Thursday, July 27, 2006

AOC: Cleaning Up The IGE House

I survey the mess in the stands. There is trash ever where. It looks like a Wookie drinking and puking fest went on the in the upper levels. Thank the Force that my armor also doubles as a Haz-Mat suit.

In short order, I have grabbed my clean up equipment and started working. As I am picking up the trash in the section reserved for Radar Operators of Hacknor, who call themselves Radar Nation. I think I hear something moving in the trash.

I grab my blaster and try to flick the pile of trash where the noise emanated. Something small and white leaped out of the trash pile with a battle yell “Yehaaaahahaaaaa!”

“Augghhhhhhhhh!!” I scream, (in a battle sense, not a frightened little child scared of spider … Honest), as it jumps on me and begins trying to attack me.

mini tak fight

“Slap em with the Jello boss man”

“M.I.N.I.T.A.K. !!! What are you doing? You scared the Cr…, I mean you worried me that I might have stepped on you.” I yell

“Just helping keep you skills sharp, bossman. Because the chick dig guys with skills.” He replies

“First, you don’t need to help keep my skills up. I am doing just fine with that. And what have I told you about using the word Chicks?”

“Sorry bossman, I keep forgetting that you’re a sensitive guy like that. *CoughhowsthedategoingCough*”

“What was that ….”

“So any way bossman, I came to help you out on this clean up. I was watching the matches with these Radar Nation folks. Man, are they uncouth and rude. I had a great time with them … look I can now play the Hacknor National anthem with my armpit.”

“That is great, but what about the help with the clean up, MiniTak.” I bring him back to the task at hand.

‘Oh yeah. I brought some Hoover Bikes for us.” MiniTak beams

“You mean Hover bikes?” I ask

“Nope, they are hover bikes with vacuums made for cleanup. I’ll go get mine.”

He runs off and comes back with a little 20 inch Hoover bike. As he rides to me I see the trash being sucked into a vent and vaporized.

clone trooper rider vacum

“That is very cool, MiniTak. So where is mine.”

He point behind me “Right there bossman, but I had to get you a different model. Hop on and we will be done working in an hour. Then it off to the LGS bar and the hot chi…. Nice young ladies.”


MiniTak rides off whistling “A spoonful of sugar”.

I think I hear The Henchman and Erifa laughing.

Picard In The Radioactive Section

It looked like it was going to be me who would clean out the radioactive section of the auditorium.

I turned to my sidekick, Dr Watson. Time for some delegation. Really, it wasn't a Captain's place to go cleaning up rubbish from the stands. I wouldn't delegate this to a hologram on the Enterprise.

"Could you clean out the radioactive section, Doctor?" I ask.

"What is radioactivity" he replies.

Sigh. It looked like I was going to have to do this myself. I just hope Riker and the others don't find out. I'll never live it down.

"It doesn't matter, Doctor; just get me a radiation-proof suit."

He scampers off and returns a few moments later with an odd-looking outfit. I try it on.

What an idiot I do look; still, there's nothing I can do now. It's time to go and clean everything up.

It gets really messy when the followers from the radiation-soaked world of Xerxes go to a match which features their champion Radioactive Ron. He is undefeated. This is because as soon as he steps into the ring, his opponent and the referee drop dead. This also happens for those in the first three rows around the ringside.

I've got the gurney with me to put the bodies on, plus a few limbs that fell off from the Ron followers. I suppose they were waving their arms too much.

Over here, I've found the hot dog seller sprawled on the floor. It seems like an Xerxian wanted a bite to eat.

Now I've got the brush to clean up under the seats. Really, the Xerxians aren't that good with their eating. Everything will need to be buried 1000 feet under concrete for a million years.

One thing they are good at is pest control; there are no living things within a 10 mile radius of the stadium right now.

I've finished with my 10th brush; the hairs on ot seem to fall off when sweeping the seat. The foodstuffs I picked up are now melting the container.

I get back quickly.

"I'm not radioactive, am I?" I ask Jon.

", but we need to be sure, Captain." he says.

With that, I am thrown into a pool containg unmentionable things, then taken into an orange container.

My skin is then scrubbed red with a wire brush. I am then declared radiation-free.

"Did you really need to do that to get me free from radioactivity?"

"No." Jon replies, "But it gave us a good laugh!"

Tuesday, July 25, 2006

Challenge #9: Jingo Jango Judge

Warning... This post contains certain amount of misbehavior... You've been warned.
The Jangoinator has made his way to the Last Gladiator - Juding Day

Wait! Thats not me... Someone pulled a prank on me
I mean, this is how it all began...

So I was walking down the street on some planet and Jon stopped me. My usually counter attack to stalkers behind me seemed that it cannot work on him. Blasted.
Anyway, so I was like "Whats up J, hows Last Gladiator?". He looked at me with a huge smile and he said "Baby, how would you like to guest judge Challenge 9 of Last Gladiator?"



Ha! cought your attention... worthess reader .... you have no idea.
Ok here is what he said

The Truth

Jon: Jango, come on and become a Guest Judge!
Jango: What?
Jon: Come with me, and together we can destory them!
Jango: Who?
Jon: Ah, nevermind..
Jango: Eh
Jon: Be a pal, become a Guest Judge of Last Gladiator.
Jango: If you say so. But I want Jango ADE in my trailer.
Jon: Jango ADE .... Oh yes, What flavor?

Jango: Hoth Ice. The pinneaple/coconut goodness, from some galaxy..
Jon: I see.
Jango: Yes.

