StarDestroyer.Net BBS

Well, I've been working on this for the last week or so. Think I got most of the kinks out. Thanks heeps to JME2 and Guid for their help. Any comments or pointers would be greatly appreciated.


Give Me Coffee Or I'll Give You Death


The White House, 0630, Monday.


“Honey, have you seen my Jesus Fundie-Roos,” the President said as he poked his head out of the Presidential Bathroom.

“Yes, dear. They’re sitting right there on top of your suit,” the First Lady replied, setting the finishing touches to her make up.

“Oh, goody,” President Howdy Doody said with glee. The Jesus Fundie-Roos were his absolute favoritest pair of britches he ever did own, he thought as he snatched them off the chair outside the bathroom door. He liked them better then his autographed Pope John Paul II card from the “Christianity RULES!” trading card game.

“Honey, you don’t think these make my, uh, ‘package’ look small do ya,” Doody asked as her stepped out of “Bathroom One”.

“Your package looks fine, dear,” Mrs. Doody said, glancing at her husband, who was making exaggerated body builder poses in front of the full length mirror in the corner. Just then, SecState Condominium Mice and SecDef Donald Ducksfeld entered.

“Mr. President, we’ve got a situation developing that needs your…” Condo’s voice trailed off as she looked up and saw Jesus smiling beatifically from the Presidents crotch.

“Howdy ya’ll,” the President said with a wave, completely oblivious to their discomfort at seeing the leader of the free world standing in his skivvies.

“Uh, Mr. President,” Donald Ducksfeld said, recovering his composer after a cough that covered something that sounded like ‘fucking retard’. “We just received word that Hassan Bin Laid and Arabs For Allah’s Religious Truth have kidnapped Juan Valdez and are threating to destroy the worlds coffee supply if we do not immediately withdraw all support for Israel, leave Iraq, and free all of the guys we’re holding at Gitmo. Oh, and he would also like a trip to Disney World.”

“Wait… Arabs For Allah’s Religious Truth,” the President said, his brow creased in thought. “Doesn’t that spell a fart?”

“Yes, it does, Mr. President.”

“So what you’re saying is that a fart kidnapped Juan Valdez, right? Ain’t he that Mexican guy in all them coffee commercials on TV?”

“He’s Columbian, sir, but yes. AFART has indeed kidnapped him and are threatening to destroy the worlds coffee supply,” Ducksfeld continued. “This is a very serious threat to our national security, sir. As you know, without their coffee, or entire military’s NCO corps would become completely ineffective. Also, without their java, our national Strategic Nuclear Deterrent Forces would be crippled.”

“Well… What’re we gonna do about this situation, Ducky,” The president asked, his normally cheerful demeanor clouded with a look of mild annoyance.

“Well, sir, we’ve got elements of SEAL Six and Special Operations Detachment Delta on stand by to rescue Mr. Valdez, and we’re putting together a strike package to take out key military targets in Iran,” Ducksfeld glanced briefly at the president’s crotch when he said ‘package’. Condo noticed the eye movement, confirming the rumors about why no one wanted to use the showers at the Pentagon’s gym whenever Ducky was around.

“Never mind all that, Rummy. I know just the guy for the job. Saw him in a comic book,” the President said. “This sounds like a job for…”


Don Wan Tu’s Apartment, Central West End, St. Louis, Missouri.


“Dude, bad guys to our six,” I said in a calm voice, speaking into the headset microphone connected to my X-Box. Wonderful little toy, the X-Box, that goofy redheaded kid from Redmond wouldn’t have made something this cool if I hadn’t prompted him to drop out of college. Don’t be a fool, stay in school my ass.

“Oh, what the fuck, KnighTro,” I screamed into the mic. The dumb noob just shot me in the ass. AGAIN! “That’s the third friggin’ time you’ve TK’d me this game!”

