Date: Mon, 18 Jul 2005 23:30:12 -0400 Subject: [ark] Re: Whatcha got in the trunk? continues. Status: RO In alt.religion.kibology, kibo@world.std.com wrote: David DeLaney (dbd@gatekeeper.vic.com) wrote: > So when is Kibo going to review Charlie and the Chocolate Factory? So when are you going to take me to go see it? Or better yet, mail me a bootleg DVD. Everything's better when you can watch it at home and eat White Castles while violating someone's intellectual-property rights. Send me some White Castles with the DVD. In the meantime, you'll have to make do with this little confection I whipped up in May, 1998. This story was inspired by a segment I had written for "The Special Show!", which was inspired by a TV commercial starring a scary talking diaper. I wrote to try to prevent anyone from ever making another movie about Charlie's fudge factory. -- K. It wasn't worth posting, but it's worth reposting. DIPPITY DOG AND THE DIAPER FACTORY ================================== by James "Kibo" Parry Copyright (C)1998 James "Kibo" Parry God was, as always, nine hundred feet tall. Because of that, He couldn't sit on the furniture in most of Heaven, where the normal people and their pets stayed. He had to stay on a special cloud with all the other dead people who were 900 feet tall, which meant He was all alone except for the hundred or so monsters Ultraman had killed. God was hungry, so He took out a Deity-size package of Oscar Mayer Cotto Salami. He tried to pull apart the easy-open package for a while, then He gave up and used His safety scissors. God peeled off a delicious-looking slice, and--whoops, butterfingers!--He dropped it. As He saw it falling away through the clouds, God swore, so loud that no force in the Universe could bleep it. * * * * * Spot was happy! He had just left his house to stroll through the neighborhood showing off how cool he was in his new "HOT DIGGITY DOG" shirt. Well, actually, that's what the salesman had _told_ him it said. It really said "DIPPITY DOG". "Hey, look, a little dippity dog!" said a construction worker, who felt permitted to pick up Spot and dip in him a vat of warm asphalt. Then he double-dipped Spot in a trough of concrete and set him back on the sidewalk. "Thank you," said Spot, then he ran away. He went home and took a shower. Spot was still feeling pretty good! He left his house again and was strolling down the other side of the street, well away from the construction worker who had started stirring a huge bucket of Magic Shell just in case any more dippity dogs came by. Spot came to an intersection and was in the middle of crossing the street when-- SPLAT! A twenty-foot-diameter slice of cotto salami fell on him like a wet, greasy tarp. Spot was trapped! He couldn't breathe due to the lack of oxygen and the surfeit of salami. He could barely crawl around under the salami slice, and inched his way over to where sunlight was filtering through a large translucent white blob the size of a sofa cushion. He pushed against the fat blob, and it popped out. Spot climbed out of the hole and looked around. He was standing dead center on the world's largest piece of ordinary household salami. It was dotted with the beige blobs of fat, and tiny red capillaries that looked like garden hoses filled with red nail polish ran through it. In front of Spot there was a peppercorn, which looked like a wooden basketball, old and covered with cracked bark. In the cracks some sort of fungus was growing. And the part of the salami that had been in contact with the peppercorn was shrivelled and discolored and was growing a skin, which was about a foot thick at Spot's scale. In fact, if Spot looked really closely (and believe me, he did) he could see the individual cells in the salami meat. They looked like little Baggies filled with a mixture of protoplasm and hair oil, and in each Baggie was a handful of chromosomes, which looked like X-shaped dreadlocks made of black steel wool. "Eww!" said Spot. "I never realized cotto salami was this disgusting up close! From now on, I'm only going to eat _other_ processed meats, like baloney, hot dogs, and breakfast sausage!" The moment he left the vicinity of the gross salami slice, his stomach resumed its perpetual growling, reminding Spot that small dogs are always hungry. Spot headed for the nearest fast food restaurant, which happened to be a Diaper Burger. Spot had never been in one before, but what the heck? A burger's a burger. "Hi, sir, what'll it be today?" asked the counter clerk, who was wearing a uniform consisting of a paper hat and a polyester diaper. Spot studied the illuminated 3-D plastic menu. "Um... I'll have... a Diaper Burger... no, wait, make that a Diaper Deluxe... and a small diet Coke. Very small." "I'm sorry, sir, we don't have Coke. We have Diaper Cola. And what other places call a small, we call an extra-large." "Okay, then give me an extra-large Diaper Cola... but only if it's as good as Coke." The clerk smiled patiently. "It's exactly the same secret formula. Diaper Cola is just Coke with a different label on the bottle." Then the clerk opened a Zip-Loc bag and poured some transparent gray fluid into a very small paper cup. "Enjoy your Diaper Cola. Your Diaper Deluxe will be ready in a moment." Spot took the cola and tried to sip it, but all the ice cubes were blocking the straw. "Say, why do you call this restaurant Diaper Burger? It's