” I said in an authoritative and disappointed voice. “No. No! You do NOT do that! Do you understand?!” The dinosaur in front of me was the larger of the two and viciously hissed at me as it lowered its head to charge. I could hear its counterpart rustling through the foliage behind me.

    Stormbringer crackled into existence in my hands. In this universe, it resembled its appearance in Skyrim: a long katana with a slightly curved, rune-etched, black blade. I crouched to take on whichever dinosaur reached me first.

    The blazer fell from my hips revealing the tiny nub that poked out from the small, curly mass of my pubes.

    To my surprise, both of the metriacanthosauruses reached me at the same time. I shouted loudly as I swung out in calculated slices that abruptly ended with a dull, wet thud that tore the sword from my hands as it pierced the smaller theropod’s palate and stuck. The other dinosaur collided with me at full speed and knocked me down. I scratched Mr. Dinky on a rock.

    Temporarily blinded, I expected to hear the sound of my head being crushed by expansive jaws. Instead, a familiar snikt greeted my ears and the dinosaur roared in agony as adamantium claws slashed it apart.

    “Do you have any idea how strong your stink smells, bub?” asked Logan as he lifted me back to my feet. “I could smell it over the Cinnabon in the hotel lobby.”

    I had a bruise on my upper thigh, but I was more concerned for the scratch on Mr. Dinky. But, with Logan standing right in front of me with borderline berserker rage, I was too embarrassed to inspect the damage.

    “I had the situation under control,” I panted.

    “Sure,” the muscular, hirsute fellow dubiously replied. “Is that your homicidal sword stuck in the other one?”
    I nodded, brushed myself off and walked over to retrieve Stormbringer. I spent a good five minutes making ineffectual little girl noises as I attempted to pull it free.

    Logan pulled it out with one hand and it immediately vanished.

    “How come the sword didn’t try to kill me?” Logan asked.

    “I guess I’m not your duh… friend,” I cried like a kid who ate too much space ice cream and can’t throw up. “Even my sword can tell I have no duh… friends.”

    A single tear trickled down my dirt-smeared check before I sucked it into my mouth.

    Logan was visibly uncomfortable, but managed, “All right, that’s enough blubbering.”

    “But it’s TRUE,” I whined.

    “Look,” he said handing me his flannel shirt, “Cover yourself up and let’s get out of here. I’ll take you back to your suite and you can get yourself all cleaned up.”

    “You mean it?” I wept.

    “Sure,” Logan assured me as he patted me on the shoulder. “Oh, and Spongehead? You can, uh… you can keep that shirt.”

    An hour, three bars of hotel soap, six bottles of shampoo, and an entire matched set of hotel towels later, I was ready to face the world again. “So what passing out drunk in an enclosure led to the deaths of three dinosaurs?” I thought. “So what if I spectacularly pooped myself twice in the span of half an hour? So what if Wolverine had to come and rescue me? I’m still here, and I’m still in charge, and I still have things I want to do!”
    When I entered the common room a few minutes later, a concierge in front of the door to Jean and Scott’s private suite beckoned me over.

    “Is there a problem?” I asked with significant trepidation.

    “Ms. Grey and Mr. Summers have asked me to inform you that they intend to spend the day relaxing in their room,” he said dryly. I hadn’t looked up from my smartphone. There had to be something from last night on there.

    “I see,” I absentmindedly replied. “Well, at least they’re enjoying themselves.”

    “Is there anything that you require, sir?” the concierge inquired.

    “No, thanks fine,” I sighed with relief. With that, he turned and left the room through a side door to some stairs, his polished shoes purposefully clomping on the hardwood floor as he walked.

    I made my way to the Professor’s door, but he opened it before I could knock. Charles Xavier eyed me suspiciously as he wheeled himself out into the common room, past me, and out onto the balcony. He was wearing a freshly pressed suit and seemed not to want to talk with me. Not for the last time, I wondered if he used some kind of polish on his hairless pate.

    I shrugged and doubled back across to Logan’s room. He had pinned a note on the door that said he had gone for a nature hike to “get some fresh air” and would meet back up with us in the late afternoon.

    “I’ll still be going with you,” the professor thought to me as I walked towards Beast’s door. “Although, I’m fairly certain you are the only one excited about it this luncheon.”

    “You mean the EATSHIT luncheon,” I said toward the balcony.

    “Indeed,” he mentally agreed with me. “However, you should know that I’m only joining you because I’ve decided it is in all our best interests for me to keep a close eye on you.”

    “Wow, professor,” I said as I stepped out onto the balcony beside him. “Way to duh… just come right out with your aggression. I mean, you could have duh… pretended you were having a good time. But, oh no! The great Charles Xavier has to be suspicious about duh… Spongehead just because he wants you all to duh… have a good time for a change. You know what? You’re a duh… duh… hypocrite, Charles. People hate and fear mutants because they duh… have abilities they cannot duh… fully understand. How are you being any duh… different than they are?”

    “The difference is simple,” replied the professor as he looked up at me from his wheelchair. “You pose a clear and present danger to yourself and to others. You have repeatedly placed us into harm’s way, seemingly for no other purpose than your own sick attempt to justify your own sense of worth.”

