It's Time For An Epic Tale...
Every now and then, writing for Something Awful begins to take its toll on the souls of our writers. Sure, our trademarked brand of baffling, irreverent rambling is what most of you come here every day to see, but we writers occasionally need to open ourselves up to new avenues of creativity to keep the job interesting. Experimenting with new styles once every few eons prevents the hundreds of suicidal thoughts we writers face every day from becoming sweet reality. Many times, these are terrible failures and provoke angry letters which detail how and why we are assholes for attempting to provide free entertainment for you fine people. These letters often back that statement up with intelligent and convincing arguments that usually involve misspelling the word "faggot." Despite that, today I have chosen to make a bold move and venture off into a less humor oriented territory in order to express my powerful dramatic side. I have written a story which is serious and filled with deep meaning and meaningful depth. It deals with issues close to my heart, as well as issues situated in both my lungs and kidneys. My hope is that the story will provide you with cherished memories, and will be something that affects you in a way that a normal article simply can't.
I call this story...
"The Secret Journey of Wilson Dildo"
Once, long ago, there lived a man named Wilson Dildo. He had a fine home in a land known as Ohio, which today we call "Kentucky." His days were rich and prosperous, until one day when Wilson thought to himself "I must find a wife!" He was already married to three lovely ladies, but aside from being a brutally abusive alcoholic, he was also an obstinate polygamist, and thus begun his quest.
Wilson walked for days on end, creating far too much distance between him and his home to logically warrant returning to get his car, which he forgot. It wouldn't have mattered anyway, as the car Wilson drove ran on an explosive substance known as gasoline, which surely would have killed poor Wilson. He pressed on for miles, stopping only to eat, defecate, and eat his defecation. He loved the towns he was in, and his mysterious quest. He said "I love you quest." and he had sex with the quest. It was then he realized that all along, the one true love he was searching for was the quest itself.
Wilson and his magical quest were wed in Las Vegas to the tune of Inna Gadda Davita and the two lived happily ever after, until one day Wilson beat the quest with his belt, and encouraged his three other wives to do the same, lest they get beaten. Lasting well through the night, said beating ran on even longer than the previous run-on sentence. This joyous occasion brought Wilson back in touch with his three wives who existed in the physical plane. His first wife was the mop, a beautiful figure with long, thick hair. Then there was the alluring second wife, the phone operator from MCI who calls during dinner. Finally, there was Wilson's most prized of all his wives, his flesh wife. She had long since died due to murder complications, but remained in spirit inside of Wilson's heart.
The police came and arrested Wilson and his damned abusive heart wife in a raid which was broadcast nationally for no apparent reason. In a trial that was presided over by Judge Joe Brown himself, Wilson was sent to serve thirty years while the heart was cleared of any wrongdoing. This single event created a worldwide buzz, and everyone wanted their own Wilson Dildo propaganda. Wilson Dildo t-shirts, coffee mugs, even Wilson Dildo corn cob pipes sold by the tens of tens, which multiplies to a higher number.
An outraged public demanded the release of their beloved Wilson from his shackles, and through their dealings with a delightful talking cricket, the public's wish was granted. Said cricket was the charismatic head of a powerful, prestigious crime family, and thus had influence in these situations. While in jail, Wilson fell for the old "soap in the shower" ruse. He fell so hard in love with it that he wed the soap in the shower ruse and started a new life with it in Flint, Michigan. Abandoning his other wives was heralded as genius by viewing audiences, and his approval rating shot sky high. The public couldn't get enough of the man.
This intense demand for all things Wilson Dildo is the reason I have written this story. Please pass it on to any friends who have caught the Wilson Dildo fever, as they surely will enjoy it. It will help them in their final hours, as Wilson Dildo fever kills quickly and efficiently, like a team of tiny Japanese assassins running amok in the body. Since Japanese assassins are usually tiny, you know that's fucking small. Please keep your distance from the person though, because this fever spreads easier than a cheerleader on Prom night. That story was the story of the man, the myth, and the legend: Wilson Dildo. But is this truly the end, or is it just the beginning? Well, if you'll take notice, it is close to the end. But please stay tuned. For the next exciting episode of the Wilson Dildo story is soon to come.
The moral is a moral about forest fires.
Truly, an epic tale for the ages. Thank you for reading, and thank all of you who will surely write me e-mails requesting to know what drugs I have taken. Goodnight!
Sometimes I dream that I'm sitting in the back of the defunct Weinermobile as it careens driverless down the highway. At first I thought this was symbolic of the powerlessness I feel in life, but then I realized it's actually the Weinermobile's dream of being able to drive again.
Three years ago, when we were burying my uncle, Cleaver and some gross lady dog (Solstice???) showed up at the cemetery and starting going at it really loudly. It ruined everything and we had to have a "re-do" the next day and it cost a fortune. I've hated him ever since for that.
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