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Chezecaek
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28 Aug 2011, 7:51 pm

Jackknifed: Barrage of the Carborators? It's a new movie that takes place in the same universe as the hit TV series Scourge of the Beans, but with (mostly) different characters. Instead of centering on Melroy and the Duckfringe, it's about this undead Rastafarian blacksmith named Johnwald Ruckerbinge who works for the known intergalactic supergangster Xenwalt Stefanoski but is secretly a spy for the United Association Federation Organization. When Xenwalt finds out, he exiles Johnwald into the outer reaches of the Mechascape. Much of the movie is about Johnwald trying to navigate and survive in this treacherous terrain, and I won't spoil anything, but there's a really trippy and awesome half hour action sequence that takes place in a strip mall, and the ending of that scene is so...incredible and profound, I really don't think I've ever seen anything quite like it. I think this might be one of my new favorite movies of all time, so I really recommend you see it.

(Btw this movie doesn't actually exist, in case you actually believed it did and were planning to look it up. Neither does Scourge of the Beans, sadly.)


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Jory
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28 Aug 2011, 7:58 pm

Image



Chezecaek
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28 Aug 2011, 8:35 pm

Hey! That's an expression of exasperation, isn't it? Isn't it? That's mean, I don't like that. That's mean to do those things and I want you to apologize. APOLOGIZE, BOG GAMMIT!



Jory
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28 Aug 2011, 8:40 pm

It's an expression of, "What the hell is that guy talking about?"



Chezecaek
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28 Aug 2011, 8:52 pm

Ah. See, maybe there are different types of facepalms that I'm not aware of. Like, if it's not a full frontal facepalm, and is more to the side, does it mean something different? Is there another type of facepalm that conveys a desire to have "relations" with fried vegetables? Because I've been wanting to know how to get that across without saying it out loud. When you say it, everyone gives you weird looks. Trust me, I've been there.

As for what I'm talking about, half the time even I don't know. I'm officially insane, declared in a court of law. Okay, that's not true, random humor is just my style.



sluice
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28 Aug 2011, 9:31 pm

That was fun.



Tim_Tex
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28 Aug 2011, 9:39 pm

Tell us more!



CockneyRebel
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28 Aug 2011, 11:23 pm

Keep talking. I want to see what you come up with next.


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Chezecaek
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29 Aug 2011, 12:48 am

Do I hear the people cry for more? Lucky you, I have an archive of nonsensical ramblings. If you wanted a randomness extravaganza, you're getting it! And some of this stuff might be inappropriate or offensive, most of it I wrote years ago and I just copied and pasted it all here, but I tend to be offensive in my writing a lot so chances are some of this will be a little bit.

Yeah, so I says to this guy that apples and oranges a cheese puff don't make, and he was all like, "do the tango!" So then I threw a seashell at him, upon which was written some sacred words about a sandwich, and then the whole world was a milkshake. Suddenly realizing my mistake, I quickly rode a pair of sunglasses across the land of cactus farts to the Temple of the Nose. There upon entering the church I saw a hamster dressed in flowing robes of Jarlsberg cheese, and it said to me in a deep voice, "thou art a muffin pants!" Then I knew. I knew that it was truly the vase in the corner of my chocolate nostril that had set the phone to flames on the night of April Fourth, 984237598475983457934. I threw a mouse at the sun, hoping that the explosion of the twelve leprechaun ninjas would help the ostrich in my closet to smell with the enrichment of twenty-six different flavors of apes. Alas! It was not so! For a light came upon me then, and I knew that it was finally time for me to become a broccoli stick and live the rest of my life on Mars. If only I had known the truth of the paper clips sooner, perhaps the life of a washing machine would not have been mine to live! If only I had known that the plastic purple cube had contained inside of it a copy of a fake of a painting that was never important, then, just then perhaps the golden trophy hanging on the pirate's hook would not have been destroyed as twenty DVDs crashed into it and made it sing folk songs about candy canes that were on the distant memories of a balloon. Goodbye my friends, and remember to brush your teeth with zombies every fortnight!