a disgusting name for a restaurant! I sure hope you don't serve cotto salami." "Sir, we're Diaper Burger for a very logical reason: this chain is owned by Mr. Diaper." "The baby diaper deliver service? I've heard of them." The clerk smiled some more. "You misunderstand me, sir. I mean we're owned by MISTER DIAPER." "That's me!" said a man in a business suit, with an extremely squeaky voice. Spot thought there was something odd about him and then noticed the man had a large talking diaper for a head. It had beady black eyes that moved around independently of the diaper as if they were animated onto his head by a spastic guy with a colored pencil. "Welcome to Diaper Burger! I am very proud of Diaper Burger! I own Diaper Burger! I hope you're enjoying Diaper Burger! You're in Diaper Burger!" Mr. Diaper began to break-dance, accompanied by the restaurant's entire staff and a guy in a wheelchair. They did a funky dance, and then the rest of the staff went back to work, and the wheelchair guy went back to waiting in the closet for another break-dancing scene. The clerk handed Spot his freshly-reheated Diaper Deluxe. Spot lifted a corner of the bun and saw a patty made of what _appeared_ to be meat. "Um, Mister Diaper, my name's Spot, and I just had a nasty run-in with some salami. Can you guarantee that this contains meat but not salami?" Mr. Diaper threw back his head, or rather his diaper, and laughed. "Why, silly little dippity dog--" (he paused to dip Spot in a vat of artificially-flavored horseradish) "--we make all this meat ourselves in my magical Diaper Factory. Take a bite." Spot took a bite and broke all his upper teeth. He pulled a large gold bar out of his mouth. "What's this doing in my burger?" Mr. Diaper took the bar and flipped it over to show Spot the lettering on the bottom. "Spot, this is a Golden Ticket (cash value zero point zero one cents.) It entitles you to come along on a magical trip through my Diaper Factory." He grabbed Spot's paw and tossed him into an invisible elevator and hopped in after him, then pressed all the buttons with his butt while screaming at the top of his lungs. Spot had no time to be suspicious of this suspicious character, as the elevator zipped through the roof, causing the restaurant to collapse, killing all its employees (except the wheelchair guy, who was a freelancer.) As the elevator accelevated, Spot's stomach was left behind, meaning that the bite he'd taken of the Diaper Deluxe was now in his left lung. He coughed, and the elevator suddenly came to a screeching halt, causing him to swallow his own lungs. Mr. Diaper put a fluorescent purple top hat on top of his diaper, grabbed a cane, and danced out into the enormous factory, which looked like a forest only all the trees and flowers were made of ground meat. Amid the meat-trees cavorted many small, deformed creatures. "What are those?" asked Spot. "Those are the very rare and very special Diaper-Loompas, Spot. They make all my food." Spot noticed that the Diaper-Loompas looked like heads, with hands where their ears should have been and clown shoes where their necks should have been. Also they were transparent and their brains were filled with butterflies of a thousand colors, and their eyeballs had teeth. These cute critters were grabbing handfuls of ground chuck from the trees and squishing them into burger patties by sitting on them. "Wow!" said Spot. "I want a Diaper-Loompa!" But that thought was cut short as Mr. Diaper dipped Spot in the river of lard. "Sorry, Spot, but that was for your own protection." "Protection? From what?" "So you don't get stuck when you go through the entrance into the heart of my factory." Mr. Diaper waved his cane at a small door shaped like a heart valve, indicating that Spot would have to crawl through an aorta to continue the tour. "Once you're in the factory's heart you can see the secret stuff." Spot crawled through the aorta-like tunnel, bumping into cholesterol-like deposits of whatever stuff looks like cholesterol and is normally found in artificial aortas. Well, okay, it was cholesterol. Spot popped out the other end, thankful for his lard bath. Mr. Diaper joined him, entering the room through a normal door cleverly hidden in the middle of the wall, revealed only by its doorknob, hinges, and "DOOR" sign. Spot was facing a wall covered with florid writing. It appeared to be some sort of contract, but it was hard to read because the lettering was infinitely small, and got smaller towards the bottom, which was infinitely far down below the floor where he couldn't see it. He tried to read at least the first sentence, but only got as far as "I, Spot, relinquish all right to sue Mr. Dilly Diaper, owner of Diaper Burger, if I should meet a horrible fate while..." before Mr. Diaper distracted him by grabbing his paw and helping him sign it. Then a notary public made of Jell-O came in and notarized it. Now it was official--Spot was in the factory, and was no longer legally important! Mr. Diaper opened a door in the contract and they went through. They were in a corridor with some parallel stripes on the wall. "REALLY PSYCHEDELIC, ISN'T IT?" shouted Mr. Diaper, flipping a switch that made the lighting turn purplish. Spot was unimpressed, so Mr. Diaper opened another door. "Okay, Spot, we'll forget that the pathetically psychedelic corridor exists. This is where we grow the meat for my Diaper