So who am I, you ask? Name’s Don Wan Tu. Go ahead and take it in vain if that’s what gets you your jollies. I’m the current incarnation of Dun Wanna, the Lord of Procrastination. Yup, I’m a real live God. Not THE GOD, just a God. One of many that makes up the Pantheon. Most of you probably know God, that guy with the beard that did the whole creation of the universe thing (Actually he was just the guy that said “let there be light”, it was more of a collaboration, kind of like that “We Are The World” song, only not lame). He’s not the only god, there’s actually thousands of us meandering around the cosmos. I’ve met the guy. He comes off a little stuffy at times, but he’s got a really great sense of humor. I mean, he created the Platypus…

Flashback Billions of Years Earlier, Heaven

“Mikey, Gabe, Raph… Come here, quick,” the Notorious G.O.D. bellowed from his golden throne, taking a humongous hit from a blunt the size of a galactic arm. Always ahead of his time, God was already getting his hip-hop hardcore ghetto gangsta phase over and done with.

Michelangelo, Gabriel, and Raphiel appeared to their Lord’s summons instantly. The three angelic beings clad in Fubu, and adorned with several metric tons of gold chains and medallions. Michelangelo hoped that the Boss would get over this gansta rapper thing, the chains were starting to chafe.

“I heard that, Mikey,” God’s voice boomed from the golden throne.

“Uh, sorry God,” Mikey said apologetically. Noticing the Supreme Beings glare, Mike continued, “Er… Notorious G.O.D.”

“So what’s dizzel, my nizzle,” Gabe, ever the suck up gushed to God.

“Check this out, guys. I’ve made an animal that’s part duck, part beaver, lays eggs but carries it’s young in a pouch like a kangaroo, and it’s got a poisonous spike on it’s foot!”

“Not to say I’m not impressed, G-Diddy,” Raph said. “But to what purpose have you created such a beast?”

“What purpose?! Just to fuck with a guy named Darwin… Now piss off, I gotta create Darwin’s species next. Think I’ll call them ‘Man’.”

Back to Present, Don’s Apartment.

Anyways, some of you are probably wondering why a god is sitting in his pajamas, chain-smoking on a couch, swilling coffee by the gallon, playing HALO 2. I mean, you’re probably thinking that as a god I should be doing important stuff, like micromanaging the universe and answering prayers and performing miracles. Not my style. The universe is perfectly capable of taking care of her self. I tend to view people worshipping me and bugging me with their unsolicited prayers in the same way I look at telemarketers that cold call when I’m having dinner. Don’t even get me going about Miracles, that’s just showing off for the meat sacks, really.

Just then my phone started to ring.

“All right guys, I’m sitting out the next game, telephone, “ I said into the mic, ignoring the cat calls and random insults coming over the headset speakers.

“Don’s House of Carnal Pleasures, that’ll be $5.95 the first minute, a buck and quarter each additional minute, five minute minimum,” I said into the handset. The voice on the other end hesitated for a minute before telling me something that I really didn’t want to hear.

“They did WHAT,” I shouted. Someone had kidnapped St. Juan Valdez; I sainted him a few years ago for his wonderful work in providing me with the finest hand picked Columbian beans, lovingly roasted to perfection. I started salivating at the thought of all that steaming caffienated goodness as the Folgers’s jingles started playing in my head. Yeah, that Pavlovian response thing works on gods too.

“Well, you’re the government! Do something, nuke somebody, sent in some ninjas or whatever,” I said. I mean, Juan was my homeboy and all, but I was really kicking ass on X-Box Live today. Then the voice on the phone hit me with the bombshell.

“They’re threatening to destroy the entire fucking world’s coffee supply,” I screamed. “Oh, that’s not even fucking cool! Stay put, Mr. President, I’ll be right over…”

Now, I’ve also hung out with Allah. He’s a strange one, but overall a real nice guy, really mellow and tolerant. I hear him and the Christian God play golf together a lot. Not his fault that a bunch of sun baked asshats took his teachings completely the hell out of context. See, that’s the entire reason why I’m real quick to put the kibosh on any attempts to create a church around the worship of myself. People in general are greedy, stupid, and have a real bad tendency to get creative with the “meaning” of what their god or goddess tries to teach them. I mean, how the hell hard is it to understand the only two commandments of my religion? “Thou shalt not do anything productive unless it absolutely can’t be helped” and “Thou shalt not partake of decaf”. Pretty damned simple, right? Well, Allah’s religion is a prime example of what happens when a good idea falls into the hands of humans. They fuck it up six ways to Sunday.

