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Liberal Utopia

What your world would be if everything liberals wanted, they got. Open the door at the bottom of its Elysium fa├žade and take a glimpse of hell.

Qerry Floppins

 

This ain't your father's Disney® movie.


O
nce upon a time, there lived a cell of four splodeydopes in the land of cheese and monkeys (i.e., Paris). They had just beheaded the governess hostage of their two smallest splodeydopes and badly needed a replacement. So they put an ad in the local paper (i.e., The Surrender Herald) demanding a new one. Well, no sooner had they placed that ad than the cell received a knock at their front door.

"Hi, my name is Qerry Floppins and I'm reporting for duty."

"You come in answer to our ad?" asked the cell leader.

"Why, of course. I served in Vietnam."

"Viet what?"

"Vietnam. The place once occupied by this country before it surrendered there, before my own country went in afterwards and started cutting off genitals and beheading babies, and before I denounced my country's soldiers as genital cutter offers, baby beheaders, and village burner downers and confessed to doing the same things."

"You beheaded people too?" asked the cell leader.

"Why, of course. I served in Vietnam, and I committed the same kinds of atrocities as thousands of other soldiers in Vietnam—where I served, by the way."

"That's good. We like beheaders."

"Then I can have the job?" asked the prim, haughty Brahmin.

"Well, I'm not sure. We still don't know much about you. Are you married?"

"Why, of course. I married a rich woman before I married a richer one."

"How do we know that she is rich? Can we see her income-tax returns to prove it?"

"That's none of your business," huffed the snotty, aloof descendant of Ivan the Terrible.

"O.K. Then tell me about those atrocities you committed in Vita Min or wherever. It must've taken you years to burn down all those villages that you say you did."

"Actually, four months. That's how long I served in Vietnam."

"Wow! You're a fast village burner downer. We like that," the bearded cell leader said with a grin.

"Thanks. Does that mean I get the job?"

"Not so fast. We still need to know more about your war-crimes record. Were you ever wounded? That is, by actual enemy soldiers, not those babies you were beheading."

"Why, of course. I served in Vietnam, and I was constantly receiving fire from the freedom fighters my country was illegitimately trying to oppress there."

"What kind of wounds did you receive? You seem to have all your arms and legs. Do you limp or have any scars?"

"I received three wounds. But my body has remarkable recuperative powers, so all of them healed almost immediately. I do carry shrapnel still in one of my legs."

"You do? Can you produce any recent X-rays showing that shrapnel in your leg?"

"That's none of your business. I say there's shrapnel still in my leg after thirty-five years, and that should be good enough. Unless you lost three or more limbs yourself in combat—or at least in a combat-area accident—you have no right to question me or anyone else who, like myself, served in Vietnam."

"Let's skip that for now, then. What about the records themselves. Are you willing to sign a Standard Form 180 authorizing their release so we can see all of them relating to your service in Vichy Ham?"

"Vietnam. Where I served, by the way. And, no, you can't see all those records. That's none of your business either."

"Well, I don't know if you're really qualified for this position," said the cell leader. "How well do you get along with little ones?"

"You mean children? When I wasn't beheading babies in Vietnam—where I served, by the way—I was handing them candy and a portion of my field rations. They seemed to like scraping out what was left at the bottom of those cans I gave them."

"Actually, by 'little ones' I meant short cell members."

"Why, of course. If I can get along with leaders in this and other countries, I certainly can get along with your little tykes here."

"Foreign leaders? Which ones are you talking about?"

"That's none of—"

"Of your business. Of course. Well, I'm still not entirely convinced that you're the type of hostage governess we're looking for for our little ones. But we'll take you on on contingency. If you get along well with our short cell members...Well, we'll see."

"Thanks. When do I start?"

"You can start right away, Qerry Floppins. The little ones are upstairs now preparing for a homicide bombing—er, I mean, a typically wholesome cell activity. And they could really use your help."

"I'll be happy to give it. I'm Qerry Floppins and I'm reporting for duty."

When Qerry Floppins knocked on the door upstairs, he heard a loud commotion behind it. Someone was obviously trying to move something heavy across the floor in a hurry. There was some clanking of metal, then dead silence. Qerry Floppins knocked again.

"I know you're in there, little ones," he said. "Open up or I'll tell your cell leader that you've been behaving badly."

The silence continued for a moment. Then someone behind the door finally mumbled, "It's unlocked."

Qerry Floppins opened the door and walked into the room.

"An infidel!" yelled a short splodeydope.

"Cut off his head, Hajib!" yelled another, handing Hajib a large, ugly knife.

Qerry Floppins froze in terror. He saw his life flash before his eyes: First, the time he spent in his Europeein boarding school, pestering all the nurses there for extra boxes of Band Aids®. Next, his brief stint as Yale's Liberal Party chairman, sqerring away all its members. Then at a Christmas party in Sa Dec, Viet Nam, getting so drunk that he thought he was in Cambodia. On to telling his first wife that if she didn't shut her trap he'd show her what real suffocation is. Later to when he patted his hairmate Qerrwards on the butt a little bit longer than was absolutely necessary. And finally, the moment he got on a stage in his home city and said:

"But I'm Qerry Floppins! And I'm reporting for duty!"

Both splodeydopes approached him menacingly.

