Bomb Throwing Pacifist
If you took that happy, smiling guy from the box of Quaker Oats, handed him a bottle of gin and a rifle, and pissed him off to a point where he decided he wasn't going to take it anymore, you'd get a little something like this.
Monday, February 26, 2007
And now for a story...
I haven't done one of these in a while, so here goes. It's a Jack Chick tract entitled "The Fool." Enjoy!
And what an ugly bastard he was, what with itty bitty legs, turkey-like jowls, spaghetti for hair, and about 15 years' worth of untrimmed nostril fur. For years he had never understood why his kingdom was so poor and his citizens so generous. Time and time again he'd go around the land, handing out coins with his manly profile stamped on the side, only to see children run home screaming, beggars politely walk away, and monks quietly shuffling across the street and refusing to meet his gaze every time he came along with a bag full o'money. Eventually he just gave up and kept it himself, spending it with the only people who'd accept his currency: designers of vaguely phallic footwear and artists fixated with the idea of painting the purple nurple on every shield they saw. In other words, the insane.
Who also shared with him a fascination with silly hats, screaming infants, suspisciously-shaped huts-and-cloud formations, and the glorious purple nurple device.
C'mon, you can't convince me I'm the only one reading a fruedian subtext here.
Much like our current president, he was happiest when surrounded by people of minimal intelligence, child-like simplicity, single-minded obsessiveness, and an unflagging will to tell him whatever it was he wanted to hear. It's good to be the king, even if your villagers do have to eat babies to survive and live in penis-shaped huts.
The quickest and most effective method of course was usually with an noxious-smelling odor/sound combination. Juggling chainsaws never really seemed to work, unless of course it ended in the dismemberment of a trio of adorable, fluffy baby animals (man, the parallels are uncannily similar).
Common sense would naturaly lead you to conclude that the King had seen the wisdom of investing in some hygene management courses, plastic surgery, etiquette lessons, and a subscription to the New Yorker. In actual fact, in one of those rare moments of dazzling insight and heart-rendering genius which ever so often rise up to change the course of history, the king decided to invent the light bulb. This was of course a brilliant and worthy idea, except for the fact that electricity would not be discovered for another 800 years. After several spectacular failures involving thunderstorms, lightning rods, and char-blackened stableboys, experiments were discontinued and the lightbulb was lost to history (until Mr. Thomas Edison came along, that is).
Now before you pass judgement on this, a little bit of historical context is in order. It was the middle of winter. The queen had once again began complaining of a headache, the tourist season was over, the roads were impassible, the palace was suspiciously deserted, the page boys had all gone home for the holidays, most of the other rent boys were on a mandatory work stoppage while waiting for the dreaded Crab Plague of 1054 to ease up, and the Capital City Guild of Prostitutes' strike was entering its third week with no end in sight. Desperate times called for desperate measures.
It had just come in from the speciality shop in the neighboring capital's pleasure district, and he was eager to try its polished, glowing golden surface out on the puzzled (and dare I say, a little retarded) Jester (who probably wouldn't know what was going on anyway).
As it crackled and vibrated with unholy, arcane power...
In truth, the Jester was a little hard of hearing, what with his ears still ringing from the incident three weeks pervious when the king, in a fit of artistic rage, had decided to teach the Jester the important lesson of diversifying one's comedic portfolio with the aid of a monkeywrench and several dozen blows to the head. However he got the message and, eager to avoid a second trip to Ye Olde Intensive Care Ward, quickly scuttled away.
Oblivious though he was to the rapidly changing and extremely suggestive countours of the hills around him.
And only occasionally getting a bucket of pig manure thrown over his head after making unfortunate references to the the villagers' wives and "other barnyard animals."
Part of this had something to do with his majesty's insistance on using the Blacksmith from Army of Darkness as his personal physician, and the latter's insistance on measuring the king's pulse using nothing more advanced than a 3-minute egg timer.
Never have truer words been spoken between lovers.
Either that, or he was referring to the fate of the readers suck with this tract. In his defense though, he was delusional, surrounded by radioactive flies, and crippled by the exponential growth of two of his eyelashes, and unfortunate side-effect of retaining a metal worker as your cheif chemotherapist.
"To the whipping post at once, slave! Weak and frail though I may be, I feel that I still have one more good flogging left inside of me."
Belatedly the king came to realize that in his weak and frail state, he would not have the power to stave off the vicious advances of the embittered and travel-hardened man he had so cruelly tormented in ages past. While the very though filled him with fear, he was oddly excited by the sudden reversal of roles as well.
Call me crazy, but I think the majority of readers have enough sense to avoid appearing weak and fragile before their hellishly-trated slaves. Or at the very least invest in a good, solid, Maximum-Security Prison rated chastity belt whenever talk of wands is rolled out.
Or fingers for that matter.
That thing is huge. I wonder if he has to invest in special medical support devices every time he feels the urge to pick his nose.
...says the disembodied hand, as NASA predicts generally sunny weather, with an outside change of Jesus showers moving across the People's Republic of China later in the afternoon.
And it was all told with all the gravitas of a cheap, 1970s broadway musical, complete with searchlights and styrofoam "boulders".
You can bet your ass that if he tried I'd be giving himself a little something of my own. Specifically a load of 00 Buckshot coming out of the buisness end of my Remington 870.
