A long, long time ago, in the same non-existent Kingdom, some serious problems were on the rise. The problem, as it was, had to do with a devastating cheese famine that had begun to sweep across the country-side years before. The King was able to pay little attention to the famine, but as the years passed, and cheese became scarce, he had no choice but to be of sufficient support to the Cheese-Weasels. After the Bearded Goat God had kidnapped the Sun God's eight maids-a-milking, the fate of the weasels looked increasingly grim. Hyperactive and irritatingly numerous as they were, the King was coerced into coming to their aid through the efforts of Jack the SPAM knight, who had founded the Pluto Cheese Factory long before the situation had become critical. Sir Paul and Lady Polly also were Cheese-Weasel rights activists, and tried on many occasions to set up charity concerts and an orphanage for the less fortunate weasels. But one day, the King finally came up with an easy, and affordable solution...
King George sat alone in his surprisingly dank and dark laboratory. (But I guess he DID have to be a little diabolical through his family's genetics.) A single dim light hovered overhead as he pulled out a large, heavy book. This was the recipe book that had been handed down to him by his father, who had received it from his father and so on down the line. This book was used by the Kings to counteract the vile concoctions of the previous Queens in the family. George was the first in his family line that had not been placed under betrothement by his mother, explaining why Queen Itsy was not an evil witch. She was a brat with a chronic sleeping disorder, but she wasn't evil.
George hunched over the table and sighed, pulling out a vast array of chemical bottles from a drawer underneath. He opened the recipe book, flipped a few pages, and finally found what he was looking for. It was a recipe for a non-dairy cheese substitute that he believed may be used for the weasels heavy depenadation. The King hoped to market the substance in the form of a product that he had named CHSS-442, more commonly to be referred to as Cheese-Heads, because they held the appearance of small, yet jolly faces.
George poured a brightly glowing chemical into a graduated cylinder and frowned a distressed frown. "I'll never get this right!" he whined. "And even if I do, would those cheesy-little dorks appreciate it anyway? No!" he shouted in discouragement. He threw some objects across the table.
"I think I'll just go downstairs and listen to some more Purple Lloyd," he suggested to himself. And so he did.
George stomped into his room where Itsy sat, reading a book in the corner. She laughed occasionally, and very uncomprenceably at her book as the King turned on the stereo-system to blast 'The Mall,' an album by Purple Lloyd throughout the entire very large and symmetrical castle.
Instantly, they (barely) heard a knock at the door, and Polly burst in. "Excuse me, your Highnesses!" she screamed, so she could be heard. "But Paul and I were trying to work on a song about how everybody smells, and we need to finish before our charity drive tomorrow! Otherwise, all those poor little Cheese-Weasels will parish!"
"Let those kandle-snuffers rot!" the King shouted back over his music. "Purple Lloyd is more important than a bored bard and his deceased wife!"
Polly left in a huff, but then returned a half-minute later to throw a large clay ball into the room. The King scowled and turned up the music.
"God! I love Purple Lloyd more than anything!" George shouted happily. "Nothing could ever make me stop listening to them!"
Itsy smirked. "What if I told you that you couldn't? Hypologiacally speaking, that is.
"Never!" he shouted.
"Even if I would leave you if you didn't?" Itsy asked, looking a little worried.
"Well, that'd be a completely different situation," he said. "I'd have to give that some serious thought..."
"Well, you'd choose me, right?" Itsy asked. He gave her a serious look.
"I dunno..." he said truthfully. Itsy looked disgusted, and went back to reading her book.
Jack sat on his magical, time-traveling couch holding the largest SPAM-can ever created. He smiled a wide smile and cracked the can open with a handy pocket-knife, which he had stolen from some very tall Trevor kid, who was in possession of an unhealthy number of knifes. As a mystical mist rose from the newly opened can, a blond-headed girl popped out.
"Gwen!" exclaimed Jack, at the sight of his long-lost love. "I thought I'd never see you again!"
"Well, leprosy can only keep someone away from you for so long." the girl explained, "But it didn't help that I acquired a case of chronic amnesia, and then thought that I was a French spy in Japan during WWII, even though the war had been over --er-- hadn't taken place yet."
"Oh," Jack said quietly, "What I assumed was that you had one of those experiences like in that movie Groundhog's Day, and you thought that you were living the same day over and over, but you really weren't. That's why I hadn't seen you. That and I spent over six years in the Progressive Era in America, raising socialist spirits."