"Stop!" yelled a voice behind Qerry Floppins. All three turned to face the cell leader standing in the doorway.

"You two," said the cell leader. "We will have no more beheadings in this house until I say so. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes," the splodeydopes answered in unison.

"Also, I want you to mind the new hosta—er, governess here, Qerry Floppins. He'll be helping you while I'm at the bank laundering—that is, overseeing ostensibly nondescript financial transactions for our cell. And I don't want either of you severing off any of his body parts like you did the last one."

"We won't," both splodeydopes said.

"Now Hajib, hand the knife back to Sawwaf, and both of you go sit down there on that crate which you've so poorly hidden beneath a bed sheet."

Hajib and Sawwaf did as they were told while the cell leader turned to Qerry Floppins.

"Please excuse their manners, Qerry Floppins. They aren't used to seeing infidels in the house that often."

"Uh. I, ah, quite understand," Qerry Floppins said.

"Perhaps that is something you can help them to work on."

"I'll try."

"Now I must be getting to the bank before its investment inspector returns from lunch. My lieutenant is still scouting—uh, touring the downtown financial district, but may return before I get back." He turned to Hajib and Sawwaf. "If he does, I want you two to tell him about our new governess."

"We will," said the splodeydopes.

"Well, then. I'll leave you three alone to get acquainted. Bonjour, mon infidèle."

The cell leader left the room and walked down the stairs. Qerry Floppins looked at the two splodeydopes still sitting on the crate. Both looked dejected.

"What seems to be the problem, dearies?" he asked.

"Well, we're supposed to pass ourselves off as young students attending a local university," Sawwaf said. "That way we can enter the cafeteria there and blow ourselves up, taking along as many innocent bystanders as we can with us. But we look way too old to get away with it!"

"Yeah," squealed Hajib. "What should we do, Qerry Floppins?"

"Look too old, eh? Well, I have just the thing for that. But it requires injecting small doses of botulism into each of your faces."

Hajib flinched. "Eew!" he said.

"Yuck, that sounds awful!" added Sawwaf.

"You both want to look younger, don't you?" asked Qerry Floppins.

"Why, yes," answered Sawwaf.

"We have to appear to be college-age freshmen so we won't get stopped going into that cafeteria," explained Hajib.

"You needn't worry," Qerry Floppins said. "These injections are relatively safe, if you know what you're doing. In fact, I've got a few extra doses right here." Qerry took a small pouch out of his pocket.

"You carry it around with you?" asked Sawwaf.

"All the time," Qerry Floppins said, removing from the pouch a small hypodermic needle and two vials of liquid.

"But why?" asked Hajib.

"That's none of your business," said Qerry Floppins, chastising the splodeydopes for their impertinent question. "Now do you want some or not?"

"I suppose," said Hajib. "We're still not sure it'll work." Sawwaf nodded his head in agreement.

"You'll find it easier if you administer only a few cc's of it at a time," Qerry Floppins said.

"A few cc's?" asked Sawwaf.

"Yes." Qerry Floppins answered, preparing his syringe. He was close to finishing when he broke out into song:

Just a few cc's of Botox®
Makes the wrinkles go down
The wrinkles go down
The wrinkles go down

Just a few cc's of Botox®
Makes the wrinkles go down
In the most smooth-outing way


"Here, stand very still and you won't feel a thing."

The two splodeydopes screamed in pain as Qerry Floppins jabbed a needle into each of their faces one at a time. He injected the vials of Botox® at various points along their foreheads and brows. Their faces started to contort in the most grotesque manner imaginable, before relaxing into an utterly smooth state.

"There. Go look at yourselves in the mirror now and tell me what you think."

Sawwaf was still clutching his face with both hands in obvious pain. Hajib was able to move, however, so he got up slowly and lurched toward the mirror. He got a peek of his forehead first and couldn't believe his eyes.

"The wrinkles. They're gone!" Hajib said. He moved in front of the mirror to marvel at his entirely smooth face. "Sawwaf, get up. You have to check this out!"

Sawwaf let out a moan but eventually complied. He too was pleased with the results.

"Qerry Floppins, you're really marvelous," said Sawwaf.

"Yeah," Hajib gushed. "You're much better than the last hostage governess we had."

"A less wrinkled face, too" Sawwaf quickly added. "In fact, we can show you the last one's face right now if you'd like to see how less smooth it is."

"Why, that would be delightful," Qerry Floppins said. "Where is he?"

"Well, most of him is lying underneath the main bride crossing the River Seine," Hajib explained. "But his head we have downstairs in the basement refrigerator."

"Let's go see, then," Qerry Floppins said. "Not even that can compare to the atrocities I personally committed myself while I served in Vietnam."

"Great!" exclaimed Sawwaf.

They all ran out of the room and down the stairs.

Qerry Floppins stayed on as the splodeydope cell's governess hostage for another two weeks. He was then exchanged for the cell's lieutenant, who had been caught by police scouting terrorist targets. Despite claiming his ordeal was doubly seared in him, Qerry Floppins adamantly refused to release any records proving that his service in that cell didn't include aiding two of its members who were apprehended trying to detonate themselves inside a local college cafeteria. Monkeys from the cheesy land, nevertheless, awarded Qerry Floppins a White Star with Surrender C as well as two Yellow Ribbons for his service to their country.

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