GET the COOKIE

[Yeshuasdaughter]

While you are roasting marshmallows by the campfire, I sneak in tactical ops style and acquire the cookie. I rappel up to an army helicopter, cookie in hand.

 

[Skittlebisquit]

Sadly the helo develops a mechanical fault and is forced to land, at an amusement park. As you get out to stretch your legs, you are confronted by a clown. The clown is a three card monty hustler, who tricks you into gambling with the cookie as your wager. You lose the cookie on a bad bet.

The clown ambles off, cackling, and you follow after, eventually. all you find is a discarded clown costume, some old playing cards, and few crumbs.

It was me in the clown getup, one of my favorite disguises. I runaway with the cookie, and display the cookie at an art gallery.
My great work is called "crumbs on a t-shirt" its widely acclaimed, i become famous, and finally get the recognition i so desperately crave, just me, my animal friends, lotsa art supplies, and the cookie

 

[Yeshuasdaughter]

With a beret and fake curly mustachio, I disguise myself as a French artiste and set up my magnum opus next to yours, entitled "Crumbs on my chest, lap, and everywhere, an ode to matzot crackers". While the Noveau Riche (with their bad taste in art) are oohing and ahhing over my garbage artwork, I throw on a striped shirt. Now I am a mime! I slowly mime my way over to the cookie, and grab it. Quickly I make a little mime box that no one can get in and I cannot get out of.

 

[Skittlebisquit]

So mimes, really? All this time i thought i knew you.....
As i am sure you are aware, there is a long standing and bitter rivalry between mimes and clowns.
Following the Great Pie Throwing War of 1989, there was established an International Tribunal, in an attempt to keep the peas(and carrots) between the different factions. Seeing a mime in an art gallery, and knowing full well about every clause in the Treaty of Grease Paint, i of course immediately call for support.
The tribunal dispatches a Justicar of the Order of Squirting Flowers to see to the matter, and hopefully prevent all out war, and pie abuse.
The justicar arrives just in time to prevent the conflict from escalating, banishes your mime box with her magic wand, and takes you into custody for miming in a restricted area, and faux pas level 3(refusing a cheese plate by gesture)
As you are being led away, i grab the cookie and flee to a rainbow gathering, where i know the beautiful people will hide me in exchange for free hair wraps, and kind veggie burritos

 

[Yeshuasdaughter]

I skydive into the festival and do the one thing that smelly hippies cannot resist. I open a bottle of organic patchouli oil and begin to slather the oil into my underarms. Smelling the piquant mixture of onions, body odor, cinnamon, and bacon, that only patchouli can emanate, they begin to shuffle toward me slowly, arms out in cult-like beckoning. Mindless, as if they were zombies, their bell bottoms getting snagged here and there on shrubs as they pass.

Their leader, Mr. Dragonkin Larkspur, the grooviest cat in the dimension, approaches me in the patchouli inspired trance, hands straight out like a zombie, cookie in hand. I snatch the cookie. Not to be unkind, I replace it with a bottle of Dr. Bronners Peppermint liquid soap, and a cassette of a bootleg Phish concert from 1987.

"Far out, man.", Mr Dragonkin Larkspur slurs, a sideways smile growing across his scruffy chin. I rappel back into my helicopter, cookie back in my rightful possession. As I rise into the night sky, I hear a faint Chong-like voice on the wind, "Good bye Miss Alien Duuuuuude. Like, live long and prosper."

Staring down at my hard-earned cookie, I get on the p.a. system of the helicopter and announce to the hippies below: "Be excellent to each other, and party on.", and soar back to civilization.

 

[Skittlebisquit]

At the airport, you have to go thru a security checkpoint, its totally normal. We really need lots and lots of security around us all the time, so we can all feel safe.
Sadly the cookie gets seized as you dont have a cookie peddlers liscense, and the cookie is not registered. Posing as an official cookie inspector, i take the cookie as evidence and go hide it in a lunchbox, which is carried away by my friend the turkey vulture, who's name is samantha bright eyes.
. Sadly the zombie apocalypse has already started, and millions of stoned zombie hippies are causing social unrest by buying up all of the nations strategic granola supply.

Sammy just keeps going in circles, forever out of reach

 

[Yeshuasdaughter]

As captain of the U.S.S. Enterprise, I warp into orbit, beam up the cookie and exit the solar system at Warp 8.

 

[Skittlebisquit]

Unbekownst to you, or anyone else, i have stowed away on the Enterprise, in the hope of escaping the zombie apocalypse.