As the conversation quitely settled down, I rushed back to my apartment. Ok, the planet is Coruscant. Its where I work at. So, I went in my apartment 28-B, and grabbed Boba and rushed off to where ever Jon was heading. To say the least, I wasnt happy with the trip.

No Boba ... No Ice Cream for a month!

Boba: No!
Jango: How about a year?
Boba: No!!
Jango: Ok- if you be quite, Ill give you ice cream when I am done judging.
Boba: Sure!

So all is good. Now that I am here, and drinking my pinneaplle Jango ADE. I would like to greet all of my contestants that I am judging for Challenge #9.

May the force be in your pants.

This is Jango, signing off.

Xavier Cleans Up, Sort Of

Clean up garbage? Who does Jon think I am? I didn’t become the headmaster at a prestigious prep school so that I could clean trash. Clearly this was going to be a job for my henchman.

I summoned Arthur telepathically, telling him to bring a mop and bucket. He dropped the heat-seeking missile he was calibrating and flew to my side at top speed.

“You need me Professor?” he asked enthusiastically.


“Yes Arthur. I cannot complete this next challenge without your able assistance. Everything depends on you.”

“Gosh Professor! I’ll do my best.”

“Excellent. Now I want you to take that mop and start cleaning the stands. Be thorough. Do you think you can handle that?”

“Of course!” he exclaimed with a sharp salute.

Feeling rather satisfied with myself, I slowly backed my chair around to watch the others’ progress. My chair suddenly jerked violently to a stop. I looked down and saw that I had backed into a thick mound of dark leather. With a loud groan, the pile of leather got to its feet. He wiped the blood from his cheek.

“Ho ho! Now that was a good Hargh!” the thing with the weird forehead said loudly.


“A good what?” I asked.

“A . . uh . . battle! A good battle! Ho ho ho!” For such an ugly fellow he certainly was jolly.

“Were you one of the gladiators?” I asked.

He threw his head back and launched a giant wad of spit high into the air. The gooey blob sailed several feet before it made a rather disgusting splat on the stone floor. “Klingons would never debase themselves to battle for others’ amusement. We only fight for our own pleasure. Or to kill an enemy, of course.”

“If you aren’t a gladiator, then how did you get injured?” I continued.

“You are an ignorant savage, aren’t you? Watching war makes our blood boil. We have no choice but to start fighting whoever is around us. In this case that meant each other.”

He then pointed behind his row. Peaking around, I could see several scattered body parts clad in Klingon armor.

“I see. Well mister . . um . .”


“Yes, Mr. Klerg. You see the thing is, the arena is now closed to spectators. I’m afraid you will have to leave.”

The seven foot tall alien warrior bared his teeth and leaned in close to me. I have to say, his teeth were the most hideous shade of yellow I had ever seen. I felt the fire fish sandwich I had for lunch start to fight its way back up my esophagus. Klerg’s breath wasn’t helping either.

“Do you dare give me a command, human?!”

Fine. Clean up duty it is. “Police this area,” I ordered, reaching into his mind and removing any ego defenses. He nodded curtly and immediately reached out and ripped the mop from Arthur’s startled hands.

Turning to my sidekick, I saw that he was staring at me in a rather odd way. I quickly scanned his thoughts. He didn’t realize that I had used my psionic powers to control the Klingon. Better not to tell him or he may start to wonder if I’ve been controlling him too.

“All right Arthur,” I started. “What I’d like you to do is take the plastic bags Jon gave us and-”

“You!” a shrill voice screamed. “You made me lose!!”

I spun around and saw a mostly naked woman running up the stairs towards me. Witchblade!

“You shall pay for cheating me of my victory!”

The warrior woman lifted her arm and fired a volley of darts straight at me.


I took control of Klerg and had him dive in front of the deadly bolts. He crumbled to the ground.

“Now see here!” I said as forcefully as I could. “What on Earth makes you think I had anything to do with your loss?”

“Because my sword is sentient and told me that my mind was being messed with during the match! Now you die!”

The armor surrounding Witchblade’s arm grew into a long twisted sword that she raised over her head as she charged at me. I tried to reach into her mind but the consciousness in the sword was now resisting me.

Arthur, the ever-faithful sidekick, flopped out his wings and flew overhead. He dropped a plastic bag down around her. Momentarily confused about this strange attack, Witchblade whirled around, swinging the blade behind her, shredding the bag. Looking up, she saw Arthur hovering about her and she lunged at him. Arthur managed to swoop out of the way.

I switched the focus of my attack and went after the sword. I could sense that it was actually a trans-dimensional being of great power. As we struggled against each other, Witchblade kept leaping up and swinging at Arthur.

Probing for a weakness in the sword’s defenses, I realized it was the link between it and the girl. I unleashed a massive psionic feedback surge, which served to momentarily sever their connection. The sword and armor dropped off Witchblade and she stood there naked. Seizing the opportunity, I reached into her mind and erased any memory of my involvement in her gladiator match. And just for safe measure, I caused her to feel very friendly towards Arthur. I’d hate for her attempts at killing him to interfere with our detente.

Arthur, who was blushing like a virgin on prom night, offered Witchblade a plastic bag to wrap herself in. She seemed rather confused but did manage to put the bag on in an appropriate way.


By that time Klerg had gotten back to his feet. He seemed rather the worse for wear at this point but being the good warrior that he was, he joined in with our clean up efforts. Our crew scooped and scrubbed and in no time at all, our entire section was as sparkling as . . well, let’s just say it wasn’t as dirty any more.