I donned my costume, stuffing my keys, wallet, and smokes into my pockets before concentrating briefly. Suddenly I was standing in the Oval Office.

“All right, Mr. President. Where can I find AFART and how bad you want ‘em spanked?”

Great shit, man!

Please, keep goin'...

Now this is some funny shit. I like it, especially the various theological implications. Theogological implications are always welcomed.

After the massive Fuck upabout the 'Pope' today this bit of Religious Satier was SORELY needed and is welcome. Bring more MORE I say!!!

And on the 8th day the lord said "Let this fic kick ASS!!!", and lo, it did.

Nice to see that you expanded the Darwin joke from the original draft. As before, you've got me on board and ready to read.

Thanks for the props, guys and girls. I really appreciate it. Sorry about the long wait for the new chapter, had a wicked case of writers block. Say thank you to my girlfriend for managing to get me backin touch with my inner funny.

Big props to JME2 for letting me inflict the drafts of this nonsense on him, and a huge thank you for propting me to expand the Platypus gag.

Anyways, here's the new chapter...



Chapter Two: if you can read this then you don't need glasses


The Back Nine, Cliffside, Pebble Beach


Two older gentlemen were at the tee. The smaller of the two, a Middle Eastern man with a large beard, was bringing his driver downwards, smacking the ball with a satisfying thwack, and a beautiful follow through. The ball sailed through the crisp air of a sunny California morning, heading straight for the green. The Middle Eastern man smiled as the ball rolled to a stop a hair under three feet from the pin.

“You know, the trick is keeping your head down and having a good follow through, old chap,” the Middle Eastern man remarked to his companion in a cultured English accent.

The second man grunted at that, holding his hand out to his caddy for his club. The second man was taller then the first, a bit of a paunch around his middle, with long snowy white hair and beard. People often told him that he bore a striking resemblance to the late Jerry Garcia.

“You know why they call this sport ‘golf’, don’t you,” he said to the Middle Eastern gent, while testing the wind and eyeballing the course.

“I really haven’t given it much thought, to tell the truth,” the Middle Eastern man replied.

“Because ‘shit’ already had a definition.”

The taller man gave a mighty swing of his driver, the head of the club coming down and impacting the ball, sending it off in a wicked slice towards the nearby cliffs and the Pacific Ocean.

“What rotten luck, old chap,” the Middle Eastern gent remarked.

The taller man said nothing. He stood there watching the ball sail off towards the water. Suddenly a seagull swooped down and snatched the ball from the air, heading inland. When the bird flew over the green a bolt of lightening struck the bird out of a clear, blue sky, causing the ball to fall. And then land not six inches from the hole.

“Bloody show off,” muttered the Middle Eastern gent.

“Common, Al, I keep telling you it’s not how well you play,” God said to his golfing buddy, Allah. “It’s all about style…”

Oval office, The White House

You’d think that being the leader of the free world would at least entitle you to decent coffee, right? Not so at the Doody White House. Bastards tried to serve me a mug of Maxwell House. I mean, I can see trying to cut corners to save tax dollars, but ya got to have some standards.

“So let me run through this just to make sure I’ve got the details right, Mr. President,” I said while waiting for one of the Presidential flunkies to haul ass down the road and get me a quad espresso from the StarSchmuck’s I saw down the way. “Arabs For Allah’s Religious Truth, led by a guy name of Hassan Bin Laid, has kidnapped St. Valdez and is threatening to destroy the entire planet’s supply of coffee and you want me to go find these asshat’s for Allah and foil their evil plan?”