While the crew is busy solving a crisis of galactic porportions, i slip out of my hiding place and find the cookie unguarded. I take the cookie and use it to hypnotize seven of nine, who as it turns out, has long been awaiting a real man to show her the ways of love.

Seven helps me borrow a shuttlecraft, and we flee together to planet vulcan where we find cultural acceptance, just me, my smoking hot cyborg companion, and the cookie

 

[Yeshuasdaughter]

We are The Borg. We have assimilated the cookie. Resistance is futile.

(P.S., look again. You beamed down with the wrong cyborg. Now your smokin' hot cyborg companion is none other than Lieutenant Commander Data)

 

[Yeshuasdaughter]

 

[Skittlebisquit]

Seven, how could you? I gave you my heart(and posthypnotic suggestions)!
Wallowing in self pity at a vulcan karaoke bar, i finally get kicked out following my 28th tear choked rendition of "well it could have been love. But its over now"

On the sidewalk out front, i see a rosy glow, and suddenly i am transported across time, space and circumstance into the presence of the mysterious, "Q" who has heard me wailing and whining all the way at his place.(its in vermont)

Q takes pity on me, and using his awesome power, liberates the cookie from bondage. Q takes me back to 1987 in San Francisco, where everything makes sense to me for the first time in decades.
Q warns me sternly that any further singing of sappy love songs will be met with harsh measures. Now its just me and the cookie again, happily everafter

 

[Skittlebisquit]

My cat has just woken me from a horrid dream, which just goes to show, dont doze off during walker texas ranger.

Binki(the cat) knows all about Alcatraz from her astral projection work. Its for charity, she is a volunteer with phsychic cats unlimited. Binki gives me the lowdown on the island and reveals to me a secret tunnel that comes out at the presidio.
Quietly i go in, and find the cookie playing bad harmonica, all alone and weepy. I gather up the poor distraught cookie(oh you monster!) And flee the area.
Me and my poor traumatised cookie land at a lovely little resort town on the california coast, to rest and recover. It turns out the cookie is going to need lots of therapy.

 

[Yeshuasdaughter]

Since I accidentally deleted my last post, it is actually a fit of amnesia. Who am I? What am I? Who are the Village People? What am I doing in Alcatraz with crumbs in my hand?

I trudge lone and weary across this dry and dusty land (well, first I trudge wet and drippy across the bottom of the San Francisco Bay), seeking that which I had lost, but I cannot remember.

As I collapse into a booth in a truck stop in Modesto, I notice a man across from me. His wallet is on the table as he pays the waitress. On top of the wallet is a cookie. Suddenly it all comes back to me! I leap out of my seat, flipping over the table in the process, and lunge at the cookie. I then run through the kitchen, and plow out the back door, tripping over a mop bucket in the process.

 

[Skittlebisquit]

Waiting out back of Alice's Resaurant, in lovely Modesto is Martha Stewart, sitting on a motorcycle. Martha is seriously uptight about how much trauma this poor cookie has been through, and was lying in wait for me to emerge, to give me a very serious talking to.
Thankfully, its you who becomes the focus of her ire. Seconds drag into minutes, minutes seem like hours, as America's favorite soccer mom, tells you how much she is disappointed in the Youth of Today.
The guilt trip field expands, warping the very fabric of reality. After the 437th time ms Stewart uses the phrase " well, you know.." i sense that the time is right and jump out the door, siezing the cookie. I hop on the scooter, and ride off into the sunset.....

 

[Yeshuasdaughter]

I call up Martha's P.O. and inform him that she is in violation of her parole, being within 5000 feet of a cookie. She gets all shaky and paranoid, "Man you dry snitch! I can't go back to prison!" She makes a deal with me and like the ex con that she is, she puts on her spiked leather jacket and hops on her motorcycle, with me on the back.

We chase you all up and down the tweaker corridor of the Central Valley. From Redding to Bakersfield. Finally, we track you down on a gravel road out in Trona. Old Martha the Scissors, as she's called in prison, cackles "Hold on!" She pops a wheelie and charges at your scooter. Out of shock you drop the cookie. I flip my leg off the bike, flip down, swipe the cookie off the ground, and Old Scissors Stewart and I ride off into the sunset, living off the lam, and avoiding the fuzz.

 

[Skittlebisquit]

Unbeknowst to you and Scissors, i was in Trona for the bi annual convention of CAN-GROW,

or the central alliance of nerds geeks rejects outcastes and wannabes

, of which i am not only a charter member, but also the current Chief Propaganda Officer.

Several seriously strange ppl roll up on me as i am lingering near the site of my most recent defeat, all dressed up for cos play, and riding Big Wheels.(its a thing with us).


