le parcours

The frog in my frying pan was still alive, but beginning to sizzle. It kept hopping, trying to stay off the surface, but it couldn't hop far, because I'd put a huge, domed glass lid over the pan.

"Pretty cool. I love frog legs," Arnold Schwarzenegger said, but he looked distracted. "Sorry, Kevin, but I have to go snap a Democrat in two, then shit on his family." Arnold stomped out. I didn't mind; this frog-frying was far too absorbing. The frog was hopping madly now, its abdomen and the pads of its feet blackened, the sizzling much louder.

I looked over at my fridge and noticed a few roaches under it, which had apparently survived the initial spraying. I grabbed a bottle and managed to scoot them all inside. I opened the pan lid, dumped the roaches into the pan, then slammed the lid back on.

The pan was hot; the roaches were already scuttling madly along with the frog. I had to fire off a monster crap goblin of my own, so I turned off the gas to give the roaches and frog some time to contemplate their predicament. The frog looked like he'd just about had it. I lumbered over to the bathroom.

About two hundred flash-mobbers had decided to congregate outside my window. This pissed me off. My ass, ever ready for battle, began to rumble dangerously. The mobbers looked like they were all supposed to moo and whirl in place. I decided to risk asking one of the mobbers a question and shouted over the growing ass-thunder, "You! How long're you supposed to do that for?"

An ugly but cheerful twenty-something answered. "About ten minutes! We just started!"

"Good! Thanks! Keep it up!" I settled into firing position, my enormous howitzer of an ass hanging ominously out the bathroom window, trained directly on the crowd of flash-mobbers.

"Hey! I got somethin' for ya!" I yelled over my shoulder. My ass was sounding more and more like a nuclear accelerator, and in mere moments, the intestinal cannon had charged itself to full power. My pockmarked buttocks were trembling seismically, ready to let loose a stream of kimchi-flecked death that would rival the destructive force of the Death Star's superlaser. Incredibly, the flash-mobbers seemed not to notice. That, or they didn't care.

"NOW!" I bellowed. My ass opened wide and screamed brownly, vomiting a torrent of feces that spewed out as a monstrous, chunky beam. By waving my ass slightly, side to side, I was able to mow down dozens of flash-mobbers. Severed heads and limbs flew everywhere. The remaining mobbers were slicked in dung and the spattered blood of their fellows.

Incredibly, the flash-mobbers didn't run. I heard one of them yell, "Stay on mission! The time isn't up yet!" And they kept right on whirling and mooing.

And that's how I discovered their weakness. Flash-mobbers were no different from kamikaze pilots, blindly dedicated to their mission, keen to stay on track right to the very end. My face contorted into an evil grin.

"Ass!" I yelled back at myself, "We're switching to guided mode!" My ass modded grimly and waited for the command to fire.

"DO IT!" I barked. And this time, instead of a shit-beam, a whole line of cannonball-sized crapcakes flew out and began to swerve among the remain mobbers, smacking them dead-on. I cackled when one guy went down, his chest blown out by my guided dung. Some people tried to run, but the remaining cannonballs followed them and took them down like cheetahs overcoming young wildebeests.

Soon, only one person was left: the obnoxious Greek ringleader. She whirled and mooed defiantly, determined not to run away. I still had some crap left in me, and I had plans for her.

But just then, Arnold came back. "Damn, it stinks in here!" he yelled.

"Tell me about it!" I yelled back from the bathroom, my ass making smacking noises as it prepared to fire.

"What're you doing in there?" Arnold demanded. I could tell he was right outside the bathroom door.

"Shit-killing a flash-mob," I grunted, preparing to strike.

"Wait! Let me in!" Arnold commanded. Disappointed, I dragged my ass back inside, wiped, dressed, and opened the door. Arnold burst in, looked out the window, and nodded as he surveyed the carnage. Hundreds of bodies lay strewn across the ground, pieces of them missing, shit everywhere.

"You got back pretty quick from your Democrat-snapping-in-two-ing," I noted.

"Wait," Arnold said, going very still. "Is that who I think it is?"

"Arianna Huffington? Yeah, she coordinated this flash-mob, whose mission was to moo and whirl in place for ten minutes. I was about to finish her off. She's got about a minute to go. Thing about flash-mobbers is--"

"--They're fanatical about staying on mission," Arnold finished for me.

I blinked. "How'd you know that?"

"The Democrat I snapped in two? He was leading a flash-mob, too. Remember, Kevin, that demos means people. The Democrats have been behind this fad all along."

"Fucking Democrats," I muttered in disbelief. My ass farted disgustedly in agreement. "And demos is a... it's a Greek root."

We both stared at the whirling Huffington. My mind was flashing an image of the Borg Queen from "Star Trek: First Contact." Arnold had that Terminator look about him. Then he turned to me, his jaw set.

"She's running as an independent, but we both know she consorts with the likes of Al Franken. Kevin, please step out of the bathroom," he intoned. I made haste to get out of Arnold's way as he began unbuckling his belt. "I will deal with Arianna myself. The only way to stop a movement... is with another movement." I shut the bathroom door.

An instant later, I heard a high-pitched, whining sound, like a circular saw. I had personally trained Arnold in Hangmundo (Sino-Kor. "way of the anus"), and knew he was using the Cutting Dung Technique. There was no way an untrained person could survive that attack. At that very moment, Arnold was firing a needle-thin, near-invisible dung-laser at Arianna. By the sound of it, he was cutting her into little pieces, starting with her nonessential body parts. I heard some screams, which got louder for a while, then there was some gurgling... then, finally-- silence.

Arnold stepped out of the bathroom.

"Ah, that was refreshing!" he boomed. I went into the bathroom and looked out the window. Quivering bits of Arianna Huffington were trying to crawl back together and reassemble, but the damage was too extreme. Eventually, the quivering stopped, and all was still. A few birds had landed and were tentatively pecking the flash-mobbers' corpses.

"Kevin, I have to meet Maria in about two hours. What say we grab some gyros? I feel like Greek."

We walked out of my place. As I passed the kitchen stove, I noticed that the frog and roaches were long dead, either cooked or asphyxiated or both.

Outside, the sun was shining as we marched to the Hummer to face more unknown dangers.

THE END

In other news:

Simpering about the possibility of peace.

Korea Herald joins President Noh in chastising the student protestors.

Marmot must-reads, here and here.


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