Where's Waldo... Again?: Difference between revisions
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I initially ordered "the book" from Little Brown and Co's now defunct website. As of 2009, there are seven primary Wally books. As far as I know, I am the only one that owns copy #8. It was called- and I'm not kidding "Where's Waldo? He's inside your House!" Kind of creepy, I mean Waldo was usually in big crowds, intermingled with his dog Schmuppin (Later named Woof, a clever form of onomatopoeia) Odlaw, Waldo's sinister nemesis, and Wizard Whitebeard, who holds one of the seven elegant blood skulls that guard the gate to the furnace of the necrotic underworld.
The book came in a manila envelope. The numbers 4-9-5 were scrawled. "Hope you enjoy the tape! – Waldo" was written, even though
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.
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When I first opened the book, I noticed a surprise! One of those little pull-out recorder bits that makes it seem like there's talking, with a little speaker attached! "It's the nature of the mind to search for patterns!" The garbled waldo voice chattered, sounding like he was dying, warbled, a cat under a dish sink, a ghost in the fridge, sinister rats in the walls, something horrible was coming.
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.
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!
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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 you're thinking, but it was him. On the level the disheveled face simply looked, astonished, smiling, as though he didn't even know why he was there. I was looking for Waldo, not George w. bush, former president of the U.S.
He
Oh my god. They were all eating chicken sandwiches. And then I saw it, beholden to me, to all of my horror, Waldo. He's carrying pallets into the back of the world trade center. Smiling, and smiling, and smiling away. But obscured under those glasses was a slightly tinged look. When the artist drops the eye dot down a peg and turns the brow just 3 degrees downward, a Gaussian curve of sinisterness, gone sinister. Well, I had found him. I circled him with my sharpie, as I usually do, noticed the wizard was flying a plane and circled him as well, and even found the dog, also eating a chicken sandwich, and pissing on the bushes.
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The last page was the most disturbing.
When I finally found
What?
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 "If you want to find waldo at your age, get a fucking job and you'll meet all the real life waldos you want, dork mcmuffin" but I knew what they meant. They sent me a check for 6 million dollars, a little "hush hush" money if you will, to stop me from talking about the waldo.
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And his pink underwear. Yes, Waldo wears pink underwear. Disgusting.
I picked up the black sharpie and lunged at him.
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He wrestled me to the floor. I had been the victim of identity theft. "He's always in the last place you look!" The bespectacled naked cartoon man smiled at me. Indeed, he had already moved in. He had refiled the papers, taken the wife. He was sanding off my finger prints and surgically grafting them onto his. Waldo had taken over my whole house, the fish, the ferns, the laundry. How long had he been watching me. "It's not a question of WHERE'S WALDO." He smiled at me. "It's a question of WHO IS WALDO!" I swear to god, his face puckered into George W. Bush for a second, morphing like a strange shapeshifting reptilian. I screamed and he punched me in the face, knocking me unconscious.
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. "What are you in for?" Wizard whitebeard smiled. His eyes were like iridescent jewels that mesmerized me. "My exceptionally long beard is often the key to finding me." He smiled, offering me protips on how to complete the books. I just wanted my old life back.
Waldo is oddlaw spelled backwards. Waldo is oddlaw spelled backwards.
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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. "I AM THE WLADOWOR!" I screamed! The wizards in the back shook their tribal sticks. The dogs danced. The prisoners howled at their refried bean dinner. The bus ran over the book.
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 didn't,
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