And what an ugly bastard he was, what with itty bitty legs, turkey-like jowls, spaghetti for hair, and about 15 years' worth of untrimmed nostril fur. For years he had never understood why his kingdom was so poor and his citizens so generous. Time and time again he'd go around the land, handing out coins with his manly profile stamped on the side, only to see children run home screaming, beggars politely walk away, and monks quietly shuffling across the street and refusing to meet his gaze every time he came along with a bag full o'money. Eventually he just gave up and kept it himself, spending it with the only people who'd accept his currency: designers of vaguely phallic footwear and artists fixated with the idea of painting the purple nurple on every shield they saw. In other words, the insane.
Who also shared with him a fascination with silly hats, screaming infants, suspisciously-shaped huts-and-cloud formations, and the glorious purple nurple device.
C'mon, you can't convince me I'm the only one reading a fruedian subtext here.
Much like our current president, he was happiest when surrounded by people of minimal intelligence, child-like simplicity, single-minded obsessiveness, and an unflagging will to tell him whatever it was he wanted to hear. It's good to be the king, even if your villagers do have to eat babies to survive and live in penis-shaped huts.
The quickest and most effective method of course was usually with an noxious-smelling odor/sound combination. Juggling chainsaws never really seemed to work, unless of course it ended in the dismemberment of a trio of adorable, fluffy baby animals (man, the parallels are uncannily similar).
Common sense would naturaly lead you to conclude that the King had seen the wisdom of investing in some hygene management courses, plastic surgery, etiquette lessons, and a subscription to the New Yorker. In actual fact, in one of those rare moments of dazzling insight and heart-rendering genius which ever so often rise up to change the course of history, the king decided to invent the light bulb. This was of course a brilliant and worthy idea, except for the fact that electricity would not be discovered for another 800 years. After several spectacular failures involving thunderstorms, lightning rods, and char-blackened stableboys, experiments were discontinued and the lightbulb was lost to history (until Mr. Thomas Edison came along, that is).
Now before you pass judgement on this, a little bit of historical context is in order. It was the middle of winter. The queen had once again began complaining of a headache, the tourist season was over, the roads were impassible, the palace was suspiciously deserted, the page boys had all gone home for the holidays, most of the other rent boys were on a mandatory work stoppage while waiting for the dreaded Crab Plague of 1054 to ease up, and the Capital City Guild of Prostitutes' strike was entering its third week with no end in sight. Desperate times called for desperate measures.
It had just come in from the speciality shop in the neighboring capital's pleasure district, and he was eager to try its polished, glowing golden surface out on the puzzled (and dare I say, a little retarded) Jester (who probably wouldn't know what was going on anyway).
As it crackled and vibrated with unholy, arcane power...
In truth, the Jester was a little hard of hearing, what with his ears still ringing from the incident three weeks pervious when the king, in a fit of artistic rage, had decided to teach the Jester the important lesson of diversifying one's comedic portfolio with the aid of a monkeywrench and several dozen blows to the head. However he got the message and, eager to avoid a second trip to Ye Olde Intensive Care Ward, quickly scuttled away.
Oblivious though he was to the rapidly changing and extremely suggestive countours of the hills around him.
And only occasionally getting a bucket of pig manure thrown over his head after making unfortunate references to the the villagers' wives and "other barnyard animals."
Part of this had something to do with his majesty's insistance on using the Blacksmith from Army of Darkness as his personal physician, and the latter's insistance on measuring the king's pulse using nothing more advanced than a 3-minute egg timer.
Never have truer words been spoken between lovers.
Either that, or he was referring to the fate of the readers suck with this tract. In his defense though, he was delusional, surrounded by radioactive flies, and crippled by the exponential growth of two of his eyelashes, and unfortunate side-effect of retaining a metal worker as your cheif chemotherapist.
"To the whipping post at once, slave! Weak and frail though I may be, I feel that I still have one more good flogging left inside of me."
Belatedly the king came to realize that in his weak and frail state, he would not have the power to stave off the vicious advances of the embittered and travel-hardened man he had so cruelly tormented in ages past. While the very though filled him with fear, he was oddly excited by the sudden reversal of roles as well.
Call me crazy, but I think the majority of readers have enough sense to avoid appearing weak and fragile before their hellishly-trated slaves. Or at the very least invest in a good, solid, Maximum-Security Prison rated chastity belt whenever talk of wands is rolled out.
Or fingers for that matter.
That thing is huge. I wonder if he has to invest in special medical support devices every time he feels the urge to pick his nose.
...says the disembodied hand, as NASA predicts generally sunny weather, with an outside change of Jesus showers moving across the People's Republic of China later in the afternoon.
And it was all told with all the gravitas of a cheap, 1970s broadway musical, complete with searchlights and styrofoam "boulders".
You can bet your ass that if he tried I'd be giving himself a little something of my own. Specifically a load of 00 Buckshot coming out of the buisness end of my Remington 870.
Marc with a C, 12:33 PM
1 Comments:
Brilliant analysis of Jack Chick's work. You will really like "Hot Chicks" which is9 filmed adapations of Chick tracts. I know you will dig it the most. Here is the link to their site: www.316.now.