In the far north, past the creamed corn, I found my lawn mower. It was just sitting there in the middle of a field, as though it had never really left me. But when I went out to get it, an explosion deprived me of my legs. I dug a hole, climbed down, and ate breakfast in the dank dark pit while the mortar shells exploded all around me. Breakfast was a water slide from Kansas. I couldn't remember which billboard on meth had sold it to me. It didn't matter now. My fingers were dusting lint off the cryogenic pizzas when the pizzas exploded and I was thereby deprived of my fingers, but my legs had returned to me with my lawnmower. My lawnmower, however, had long since become snobbish and unappreciative of all that I had ever done for him. Having no fingers and being unable to play the piano, I instead played the drums, and then I threw those drums right at my lawnmower and went to that candy store downtown. Inside, I discovered that the store clerk was a spy for those long johns from the moon. I pedaled backwards wildly, throwing keyboards and harmonicas, until I reached the edge of the branch of the giant tree, and fell to my death. At the bottom I was in the magical world of Oz, and the Tin Man was grazing on my hair. I stabbed him again and again with a stick, but he just kept coming back. And then...something happened. I fell off a cliff and grabbed onto the edge. As I held on for dear life, I saw the end of this first part of my story coming towards me and I knew it was about to be finished in the worst possible way: with a cliffhanger.

I fell, watermelons dancing all around me, and then I was somewhere in Canada halfway in a canoe and halfway in an alligator's hungry mouth. A salt balloon popped in Moravia and I successfully scored seventeen points in one quarter of a golf game. One train hit me and then another, until I was baked beans and red rice. I broke into the local convenience store and found the combination to the secret chest in my basement, right where it had been all along. In the chest I found a skeleton and his sombrero. I buried him at the laundromat and found, wedged between two barrels of wine in the back closet, some sort of tissues on toast upon which were written the plans to Fort Janesbutts, and now I knew how to get in. With ten thousand bottles of lotion I marched upon that fort and asploded it with epic kicks from all directions, until it was reduced to nothing. In the remains, I found my uncle's cat, dead, yet still alive, covered in pepper as though about to be served in a restaurant, so I served him after opening one of my own. Somebody was rubbing my back with a dirty dish cloth one day, and I was going through the files underneath that suspiciously green painting just past the bus station. In it I found a letter sent to me twenty-five years before, and it told me to come to the moon if I wanted to meet someone special. So I went to the moon.

The rusty scotch tape swinging on a grape vine in orbit around the sun was named Charlie Dean, and he invited me in for the ingredients to a New England soup kitchen. I declined and was riding on a motorcycle when a salad fork assaulted me with plastic earmuffs. So there I was in the ditch and iron balls were rumbling down all the world's hills, so I went to the doctor. The doctor fired me to the moon out of a shoe and there I met the very special person from the letter, but he was already dead. I could not identify him. I flossed my feet for a moment and then found myself tumbling through a mattress to country music. There were moths all around the framework of a Scottish man's kilt, and a beer bottle was clanging endlessly against a sheet of titanium in the truck stop restroom just off the highway. When I entered the greenhouse I was slowly banged on the head by a socket wrench until I fired two thousand clowns into the eye of the tornado and rode the wind to wherever it would take me. I only hoped it would be some place with balled up socks filled to the brim with goat heads and rock singers on bicycles, but that might be too much to expect.


And now, a break from your daily bugle tarts to tell you...

**** THE YETIS! **** THE OBOES! **** THE ABORIGINES AND THEIR TAXES! AND **** YOU, GORGONZOLA VASCHEZ!

Speaking of all the cows on the sun, have you read the paper recently? If you did, shame on you for causing Armageddon! Shame on you for killing Batman! Shame on you for filming bad movies for twenty-six years! Shame on you for READING this bull**** when you should be making it all right again! And give me my doritos, you paper-cutting lizard licker!

That's right, you heard me. Now bring me a pen. I need to write my memoirs, and then throw peanuts at your grandmother. Communist Russia isn't going to stab itself with a fossilized bear, so SOMEbody needs to do it. I think that's just the thing for you to do to make up for all the horrible things you've done. Here's a bowl of chili, here's that one Mexican guy's head, here's a racial stereotype about African Jews in Brazil, and here's a gunshot to the head. That's right. I killed you. Now get the **** out of my topic.


(This next one, as with all the others, I originally posted on various forums over at GameFAQs. In the topic, I first said hellishly chocolate lava lamps, to which my friend delimew responded, "molten magma meatballs?" And following as my response to that comment was this.)



