THE BOOK OF CHOCULA™
(New and Improved! Now featureth Random Chapter Breaks!
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And the Dudes didst split up into two parties, going each their separate way in search of the Thing with the Stuff, and the voice of the Turtle was heard in the land.
And it came to pass that Scoot the Ko’An and his companions, Casey, Yoco, and Nori the Cursing Faerie, were overtaken by forty men who were led by a man with a funny-looking turban.
And the leader of the forty said unto them, ‘I am Ayatollah Asshollah LXXXVI, and these art my Élite Beardos of Death. Art thou Scoot the Ko’An, the First Apostle of Hondo?’
‘I am he,’ quoth Scoot.
‘I liketh not the looks of this…’ quoth Nori.
‘ ’Tis the Gre
’Tis the foul stench that wafts upon the breeze,
A silent-butt-deadly in the morning:
The smell that doth brown and wilt all the trees,
Shouldst come with a Surgeon General’s Warning.
Or a twenty-one bun salute to something that died,
And telleth thee— don’t shoot! don’t light a match!
So thou knoweth someone hath let one fly;
Gas shall come to pass from out of one’s ass,
And so one can tell that all is not well:
Is it a shift of wit or a whiff of shit?
A healthy man canst not make that kind of smell;
’Tis death to all who get a whiff of it.
And a common truth for all ye who belt it:
That he who smelt it’s the one who dealt it.
Dost tha Colonel’s special blend
Of herbs and spices give thee gas?
Thou be levitatin’ when thou’rt meditatin’
With such a mighty wind to pass.
Every time thou hear’st me, thou shalt agree:
Nothin’ floats a brotha like tha K-F-C!
A Spooky Real-Life Encounter
Since it’s almost Halloween, this seems like the best time for a tale like this, as it’s something that still gives me chills just thinking about it.
Years ago, I was walking home from a session at Knight Library late one stormy night. I left the library some time between ten-thirty and eleven, so after trudging through downtown to the Ferry Street Bridge, then along the river in the pouring rain, it was probably at least midnight. It was just past one last stretch of woods before I made it to the Valley River Hotel, the VRC Mall parking lot, when I first spotted it.
I remember at first just thinking it was someone else on a late night errand, though even in Eugene, where folks joke about having webbed feet, it was rare to see anybody out in so late in this weather. Yet for some reason, I couldn’t take my eyes off the shadowy figure. As the figure drew nearer, I finally figured out what my eyes had instinctively locked on to wasn’t the man himself, but hi
Canst thy can handle acts of Congress?
Or doth it o’erflow and make a big mess?
Wilt thou dare to squeeze the Charmin?
Or dost thou still think there is harm in
Downloading songs off the Internet?
Dost thou think Macintosh a good bet?
Dost thou let thy friend drive a Chevy?
Hast thy remote control become too heavy?
Wouldn’t ye like to be a Pepper too?
Thy call is very important but hath no value,
But what the hell art thou gonna do?
Call Ma Bell and bitcheth about it?
Thy USDA allowance of video bullshit
Broadcast every hour on the hour.
Now thou’rt playing with Power!
Quoth Sabrina: ‘To pause is human, to play, divine.’
Quoth David: ‘Fast-forward!’
Quoth Matt: ‘REWIND!’
’Twould take all this shit to Equal one bowl of Total.
Time for some patented space-age moon-waffles.
So just l’eggo my Eggo, thou son of a bitch!
Or try new Special K and maketh the switch.
Eateth Green Eggs and Ham from Hillshire Farms,
Enter ye the Spooky Door, step beyond the lantern’s beams, ancient dark corridors to explore where nothing’s what it seems. Don’t get lost upon thy way, the path of nightmares and dreams, in this old place, the games it can play. Skeleton key in hand, the silence screams.
The path looketh calm, but beware: tho all is silent in the Halls of the Dead, the machines that make nothing wait there until a blinking green light turneth red. Halls of locked doors, hidden danger; let not the lost child lead thee astray, to the wrath of the Phantom Stranger, ‘For we are many!’ the voices say.
Dead words drift across the page, the wisdom of some ancient sage, echoes of a long-forgotten age, but arcane verse doth set the stage:
Behold the sweet Lady of Twylight— tattered shadows billow from her mast, in the sea fog’s shimmering light, ’tis an eerie spectre of the past. The derelict adrift in the Misty Main, shades of men seem to man the decks, a ghost