"I'm so happy to be back, Jack. Now kiss me, my fool!" Gwen said, and Jack did as she said, quite happily.
Among the bright flashing colours and glow-in-the-dark stars that decorated the depressingly small room of Jessie the jester sat who else but Jessie herself. For once she was not alone with her thoughts and posters of lizards and Fiedel Castro, but with her sat two guys. They had worked in the castle for years, but nobody had ever noticed them being there. (Except for King George, who fed and paid them.) Their names were JC and Ed.
JC was a squirt, but was regrettably taller than Polly by about a hair and a half. He made up for his lack of height by being world-renown champeen of the Kingdom's Slickness Competition, eight years running. He was so slick that a fella could hardly walk within a mile radius of him without falling down.
Ed was not as slick as JC, but he had a tongue ring. This fact is cool, but irrelevant. His spiky hair resembled a porcupine, but he never used it in battle beaus he was a pacifist. Ed was an assistant to Becca the Cook, helping her to prepare fantastic bean dishes, for the majority of the castle's residents were of the vegetarian persuasion. Polly was a strict anti-vegetarian, though she didn't like the thought of eating a living creature, or, more appropriately worded, a once-living creature. This is less relevant than the comment about Ed's famous tongue ring, but it needed to be stated for unknown reasons.
Jessie sighed, depressed.
"So..." said JC.
"So..." Ed replied.
"I see you got a baked potato..." JC stated. Jessie groaned inexplicably.
"Yeppers..." Ed said, then added, "I'm such a loser..."
Jessie laughed a bit. "What are you talking about?! You're cooler than I am."
"No I'm not..." he said, in a tone more depressed than Jessie's.
"Good God!" exclaimed JC, for no apparent reason, other than he wanted to say it. Then he started singing a song called 'The Tale Of 1000 miles.' The story is going to move away from this melon-collie scene, mainly because the author wants to write more about her own pathetic character.
She stood on the outside of a broken snack machine. On the inside stood Paul. "How'd you get in there?" Polly questioned with a laugh.
"Get me out!" he whined. One of his feet stuck out of the little slot at the bottom, his other one was rammed into his stomach along with his right hand. His left hand was wedged above his hairy head, holding about twelve assorted candy bars and a mishapened coat hanger. Polly laughed again.
"I see..." she said with a giggle. She walked away.
"POLLY!" he shouted. "COME BACK!" He faintly heard her maniacal laughter down the dimly lit hallway. "Polly...?" He squeaked, very hurt by the machine, and saddened by her neglective action.
King George strolled up, digging deep into his royal, and very wealthy pocket. He looked up into the all-mighty electronic device of joy and obesity and jumped back a few feet.
"Smile!" Paul exclaimed. "You're on Candied Camera!"
"Get outta there!" the King shouted, "You're in the way of the Reeses Pieces!"
"I can't..." Paul squeaked, "Help!"
The King thought for a moment, looking up at the desperate-looking prisoner. Paul dropped a few bags of Reeses Pieces, smiling hopefully. George moved Paul's foot aside, taking the candy. He shoved the foot back in and shut the little flapping door.
"Welcome to the machine," the King said, and left with a laugh. Paul groaned.
Polly sat on her bed, playing her guitar, when Paul finally returned three days later. She laughed at his disheveled appearance (even SHE rarely saw him with dirty clothes and bad hair.) He scowled at her.
"How'd you get out?" she asked, after they'd finished giving each other dirty looks. He smiled a bit and laughed.
"The same way I got in." She looked confused. She never quite figured out how he got in there in the first place. She only knew that he was stealing so it served him right. Not that she'd never do anything like that, but moderation was the key.
She laughed at him again after he caught his reflection in one of his many mirrors. The look of terror that stared back at him through the glass caused him to emit an interesting noise. Polly was surprised that his vocal cords were capable of producing a sound of that nature, and so she kept laughing, through a sheer lack of anything better to do. After Paul recovered, he looked at her with a vicious glare. Polly abruptly ceased to giggle.
"If it makes you feel any better," she started. "I sat outside the machine with a machine gun both nights to protect you."
"If you went though all that trouble, why didn't you just-"
"Because you deserved it," she pointed out.