    Just as I was about to reply, Kitty faded out through the door to Dr. McCoy’s room. She was wearing a tight, linen shirt that hugged her breasts like something out of a Russ Meyer film and school issue sweatpants. She appeared to be looking for something in the cushions of one of the sofa that faced the large television that dominated the common room.

    However, when she saw us on the balcony, a shocked expression appeared on her dainty face that I couldn’t quite understand. When our eyes met hers, a deep blush suffused her cheeks. But before she sprinted across the room to her suited and faded through the door, I caught a glimpse of the embroidered initials on the shirt that she was wearing: H.M.

    Charles furrowed his brow as I headed back over toward Beast’s room.

    “Just a moment, please!” shouted Dr. McCoy. From behind, I could hear the professor rolling up to join me. Dr. McCoy opened the door and deftly finished buckling on his suspenders. His appearance was not unlike something out of a 90’s cartoon series that was cancelled too soon.

    “Gentlemen,” he began. “Good morning.”

    “Beast,” Xavier scolded. ”She is your student; and half your age.”

    “Oh, please Charles,” argued Beast. “She’s twenty-five years old; and she’s a graduate student.”

    I thought of the early seasons of Cheers for some reason. Something about Diane sleeping with her professor, then Frasier, then ditching him at the altar and joining a convent. I couldn’t quite remember what it had been all about, but that stream of thought got me remembering about drinking with Dr. McCoy the night before.

    “And she’s not even the worst thing Beast was on top of last night,” I slyly said.

    “Whatever are you talking about, Spongehead?” Dr. McCoy questioned.

    “You remember after we left the duh… VIP room at the Chevron Origins of Life Boat Ride, Bar, and Grill? When you climbed up out of the boat, duh… spilled your martini on me, and mounted the animatronic baby duh… triceratops? You were way over your f---ing limit, man. That poor thing couldn’t even bear your weight! Three seconds in, the machine split in half, sent a shower of sparks all over your fur, and you just kept riding it like you were duh… Slim Pickens riding the bomb to hell. And all the while Kitty was in the boat watching you as you just kept going and duh… shouted ‘I swear, I’ll be good to the little filly and call her in the morning!’ I’ll take thirteen-to-one odds that sweet, little, and innocent Ms. Pryde wanted to jump on that beastly d--- of yours for some time now!!”

    “Professor, I,” he meekly began.

    “Good on ya’,” I finished as I patted his furry, blue, and noticeably sweaty shoulder. “Pork away, pal; f--- her blue!”

    A bulging, beating vein became plainly visible on Professor Xavier’s forehead but he held his tongue and his thoughts in check. Before Dr. McCoy could continue, the ding of the executive elevator rang.

    All three of us turned to watch as the doors opened to reveal a raven-haired woman in her late twenties holding a tablet in her well-manicured hands. She had on a smart looking business suit that looked like something Jane Badler might have worn to a state dinner if the invasion had gone according to plan. She strode over to us the long, confident gait of an individual in authority.

    “Hello, Mr. Spongehead” she said in a bright, English accent. “My name is Zara. I am the personal assistant to Ms. Claire Dearing, the operations manager of Jurassic World. Ms. Dearing has requested that I personally escort you and your party to your executive luncheon. Ms. Dearing also sends you an apology. Due to her understandably busy schedule, your luncheon has been double-booked.”

    “Double-booked?” I asked confusedly. “How is that even duh… possible? Who else could be coming?”

    Zara tapped the screen of her tablet for a few moments before looking back up at me.

    “Well, it’s your lucky day,” she replied. “It looks like you’ll be getting to sit in on the potential merger negotiations between Ms. Dearing and one Mr. Charles Bishop Weyland!”

    ASMB Member since March 23, 2004.
    If brevity is the soul of wit, then abbreviation is the death of the soul.


  • Lord Of the Munge Façade
    0

    You know how in Rick and Morty, how there are all the different Ricks from different universes?

    Spongehead is like the Rick that eats his own poop.

    So Luuv hooked me up with a custom rank.

    Which means I only have two more prizes to claim, plus an image sig.

    So that's where we stand.


  • Rants
    0

    Spongehead is more of a sacred fool. He lacks control, but he's enthusiastic to the point that everything he gets himself embroiled in tends not to negatively affect him even as he's reminded of his own weaknesses.

    ASMB Member since March 23, 2004.
    If brevity is the soul of wit, then abbreviation is the death of the soul.


  • Lord Of the Munge Façade
    0

    So Luuv hooked me up with a custom rank.

    Which means I only have two more prizes to claim, plus an image sig.

    So that's where we stand.


  • Rants
    0

    I got the reference. The Rick who befriends Jerry is very conscious of the deprecating way that the other Ricks treat him and feels genuinely pain (which is really interesting when you account for all of the pain that Rick Sanchez Prime is shown to have in season two.)

    Spongehead is more of a sacred fool and less an object of ridicule than that. He can admit his own shortcomings to himself, but rarely focuses on them in his interactions with others. He may border on bragging, but that's only because he's the center of his own multiverse.

    ASMB Member since March 23, 2004.
    If brevity is the soul of wit, then abbreviation is the death of the soul.


  • Lord Of the Munge Façade
    0

    Doesn't change the fact that he eats poop.

    So Luuv hooked me up with a custom rank.

    Which means I only have two more prizes to claim, plus an image sig.

    So that's where we stand.


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