Breaking Up The Party.

Ladies and Gents,

Jon's new task for us to clean up the place...

I am going to get you for this Jon. I don't mean stealing all of your BLT's.

Well I got the basic humanoid part of the Horizon Amphitheater.

This won't be so bad. I start picking up. It's kind of nice. I am sure nothing bad could happen with this.

Then right on cue. I hear two (I think) guys arguing.

"You are a mockery of a warrior race." D'Argo Shouts out.

"Surely, You are not making light of a Klingon?" Worf asks.

"qaStaH nug?" I ask.

"This...'wannabie' has insulted me." Worf informs me.

"Only after you cut in front of me, while I was in line for the bathroom." D'Argo whines.

" I thought you were a holding the door...for real warriors." Worf tells him.

D'Argo responds with "Hab SoSlI 'Quch!"

Oh boy...He didn't just say that.

"You will pay for such a thing." Growls Worf.

Worf cracks the guy in the mouth. They start yelling and fighting each other.

"Sujatlh'e' yImev, cut it out!" I scream at the top of my lungs. As I break them up.

"tlhIngan maH!" a group bellows.

"I see my friends are by my side, prepare to pay for insulting a Klingon warrior." Worf yaps out.

"Foolish Klingon. I have friends too." D'Argo shrieks.

"Heqhlu'meH QaQ jajvam" The Klingons vociferate.

Next, they start shooting and blowing up the place.

"Wait, what are you doing? I have to clean up the Area." I freak out.

Later after the firefight, the two groups go out for drinks.

Leaving me with this...

Well, I have to get back to work. Dental for all.

Dr.Polaris rules.

To find out what was said click here.

Monday, July 24, 2006

Erifia's Cleaning Spree

I would like to begin with this, and this alone. Jon is abusing his power as the host to make us do his cleaning. Its a conspiracy and I feel Jon is out to get us. Enough conspiracy theory.

My idea is to make it easiest on myself, at the same time do some really serious work. I do want to win, in the long run. I seem to remember, something I wrote a long, long time ago... One of my first entries on my journal.

This is how I feel about wookies.

So, naturally, I decided to take the Wookie section. Let's just say it was noticeable from outer space.

Yeah. It wouldn't be that bad. It couldn't be that bad. I walked up to it, grabbed a couple (hundred) trashbags, and I began to fill them with wookie hair. There were fleas, and there were ticks, all of which didn't try to get to me. I smiled, Absolutely no hair except my eyebrows. And even if they got there, they would find a good thick layer of skin underneath them. I lived with wookies for a month, I got calluses from the fleas, and they never went away.

I realized that wookies when the person the bet on loses, they rip hair out of each other.

Bag after Bag I filled. Soon, the wookie section had filled over fifty bags, all of which were buzzing with the life inside. Next section please..

The Next section was the Twi'lek section. I smiled, We Twi'leks are a clean and tidy people. All there was, was glowing mushrooms, and several cups that had been tipped over. That wasn't too bad... Then...



I was so shocked, I couldn't speak...

They hadn't left... They were still there... Still eating... Still excriting.

Decapodians, filthy nasty creatures. There are remains of food, and solient green, and force knows what else. Like there was a full buffet tossed over, and they were still eating... I rubbed my chin... Maybe this could be easier than I thought...

"Hey," I said to their leader, "I have a deal for you... I will give you and your people fifty bags of wookie hair, fleas and ticks, if you eat everything around you, and make it sparkle."

He looked at everyone else, "Only if you throw in a can of anchovies..."

"I'll make it two, and we'll say you have it done in fifteen minutes..."

I heard this weird screeching cry, and all of them began to suck and eat everything, save the cement and chairs. There was gum stuck on the ground for years, and it was gone, then they leapt to the twi'lek side, ate what I missed, and devoured the wookie side... I handed them the bags of wookie hair, and gave the leader the two cans of anchovies.

He screeched and in two moments, he and his people rushed away.


I wiped my forhead. Whew, manupulating a whole specie into doing my work is sure thirsty work, I think I want some lemonade.

So if you'll excuse me, I have to go talk to Timmy Turner, I hear he's got good lemonade,

Lemon hugs and Ade kisses,
Erifia Apoc

Challenge #9

The challenge has been cast. The gauntlet thrown down. Many have been called, few have answered. On the planet Hacknor... On Fire Island D, twelve brave contestants will compete. Who will falter? Who will thrive? Who will be

The night's contests have been over for several hours. All of the spectators have left and the Horizon Ampitheater is dark and quiet.

AOC: Why are we just standing around here? The challenge is over.

Captain Picard: I don't understand this either, but we were told to wait.

Professor Xavier: The next challenge must be here. I can feel it.

Henchman: With your mental powers?

Professor Xavier: No. I've just seen enough of these reality shows is all.

Jon's image appears on a giant screen over the arena.

Jon: Hello Gladiators.

Gladiators: Hello.

Jon: Here's your next challenge. The arena is pretty messy from tonight's show. We need some people to clean it up.

Erifia: What?

Jon: Yep. Divide up the building and get cleaning, there's a lot of garbage in the aisles and under the seats, too.

Henchman: The whole arena?

Jon: That's right. Have fun everybody. Remember, different species act different ways to show their excitement or disapointment, so there may be some... unusual... garbage for you to clean up.

