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Thank You, But I've Had Enough (514 hits)

Category: UberMadness! Entry
Labels: ETS_Short_Stories

Rating: 0 on 4 reviews (Rate this item) (V)

Submitted by electrictoothsyndrome (View user info) at 2004-10-19 14:13:18 EDT

This post was an official UberMadness! entry. Click here to view the original matchup.

Dee Snider was a star of the highest order, and he knew it. He knew this not only because had his momma always told him so, but millions of adoring fans had repeatedly confirmed his suspicions with free and frequent blow jobs. But that was then. This was now...

Author's Internal Reservations: "What?"

The Author's Reality-Dominant Self: "Is there a problem?"

AIR: "Oh, nothing."

TARDS: "Fuck! What is it? Just spit it out. I don't feel like playing this 'guess what I'm about to say' game."

AIR: "Oh, nothing. Just the fact that you just said - 'this was now' - that's all."

TARDS: "And what the fuck is the matter with that?"

AIR: "Well it just seems to me to be an oxymoron of sorts. 'Was...now' that's just fucking weird!"

TARDS: "Jesus! And this conversation isn't? We have a responsibility to the readers here to provide a worthwhile story that is fun and safe for the entire family, and you are just fucking it up."

AIR: "You've got a point there too. Maybe we should stop."

DEE SNIDER: "Excuse me, could you finish this up and continue writing me? I really don't have all day. I have an imaginary meeting with my publicist and we still need to talk about my contract for doing this story..."

TARDS: "Just SHUT UP! EVERYBODY! PLEASE!"

(The author apologizes for this awkward and distracting interruption, and promises it won't happen again. The author would also like to explain that...)

AIR: "Tell them about the..."

TARDS: "I know, I know. SHUTTHEFUCKUP! God!"

(The author would also like to explain that TARDS frequently talk to the AIR, so for the sake of your continued enjoyment of this story it might be something to keep in mind.)

TARDS: "See, it takes all the funniness out if you have to explain it."

AIR: "I think your audience will understand."

TARDS: "Dude, look who you're talking about!"

AIR: "Damn, yet another good point! Have you been drinking Red Bull?"

DEE SNIDER: "Helloooo!?!?!?"

AIR + TARDS: "SHUT UP!"

Ok, back to the story...Dee Snider had his alarm clock programmed to digitally play "We're Not Gonna Take It," the greatest song in history in his opinion, and like a trooper it faithfully obliged every morning. He loved that clock. He loved a lot of things...like the way penises protruded in tight pants, but that's a whole different story...

One morning he awoke to the sounds of Bon Jovi's "Livin' on a Prayer" and he knew then that something was wrong...terribly wrong. His beloved alarm clock was being a little bastard, and by god, it was going to pay!

He took the defective piece of eel turd straight back to Wal-Mart.

"Sir, what is this?"

"It's a defective eel turd?"

"I see that, but what would you have us do with it?"

Sensing imminent defeat at the hands of this minimum wage drone of a woman, Dee Snider scowled... "I'll be back!"

He exited Wal-Mart, pushing the obligatory boy in the orange emergency vest aside on his way out - whose fall incidentally dislodged a shopping cart containing an unsupervised toddler from it's state of rest, causing a big hullabaloo in the parking lot involving a tow-truck. But Dee could not be bothered; he was on a mission. He jumped in his 1979 green Ford Pinto and began the 61 mile round trip to his house.

Upon returning, he slammed the old alarm clock on the service desk and began demanding the service the sign above him advertised...

"Can I help you, sir?" the service desk bitch droned, feigning an I-really-give-a-fuck-about-you-oh-glorious-and-almighty-customer tone.

"Yes there is, I'll have you know - and I don't mean to moan - but when this thing was sold, I was told that it would play "We're Not Gonna Take It" as shown on the package in bold."

She pointed to a nearby sign and said, "Behold, there in bold, you will see our policy concerning all items sold."

He squinted his eye to read the sign that hung by the register keys, saying: 'Every customer we greet must bear their receipt, or otherwise wrestle Louise.'

"Who's Louise and should I cower in fear? Anyway why do we keep talking like Britney Shake-Spears?"

"I don't know...I was wondering that too."