“Well, as a matter of fact that’s exactly what we need ya’ll to do, Don,” the President answered.
Somehow word got out about the incident at O’Leary’s where yours truly managed to save the world from a meglomaniacal midget with the help of a very inebriated leprechaun. See, that’s exactly why I dislike saving the world from certain doom. People start bugging you to handle everything. One minute its “Dr. Catastrophe is about to destroy the Earth! This sounds like a job for…” The next it’s “my hemorrhoids are acting up! This sounds like a job for…”

“Yeah, but why me? What about the SEALs, or Delta Force, or some CIA Ninjas,” I asked. “I mean, you’ve only got the most powerful military in human history. Why haven’t we ‘Shocked n’ Awed’ some random country to death yet?”

“Well, it’s the religious angle, Don,” Condo Mice answered me. “We received a video from AFART listing their demands. They specifically mentioned you.”

“Oh shit, they’re not still pissed off about that time I switched out their regular brand coffee for those Folgers Crystals?”

“Err… No, but they did mention something about you crippling their movement’s goal of creating a united pan-Arabic theocracy by introducing their members to the concept of Blogging.”

“Hehehe… Yeah, well… I was having a slow week,” I said with a smirk as the afore mentioned White House flunky brought me one of those cylindrical billboards Starschmuck’s calls cups. Well, I admit to introducing members of different Islamist Fundie groups to the wonderful world of blogging. I figured maybe it might be a little less dangerous for the little assholes to write about their feelings instead of straping bombs to themselves. I forgot to warn them about the subtle lure of becoming a Goth/Emo blogger. With in a week of setting up their blogs, the entire lot of them started cranking out bad poetry and wearing black eyeliner. Hot Topic had a good month of sales from all the Good Charlotte t-shirts they sold the poor deluded bastards though. The Israeli’s also reported an abnormally low number of suicide bombing that month as well. Score one for the forces of Procrastination.

“Well, whatever the reason, they blame you, Don,” Ducksfeld grumbled from the couch. Ducky reminds me of the kind of guy that tried to get in touch with his inner child and promptly sent it to it’s room without supper. “And because of your status as both a US Citizen and a minor Deity, they’ve declared a Jihad on what they call ‘The Procrastinationist Forces of The Great Satan.”

“Procrastinationist Forces… Has a neat little ring to it,” I quipped. I sipped at my espresso, should’ve had the flunky get me a bagel while he was at it.

“They demand that you free their people from the evils of blogging, and that we release the prisoners down at Camp X-Ray, sever all ties with Israel, unass Iraq and Afghanistan, and they want free passes to Disney World.”

“Why the Disney World passes?”

“They want to ride through the “It’s A Small World” with rifles.”

“Hell, I thought I was the only person that hated that ride,” I snorted. “Well, if I gotta do save the world, might as well get it over with. Where do I find AFART and St. Valdez?”

“It just so happens that we’ve got a man inside AFART,” CIA Director of Central Intelligence Portly Gross said to my left. I was in mid-swallow of a large mouthful of coffee; predictably it got launched from my nose and all over the nice carpet.

“Fucking hell! What is it with you CIA types and sneaking up on people,” I sputtered. I looked closer at the man, noting the dark blue suit and the bright, almost Smurf like blue of his tie. “You don’t happen to have a cousin named Shiro, do you?”

“That’s classified.”

“Right. So how did you get a spook into AFART anyways?”

“That’s classified too.”

“Well, err… Did the guy tell you where AFART is at?”

“That’s classif…” he started before being slapped in the back of the head by a very annoyed Ducksfeld. “Ow! We got a map to the place, they’ve got Valdez secured in a cave complex in the jungles of Columbia.”

“Well, no time like the present I guess,” I said, setting my Starschmuck’s cup down. Then I noticed the X-Box hooked up to the TV in the corner. “You got Halo 2 on that, Mr. President?”

As before, great stuff. The golf gag had me going, but you sealed my fate once again with:

“They want to ride through the “It’s A Small World” with rifles.”