AOC: Somehow I think that this is going to be worse than cleaning out the wookie cages at the pound.

Jon: Probably. Also remember that many of these species also eat things that you might find unappetizing. Try not to let that get to you when you clean out the garbage cans and stuff.

Erifia: What could possibly be in--

Henchman: I don't even want to think about it.

Jon: Oh and one more thing, whoever cleans up over there where the monkeyboys sit, watch what you touch. They like throwing stuff.

Captain Picard: Ah yes, I remember seeing many frozen bananas flying through the air during one of the matches.

Erifia: Uh Captain, that's not all that they throw...

Captain Picard: Ugh. That's disgusting.

Image Hosted by

Last Gladiator Standing was brought to you in part today by Weekend at Chewie's.

Coming soon to a theater near you.

Tak Head To The LGS Bar To Meet His Admirer

Continued from here and here

The Henchman spent the rest of the evening and much of the next day running over a date plan with me. I was to follow three basic rule:1) get the date to talk about herself, 2) try to relax and be myself and 3) make eye contact.

“You have a tendency to not make very direct eye contact with women, Tak. On the plus side you’re not staring at their chest like Hudson, so that’s good” The Henchman explained

“Also you will have a small microphone on you so I can hear what the two of you are saying. You’ll have a tiny earpiece so I can help you along if you run into any issues, but don’t worry I think you are going to do great.” He continued

“Really. Thanks for the vote of confidence.” I happily reply

“Remember just don’t panic. No matter what happens, know that I will have a back up plan. I didn’t survive this long on just by being strong and handsome.” The Henchman say with a smile

I give him the thumbs up and head off to the LGS bar.

*After Tak leaves, Professor X rolls up to The Henchman.

“Good move not having him wear that stupid armor. So what are our boy’s chances tonight.”

“ I say 7 to 1 that he runs screaming from the bar, poor bastard.” The Henchman replies *

I stroll in to the bar. I see Erifa getting a drink. No, it couldn’t be. No way. She comes towards me and then heads past me out to the pool. “Take a picture it’ll last longer, Perv”

See I knew there was no way.

I scan the bar. Several people are drinking. I notice Hudson, Xavier and Gyrobo are all trying not look at me, while looking at me. Then I spot one of the LGS camera crew, complete with sound guy. Man are they dedicated. They brought there equipment with them. I give them nod and small wave.

The Bartender, Sam, waves me over. “Tak, first I wanted to say your bar tab is getting dangerously close to it maximum….”


Yikes, there is a scary thought, LGS without drinking.

“… and you seem to have a guest or fan asking after you. She said to send you down. She sounded like a real cutie.” He beams at me.

“What do you mean “sounds like”? Didn’t you see her?” I ask

“Of course I saw her. But she was wearing a cloak down low over her face. But from what I could see, she was definitely build for speed.” The bartender smiles knowingly at me
“So your saying she was of narrow frame, with big legs. Like a runner or something?” I ask confused

“No, she looked like a go’er, if you know what I mean” this time the smile was almost a leer

“A go’er. Where did it look like she was going?” I was getting more confused

I hear The Henchman’s voice scream in my ear “Just ask him what *#@^ing table.”

“The Henchman wants to know what ta….”

“Don’t say I said anything …. Aruggggg!. Just ask what table. I making it 9 to 1 now.”

“What?” I said

The bartender asked “what?”

“The table, just ask which table” Henchman’s exasperated voice barks in my ear

“What table is my cloaked friend at?” I inquire of the bartender.

“Booth at the end. You want your usual sent down?

“Ye …” I start to say, but The Henchman’s voice come again “No. Do not get a Shirley Temple. Wait till you get to the table and order wine or beer. Just like I told you before. I’ll be in the bar shortly, so don’t do any thing stupid OK?”

“Uhh … No Sam. I’ll just head over to the table and see who is waiting for me. Can you check in a few minutes if we want some drinks?”

I start to walk to the last booth. Strange how six booths can seem like such a long way.

I see the women in the cloak. Her back is too me, which is good. It means I’ll be able to the Henchman from here.

“Hi, are you here for me?” I ask as I sit down

“Oh Tak, you came. What a dear you are!” she says as she pulls back the hood of her cloak.

cute gorgan

“Hi.” I stammer and avert my gaze. Oh well some much for eye contact.

Sunday, July 23, 2006

The End of Challenge #8

The challenge has been cast. The gauntlet thrown down. Many have been called, few have answered. On the planet Hacknor... On Fire Island D, twelve brave contestants will compete. Who will falter? Who will thrive? Who will be

Again Gladiators, this one was too close for comfort.

Who's bumbling, rambling, semi-coherent announcing neither kept the spectators glued to their seats nor furthered the storyline of the competitors?

It's with heavy heart (12% lead, 23% plutonium) that I must send one of you proverbially and/or literally packing.

Gyrobo, you are not Last Gladiator Standing. Goodbye.

Stay tuned for challenge #9.

Last Gladiator Standing was brought to you in part by the All Xenomorph Review.

See the all-singing, all-dancing All Xenomorph Review at the Hacknor-Hacknor Hotel, Casino and Nightclub on Fire Island LV.

Friday, July 21, 2006

Simon: I Call Them As I See Them

Well, as I expected, that was a painful waste of time, listening to you all blubber on in your usual lack luster manner. Your attempts at humor were pathetic, your visual imagery was less defined than a preschoolers art class project, and you all sounded like a junior college sports announcer on the holo for the first time.