"Ok..." Dee Snider resolved, "Let's put an end to it now before the author has an aneurysm."

She agreed, "I think it would be in the best interest of our continued existence and evolution as characters if we did."

"It's settled then. Now, where's this behemoth Louise lady that is going to sit on my head and squirm for no apparent reason? We need to move this plot-line along."

"She's back in sporting goods."

"Ok, thanks for nothing."

"Anytime."

So off he headed through the jungles of jewelry -
Past the towers of toys -
Into the forests of shoes -
And through the cold, dry tundra that is ladies underwear -

For days he trekked through the arid loneliness, amid the endless miles of rolled-back aisles, until at last he had reached the pacific serenity of Sporting Goods, and the dominion of Louise. Louise was not there, because she had called in that day with weak character sickness. Dylan was there though, and Dylan didn't seem to know shit about Sporting Goods.

"Can I get 1000 rounds of 9mm hollow point shells?" Dee Snider asked, thinking he might as well restock while he was here.

"Um, it looks like we only have 200 left. The Job-Corps bus stopped in yesterday."

"Well FUCK Dylan! What do you expect me to do with only 200 rounds? They've got Bradley Tanks, Dylan! And helicopters! Where do you live? Huh?"

Dylan recoiled in fear and tears of sheer terror began to trickle down his pimple-infested cheek... "I...I..."

"I'll never bring your mail again!" Dee was pee'd.

Dee decided that the plot had stalled long enough and, quickly purchasing a new clock, proceeded to his car. There he shoved the old Bon-Jovi tainted timepiece into the new box and returned it with the receipt to the service desk.

On his way home in triumph Dee was rocking out to some old 80's ballads when he realized that while in the process of loading his Glock™, he'd forgotten to buckle his safety belt. He tugged on the belt, but to no avail. Momentarily he took his hand off the wheel to give the 25-year-old mechanism a good what-for, when his Pinto careened off the road and slammed into a tree. Dee was visibly shaken, but still alive. It was then that a squirrel's nest, loosened by force of Dee's Pinto, came falling through its customized sunroof with an unceremonious thud.

Dee had obviously not eaten his Wheaties™ because he found himself utterly defenseless against the onslaught of the awakened squirrel contained within the nest. He wasn't dealing with just any squirrel either... This was both the Bruce Lee and Jackie Chan of squirrels rolled into one. His friends called him Steven 'Livingston' Segall, but his enemies knew him as 'Nun-Chuck' Norris.

AIR: "Do you really expect them to get the Seven 'Livingston' Segall bit?"

TARDS: "I don't know, I thought it was quite clever."

AIR: "Yea, but who reads Richard Bach besides us?"

TARDS: "Had you rather I said Arnold Sqirrelsanigger?"

AIR: "No, you're right, that's just dumb... Carry on."

With an unleashed fury of which Martha Stewart herself would be proud, the squirrel lunged and attacked the hapless Dee Snider where he sat.

[NOTE: the junction of the posterior auricular and the retromandibular veins forms the exterior jugular vein; it empties into the sublavian vein. Or veins in the neck that return blood from the head.]

This squirrel was obviously well read too, because Dee's blood had soon run out of his body like a bunch of students from Columbine High School.

"Want some more?" the squirrel taunted, dancing about on Dee's crotch in a very deft, squirrel-like manner.

"Thank you, but I've had enough." Dee was rapidly growing weak as his radio, still blasting loudly from before the crash, had switched tracks and was now playing Bon-Jovi's "Livin' On A Prayer." Dee winced with absolute disgust, but in his weakened state was unable to change the song. His last words in his present House of Hair were: "Oh, God just please make it stop."

And stop it did...

*******************

All his life Dee had been a big music fan, but to hear "We're Not Gonna Take It" arranged for harp, bagpipes, didgeridoo, cow bell, and chorus was more than his spirit could bear. He shed a tear of immaculate joy as he passed the cloud caps on which the angel band was jamming, and gave them the devil horns of his utmost approval. The angels returned the devil horn sentiment, not missing a beat. Soon he found himself part of a seemingly endless procession toward what appeared to be the golden gates of the Promised Land.