Chickenwiches." One corner of the room was dominated by a cubical cage, eighteen feet on a side, filled from bottom to top with chickens, stacked like cordwood. The ones on the bottom were squashed and deformed, but this didn't matter because several Diaper-Loompas picked up the cage and dropped it into a big blender. A grayish-brown paste came out, not unlike halvah, and the Diaper-Loompas sprayed it with Clorox bleach to make it turn a pretty shade of pure white. "You see?" said Mr. Diaper, "I bet you've always wondered what 'Mechanically Separated Chicken' in ingredients means! It's a very special definition of 'separation' where we mix lots of chickens together!" He pulled a lever and a huge velvet curtain parted to reveal a row of aquaria with what looked like blocks of Spam swimming around inside. "There are my Animal 57s. I am breeding them in hopes that someday I can eliminate the need for meat grinders by evolving a species of animal which is already ground up." Spot took a step towards the aquaria and all the featureless blocks of Spam swam towards him. He stepped back and they went back to milling around blindly. Mr. Diaper pushed Spot into a roller coaster with electrified seats, and they took a wild ride deeper into the factory. The coaster made several loops, went through a car wash that sprayed them with scalding hot wax, and then a robot arm popped out from under the seat and rubbed a cheese grater against Spot's face. Then the roller coaster exploded, dumping them in a room with vinyl walls and a floor covered with drains that made constant sucking noises. Mr. Diaper whacked Spot with his cane to be sure he was conscious. "Everybody off! This is where the Diaper-Loompas and I make the bacon for the Diaper Bacon Burger." Spot saw two huge meat grinders, for making the white and the red parts of the bacon. Diaper-Loompas were shovelling cow brains into the white grinder and bloody cow brains into the red grinder. "Aren't you worried about mad cow disease?" asked Spot. "No, Spot, there's no such thing as mad cow disease. We just made that up to make the price of cow brains go down because all food is now made from cow brains." He picked a spongiform cow brain up off the floor and tossed it into the white grinder, and then threw in a brain-shaped sponge. "These sponges come from Australia's Great Barrier Reef. I like to add ten percent sponges to the mixture because that way I never have to clean the machinery. These grinders have been running continuously since 1936. Oh, sometimes this job gets so incredibly tedious that I think I just can't stand it and will need to kill hundreds of people with my Uzi to relieve the boredom. But then I stop and take a moment to enjoy myself by making special bacon." He gestured at a shelf which held a seemingly endless row of glass jars, each containing a brain floating in a different color of formaldehyde. The first was labelled K. MARX, the second A. HITLER, the third A. T. HUN, and the fourth said U. SINCLAIR. Mr. Diaper picked up Upton Sinclair's brain and tossed it into the grinder, jar, green formaldehyde, and all. They moved along to the other side of the machine, where the raw bacon came out in a continuous strip, which was wound onto an enormous spool. When the spool filled up, the Diaper-Loompas rolled it to a workbench where Teamsters used tin snips to cut the bacon into nine-inch pieces for distribution. To ensure that it was sanitary, the Teamsters would periodically take swigs of Listerine and then spit it on the bacon. "Wow!" said Spot. "I had no idea making bacon was so hygenic!" Then Mr. Diaper dipped him in a pool filled with wingless bees. "Ow! Those tickle! I mean, those sting!" Before his legs could swell up from the bee venom, Spot followed Mr. Diaper into the next room. Mr. Diaper used tongs to hold up what appeared to be a slice of toast. "This, Spot, is my masterpiece. It looks like a piece of toast, but it actually tastes like an entire breakfast when you eat it! It's never been tested. Here, eat some!" He gave it to Spot while using his other hand to cover up the small sign which said "DANGER: EXPERIMENTAL FOOD: DO NOT EAT." Spot bit into it, and then foam came out of one side of his mouth, and blood came out of the other. His eyes began to revolve around different axes. "Mmm, tastes like toast!" said Spot. "It's like bread but crispy! And, wow, it tastes like a pat of margarine too! And I taste grapes and sugar mixed together... grape jelly! I can feel it running down my throat! Toast and margarine and jelly! This is truly a complete breakfast! Mmm, grape jelly! Hey, my paws are turning purple!" "Oh dear," said Mr. Diaper without emotion, "help... fire... police... yawn. Please... don't... stop...." Spot's continued eating the toast, then his head turned purple too, and he sprouted twenty more heads. "Waah! I'm a bunch of stupid grapes!" "Shut up!" yelled one of his other heads. "You think you got it bad... you're the tip grape! I'm in the middle!" "You've turned into giant grapes! I need to get you to the juicing room fast!" shouted Mr. Diaper. "Otherwise you could explode!" He blew a special whistle that only Diaper-Loompas could hear, and two of them carried Spot off. Unfortunately, on the way to the juicing room, they ate him. Then they turned into giant, but stupid, dogs. THE END NO ANIMAL 57S WERE HARMED DURING THE MAKING OF THIS STORY.