"And you've never stolen candy from that machine..." he said, rolling his eyes. "I got the demented coat-hanger from your closet!" He held up the coat-hanger, which was glued to his hand by some nugget and caramel. She laughed again.
"We'll never resolve this if you keep laughing at me, Polly!"
"We'll never resolve this if you keep making me laugh, Paul!"
"You're the one in charge here!" he shouted, "So do something about it!"
"Okay..." she said, and closed her eyes, thinking hard. Suddenly they were whisked away to...
"Delaware?" he asked, disgusted. "Now, you're just not trying."
She closed her eyes again, and thought again. Paul closed his eyes too, whispering, "Tropical island... tropical island..." in a repeated hopeful tone. He suddenly felt a freezing chill run down his spine, and fearfully opened his eyes.
"Huh?" he asked, looking around. He stared at Polly after a moment of confusion. "Are you just doing this out of spite?" He asked angrily.
She shrugged. "I dunno, but I'd watch out for that Canadian Eskimo if I were you," she suggested, pointing at someone behind him. Paul slowly turned around to see an Eskimo, whose name was Nanook, who had a dog, whose name was also Nanook. Nanook the Eskimo held out his hand in a friendly gesture, which, unfortunately Paul was oblivious of. Paul punched the innocent snowman in the face.
Nanook the Eskimo grunted one of his seventeen different words for snow, and toppled to the ground, due to his many layers of thermal underwear. He rolled down a snowbank. Nanook the dog attacked.
Polly let out a cry, and pushed Paul out of the stupiflying husky's path. The dog hit the ground with a thud. Polly got up and shuffled her feet around for a minute or two, then went into her double, diabolical, dynamic, demented dog whammy. Nanook turned to stone, but was guaranteed to thaw out soon. Paul got up and brushed the snow off and out of his hair, only to be pushed back over by Nanook the Eskimo, who had rolled back over for revenge.
As Paul's head was being shoved into the icy ground, he suddenly remembered a scene from an old cowboy movie. Unfortunately, it was of no assistance to him at the present time. He wondered why Polly wasn't helping.
In fact, Polly was talking to a snow-cone vender, whose name was Nanook. He was attempting to sell her some yellow snow-cones, but Polly was suspicious of the fowl aroma they were giving off. Nanook the vender gave her a desperate look, causing her to finally give in out of pity. She turned around to see how Paul was fairing with Nanook the Eskimo.
He was not doing well.
She bent down and tapped him on the shoulder. She looked at her painfully.
"I bought you a snow-cone," she said, with a smug little smirk. She handed it to him. Paul looked at her with disgust, then at the yellow snow-cone.
"Eeeww!" he made out, just before Nanook came rolling over him again. Polly gave him a kiss on the forehead, and left.
Nanook rolled over him again, but this time Paul was ready. He conveniently placed the cone into Nanook's right eye.
Nanook got up, he looked around, and he said, "I can't see! Oh, woe is me! I can't see!" Paul stood up, and laughed. He then walked off.
He found Polly, and grabbed her by the arm. "What's your problem lately?!" he asked, irritably. "You've been a little snot though this entire story. In fact, this is the absolute WORST story you've ever written!"
"I know!" she cried, "I thought I'd finished, but I can't let go! What else am I supposed to do? Live real life -- I don't think so!"
"Why do you have to bring ME into your psychopathic problems?" he asked. "You've done nothing else but cause ME harm, and I, for one, don't like it!"
"I think everyone else does." she said with a smirk, then looked up at him with adoration.
"Leave me alone, Polly." he yelled. "Even if you're planning to be nice, you don't deserve my superior loving qualities after what you've done." She looked sad, knowing he was right. She HAD been very mean to him.
"Should I take you home then?" she asked. "I'm sure Itsy would like to beat you up for a while..."
He sighed. "Whatever."
Polly closed her eyes and they were sent to Daedsilaup, a small, uninhabited, tropical island in a non-existent place. Paul appeared to be relieved, as if a heaping load of stress had been taken off of him. He smiled, and gave Polly a hug.
A little snow-cone vender set up shop underneath a couple of palm trees, which gave notice to Paul that the story was ending.
"What a dreadful waste of paper," Polly muttered. "I think I might almost like the original version of this story better, with the singing ape, and the blowing up the castle, and me falling out of windows and stuff... it was much less weird."
or 