She woke up in a panic. She whirled around a little disoriented from her deep nights sleep, already regretting the Tylenol PM she took the night before. When Margie Jane's eyes fixed on the alarm clock is realized that she had just 20 minutes to get to her job interview. With a 10 minute drive time, she knew she only had 10 minutes to throw on her best wool suit, wrap her hair in a bun, not too tight, not too loose, and head out the door. Getting this job would be a big opportunity for her. It would be a huge step up to work at...
(Mission: Your add-on must include a color and an office supply.)
(Mission: Your add-on must include a color and an office supply.)
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Parafield Pictures. She quickly spiked her bun with her lucky pen...the one Samuel had given her.....a lifetime ago. She always wanted to be a movie producer. She knew she had the talent, and the drive. All she needed to do at this point is prove it to the CEO of Parafield....ugh...Luther Green....she didn't even like his name to seep into her brain, not since she ran into him at.....
the club, tripping on acid and babbling about being the anti-Christ. Mr. Green hopefully didn't hear much because of the thunderous thumping of the music blaring through the p.a.'s. Nevertheless, today must be a day of confidence. It's funny the way experiences in life appear to follow the same circles. Taking the pen out of her hair at the stoplight, Margie unconsciously tapped it on the dash, thinking of Sam and the way it used to be. Why did Sam leave me for...
those skanked-up meth twins with the buck teeth and pink halter tops that never fit right? Sure, there were two of them, but still. Sam should have a little more class than that. Of course, he'd met them while performing community service after robbing the staple factory, so it's not like he had the best of female pickins. But that was a long time ago, Margie told herself. I should just get over it. I'd be over him by now, if the last thing Sam said to me hadn't been...
..."I'll call you."
Why was she so gullible? She didn't know, but she didn't really have time to beat herself up about it right now. She swerved just in time to miss the bike messenger balancing an entire ream of paper on his head. He threw her a wave and as he did she glanced into his searing blue eyes and suddenly Sam was reduced to an afterthought. A faded memory.
Margie knew she'd be late if she allowed herself to be destracted by any more men. She needed to focus. She carefully tucked the lucky pen back into her bun and began looking frantically for...
CRASH!...Margie's consciousness exploded into a brilliant, searing flash of light and then blessed darkness as she shattered the windshield with a full-frontal face plant.
beep...beep...beep...an aching blackness and a repetitive audible computerized pulse was all Margie could feel. It seemed a dark, muted awareness was bubbling up from black pool of sleep in which Margie was existing. "Where am I, and why can't I feel anything?" Caught in the sudden throes of a suffocating, oppressive panic, Margie tried to shake free from the...the...what was holding her in place? Margie suddenly realized she could not feel anything in the physical sense. All of a sudden, she heard a strangely yet unnameable voice calling her name..."Margie, thank goodness you are finally moving...can you hear me? If you can, relax. My name is Luther Green. Five years ago you were in a wreck in front of our office in which your arms, legs, and the front part of your face was sheared off. Although you have no mouth or nose, you escaped death by a quarter of a millimeter. But, I'm not here to talk of your accident, really. I just wanted to be here when you 'returned', so to speak, to let you know your position was filled at Parafield Pictures. I figured telling you in person only the least I could do...wait, let me get your nurse, your colostomy has exploded again all over the..."
(Shocking. I didn't see that coming. It's like those awful insurance commercials. Here you think she is going to get a great job and fall in love with a bike messenger and then WHAMO! That Mr. Green is one heartless son of gun!)
...the wooden legs they gave you. Sorry again, babe. Hey good luck with whatever you decide to do. Uh, buh-bye."
And with that Mr. Luther Green threw his leather bomber jacket over his shoulder and walked out of the rehabilitation wing.
Margie blinked and thought, "Five years?" And then...
......Dr. Douglas Howser M.D. burst through the door with some exciting news. It seems that the world of facial transplants had come a long way since Margie's tragic accident, and Dr. Howser was offering her a chance at a new life. Rosie O'Donnell had recently choked to death on a combination cocktail of her own foot and a supersized Twinkie. Nobody wanted to claim her body, and the county decided that finding a casket large enough to accommodate her and her big mouth would prove financially devastating. Rosie was also an organ donor, so naturally, Margie was a perfect candidate to inherit her gorgeous mahogany upright Steinway. The choice was also given to have Rosie's face surgically sewn onto her own blank mess of bloody tissue. Margie shrunk back in horror as the thought of looking like Rosie O'Donnell for the rest of her days flashed through her mind. Death would have been a far kinder option. Margie agonized and mulled over the decision for.....
a good 10 minutes. Gazing at her nauseating reflection in the psych ward's unbreakable mirror the nurse handed her, she realized that having even Rosie's chubby puce face was better than having none at all. Maybe, she thought desperately, her mind still clouded with morphine, if she looked like someone famous, Sam would take her back. Maybe he'd leave his current position as a file folder cutter, denounce his criminal ways, dump the twins (whom she did not know were already dead, thanks to that tragic explosion at the Super 8 Motel) and devote his life to taking care of a quadruple amputee he used to think was hot. Just maybe.