**** no! Think of the grubworms, dammit! History has been all about jackasses who never thought twice about zipping up their pie after closing time, and I'm ****ing SICK of it. Do you know how many times I've had to go back and forth, taking soy sauce from that truck over there to where the army is currently fighting on the dark side of my ass, all because of some dispute over a container of bleach? It's as if a mountain lion was working at a chemical plant and one day he decided he was going to evaporate into thin air, and when they found the general's body in the glove compartment, somebody had been there with some bad-smelling perfume and the evidence was completely ruined. And after all this, that belligerent butthorse Danny McFatass is still trying to cheat me out of my chess boards and my yard trimmings and my ten thousand tons of lunar soap that's been decomposing in a copy machine somewhere until the next time I open the refrigerator. I've won sixty games of Not Poker, that being a game that's not at all like Poker and a heck of a lot more like shooting giant duckmen in the face--I think that's because in truth, that's exactly what it is. But the government tries to hide that from me, tries to make those duckmen appear like telemarketers dropping down on parachutes, as though recreating that fateful day on the beach when somebody's pants fell down and consequently the world ended almost immediately. Or perhaps it took several thousand years. Either way humanity had to move elsewhere and eventually found home on a giant carrot. That's why everybody is orange these days. Didn't you know? Or perhaps the government is trying to keep that a secret, too. Then in came the wranglers, and the thieves, and those folks from the Federal Reserve, and they started singing off key. The lyrics essentially described what would happen to me and my illegal processed ham if I didn't vacate the premises immediately. I thought about it, and decided to take the long road home. When I got there, it turned out that everything I'd ever known was in fact a pineapple getting raped by a badger. And to think I had called that life. Sad, isn't it?

What the ****? What do you think you're doing there in my segregated crustacean slop? Pickling your hair? Get the Hell out and take your tire treads and scuba suit with you! What heresy to say that fishing for mimes isn't worth half a Klingon's butthole! What jabberscop, doppleskit, and grell! What llamafied turkey jinx! Burn, you fiend! Idly necking your boots while an orgy of cantaloupes has its way with the fate of the Mechascape! And to think I thought you were two biscuits short of a golf course! To think I thought you were a bootlegged snowmobile powered by ostrich liver! Have you no shame? No sense of grits and barbed wire, forever tarnished by a two-by-four? You are a gas-guzzling, cow-prodding, lip-syncing, French-kissing, blacksmithing, crotch-heckling, larvae-spitting, muckwaxing, krill-farming, uranium mining Yeti in a frog stampede! And yes, I would like ice with that.

Cheese thee thy wrens! What do you think you're doing out there in my delectable carrot-topped salad bar? Do you think you're a weasel? Do you fancy yourself an astronaut, floating along the bacon-flavored rim of a glass of beer? YOU'RE NOT! This isn't orangutan juice, friend! This is the real thing! You see all those zeppelins out there destroying the sun? Those are going to be here in four and one half years, and I don't know about you, but I'm going to be eating mice beneath the seat of a car until I find a pen with which to write my memoirs. If you want to survive until next Thanksgiving, you might want to do the same. And what if there's a zombie outbreak, and you don't have the wart cream? Curse you and your tenth-dimensional way of thinking! It seems as though I'll have to do everything for you, cantaloupes and all! And even if I hit you over the head with a chocolate bar and fling you from the back of a rabid rhino man, are you then going to stick your head out of the sewer for one ****ing second so I can take your picture and then send you off to the barber shop? Are you SERIOUS? You have to be kidding me, wearing a cabbage to a cocktail saloon and pretending you're the sheriff from outer space. Around here, we only care about one sheriff, and that's the one that's over there stabbing himself half to death with a popsicle stick, and god dammit, if you don't do the same, it's going to be the death of Speedy Gonzalez and the One Hundred Musketeers. Well, I guess it's hopeless to put the fate of the universe in the hands of someone like you. Now we're all going to die. I hope you're happy.