After what seemed like hours, but was probably more like 200 years, Dee reached the head of the line. By this time he was asleep, but was still upright due to his newfound ability to float. He was being pushed along from behind like a shuffleboard weight, by a large group of burly bikers who had just been killed in a bar fight. Apparently they were in a hurry.

"Snider...Snider...Snider...Snider..." the monotonous repetition was unmistakable. It was Ben Stein, behind a desk, files in hand, reprising his Ferris Bueller's Day Off character for the less-than-thrilled heaven-seekers.

"Hurry up buddy! We don't have all eternity." The natives were growing restless.

"Oh sorry," said Dee, blushing with embarrassment.

Ben Stein took one look at his file, immediately called for security and began warbling out the next name on his list.

"Whoa, hold on a minute...what's the matter? Why don't I get my turn?"

"It's really only a formality, Mr. Snider...like mayonnaise - it's not really necessary, but it adds that little bit of extra pizzazz, or like the number 'zero'- it's not really needed, but it gives all the geeky philosophical types something to think about." Ben Stein is clearly being a little bitch.

Then Dee stood by and watched as Ben quickly and with 'zero' ado let six bikers and three skinheads straight through without question, some even bearing weapons.

"Hey, why the hell do they get to go? That's not fair at all."

"Clearly Mr. Snider, you don't understand the rules. No one is allowed into heaven without a pass, and no one gets a pass without being free of sin."

"What!? But...I started going to church. I became a born again Christian. My music started sucking and everything for Christ's sake!"

"Clearly you didn't read the manual."

"What manual?"

"The one we sent to earth with David Koresh, the one true messiah."

"Of, course I didn't read it. They burned his compound!"

"A typical response from a filthy sinner... Look, Mr. Snider, it's pretty simple - the only sins are crimped hair and spandex, and you, sir, have committed both sins without penance for the past 30 years, so don't come crying to me because you don't know how to follow instructions." Ben Stein's voice plodded like a walrus with glue on its shoes.

Dee Snider was speechless as he hung his head in defeat, resigned to his fate in hell. Just then Ben Stein let out the most guttural of laughs imaginable... "I am kidding, I am kidding, you can go in..."

Dee was relieved. For years he had feared that the sins of his hair days - the sex, the drugs, the vandalism, the fashion faux pas - would all come back to haunt him, and he was certain that they had come back in the form of Ben Stein, but now, praise the Lord, he had been redeemed. He was going to be allowed in after all.

"I knew all that crap about hair crimping and spandex was bullshit."

"Actually, that part was true. I was kidding about this being heaven." Ben Stein's voice was still lifeless and void of emotion, but Dee Snider saw something in his eyes then...a twinkie...

AIR: "A what!?"

TARDS: "Sorry, a twinkle. Damn typos."

Something in Ben Stein's eyes hinted to Dee that it was possible that this wasn't Ben Stein at all, but could quite possibly be Satan himself.

"MUHAHAHAHAHA!" said Ben Stein, but he had forgotten to change his voice from monotone, so it really came out sounding rather unimpressive. He cleared his throat and tried again. "MUHAHAHAHAHA! I am your Dark Lord, Satan, and I command you to kneel before my awesomeness."

Then it was like someone turned out the lights and turned on the Kiss-style pyrotechnics, because the entire landscape came alive with enough imposing, satanic imagery to make Motley Crüe front man, Vince Neil blush.

Dee was impressed, to say the least. "Holy shit, dude. You scared the dickens out of me! You could give someone a heart attack like that."

"Oh, sorry. I was really just practicing for Michael Jackson. How did I do?"

"Oh, I think you did just fine," Dee assured The Dark Lord, "I don't think you really have to be that scary for Michael."

"Why's that?" The Dark Lord queried.

"Because he'll be frightened enough when he learns that there are no children in Hell."
(Suddenly John Bonham popped out of a flaming pit behind a set of Ludwig drums, banged out a, "DUM-DUM-PSHHHT," and quickly receded back into his pit of vomitous despair.)

"MUHAHAHAHA! That was pretty funny." The Dark Lord conceded. "I guess I walked right into that one!"

"You sure did, you dumb shit! Hey, aren't you the one who wrote all those backmasked lyrics on our albums back in the 80's?"