"Doctor Howser," she whispered, "I'd like the transplant. But please, whatever you do, don't..."
"...wait...how old are you?" "Call me Doogie!" said the unusally flamboyant doctor. As Doogie lifted the face from the bag of iced saline, a Mongol horde of rainbow-pajama clad ninjas busted in, nanny-slapped the doctor into submission, who was oddly laughing through the whole ordeal, and...
(Oh, HA! I just caught the rainbow-jammies-clad reference. *giggle*)
...and Marjorie Jane could feel that the anesthesia was starting to take effect. And in just a couple of seconds the colorful ninjas and the doctor slapping nanny faded away. Marjorie drifted off into her drug induced slumber, before she was completely unconscience, she thought, "I hope the surgery goes well." And then...
Meanwhile, in a secret government labratory deep in a mountain located in Houston, Texas, federal scientists were working furiously to finish replacing the bones in the body of who/what used to be Rosie O'Donnel (sp?) with a newly developed steel and titanium alloy. Already, the vital organs were equipped with electronic sensors that would receive artificial impulses from the computer installed in Rosie's brain. The general public did not...no, they could not know the government was the source of the idea of mega twinkies and their development for the use of biological warfare. Not only was the government adept at production but the insidious genius of the government were masters of spin, and they had planted Mega-Twinky advertisements all over Rosie O'Donnel's routes of travel, inside her magazine subscriptions, and also black-mailed Babwa Walters into using the words 'mega' and 'twinky' in every other sentence on The View.
Over the monitors in the operating room where Rosie was getting a full-body makeover courtesy of our tax dollars, an overhead page was heard. "Dr. Sumo, the President of the United States wants to be apprised of the surgery personally by you. He is on the secret Red phone and is holding." Dr. Sumo swore under his breath, took off his oily scrubs (Rosie's bodily fluids were replaced with oil drilled from Alaska) and answered the phone. "President Trump, how nice to hear from you..."
he lied through his teeth. The truth was, Dr. Sumo had hated Trump ever since the big Rosie/Trump spat of 2007. He'd always thought that Rosie had a point about the philandering, hairstyle-challenged tycoon having no leg to stand on. Rosie, on the other hand, had won his heart from her first days of doing stand-up. Finding out she liked chicks had done nothing to cool his interest. Like Kramer on Seinfeld, he thought he knew how to "bring 'em back". Finally, at this opportunity to get physically closer to Rosie than most people had ever been, it goaded him to no end to be bothered by one of her many enemies.
"And what can I do for you, Mr. President?" he asked.
"What's the status of Operation Whole-Lotta-Rosie?" demanded President Trump. Dr. Sumo sighed impatiently and replied, "President Trump, the neuronal implants are intact and firing, we're just finishing the leg shaft replacements. Mega-Rosie will be fully operational as planned." "Good, good, Dr. Sumo. Proceed as planned, and by the way, tell Dr. Kissmybooty he's fired!. Good day." Dr. Sumo never liked to hear from the big fish, especially President Trump. One day, he thought to himself walking back to the o.r., I'm going to find that recipient of Rosie's face and propose to her.
(One Week Later...)
"President Imanutjob of Iran has declared the United States will soon be wiped off the map because of their utilization of mega-twinkies in obesifying the Middle East." reported the bleached-blonde newscaster. "Wait...we have unidentified reports of a flying ship shaped like...wait...it appears an object shaped just like the late Rosie O'Donnel has taken off from Enron Mountain in Houston, Texas and is nearing Iranian airspace...armed with Twinkies the size of...Scud missiles...Omigosh...Iranian suicide bombers flying with the aid of French rocket-powered backpacks are flying en-masse to meet...Mega-Rosie...in the sky...
In a sudden move reminiscent of the days of the great Zeppelins and Zephyrs, the Iranians detonated their stinky curry stuffed explosive aresenal, and the Rosie O'Donnell flying aircraft(U.F.O. Unidentified Flying O'Donnell) went down. This was the very first time Rosie had ever gone down because of a man. Luckily, she remembered that she was wearing her golden M.C Hammer genie pants left over from her brief but terrifying plunge into the world of mainstream cracker rap. She owed her life to those pants as they billowed out around her and allowed her to land safely smack dab in the middle of the folds of the most ginormous gold plated turban the world has ever seen. Yes, Rosie had uniwttingly infiltrated......
Aint Bea's House Of Hats. Andy had built the giant golden turban-shaped orb (coated with glued-together Werther's candy wrappers to give it that bright brassy sheen) in between slapping around Barney Fife and taking Opie fishing because Aint Bea had begged Andy for "somethin' exotic-lookin'."