All right, listen. I'm sorry I insulted you. Go hose yourself down with a fire extinguisher and let's listen to this important lecture about pencil sharpeners performed before a live audience by the worst cast of actors you've ever seen or smelled. Then afterwords let's fart candied parfaits backwards and sideways out of our butts. Plastic mints aren't good for your pubic hairs, they're just going to make you breathe lizards out your nostrils and then spontaneously die in three and one half hours. If you think there's going to be pickles involved, you'd better pack your elephants and zing to Timbucktoo to recheck what just came up on the scanners. It's Superman! And he's not stuffed in a folder this time. He wants REVENGE for what you did to his can opener and how you threw a vase at him in a paintball game and prevented him from overeating himself to death. You were so hyperventilating at the time that your mom had a heart attack and the world crumbled into dust that I put in my pocket as I went to the bank and came back to the bean barn with ten yards of rope and the end of the world written out in Swahili. The end. Or is it?

I was there that time that Chuck Killjoy got his hair buzzed in a freak accident. Everybody was drinking salsa and suddenly it was Tootsie Rolls like 1999 all over again. I'm sorry, that's not a very pleasant topic. Let's talk about monkey cookies--you know, the green ones. Don't you love how they rampage like newly polished shoes? Glass curtains couldn't be so negligent. Even still, I wonder at the legitimacy of the bassoon harvest. It's probably just another frozen dinner equipped with scam cannons and we all know how that turned out last time. I still haven't found the antidote. Then again, I wasn't looking for it.

Hey! Listen toothpick, that's a restricted grape tube! I don't know what in the varnish of Thor you think you're doing but you'd better just get back in your tractor and LEAVE, or by refraction I will moon you to the moon! You think you're so crack trap and shrill? You think you're all that funk? I've met coupons for yogurt more capable of jamming Bibnarb's lacquer slosh trinkets! What the lice is wrong with you? In any case, throw me a toilet and a sack of yachts. I'm going Nug hunting.

And now for some Scourge of the Beans. The story of the series has only ever been told through next episode previews, making famous the catchphrase, "Next time, on Scourge of the Beans!" And I am also pleased to inform you, I intend to write out one or more episodes of Scourge of the Beans. Maybe I won't finish, but it's one of many ideas I have for a potential webcomic I might create in the distant future.

Next time, on Scourge of the Beans! Having nearly succumbed to the terrifying threat of Lunchables, the Duckfringe is in unprecedented peril! As a result, the entire fabric of reality goes haywire! For example, one moment Melroy, shrunk to the size of an insect, is trying to find his way out of Jimbob's hair! In the next, he finds himself inexplicably humping William Shakespeare! How will this be resolved?!?!

Next time on Scourge of the Beans, Melroy gets on the bad side of intergalactic supergangster Xenwalt Stephanoski! He's told that the only place he can hide from Xenwalt's wrath is on the planet Megafat; just one problem--they won't let him in because he's not fat enough! In desperation he calls Captain Boobs, who is currently protecting New Baliffia from an army of Zhicosian Gonborgs with the help of General Snorghorse. Captain Boobs comes to his call, and they devise a plan to become fatter by joining their bodies together! Once they are conjoined by the powers of Gigasnox they are able to enter Megafat. Unfortunately, the inhabitants mistake them for none other than Xenwalt Stephanoski, and throw them in jail! When Xenwalt gets the word that someone is impersonating him, he hurries to Megafat to take care of the problem, but hits a complication: It turns out the Gonborgs have caught wind of a mysterious two-headed being that fits the description of one of their gods; they have come to Megafat and found Melroy and Captain Boobs, and are now certain of it! This is their Creator! Now, for reasons unbeknownst to them, Melroy and Captain Boobs are a subject of worship for the Gonborgs! What shall they do with this power?!

Next time, on Scourge of the Beans, the soy milk attacks! Meanwhile, Admiral Boobs gets wrapped up in a wall hanging and can't move! Will he manage to free himself? Or is the world about to be destroyed? Also, Melroy's printer malfunctions, prompting him to go on a wild rampage through the streets, forcefully brushing people's teeth! All this and more, next time, on Scourge of the Beans!

...And I'd have more if GameFAQs hadn't just started archiving topics about three years ago. But that should be enough, right?



sterfry
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29 Aug 2011, 12:57 am

I have already written 5 screenplays and scripts based on your posts and sold them all to hollywood for millions and millions of dollars. You will see the movies out next summer and kick yourself for failing to copyright your ideas. I will soon post a video of myself swimming naked in a pool of 100 dollar bills.