I've said it once and I'll say it again: Do not stop writing this.

JME2 wrote:As before, great stuff. The golf gag had me going, but you sealed my fate once again with:

“They want to ride through the “It’s A Small World” with rifles.”

I've said it once and I'll say it again: Do not stop writing this.

I agree with both you, JME2, and that I want to ride through "It's a Small World" with an automatic rifle.

Sorry for the wait, everybody.

Chapter Three: The Blue Carrot compels you to read this… The Blue Carrot compels you to read this… Hey, quit lining your hat with aluminum foil and let the mind control laser do its thing, people.


I could feel the sun warmed stone of the building’s wall through my assault vest. Even though the sun had set over the horizon, the air was still warm from all the heat the buildings. I crept up to the corner of the building, cautiously peaking down the street we’d come to. All clear, I signaled to my squad, making my way around the corning, keeping to the mall as I made my way down the road. The rest of the squad silently followed me, covering the buildings across the street and behind us. Something wasn’t right, we all knew it, the air was to still. What should have been a busy street was quiet as a tomb.

I felt the fiery pain of the bullet tearing through me before I heard the gun that’s fired it. Dropping to my knees, I saw the muzzle flash of one of the insurgents we were hunting unloading on my squad. We’d walked right into an ambush.

“Oh, that was fucking lame, ya noob, er… Mr. President,” I said. Who’d a thunk it? Leader of the Free World and he’s a spawn camper.

“Fear my leet skills, fagmo,” President Doody replied with that lopsided grin of his.

Yeah, yeah, I know I’m supposed to be out saving the world from AFART and their diabolical plan to destroy the world’s coffee supply. But I had time for just one game, right? Well, technically it’s 108 games, but I count “a game” as being from when I turn the system on until I turn it off. Sound’s like a bullshit excuse, right? Well, I’m a god, your not, so nanananana!

“Um, Mr. President, sir,” grumbled VP Dick Cheesy. “We’ve received word of AFART. They’re moving from Colombia to their secret base in an undisclosed location.”

“Well, how do you know it’s their secret base,” I asked while I fired a grenade through the window the President was camping in.

“I took the tour when I was buying up oil fields back when I was with Havabillion,” he said.

“Well, if you’ve been there then how the hell can it be an undisclosed location? Obviously they disclosed the location to Havabillion or you’d never have seen the damned place.”

“It’s a trade secret,” he said with a shrug.

“Ok… So how the hell am I supposed to find the place then?”

“Well, I’ve got a map, but I need you to sign this standard Havabillion Non-Disclosure Agreement before I can let you see it,” he said, nodding to one of his legal department minions. The minion dropped a massive document larger then a large print copy of War and Piece down on the coffee table. To its credit, the table merely creaked from the strain of supporting the gargantuan NDA. I set down my controller and touched the document. See, one of the many bonuses to being a god is that I can “read” any book or document just by touching it. Saves me a lot of time shifting through all the junk mail I get.

“Whoa, hold up. No way in the Nine Hells am I agreeing to indentured corporate servitude. And what is this crap about? Says here if the information contained on the map is wrong in any way that I agree to not hold Havabillion or any or it’s employees and shareholders responsible of any loss of life. No friggin’ way I’m signing this,” I said as I lighted a smoke.

“Well, I suppose we could just settle for you promising not to tell anyone. But you got to pinky swear on it,” Cheesy said after considering the matter. Yup, these were some mightily professional induhviduals the “people” managed to pick out for themselves this time around.

“Right, I promise not to tell anyone about your secret map,” I said, locking pinkies with Cheesy.

“You gotta especially promise not to tell any girls, their icky. Oh, and no telling any Muslims, or those socialists in Europe, or those damned commies in Asia… And no blabbing to the Jews either,” he added.

“Right, none of that shit either,” I complied. Coffee was at stake here, not the spirit of international brotherhood and cooperation!

“Scouts Honor?”