With a mobilized force of wheezy, scrawny, sunburned nerdtastics at my command, we are easily able to devise a clever trap for you and ole Scissors. This time its sure to work....

When you come across a hastily painted sign proclaiming "craft and quilt show 6miles ahead" you are of course easily fooled into stopping your headlong flight.

At the craft show, both you and Martha Scissors are tricked into a debate on how to assign the most confusing names possible to a new color pallete, pink becomes "salmon" orange becomes "apricot", etc.

While you are distracted, by all the drama, a trained monkey picks your pocket, retrieving the cookie and bringing it to me, where i await by the first ever rocket assisted human catapult, that a few of us put together with a kit from Acme Supply.

I am launched high into the air, with just my paraglider, a copy of "Illuminatus" by R.A.W. , and the cookie.

 

[Yeshuasdaughter]

That's not how I remember it happening. Trained monkeys indeed.

If my memory serves me, you had your nose so deep in that book, that you crashed your paraglider right into the Trona Pinnacles. Scratchy Wilson, the local sunburned hobo, found the cookie down by his campsite and sold it to me for two used pop bottles and a can of Friskies.

 

[Skittlebisquit]

Freakin Scratchy, he is supposed to be at work right now. Its people like you that make it tough for folks in recovery. Its called enabling.

Scratchy is a recovering catfood addict. Dont tell anyone, but apparently if you dry the stuff out, and mix it with _____ _____, r_______ and b____ s_____ it ......

Never mind, im sure you dont want to know. Its tru i did have a minor in flight issue,

but it was totally due to trying to read an old roadmap, not the novel.

I carry the novel to conceal my mail order detective tool kit in, that way no one will suspect...

The book is held together by bungie cords and the binding has been repaired by a bumper sticker that reads
By Any Means Necessary.

What you may not have noticed,

was that there were several clowns(16 of them)
in a Pinto with bright purple metalic paint, mag rims, 3 cb antennas, and a large ostentacious foam rubber hood ornament, that followed you home.

When you stopped for ice cream, in redmond? Thats when they slipped in and lifted the cookie from the center console of your car. They met up with me near lake tahoe, where we have[edit: moored a certain submersible] another secret underwater bunker, that is secret, but totally dry.

There i reside, just me 16 clowns that are napping right now, 24 animal friends, and the cookie

 

[Yeshuasdaughter]

After Scissors goes back to prison after violating parole on a shoplifting charge, I get possession of her Harley. I deconstruct it and rebuild it as a clown car. I drive up, and blast goofy music into your bunker. The clowns come spilling out, filling up the tiny clown car. Before driving away, they are so grateful that they give me the cookie.

 

[Skittlebisquit]

Well shoot, you know what they say,
"You get what you pay for"

I thought i was being generous, in terms of compensation, alas times have changed. Once it was that comedic improv costumed perfomers, as they liked to be called, were quite content to work for snacks, goods taken in trade, simple shelter and peanuts.

"We work all day for peanuts" was a slogan once upon a time, according to my research. Perhaps i missed something...


Deserted by my own people, bereft, betrayed, and abandoned, with nothing to show for it, but a broken heart, several issues of massive and priceless solid gold statuary, framed artwork that i recently acquired and The Nautilus, i start drinking straight sherry from crystal snifter, listening to german opera, and writing bad poetry.

Yes its true, Uncle Oscar left her to me when he went off to study in Tibet. Massive., beautiful, and highly advanced the NAUTILUS was this whole time moored in lake tahoe, right under your nose.

This time i know i have to do what any responsible and conservative grown man with a machavelian world view, delusions of granduer, fanatic napoleonic impulses and his own nuclear submarine would do;

Hire some help.

Walker texas ranger wont take my calls, dolf lundgren is trying to build a house, and so on down the list of my rolodex. Finally i settle on charlies angels, and we agree on a price.

So not one, not two, but three kungfu badaxe grrls catch up to you at the craft supply store and, and take you away by a prius helicopter to a feminist reeducation center, which is for some strange reason called

a "spiritual retreat" and costs 25k a week.


Content in the knowledge that you will be out of action for what will seem like a very long time,[to you] i relish the thought of your upcoming tribulation as i adjust the cookie on its stand, which is bolted to the deck, thats locked in my bank vault, that is inside a strongroom, which is inside a submarine, that has just settled down to the bottom of the Mariana Trench, the deepest ocean in the world.

Schadenfruede fills me with its dark purple familiar glow as i think about you stuck in a yurt, eating trail mix, learning to open your chakras, spirit whistling, and doing interpretive dance while you are surrounded by power point presentations and people chanting mantras. And yoga. Lots of yoga.