Don't Fear the Shelter
I can see it now. You'll be crouching in the bomb shelter, scared out of your mind. The video camera with night-vision will be shaking in your hand. And the Blair Witch style snot bubble in your left nostril. We then hear the high-pitched, blood curdling scream you let out. All we can imagine is the display case full of Polish Debutantes vacuum sealed in mylar bags for posterity. Then, the camera pans across to reveal the truth. No, no, no, NOO! It's as we expected, but their hands have all been removed, replaced with cans of Spam. Oh, the inhumanity.
Just then, we hear the shiver-inducing voice of your captor (signup sheet in hand) asking if you'd like to play basketball on his team next spring, an unexpected twist in the already nightmarish series of events. BAM-BAM, our beloved narrator puts both slugs from a double-barreled shotgun through his skull, ending what would have undoubtedly been the worst fate known to man (aside from having your hands replaced with spam and being vacuum sealed inside a mylar bag for posterity). That fate, gasp, dare I say it. That fate (choke, gag, minipuke) would be to play basketball on the world's worst basketball team, under the direction of the world's worst captain/dictator/implied friend. There would be mandatory photo shoots, posters, Dalton Public Access TV commercials, radio plugs on 105.5 and worst of all, the public appearances and poster signing. No, the double dose of 12-gauge euthenasia is the only option. And for some reason, the video would be sent around to the entire department Monday morning (or mid-afternoon, whenever he manages to make it to work). The only other proof of the capabilities of this deranged madman were splattered on the wall of a bomb shelter 10' below the ground somewhere near Springfield, MA.
The healine in the Berkshire Eagle reads, "Local Man Commits Suicide; Quiet Software Designer Held for Questioning".
For your safety, I would bring a can of Spam to serve as a distraction (or hostage) allowing you to escape the bomb shelter when the inevitable happens. AND FOR GOD'S SAKE, TAKE YOUR OWN CAR!!!
"And the best part is they're all true"
Just then, we hear the shiver-inducing voice of your captor (signup sheet in hand) asking if you'd like to play basketball on his team next spring, an unexpected twist in the already nightmarish series of events. BAM-BAM, our beloved narrator puts both slugs from a double-barreled shotgun through his skull, ending what would have undoubtedly been the worst fate known to man (aside from having your hands replaced with spam and being vacuum sealed inside a mylar bag for posterity). That fate, gasp, dare I say it. That fate (choke, gag, minipuke) would be to play basketball on the world's worst basketball team, under the direction of the world's worst captain/dictator/implied friend. There would be mandatory photo shoots, posters, Dalton Public Access TV commercials, radio plugs on 105.5 and worst of all, the public appearances and poster signing. No, the double dose of 12-gauge euthenasia is the only option. And for some reason, the video would be sent around to the entire department Monday morning (or mid-afternoon, whenever he manages to make it to work). The only other proof of the capabilities of this deranged madman were splattered on the wall of a bomb shelter 10' below the ground somewhere near Springfield, MA.
The healine in the Berkshire Eagle reads, "Local Man Commits Suicide; Quiet Software Designer Held for Questioning".
For your safety, I would bring a can of Spam to serve as a distraction (or hostage) allowing you to escape the bomb shelter when the inevitable happens. AND FOR GOD'S SAKE, TAKE YOUR OWN CAR!!!
"And the best part is they're all true"
posted by Todd at 12:08 PM
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