“Sure thing, Scouts Honor,” I said, holding up two fingers for the Scout salute. I’d never been a boy, much less a Boy Scout, but what the hell. What ever worked if it’d get him to shut up and give me the map before I get bored and go back to playing videogames with the President.


Meanwhile at AFART HQ, deep in the heart of Undisclosedlocationstan, a wholly owned satellite republic of Havabillion Inc.


“Now that we have the power to destroy the world’s coffee, we can finally bring about the down fall of the Great Satan and their evil Zionist masters,” cried out Sheik Hassan Bin Laid to his followers.

“EVIL JOOOOOOS,” they all cried, firing their rifles into the air, never mind the obvious consequences of Newtonian physics for doing so.

Juan Valdez sat on a little stool behind the big rock that Bin Lain was preaching from. He was bored, and his ears hurt from all the celebratory firing in the air the disturbed Arab men seemed to do. They fired when they had good news; they fired when they had bad news. Juan had even seen them fire because someone had won a free 20oz Coke. He wondered just how much money these crazy people must spend on ammo for all the shooting in the air they did.

Several members of the horde of zealots slumped to the ground as some of the bullets reenacted the drop of the historic apple that a couple of centuries earlier had convinced Sir Isaac Newton to create his three laws as well inventing a revolutionary medical advance called an “ice pack”. Crazy people, he thought, pondering how they found so many people loco enough to even be around these gringos.

“And we have set a clever trap for the Great Satan’s pawn, the heretic called Don Wan Tu. A foul demon that contradicted the Holy Quaran by saying that the Prophet Mohammad’s favorite color was really a light lavender! We shall kill the infidel!” Bin Laid continued preaching to his followers, ignoring the fairly sizable percentage that kept falling down dead during his sermons. He figured Allah was just weeding out the non-believers or something.

“He even perverted our Jihad on the EVIL JOOOOOOOOS by corrupting us with the Great Satan’s evil Blogs,” He hissed at crowd. Several members coughed and turned away, trying to hide their big black Emo glasses and poetry notebooks. “For this he must die!”

The entire crowd started firing into the air once more. Juan was silently thanking the Virgin Mother for the nice concrete awning of the building his stool was next too.



Edit: corrected some spelling errors pointed out to me. Yup, they call me King Typo around these here parts...

Hehe. I love how you once again poke fun at everything from crowds firing rifles into the air to 108 games = "a game." Very nice, very nice indeed...

But that is a game... Each game is the some total of the number of rounds you play, and there can be any number of rounds...

Heh.. finally able to read this now at home for a day. Not dissapointed.

Most execellent.

Fantastic work. I'm thinking I will be enjoying this story. Now hurry up!

Yup, as promised, I've finally gotten around to writing the fourth installment of this circus of silliness called the "Continuing Adventures of Don Wan Tu", aka "Give Me Coffee or I'll Give You Death". Many appologies to the readers for the extremely long wait for this. Had a lot of things going on in the real worlds that ended up fracturing my funny gland (New job, new apartment, car troubles, women troubles...). But now that things in my corner of the universe have settled down and my funny gland has had a chance to recover, your favorite lazy smart ass of a deity is back. Thank you for your patience, enjoy the story.


Thanks to Lady Tevar and JME2 for their input and ideas. Also, I'd like to thank my buddy Pia in the real world for the german spelling of Fox (It's completely my fault if I didn't write it correctly).



Chapter Four…. Thousand: Testiclese… Only the evil fears him!

"That call was more queer than a football bat..." - My High School Hockey Coach talking to one of the Refs during a game

Oval Office, White House, Washington D.C., U.S.A, North American Continent, Western Hemisphere, Earth, Sol System, Second Galactic Arm on the Left, Milky Way Galaxy, Universe Alpha One, 90210 (No Solicitors, Please)


“Well, as much as I’d like to finish kicking your scrawny spawn camping butt, Mr. President, I’ve got the world’s favorite breakfast beverage to save,” I said, finishing my pinky swear with Dick. Chucking my empty StarSchmucks cup in the general direction of the trashcan as I took a fresh cup from the Whitehouse Flunky, I turned to leave when a pasty skinned fat man in a hideous suit burst through the door.

