Where's Waldo... Again?: Difference between revisions
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(Created page with "{{Note credit|This is a fictional joke story written by Schizima. Don't take it seriously.}} Does anyone remember those books, “Where’s Waldo?” They were a series of books released by Puffin, then Candlewick Press, created by Martin Handford. Well, I was a huge Where’s waldo fan. I had every book, and even during my depression when my car broke down, the kids went to school, my wife left me and the bank took every penny I had, I still had the Waldo. Created by...") |
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{{Note credit|This is a fictional joke story written by Schizima. Don't take it seriously.}}
Does anyone remember those books,
Created by Martin Handford, he was originally called
I initially ordered
The book came in a manila envelope. The numbers 4-9-5 were scrawled.
I picked up the book. My favorite book, something I dedicated a good 20 years of my life to. I had found waldo countless times, I could even find waldo in some of the books with my eyes closed. No one could stop me from finding waldo, I even won a local prize held by me to see who could find the most waldos. I was the only competitor, but nothing could take that glory away from me because I was the best at finding waldo.
When I first opened the book, I noticed a surprise! One of those little pull-out recorder bits that makes it seem like
I turned over, licking my finger to make sure the pages did not get frayed. I wanted this page to stay in mint condition, like a mint. Page 1. Waldo… he was just standing there. In the middle of the field. Smiling at me. My old friend waldo. In the field. Smiling, and smiling, and smiling away. My tired index finger pointed downward, straight down, I had found waldo within .000000052 seconds, beating my old time.
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I dropped the stopwatch. A pimento from an olive that was glued to the mustard on my shirt collar from my hot sack lunch fell onto the page, not unlike my hopes and dreams. I turned the page. Again, waldo was just standing there in plain site!
This was no waldo I knew, no waldo at all.
What the fuck. What. The fuck. No.
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I felt a strong sense of nausea when I turned the next page. Finally, a crowd. But it was not the picture I wanted to see. September 10th, 2001. A large crowd of people walking around in front of the old twin tower building in NYC. Hot dog standsman, happy go lucky tourists, and plenty of cheer. Finally, this was the Waldo I knew. The waldo I was a fan of. My favorite book, back to being my favorite book.
But my heart skipped a beat when I saw what happened next. My eyes scanned the pages frantically as I started to notice something really, really weird. George W. Bush was in the crowd, smiling. I know what
He was…eating a chicken sandwich.
Oh my god. They were all eating chicken sandwiches. And then I saw it, beholden to me, to all of my horror, Waldo.
I turned the page.
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Waldo…was fucking my wife. His tiny cock was penetrating my wife on the great wall of china. He was smiling and winking mid-thrust, with his hand on her hip in a matter-of-fact fashion. The three inch cock was only a few painted pixels but drawn in highly graphic detail.
I shot a load of puke all over the book, permanently destroying the only known copy known to man. And that man is me. I contacted Puffin press and demanded a refund, but they refused. They said
A few days later I found a striped red snowcap on the lawn.
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And his pink underwear. Yes, Waldo wears pink underwear. Disgusting.
He…showers with the glasses on.
I picked up the black sharpie and lunged at him.
He wrestled me to the floor. I had been the victim of identity theft.
I woke up on a Mexican prison bus. My identity had been entered into the computer different. Just a single mouse click to swap my face with someone else, and now hispanic Waldo and I had switched places. The wizard was sitting next to me, smiling.
Waldo is oddlaw spelled backwards. Waldo is oddlaw spelled backwards.
And then the dog began to narrate. I could hear the voice, outside the prison bus.
Truth is, Ever since I was a kid, I had these clairvoyant, psychic powers. I knew I
The book sat at the edge of the road, propped up by the choking dog. We were going to do it. We were going to go back to the future. The Mexican prison bus went faster, and faster, and faster some more. We had to dilate time by driving in there, and yeah, we were bringing prisoners. Anything you bring into the book world stays there fuck you.
The bus drove over the wall and fell off a cliff, incinerating all of us to a hot, crispy plate of hotcakes. Or did it? It
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