Normally, I'd revel in telling you how bad you all were. But the Baroness and I have a date, so unless you really want me tell you what I thought, I'll pass. But I can leave you my thoughts in the comment box if you really truely desire it.

The winner of immunity is Erifia. Send your votes on to Jon, and do whatever else it is you all do.


And That’s The Way It Was

“Get out of my way, I’m commentating tonight!” I screamed, plowing my car through the screaming crowd. If they didn’t want to get out of the way in time, it was their own fault; they had all been warned at admission that once they entered the battledome, all their lives were forfeit.

“Sir? Sir, you can’t- ahhhhh!” cried an unfortunate usher as I crushed him under a whirlwind of spokes and rubber.

Get out of my way! I’m commentating!” I yelled as I squeezed my air-horn out the automatic driver-side window. After driving with reckless abandon for a few minutes, I found the perfect parking space between two large potted trees. They might have been plastic, I don’t know; all I knew is, I wanted a spot with shade. So what if it was over a taco stand? There were dozens of them, all over the promenade!

“Help me... my legs! My legs!” a pathetic fluid-filled voice called from the crushed wreckage of tacos and plywood. I saw a middle-aged man in a blue uniform sticking partway out of the mess, covered in cheese and other assorted sauces.

“You! Puny human of taco origin! Where is the commentating booth?!” I growled into a megaphone right in his pudgy face. What? I wanted to make sure he heard me.

“Up those stairs...” he gestured with a bent and cheese-coated finger to a door about ten thousand millimeters away. It had a white sign with red letters on it: “Commentating Box.”

“Your assistance will be noted!” I praised, crushing his left arm as I walked to the door. “Now to see who my broadcast partner of mystery is.”

“Arghhhhhhh!” the fallen taco-man screamed. “So... painful! But... I’m comforted by the fact that... you’re commentating...”


“Well, well, well... hello, Uncle Walter.

“That’s what they called me,” a confused Walter Cronkite said, sipping a cup of cold, bitter coffee. His lips were the color of dusty chalk; his eyes were like frozen olives.

“Silence your witty banter!” my voice boomed, permeated with melodrama (and a tad of regular drama, to keep things fresh). “I came here to do minute-by-minute commentary of tonight’s grudge match, not knit quilts with some... punk rocker.”

“Do you have any idea who I am?” Cronkite asked sarcastically.

“I really don’t. Who’s up tonight?”

“It’s, uh... you?”

“What?!” I squirted soda out my nose and all over Cronkite in surprise. “No, I’m commentating. I’m not fighting.”

“But it says right here...” the old man pointed to a program schedule as he reached into his pocket for a handkerchief, and proceeded to wipe the cheap soda from his expensive and tasteless clothes.

“Foolish Walter, that’s not me!” exhaling in relief, I pointed to the little “m” next to my name. “That’s a clear indication of ‘mirror double.’ One of tonight’s fighters is my mirror universe double,” I laughed, spraying him with bits of pretzels I had begun to pig out on.

“That’s... great.” Cronkite got up and tried to move his chair. Alas, the weight of the seat combined with his frail 90-year-old frame conspired to keep him in place. Curse my trick knee, thought the crusty anchor.

“Testing, one two three... testing...” I quietly whispered into the booth’s left-side microphone as Walter slid into his ergonomic booth lounger. I waved a box of cheese and meat chunks at the avuncular icon. “Yo, fatboy! You want some nachos?!

“Um... no,” he said, looking a little green in the gills. I failed to see how such an incredulous man could have captivated the hearts and minds of the American people for so long... then again, he was pushing the century mark. Who was I, a poor chimney sweep of unstable constitution, to question the society I had scorned for so long?

“Those people down there sure are cheering loudly,” I remarked.

“Yeah... why don’t you go join them? I think I can handle the match... alone... from up here.”

“Sure are cheering loudly,” I continued, oblivious to his subtle hints. “Hey, when does this thing start, anyhow? I’ve got an appointment with the Prime Minister of Russia, we’re plotting.

He pulled a gold pocket watch out of his velvety sleeve, squinting his nervous eyes to make out the time... if only the fool had gone digital!

“Ladies and gentlemen!” he yelled, flipping the microphones on at full power, “are you ready for the fight of your lives?!”

The crowd went wild, throwing fries, chips, and flaming mice. As per the nondisclosure agreement I signed with the Intergalactic Gladiating Federation, I’m forbidden from saying whether the mice were optical, scroll, or biological.

“Tonight we have a real torch march,” I announced into my microphone, misreading the script. “We’ve got, in this corner, the sultan of the summer solstice, your grind and mine, Alternate Universe Gyrobo!

I was quite pleased by the reaction; several of the spectators began doing “the wave.” I was markedly less impressed when the wave reached the section of the audience reserved for the morbidly obese.

“And in this corner,” Cronkite read, “standing at .89012 meters, the ultimate arbiter, fresh from her inner tube-themed road trip with Karl Rove, Oregon Trail!

The audience may have been impressed; nay, they were thrilled. But I knew better. Oregon Trail was Borg, and therefore would handily defeat my impish double.

“Walter!” I hissed, covering my microphone, “I need you to cover for me while I cancel the dinero I’ve got riding on my alternate self.”

He stared at me in horror and disbelief, like when you see a guy mopping up the floor at a restaurant, and you walk right in front of him and drag your dirt-covered shoes all over the reflective surface. It was that kind of look.

“You’re honor-bound as a commentator to not place bets...”