“Praise Jesus! I got here just in time to lead us all in prayer, Mr. President,” the President’s Spiritual Advisor, Reverend Jerry Fartwell proclaimed in an overly pious voice.

“Uh… Mr. President, is their anyone that doesn’t know you guys hired me to save St. Valdez,” I asked, giving the self righteous fat man a look of purest contempt.

Just then on the T.V…

“Thanks for watching FUCHS News, Unfair and Unbalanced… This just in, high level White House sources have told us that the God Of Procrastination, Don Wan Tu, has been hired by the President to hunt down the Islamic A.F.A.R.T. terrorist group and rescue beloved coffee producer Juan Valdez,” Shep Smith said with that puppet like smile of his (Is it just me or does Shep Smith look like a damned Muppet?).

All eyes went right to Karl Grove…

“Bad Grover! Bad, bad, bad, bad,” yelled President Doody, adding emphasis to each ‘bad’ with a smack to Grover’s head with a rolled up copy of USA Today.

“Mr. President, am I to believe that instead of trusting in God to deliver us from the evil men of A.F.A.R.T. that you have decided to consort with this foul hellspawn,” Reverend Fartwell said, pointing at me. I sipped my coffee with a bemused expression, half listing to the ensuing argument between the Reverend and the President. Mostly I was paying attention to the display of my cell phone as I dial a number in San Francisco…

I feel an explanation is in order for the folks out there in TV Land. See, I was a big fan of the Teletubbies. Don’t laugh. In fact, if you have children and managed to gain a few half hours of blissful quiet by letting them watch the Teletubbies, then say “Thank you, Oh Mighty Don, verily thou art all that rocketh and doth not sucketh”. Yeah, I invented the Teletubbies along with cartoons, coffee, videogames, and TV. Basically anything that can be considered a “waste of time” is my doing. And nothing wasted small children’s time quite like the Teletubbies. That is until Reverend Fatass there started a vile rumor mongering campaign saying that Tinky Winky was gay (To be honest, he was Bi, but that’s really besides the point). Not like it wasn’t plainly obvious, Big Purple Guy with a Big Purple Phallus sticking out of his head, likes to wear pink tutus and a matching purse? But trust America’s premier overzealous fundamentalist asshat to point out the obvious to the rest of us.

Cost me a lot of money too when Teletubbies tanked stateside thanks to that creep. Luckily I had the royalty checks from Blue’s Clues and Barney to fall back on. Still hurt my divine wallet a bit though.

So yeah, I had plenty of reasons to inflict my little brother on this fucker.

Little brother, you ask? Read on…

“This is T, talk to me sweetheart,” said the voice on the other end.

“Hey there, little bro,” I said into the phone.

“Don! How are you doing, and why haven’t you called,” The voice exclaimed. I had to get his attention quick before he started trying to guilt trip me into riding on a float in the next parade.

“You still want to get even with Reverend Fartwell for outing Tinky Winky, bro,” I asked, knowing I now had his complete attention.

“Oh my gay stars, yes,” the voice breathed.

“Good, then I’ll see you here in a few,” I replied, hanging up.

As Reverend Fartwell started getting into full sail fundamentalist indignation I gave the First lady, SecDef Ducksfeld, and SecState Mice a look that said “Watch closely, folks, here it comes...”

Right about… Now. Queue music!

The Reverend was stunned speechless as a rainbow hued light flared into existence in the corner to the theme of “It’s Raining Men”. Out from the light stepped a well-muscled and perfectly toned man wearing nothing but a rainbow thong and a pink feather boa. The man struck a pose, his sun bronzed skin gleaming in the rooms lighting as the he proudly (And loudly, I might add) proclaimed, “I’M HERE AND I’M QUEER!”

So who is this great gay god of a man? Well, more precisely that is Testiclese, the Great God of Gay Men. He’s also my little brother. And he makes on hell of a mean martini.

