If any of you have read my whole five paragraphs in my about section, you already know that many of my ideas for writing comes from my mind ranting at The Geagle. Most of the ideas that I come up with are genuinely bad, but I am able to rework them into pants-shittingly awesome ideas (see: The Adventures of SuperStocker.) Well, a coworker and I randomly got onto the subject of which brand would beat the shit out of its competitors in a fist fight. It slowly evolved from there to this strange, fascinating, and (in my typical fashion) offensive story. Naturally, I view you, nameless computer screen, as my best friend, and I would like to share the story with you.
Now, what you are about to read is part one in a ? part series that will probably make food companies orgasm at the free promotions. I will add another part to the story over the course of whenever the fuck I feel like it. Oh, and in case you want to keep track, every word that is in bold is a brand name, or a product name. I only bold them on their first use in each part as to not confuse you with thick lines. You could use this as your shopping list, that is, if you need exactly what I write, and want to plagiarize me.
Enjoy bitches, and Enjoy, bitches.
Bob Evans and Jimmy Dean, two respectable, sought after suitors, live in the town of Chiquita. Surprisingly enough, Chiquita is not in a tropical location, but is a Podunk little town in the Midwest. Anyway, One day, Mama Michelina decided to have the two suitors battle it out for her daughters. (Normally, this type of feud over a woman was customary in 16th century Europe, but apparently it also happens in current day America. Don’t question it; just continue reading.) The winner of the fight between Bob Evans and Jimmy Dean would win Marie Calendar’s fine ass. The loser would have to settle for Marie’s sister, Shubert.
The fight begins at noon in the town square. The entire town of Chiquita shows up, and forms an impenetrable ring around the two men. With their swords drawn (they duel old school), the men start slashing, and gashing, thrashing, and flashing at each other. After several minutes of epic dueling that I don’t feel like describing to you, Bob Evans stood over his opponent, sweat dripping from his brow.
The referee ran over, lifted Bob Evans’ hand up and yelled, “The winna of the hand of Marie Calendar’s fine ass is Bob Evans!”
The crowd roared with overacted applause, and Jimmy Dean slunk back towards a tree and began to cry like a little bitch. Marie Calendar and her sister, Shubert, went over to congratulate Bob Evans when a yell came from behind.
“Marie Calendar is a whore,” the voice said in a saidy fashion, “And we’ve got a tape to prove it. Two new men entered the circle of town’s people. One was an older gentleman with thick classes, a bow tie, and white jerry curls, and the other was a gruff looking man, sporting a brown leather jacket, a red scarf and a 70’s porn stash.
The older man stepped forward, pointed to Marie Calendar and called out, “Hi, I’m Orville Redenbacher, and I layed a massive fudge log on that woman’s bare chest. And it was massive. My shit is twice the size of my competitors.” “Pop Secret, Pop Secret,” he then coughed into his hands loud enough so that everyone could understand.
(note: I was totally going to make a “Poop Secret” joke here, but I did not want to patronize you with cheap poop jokes. No, I will patronize you with extravagant and complex ones.)
“He’s right,” the cheap Freddy Mercury look alike cried in a thick (and probably inaccurate) German accent, “I am ze Red Baron, and I bring to ze stupid American town of Chiquita a video from ze motherland of Deuchland.” He began to flail a VHS over his head.
“More like Doucheland,” a stupid American from the crowd called out. I would not normally call Americans stupid, except that we totally are, and these people did not know what a VHS was, and this story takes place in like the 90’s, so they totally should.
“Shut your filthy American mouth, you filthy American” the German said stupidly (because every nationality is stupid, not just Americans), “Or I will bring the Hagan Daaz Nazis to take over this town.”
The town’s people gasped in a predictable fashion and began to whisper amongst themselves.
“That’s right,” The red Baron warned, “The Hagan Daaz Nazis will be all over this town like Jiffy Peanut Butter on Schwebel’s bread.”
The gasps became more frantic, and the whispers now consisted of “Food reference” and “the fourth wall is broken”
“Hey,” Orville yelled as he snatched the movie out of the Red Baron’s boorish hands, “I’m Orville Redenbacher, and I want attention put on me again. I shat on that woman, and I shat on her good. I guarantee that I did or else my name is not Orville Redenbacher.” He put the VHS onto the VHS player and hit the play button on the TV that had been sitting in the center of the ring the entire time. What, you didn’t notice? Well, you were obviously not looking hard enough. It was right there. Also, I changed my mind. The town’s people did know what a VHS was.
“This Orville Redenbacher made people appear in the magical talking box. HE’S A WITCH, BURN HIM!!!” one town’s person cried, completely contradicting what I just said (what a douche). I guess it was too much to ask, though. This story is set in the mid 1700s.
Light piano music comes on, and the words Café Steamers (Marie Calendar gets pooed on) fills the screen. The movie then cuts to two men, one being Orville Redenbacher and the other being The Red Baron squatting over a nude Marie Calendar. Redenbacher squeezed out a foot long chocolate hotdog which landed in between the lady’s lady boobs. The tail end of it whipped back and slapped her in the face.
Now that I have burned that mental picture into your head, I shall continue.
The crowd gasped, held back screams and their own vomit, and that creepy Hispanic guy, Snyder Del Monte, began touching himself.
“Turn it off! Turn it off!” Bob Evans screamed, “I have seen more than enough.” “Marie,” He said, turning to her, “I cannot love anyone who was in a German Schiza video with Orville Redenbacher. And I refuse to marry you.”
Jimmy Dean, who apparently stopped sobbing like a little bitch Stepped forward and said, “Marie, I love you for who you are, not what you’ve done, and If you are willing to marry a loser, I would be happy to be that loser.”
“Oh, Jimmy!” Marie cried as she ran through the center of the circle (the TV and VHS player disappeared let’s just say to keep the plot moving). When they met, they met with a passionate kiss. Even though Jimmy Dean was disappointed that he was not going to be the first one to pop Marie’s cherry, he hadn’t gotten laid in a while, and he was up for anything (and I mean anything).
They were married, in the St. Ives Baptist church- the only church left in town that did not refuse to allow the shit whore Marie Calendar inside. One day, the happy couple welcomed a son onto this planet. Sadly, he was mentally retarded, so they named him what every good parent would name their mentally challenged child: Special K.
End of Part One.
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Ramblings of a Madman 
I’m not sure if its the image of the foot long chocolate hotdog slapping a bitch in the face, or that it was the foot long chocolate hotdog of Orville Redenbacher…but it will be several weeks before my next erection. Good game sir, good game.
ps
If the world should ever be so unfortunate to have one of my offspring unleashed upon it, Footlongchocolatehotdog will be his/her name. Actually, I want to crunch that down a few characters and have it be a vanity plate as well.