MichiganJFrog.exe... 2: Difference between revisions
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Greetings, friends. Or shall I say: late friends? Though not former friends. For it is getting late. Very late. For both you, and for I, and for the sustained existence of all of humanity. So terribly dreadful. It's Game Over, man. My name is Ludwig Von Koopa, and I live in a haunted tower on a haunted hill, next to some haunted woods. Sometimes, you can hear screaming at midnight. Or you might think it's screaming. But it's singing. And not from wigglers, or goombas, or koopas without a shell, or a magic stuttering gnome named Craig. No. It's about your future. It's about your kids. And it's something entirely different.
I was sitting alone in my toilet chamber playing the organ and scratching my balls when I heard my door knocker go knock-knock-knockin'. I use dollar tree money as toilet paper. I knew time was of the essence. I got up in a haze, quit tapping on my organ, and stuttering my way to the doorway, knowing that no one ever visits me because I ate all of my friends claiming that I was inviting them over for dinner. They were the dinner. Perhaps this would be new dinner. But no. It wasn't. It was not meant to be that
The front gate was already ajar. And by that, I mean it was creaked open. I saw sunlight—not my favorite—coming in from the
No, not a voice.
It was
"Ribbit", I heard in the Summer breeze, rolling off the beachen hills and into my amphibious ear canals. It must have been a frog, for that ribbit was much too highly realistic to be anything but. "Come on in!", I exclaimed, chortling to myself over the prospect of a frog leg fiesta. "Ribbit", it croaked back.
Well, that did it. I was pissed off. I could feel my eyes go bloodshot, and my organ felt flaccid in my hand. I used my unoccupied fist to swing the wooden doorgate wide open, in anticipation of strangling a frog by the throat,
When...
That was no frog.
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It was a cardboard box! With holes punched in it!
"What the fuck is this.", I muttered under my breath. I breathed into the holes to be an asshole and see if the frog would jump out, but nothing did. I could pick up a scent from inside, though. It smelled like rotten eggs, fish guts, and a jewel eyed miscreant's broken dreams. I considered poking a spikey finger into a hole, but I was too drunk at the time and did not trust my manual dexterity. Instead, I bit off the fluffy red ribbon and chewed off the top of the box. And there it
A dead frog.
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"Ribbit." Oh, come the fuck on. Unkempt, unaroused, and obviously bloodshot eyed, I heaved the cardboardious container at the gray brick tower wall with full force. To my delight, the contents exploded. Highly realistic frog innards, a blood-stained top hat and tuxedo, and the torn up pages of a frog-sized copy of Men's Health magazine flew everywhere. "Fuck you, frog!", I yelled, extending my spikey middle finger. Now I could go back to orchestrating my penal symphonies in peace and quiet.
However, that was not meant to be. Instead, I was meant to
As I returned to smack the keys of my instrument,
It was a frog, wearing a top hat, tuxedo, and monocle, waving a stage cane around
"Hello, my baby/Hello, my honey
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Okay, first of all, I'm a frog and he's a koopa, so no. I grabbed the frog by its scaly throat and began choking it like a chicken. "Who the hell are you, and why are you not dead?", I inquired.
I expected it to croak or maybe play dead again, but no. Listen, I know you're not going to believe me, but
Oh, fuck. I ran out of the toilet chamber and made way for the frontgate again, but it was knocked. I tried banging my wood, I mean the wooden door, but nothing but an ominous laugh from the forest's direction could be overheard.
Frog the Killer had made his way into the main corridor. Through my funhouse mirror, he distorted into different shapes of terror. A no-faced frog monster with tentacles on its back. A garden rake. A nerdy looking amphibian with rainbow suspenders and giant red granny glasses. This was terrifying. I let out a scream.
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Come back home/Join me in the netherwoooooooorld!!!!"
When I got back home, I played with my organ until my fingers went sore and stiff. Perhaps I just needed a little more inspiration. I surfed the web for sexy pictures of Princess Toadstool in a fox outfit when I heard a knocking on the door again. Nope, fuck that, been there done that. I couldn't trust my door anymore. Instead, I trusted my pop-up blocker. An ad somehow got threw it and pictured a mushroom lady wearing a tanuki suit, so hey, who was I to say no? Plus it came with a free virus scanner. It told me to call a number and they'd even fix my PC for free. What a swell group of guys! I picked myself up off my spiny keester and entered the digits one at a time into my 1920s-style rotary phone.
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"Oh, hey, it's a-Bob from a-Microsoft", a thick Italian accent greeted me. This wasn't suspicious at all. "Is your a-PC running O.K.?" "Yeah, but I'm lonely.", I replied. "I see", he responded. I could somehow tell he was brushing a thick brown mustache. "I sent you an e-mail. Download the attachment. All attachments toast attachments." Click. He hung up the phone. Not sure how he knew my e-mail or why he ended it on a non sequitur, but O.K. I went into the kitchen to check that I hadn't left anything in the toaster. Nope, though I forgot to clean out the molten goomba corpse flavoring. I thought that you put the spread on the bread when you put it in the toaster. Shit happens.
I checked my e-mail using the screen on my smart rotary phone. Indeed, there was an attachment! MichiganJFrog.exe? Ahahaha, fuck no. I knew better than that. I pulled the phone's plug,
All of the power in the tower had gone out! At this hour? And don't forget to plow her. I couldn't call the repairman without electricity, so I was boned to sit alone in darkness and ponder where life went wrong. Several hours passed while I sat on the floor naked, and I was feeling kinda hungry and not at all tired. I went back in the kitchen to prepare myself a late night snack.
"
The lights came back on.
"Here's your problem! Too much goomba flavor sauce in your toaster!", a thick Italian accent exclaimed! "But you know what they say! All
I turned around. I expected him. That man with the red hat and the mustache. But no. No. It wasn't him. It
"You should have gone to sleep, Luddy!" Oh, the horror! The melted white face paint, running down his amphibious little frog cheeks! I knew it! I knew it! This
"Hello, my turtle/You cleared the hurdle
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Now you've gone/And really pissed me off SO FUCKING DIE YOU LITTLE WHORE!"
I realized, at that moment, that I had failed. I was never supposed to open the exe. I was supposed to ruin the tower power supply, so that he could dupe me into an inescapable situation. Michigan J. Frog picked up a knife and stabbed me in the chest. The blood from my heart splurted into the toaster, and Michigan J. Frog spread it onto some Wonder Bread. "Care for a bite?", Michigan J. Frog taunted me. As all started fading to black, I could make out a little white-faced figure swipe an apple from my refrigerator, turn
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