“Oh my, who’s this cute little teddy bear of a man,” Testiclese purred, gliding across the room and wrapping a well toned arm across Reverend Fartwell’s shoulder. I dunno, they made a cute couple, in a really creepy Bizarro World kind of way. “Is that a crucifix in your pocket or are you just happy to see me, big boy?”

“Uh… err… Um… Mr. President, I just remembered I’ve got a prayer meeting that I’m late for, so if you’ll excuse me, sir,” Fartwell stammered, a blush creeping over his big jolly cheeks as he scurried from the room. As soon as the door slammed shut behind him I lost what little Godlike bearing I may have had and fell to the carpet from the laughter I’d been holding in.

“I think you might have banged on his closet door a little hard there, T,” I said from the floor, tears of laughter streaming down my face.

“That man’s so far back in the closet he’s hiding behind a polyester leisure suit,” Testicles replied, looking around the room. “Mr. President, you really need a new interior decorator. The Feng Shui is all wrong in here.”

“Uh, T,” I said as I picked myself up off the floor. I was noticing everyone in the room was staring at Testiclese. “You mind putting on some clothes. You’re scaring the straights.”

“Oh… Right,” he said, waving a hand across his body. Another flash of rainbow hued light and he was clad in nicely tailored Armani slacks and button down shirt.

I snatched up the map of Undisclosedlocationstan. It was time to make my exit, stage right, before any other members of this political zoo could find a way to keep me here. “Thanks for the coffee, it’s been surreal, Mr. President. Now excuse us whilst we do that saving of the world thing.”

And with that Testiclese and I made our get away, teleporting off to my apartment. Or so I thought….

Instead of my oh-so-comfy-yet-in-dire-need-of-a-trip-to-the-city-dump couch, Testiclese and I found our selves sitting in a pair of high backed leather office chairs. Normally our powers of teleportation were unerring (Well, except for Dizzy… She has a problem with teleporting into shit, but I digress…), and I wondered “What the fuck, over” and I was certain Testiclese was thinking “No fucking clue, out”. That’s when my brain started noticing little details like the giant desk made of some exotic wood never seen by the eyes of mortals, the richly appointed office reminiscent of the principles office of a really upscale high school said desk was in, and the vaguely feminine being behind the desk that glowed with an eerie inner light.

“Oh shit,” I thought to myself. “What’d I do now…”

“I heard that, Don Wan Tu,” said Mom, or more specifically, the spirit of universal creation. Yeah, that was the being that represented all of creation, gave birth to the universe, and created the entire Pantheon with a random thought. Basically, SHE was the Mother of us all and President for All Eternity of the Pantheon, and believe me when I tell you she has one hell of a veto power. And I’d managed to get called to the Principle’s office…

“You’ve been a very busy young deity, and you’ve got a lot of explaining to do.”

Ahaha! Well worth the wait my friend, well worth the wait.

uhoh. What'd they do?!

That was most execellent.

Hey, cool. An update! Continue continuing.

Thank you very much for the support. I really mean that, guys and girl. I'll do my best to keep this story up to snuff. And believe me when I tell you I am extremely glad to know my funny gland has made a full recovery. I was afraid the Testiclese character might be ill recieved and taken out of context. I ment no disrespect to the gay community by that, anything but. Testiclese is kind of an outlet for my own "inner homo".

Lady Tevar, thank you very much for thinking I'm scary in a good way.

JME2, thank you for the continued laughter and ideas.

The rest...

PM me if you'd be willing to let me inflict the drafts of this bullshit farse on you in the future.

Thank you all very much,


Coffee.

Oh, hell, we know that. But it's still funny as fuck.

Not Bad is an understatement... this is very funny.

Okay, let me see if I got this right. Don Wan Tu is the guy who inflicted Teletubbies, Blue's Clues, and Barney on the world?! You evil, sadistic, twisted fuck...

I kid, of course. Keep going!

I wonder how Don Wan Tu will handle Wan Tok Ill...