“Oh. That’s good, because I didn’t place any.”

“You just said-”

“It looks like Oregon Trail is taking the lead!” I screamed through the speakers, cutting Cronkite off at the pass. Down below, the throngs of Intergalactic supporters cheered and hooted as the behemoths squared off. Oregon Trail began to move forward, servos buzzing; my mirror copy just stood there.

“State our designation,” Oregon Trail demanded of the mindless automaton. Curses! It was over now... all over...

“Leave him alone! He’s just a little boy!” I cried, banging on the protective blast shield of the commentary box.

By the shimmering light of the battledome, I could see Mirror-Me shift to meet Oregon Trail’s gaze.

“You are not an authorized user,” the brave battle droid output with the force of a thousand runtime compilers.

“State our designation.”

“You are not an authorized user.”

“State our designation.”

“You are not an authorized user.”

“State our designation.”

“You are not an authorized user...”

45 Minutes Later

“State our designation.”

“You are not an authorized user...”

I handed Walter Cronkite another box of nachos. It was the fifth one I was on, and the third that we had shared.

“...Kennedy. And to this day, they still won’t let anyone in to see what really happened.”

“That was the greatest story I’ve ever heard,” I said, piling another empty cheese-covered box onto the stack. “Hey... is it getting quiet down there?”

We both listened, hearing only the exchange of computer-generated phrases with no conscious thought in sight. The audience had been completely demoralized, to the point where they had lost the drive to even leave the stadium. The piteous souls! I thought, bringing a touch of melodrama to my brainpan.

“Oh dude, did you just see that?!” I hollered into the speaker. Everyone down below jumped a little, and I’d say about half of them were jarred from what would otherwise have been a restful nap. “Mirror-Me just spin-kicked Oregon Trail! Right in the head! I’ve never seen such... carnage! Now it looks like she’s coming around for another pass, folks!”

“What are you- what are you looking at?” Walter grabbed the edge of our Plexiglas table, watching the stationary fighters as they proceeded their repetitive banter. “What are you looking at?!”

“And there you- oh! That’s gonna sting in the morning, folks! Wow, Oregon Trail just sucker-punched Mirror-Me right in the kidneys! I had no idea robots had kidneys, people! Oh, but she’s... don’t get overconfident, Oregon Trail! Just look at her, strutting around the rink, shameful!” The crowd booed the Borg prizefighter, shaking their fists in utter futility.

“Hey,” Walter whispered. “What do you think you’re doing?!” he nudged, grabbing my arm with his clammy, clammy paw. “They aren’t moving.”

“And now it’s Mirror-Me with a chainsaw! Wow, I don’t know if nano-probes can repair chainsaw wounds!” I laughed. The crowd ate it up. Looking over to the ratings meter, there was a visible spike. The viewers at home must be enjoying themselves, I socketed away in my head. This kind of psychological phenomena would come in handy once I begin my campaign to conquer this world.

“I can’t believe it, folks! Oregon Trail just grabbed the chainsaw away from Mirror-Me, and she’s using it to maximum effect!” I paused. “Now she’s going for the fire escape! If she sets it off, this match is over... and there she goes!” I screamed, trying to outmatch the legions of yelping fans; but they were many, and I, with my stadium-wide sound system, was a single individual.

“COME ON!” Walter boomed. He hit the microphone away from my hands, and started yelling into the one on his side of the desk. “He’s not even making sentences that make sense anymore! They aren’t moving!

The crowd began to die down, their team spirit replaced by the bitter ectoplasmic residue of defeat.

“And you...” he pointed an accusing finger at me. “You... I want you out of this office!” he was almost in tears.

“What’s your problem?” I fired back. “I’m just trying to have a little fun. Lighten up, Mondale.

I think that was the straw that broke the camel’s back. Cronkite’s face began to tense up; little wrinkles died and were born again by the rims of his eyes. His whole body shook, his clenched hands reminding me of a paint shaker I saw at a lumber supply store one time, when I was a child. Veins bulged out of his neck and eyeballs.


He blinked a few times, widening his eyes with each clap of the lids. The shaking stopped as he reached for his chest.


“Oh, ho ho, uh-oh.”

“Help... me...”

My army training not kicking in, as I was never in the army, I did the only thing I could. I picked up a box of nachos, shoveled some into my mouth, and ran for the microphone, stopping only to straighten a pile of old newspapers Walter had knocked over as he fell to the floor.

“Uh... hello? We have a situation here!” the microphone felt cold this time. So very cold.

“Who won?” asked a faint voice from the bleachers. Others followed suit, and soon spectators were arguing, yelling, throwing flaming mice again.

“Is there a doctor in the battledome?” I pleaded. Walter had to live... if not, questions would be asked about what had gone on in the commentary box... investigations would begin... rock stars would be discovered locked in basements...

I’m a doctor!” a lone voice called up from the mass of humanity.


I opened the “staff only” door, allowing the eager young physician in.

“He’s right this way,” I said as we jogged up the stairs. “Is he having a heart attack?”

“We won’t know until I can examine him personally.”

Walter was sprawled out on the floor, clutching his chest with his right arm as the left dangled uselessly at his side.

“Left arm... so numb...”

“It’s all right, Walter!” I screamed loudly, hoping it would shock him back to normal. “The doctor is here!”

“Okay, let’s have a look at the little trooper...”

“I... taste... copper...”

“My word!” the doctor exclaimed, stethoscope dropping as if by magic. “This man isn’t having a heart attack at all!”

