Mon. Jul 22nd, 2024

Ye Olde Scribe’s Links to Oblivion and Other Fun Places
“Stinking up the net at the speed of Barf”

Horrible advertising. Won’t make it Scribe’s way. Scribe knew there must be other reasons why he was avoiding a place that tells even bigger Whoppers than he does.

“My pain runs deep. My acne has never left my face. My memories of adolescence are riddled with the smell of chicken tenders and Vanilla Shakes. I have seen the creatures that live at bottom of the dumpster. I have seen the rat by the soda machine. I have seen dead frogs in the fresh salad lettuce. I have seen undercooked meat served to children and I have seen bags of trash piled higher than I stand as they lay less than 3 feet from the hamburger meat. I am the DISGRUNTLED EX-BURGER KING EMPLOYEE!

Now, the Rest of the Whore-y
“Before our main attraction, ‘READ ME FIRST, READ ME FIRST'”

Looking for that special Christmas gift? Barf coated? Here ya go! But don’t forget to click above before seeing THE SOURCE FOR THE FOLLOWING SATIRE… done yet? Scribe will wait. (Whistling all the various orchestra parts for Scheherazade, one at a time, and then the 1812 complete with attempts at the canons.) Now, more in the Jeff the Cannon Gannon mode: here’s our main attraction.

Hell to the King, a Scent is Born

Scribe dreamed. It had to be a dream. Well, in one way: NO. But let’s get to the nightmare first.

Mrs. Scribe had promised to give Scribe his “gift” in bed that morning. Feeling aroused after a certain hand had grasped a stiffening bean pole, Scribe turned and saw the face of THE BURGER KING KING.

Scribe pulled back the mask. SNAP! That HAD TO cut into his face. The King was naked. Hmmm… foot aimed. Targets round. Oh, hear him scream. Was that pain or pleasure? Scribe rolled him out of bed and on top of the cats. The cats weren’t happy. The King suddenly found he had been redecorated for Christmas with a few new portals. MERRY CHRISTMAS, KING! The King ran. Scribe was faster. On Donner! On Blitzen! Now he’s covered with kitty litter. Like fake snow on a tree he sparkles! Of course, he did anyway. Out the door he runs, into the night, naked as a jailbird into the arms of the cops! Looks like you’ve got a place to stay for a few nights, King. Oh, and thanks for the home invasion.

Scribe woke up. There next to him was a bottle of the new scent being sold by Burger King, Flame.

“Flame,” as in, “flaming?”

Noble, kind, gentle Gay folk everywhere should be storming BK headquarters and burning it down for their insulting icon, then turn on their advertising agency too.

Very funny, MS. Now, what will Scribe do to get back at Mrs. Scribe?

Wise ass woman.

GOD, Scribe loves her.

By Ye Olde Scribe

Elderly curmudgeon who likes to make others laugh while giving the Reich Wing a rhetorical enema.

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RS Janes
15 years ago

YOS, does it really smell like a flame-broiled Whopper? (Just the gift for your favorite vegan!)

The story about the Burger King King reminds me of a woman I know who was married to a clown (yes, I know, as are most women). No, this man literally was a clown for kids’ b-day parties, special events and the like. He wore an orange fright wig, big red nose, lots of garish make-up, and these suspendered pants with a 70-inch waistline so that they bounced around in front of his 30-inch stomach. (For some reason, a local Ford dealership hired him to introduce a new model a couple of years back — jeepers, what did that say about the potential buyers! — with thinking like that, is it any wonder they’re going bankrupt?)

At any rate, he finally hit the ‘big time’ for clowns — he was put on contract to play Ronald McDonald and even had to attend classes (at Hamburger U.?) to learn how to represent the sacred ‘McDonald’s brand’ properly

All went well for awhile — he opened new Mickey D. stores, cheered up sick kids in hospitals (“Here’s the Mad Cow ward, Ronald.”), and entertained at b-day parties for the McD execs families until one day when a tiny, precocious 7-year-old tyrant related to one of the top brass threw a whole supersized milkshake at him just for the evil fun of it. With cold strawberry-flavored frozen dairy product running down his face and Ronnie Mac uniform — which he had to pay to clean — he shouted out what any sane adult might in those extreme, emotionally-charged circumstances: “YOU FUCKING LITTLE JERK — I’LL WRING YOUR NECK!”

The expletive was enough to ban him from Hamburglarland for life; the rest nearly got him a police report for assault to go with it. (He apologized to the parents as Dad picked up the phone to call the law, with the Little Jerk laughing hysterically in the background.)

Needless to say, he’s no longer working for Ray Kroc’s greasy gift to the human digestive system and, in fact, is pursuing a different career entirely — apparently once you’ve screamed at a child in Ronald mufti, you are no longer welcome in the Klown Klub in any capacity.

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