As Rosie floated gently down via the hundreds of yards of her oversize golden genie pants, tempted by the candy scent-giving sphere, Margie Jane lay blissfully sleeping on the operating table of the hospital. Dr. Howser, his "horrible ordeal" now over, was just beginning to make his first incision when he suddenly realized...
he forgot the anesthesia again while he plunged the scalpel into the necrotized black scab of facial flesh still left on Margie's. Margie screamed one final scream of agony, her brain sending messages of fire to all her peripheral nerves and then...nothing. "Nurse, I need the defibrillator, stat!" yelled Dr. Howser flamboyantly. Starting CPR, Dr. Howser cursed himself for not studying like he supposed to during school. "I always forget, anesthesia BEFORE cutting." he thought to himself while performing chest compressions. As the nurse ran into the room, she screamed. "Dr. Howser, every time you compress the chest, blood shoots out from her arm and leg stumps!" Sure enough, Margie spurted blood with each push of the chest like a wrung-out sponge. "Gross, I thought I was just sweating and that was the salty taste in my mouth. Quick, I need a stat CBC (complete blood count)!"
Ten minutes later, the CBC came back from the lab, all the while Margie showing no discernable rythym on the EKG. "The Hgb level is 1.2567. I'm calling it." stated Dr. Howser. The nurse, suspiscious of gay, thin, white, teen doctors asked, "How did this happen?"...
Dude. I can't believe you let Doogie kill Margie.
What about Mega-Rosie Versus Margie-tron over the O'donnel face? Keep it going!
(ya'll lost me when Margie became "Bob" only without a face. But party on dudes...)
The nurse, finally catching on, noticed that the Doog was totally hosing Margie over. She was still viable and would've had a very strong heartbeat showing up on the monitor, were it not for Gay Dr. Death having unplugged the cord from the wall. With a syringe filled with morphine, she caught Doog in his skinny little tush and watched with a satisfied little smile on her face as he passed out, landing on....
Vinnie Delpino.
(as I understand it, Doogie Howser just killed margie. Margie lost her face in a car wreck. Margie is not bob. Who is Bob?)
Since Vinnie was used to this, he did not complain. The nurse, seeing what was going on with Mega-Rosie, the metallic-faced war machine of what was once Rosie O'Donnel, on the news, quickly telephoned her neighborhood CIA agent and let him know Margie the faceless stump had just died prior to Rosie's face being surgically grafted to her skull. "Quick, pump oil into Margie's leg-holes, we may have use for her yet..." instructed the agent in charge.
Meanwhile Mega-Rosie was in the act of destroying Iran's influential Aint Bea's Hat district. As the religious police showed up to flog this western infidel, they realized too late by the silver gleam of Mega-Rosie's glowing eyes this was no ordinary white-lady flaunting the law. This was Mega-Rosie! REARWHORK...REARWHORK...howled Mega-Rosie as she incinerated the police with her mouth laser. She was showing no fear...
Simultaneously, an unmarked van in the U.S. pulled up to the hospital where the bloodless stump once known as Margie lay. Five men in white jumpsuits piled out carrying a stretcher and hurried to the room where her carcass lay. One of the five men left the others to place Margie on the stretcher and approached the nurse on the scene. "Are you the one I talked to on the phone?" growled the CIA agent ominously. "Yes sir, I am, I'm proud to..." "That'll be all. Was there anybody else aware of these proceedings?" interrupted the agent. "N-n-n-no. Except for Dr. Howser who's laying on top of his, uh, aide unconscious over behind the gurney." "Good, good..." murmured the agent as he pulled out a silenced .45 H/K USP Semi-Automatic government issue pistol and pointed it at the nurse's horrified face and...
(The Bob comment references an old, non PC and totally unfunny joke. And it wouldn't have made sense anyway unless Margie/Rosie/Bob was in a swiming pool. If you didn't get it, more power to you.)
(ooohhhhhhh...I'm so retarded...Bob...hahahahahahahahahahhaha...)
(Wait, it just occurred to me...I apologize for saying 'retarded'...I'm so mentally undeveloped...I meant no offense to anyone, place or thing by using the word 'retarded'...)
... pointed it at the nurse's horrified face and...
said, "What a big day for you, Nursey Nurse Nurse Nurse." Shocked, the nurse stared at the barrel of the gun, wondering how much longer she had to live. Agent Mulder then pointed the gun at his own face and used his gun's special nose-picking attachment to really dig in (the humidity was really low, you see), grossing the nurse out. "Do you know what a kindergartner you look like?" she asked sarcastically, dismissing the fact that no 5-year-old would have a working gun with a nose-picking attachment. "I know you are, but what am I?" he taunted.
At this point, the Doog woke up to the sensation of Vinnie slapping him across the head with a medical textbook. "Stop it, you freak job," he said to his lifelong friend. "I have to finish this girl's surgery. No one knows this, but inside her nasal cavity, I secretly installed a..."
. . . a Brother Uber-Compact Black-and-White Laser Printer (Model: HL-2040, on sale now at Office Max). I need your help, the paper is jammed!" The still groggy Dr. Howser simultaneously wondered if Brother was going to be the new Apple and why anyone would want a black-and-white laser printer up their nose when all of a sudden the patient (I can't remember who's who anymore)'s heart monitor flatlined. "Code Blue!" yelled Vinnie (just in case black and white aren't considered to actually be colors).
Suddenly the OR doors swung open and to everyone's astonishment, there stood . . .
the ghost of Mr. Rogers, and boy-howdy, did he look PISSED!!! He raised his spectral hand and...
unplugged the cord. Now they are all dead...the end.
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