“My whole upper body hurts...”

“Then what’s wrong with him?!” I cried, unable to contain myself any longer. Misanthropic he may have been, but I had to try and save him!

“He’s in labor!” the doctor yelled, sliding his hands around Walter’s ankles. “Give me a hand. If we can get him on this table, I can save this baby!”

“Shortness of breath... increasing...”

“Yeah...” I looked at the pocket watch I- the watch Walter gave me before he collapsed. “Looks like the match is over. See you two later,” I waved, running down the stairs.

“Don’t leave me...”

“It’s going to be fine, sir! I’m fully equipped to deliver your child!”

Cronkite turned to the stairs. “Don’t leave me!”


“Eh?” Bill grunted. He was the janitor, working a late (or early, from some perspectives) shift at the Intergalactic Gladiating Federation’s battledome. The fight last night was huge, and there were so many plastic cups and burnt-out mice to be picked up. “Someone there?”

He walked through the ceremonial jewel-encrusted entranceway. There were two people still in the stadium. Fans, most likely, in his experience.

“Get out of the ring!” he tried to shout. But either they couldn’t hear him, or just didn’t care. “Eh, who needs ya...”

He slammed the door shut behind him, and all was quiet. Then, out of nowhere:

“State our designation.”

“You are not an authorized user.”

Thursday, July 20, 2006

Hacknor World Wrestling

Ladies and Gents,

Welcome to Hacknor World Wrestling at the Horizon Amphitheater.

Hacknor World Wrestling is owned by the HWWE.

To my right is a man who needs no introduction. But, I'm going to give it to him anyway.

Mr. Mean Gene Okerlund.

Mean Gene: Hello folks and welcome to Hacknor World Wrestling.

Shop Hacknor World Wresting at

432: Well today fans, we have a 2 on 1 grudge match.

Mean Gene: Thats right.Ignignokt and Err

V.S.: Stewie.

432: Right, as we see Ignignokt and Err or in the ring. Stewie is running down the ram.

M.G.: Oh my god. He's taking them both on, Stewie is a house on fire.

432: Look at him go. I've heard Stewie was an expert at 2 on 1, but thought that ment something different.

M.G.: This type of action is only on Hacknor World Wrestling.

Hacknor World Wresting get the gladiator out.

432: Oh no the numbers game has caught up to Stewie.

M.G.: They are giving Stewie a savage beating.

432: Wait a minute, wait a comes Brian.Here comes Brian.

M.G.: Oh no, this is unbelievable. Brian is just standing there.

432: I never thought this would happen. Wait...wait. Oh no Brian hits Stewie.Brian hits Stewie.

M.G.: what a betrayal.

432: This is the greatest crime in the history of mankind.

M.G. I concur.Wait what's this...Stewie is up. Stewie is up...

432: Wow, this guy is amazing. He really giving it to Brian.

M.G.: Chair, chair Ignignokt and Err catch Stewie from behind with a chair.

432: Stewie getting the stuffing beat out of him. This a just wrong, wrong...

M.G.: Who's running down the ramp...

432: It's Brak and Clammy.

M.G.: About time someone came and put an end to this travesty.

432: It's Brak, Clammy and Stewie. And they are cleaning house and taking out the trash.

M.G.: What a night brought to you by Hacknor World Wrestling.

432: Dental for All. Dental for all.

Hacknor World Wrestling. Vist and buy offical HWWE merchandise

Dental for all.

Dr.Polaris rules.

Tuesday, July 18, 2006

AOC: Announcing The Truth

I get to announce for a Intergalactic Gladiator match. This is great, I can remember all the times as a youth on Kamino I would dream about making the big time in the announcing circles.

Oh wait, that wasn’t me, that was DA 199 who died in the cherry bomb in the toilet incident.

Who in their right mind would ever want this crappy job?


“Hi, I am Dick Butkus!” a voice boomed “I’ll be your co-commentator today. You’re a funny looking one. Are you an ex-gladiator turned announcer like me?”

“No, I am just a Last Gladiator Standing contestant.” I reply

“I am a retired Gladiator. Did you know I am in the IG Hall of Fame? I have also appeared in movies and was a regular on T.V. Yes, I have lived quite a life …”

“Hey, Mr. Butt Kiss, stop talking about the old days and fill me in on what the heck were doing here. I heard enough boring old gladiator stories when I stopped by the retirement home earlier.”

“Ooohh, was it Bran Waffle night? And it is pronounced BUTT KUS”

I just stare at him.

“OK then, Captain tighty whitey let’s get on with the match” Butkus hands me a program sheet.

Looking over the event I see that we are announcing for Spar T. Kus and Mr. Robo T.


Robo t

“Hey Butt kiss, why do we have ugly old guys and the others got hot women in skimpy clothing?”

Butkus shrugs “I’m not sure. The mics are going live. Read the introduction script. And stop calling me butt kiss.”

I quickly grab the script and start reading. “What an event we have you today folks. Two of our greatest Gladiators: Spar T. Kus and Mr. Robo T … hey Butt kiss, would that make this the battle of the Tees?”

“Just read the script armor head”, Butkus snaps

“Uh yeah … these two great champions are going to do battle for you today. ARE YOU NOT ENTERTAINED? … Butt kiss, was that loud enough, it said use a big voice and …”

“The microphone is on you moron, just keep to the script.” Butkus growls at me under his breath.