"Yea, that was me." The Dark Lord smiled coyly.

"Hey, those were good. Those were really good...have you ever considered a career in the entertainment industry?"

"Well, when I was a little cacodemon my mother always told me..." The Dark Lord paused. "Hey, you're just trying to make me forget about torturing you aren't you?"

"No, Dark Lord sir. I would never dream of it! As a matter of fact I was kinda looking forward to it. But first, where's the restroom? I really have to piss."

"Oh, pardon me. Where are my manners? The bathroom is down that way past the bottomless lake of fire, right past the seventh circle on your left - but if you reach Hitler's room, you've gone too far. Just follow the sounds of eternal suffering and you can't miss it. But come right back here when you're finished... Oh, and don't piss on the vat of boiling sulphur in the restroom! It's hard to clean it out once it's been pissed in."

"Ok."

Dee wasn't gone five minutes when he reappeared zipping his fly... "Your majesty, I really love what you've done with the restrooms...very understated and sophisticated without being too boring. I like!"

"Oh, you flatter me too much." The Dark Lord has never taken compliments well. "Ok, are you ready for you torture?"

"Sure," said Dee. "Have you got any tight leather pants I can wear for the occasion?"
"Oh, yea. As a matter of fact, that's the only clothing we have here besides spandex. It's the cows. Since the 'all cows go to hell' edict that God put out in retaliation for the Hindu and vegan cultures, we make all our clothing from leather...not to mention a wide assortment of S&M accessories."

"Cool. Should we get on with it then?" Dee said, a little anxious to get started.
"Sorry. I forget myself sometimes. Right this way..."

Dee was lead into a little room in which he could change and prepare for his everlasting torture. On the way he happened to peek in a room from which an extraordinary amount of screams were coming from. There he saw Adolf Hitler being prodded with hot irons by what appeared to be a rather large group of Jews, who were in turn being prodded with dildos by little midget men screaming "this will teach you to deny your Christ!" The TV in the room was showing a Richard Simmons exercise video.

Inside the room, Dee got changed and was strapped to the torture wheel, where The Dark Lord proceeded to whip him mercilessly. After the third or fourth lash, The Dark Lord asked, "You want more? Huh? Huh? MUHAHAHAHA!"

"Actually, no thanks, I've had enough."

The Dark Lord froze mid-swing. In all his years of being The Dark Lord, (which was a lot of years mind you), he had never had anyone respond to his honest question in such a polite and considerate way. He was absolutely stunned. Within moments several imps had loosened the straps around Dee Snider's legs and hands and helped him down.

"Ok, so you wanna go hang out at the club or something?"

"Sure, that sounds like fun. I've never been to a club in hell before." Dee was stoked.

******************

Inside the club, The Dark Lord and Dee were treated like the celebrities they are. They were lead into the 'green' room in the back, you know, the one where everything is red...

Everyone was there: Ol' Blue Eyes, Sammy D, the Olsen twins... Drugs and pussy were everywhere. The Dark Lord got shit-faced and passed out on the plush velvet sofa. Sammy D. came up and asked, "Hey man, you want some blow?"

"No thanks, I've had enough."

The next Olsen twin was ready for her turn on the love train. "Umm, Dee, would you like another blow?"

"No thanks, baby, I've had enough."

Dee sank back into his crushed velvet cushions - his nostril full of blow, cum-stains on his leather chaps, a stomach full of the finest brew Hell had to offer, and he turned to the band and shouted out a request...and it wasn't Bon-Jovi!

*******************
AIR: "Is that it? That was stupid!"

TARDS: "You wanna hear more?"

AIR: "No thanks, I've had enough..."

TARDS: "Sure you don't want another reference to the title?"

AIR: "No thanks, I... Bastard."

This story was brought to you by Hellman's™ mayonnaise.
"Give your sandwich some pizzazz!"

Were Not Gonna Take It.jpg (59 kB)

User Reviews

Submitted by Axolotl (user info) at 2006-08-11 15:29:57 EDT (#)
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-2ing people won't change their opinions.

Submitted by Adamdidit2u (user info) at 2005-06-08 14:17:51 EDT (#)
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My rating is still better than yours!

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