“What you mean like the “Gladiators” in the ring are going to do?” I snap back (score one for the Tak, oh yeah)

“What are you saying, little man. Are you trying to imply that the Intergalactic Gladiator Federation is some how fake?” Butkus says with venom in his voice.

“I don’t know, it seem kind of fake to me. Look at these two; they have got to be in their mid-fifties. Are they really going to be able to fight?’

“Listen here, you snot nose little punk. Being a Gladiator is hard work and it is a physically demanding sport. Do you know how hard we have to train? And those guys are going to fight hard. Spar T. Kus has a heat laser in that sword of his. When that goes off Mr. Robo T will have to have something pretty fancy up his sleeve to beat that. Of course this is a real fight!” Butkus deliverers the line with enthusiasm and a tear forms in the corner of his eye.

“I still say it’s fake. If I wanted some slick prepackaged entertainment, I would just buy a condom. I mean come on, all Spar T. Kus has to do is shoot his “laser” sword at Mr.Robo T’s gold chains. The melting gold would short circuit his roboness. But will that happen? Nooooo. Because it is fake.”

What are you doing, you can’t give the Gladiators advice like that!” Butkus screamed at me.

In the arena, I see Spar T. Kus look at his sword and then blast Mr. Robo T gold chains. Robo T yells out “I pity the fool who helps my nemesis!” as the melting gold runs into his circuitry. Mr. Robo T falls down.

spartcus 2

“OK,” I announce into the mic “It looks like Spar T. Kus has won the day.” I can barley be heard over the booing of the fans.

“I am going to stomp the heck out of you!” Butkus shrieks at me and jumps up.

I almost don’t get my blaster out in time. I fire three stun shot at Butkus and he goes down like a wounded Bantha.

I hear Hudson voice come over the intercom. “TK 266 what going on up there.”

I reply. trying to sound official, “Everything is under control. Situation normal.”

Hudson asked “What happened?”

“Uh...had a slight weapons malfunction. But, uh, everything's perfectly all right now. We're fine. We're all fine here, now, thank you. How are you?” I respond nervously.

Hudson tells me “I’m sending a maintenance squad up.”

“Uh, uh, negative. We had a reactor leak here now. Give us a few minutes to lock it down. Large leak...very dangerous.” I stammer out.

“What do you mean a reactor leak? Stay there, I coming up.” Hudson calls back.

Well, look at the time. I think it is beer thirty over at the LGS bar. I zip out before Hudson get up to the booth.

The Big Fight With Picard & Motty

Jean-Luc: Welcome, everybody to the Horizon Ampitheatre for the big fight; tonight, as my guest commentator, I have Motty, the esteemed English soccer commentator, who is known for his love of trivial facts.

Motty: thank you, Jean-Luc; did you know that it was in this very stadium 14 years ago that Mick the Masher finally managed to beat Neutron Nick after five attempts. I was always considered a very unlucky stadium fgor Mick at first, when....

Jean-Luc: Thank you, Motty, but perhaps we ought to remember the match in hand.

Motty: Of course; by the way, this will be the 1037th match that I've commentated on; it's a career that spans back more than 30 years when Hereford beat Newcastle United in the FA Cup; then, of course, I was...

Jean-Luc: The referee is just coming out to introduce the competitors.

Motty: With The Baroness as referee, the fighters know that they daren't put a foot wrong here, otherwise she will penalise them; I remember in a match last year when she machine-gunned a competitor because he infringed a penalty. He kept on talking when she told him...

Jean-Luc: The Baroness is just going to speak....

The Baroness: Now for the main event of the evening; on my left is Ororo Munroe, known as 'Storm', and on my right is Raven Darkholme, known as 'Mystique'.

Jean-Luc: This is going to be a real grudge match...

Motty: ....they have been struggling to fight each other; anything can happen right now, they are real enemies; this all started when Storm said to Mystique...

Jean-Luc: ...And the bell goes off; Storm blasts Mystique with her favourite move, the lightning strike and hits her against the ropes.

Motty: She's down already! Mystique is down already! This could be a very fast match. The fastest match I ever saw was three years ago was on Celsus IV when The Gurgitator made mincemeat of his opponent...and the referee.

Jean-Luc: Storm is pushing to get at Mystique, but The Baroness won't let her until the count is over...

Motty: The Baroness is threatening to shoot Storm with her pistol unless she goes to her corner; she is a tough referee, and won't stand for any trouble; I remember when...

Jean-Luc: Mystique is up and ready to go again; she is about to shapeshist; she changes into a replica of Storm and lunge at each other...which is which?

Motty: I think Storm is the one one the it's the one on the right as she is given a triple head lock and changes back...did you know that Mystique has been a loyal member of the Brotherhood, and has served Magneto since...

Jean-Luc: Mystique now changes to a replica of The Baroness; this will confuse Storm temporarily, as she daren't attack the referee!

Motty: Not with those machine guns she's got; actually, I don't think The Baroness will be too happy about that. The last time she was a referee the...

Jean-Luc: The Baroness has shot her duplicate! As she lies on the floor she reverts to Mystique, and Storm uses a cyclone to lift the two of them up in the air.....

Motty: ....then she let's Mystique fall on the floor, while Storm effortlessly flies down.

Jean-Luc: It's a stunning victory for Storm! Professor Xavier will be happy for her.

Motty: Indeed he will, Jean-Luc. Let me just consult my 'Bumper Book Of Trivia' to see how much more I can say about their relatives, times they've met, history and....

Jean-Luc.....that wraps up this fight; goodnight, everybody.