Brutus The Croc Gets A Proper Lunch

Three pieces of business to tend to before I get things started today. First, over at our group blog Writers of Mass Distraction, a few days ago I wrote a blog about characters changing priorities and taking things seriously during the course of a book or film. Have a look, and by all means, tell me what you think! 

Second, take a look over at Lyn Fuchs' Sacred Ground Travel Magazine blog, where today I'm writing about the Niagara Falls region. And leave a comment!

Finally, if you're not already following The Desert Rocks blog (and why aren't you?), go have a look there today for Norma's guest blog on technology and writing. You'll pick up a few things and have fun!

And with that, I return to several characters without a book who have appeared in these blogs from time to time. And they've been joined by another of their kind, poor wretches doomed to wander cyberspace forever without a book to call their own. They're all together, Down Under, taking a river cruise, out to see one of the local critters....

Australia; the Adelaide River. A riverboat works its way down the river in the early summer heat, the passengers aboard screened from the sun by a roof over their heads. The pilot is a local, an Aussie by the unusual name of Jake Chemiserouge. He's dressed casually- shorts and a ballcap- with a rather bright red t-shirt. His passengers are four in total today, here to come see a crocodile named Brutus, a three legged eighteen foot long brute of a croc who's become something of a tourist attraction. They're all dressed for the conditions, as casual as possible- though at least one of them seems uncomfortable. She'd much rather be doing something else, as it turns out. She's Mary Ducky, the financial guru and con artist who's wanted by Interpol for numerous scams and thefts of millions of dollars. These days she's lying low, trying to evade the authorities. With her is the demolitions expert Contessa Evangelista Francesca Nicolette Viola Divinna, all too often given to destroying things that she wasn't cleared to destroy. Also present is the perennial blowhard Keith Jarrett, the man who thinks he's the wisest of all human beings. The author of such dubious works such as I Know Everything So Bask In My Eternal Wisdom, Duck And Cover The Buddhists Are Coming To Kill Us All, Gosh I'm So Smart, How To Cure Ebola, Mother Teresa: Tyrannical Despot of India, Bonaparte: A Man Of Humility and the forthcoming Keith Jarrett: Last Best Hope Of Earth seems to be full of himself, as usual. These three passengers know each other well. The fourth is known to Jarrett. Jerry Wallace, aka Jerry The Miser, is the author of Bargain Hunting And Other Pointless Pursuits. Chemiserouge turns to his passengers.


Chemiserouge: Isn't it lovely? Just the best stretch of river in the Territory, by crikey!

Mary: Must you speak with that accent?

Chemiserouge: What accent, Sheila?

Contessa: Now, Mary, be nice to the local man. I don't mind it myself. You know, when I was last here in Australia, my company was hired to do some work in Sydney. I thought at the time that we ought to get that unsightly Opera House out of the way, so I had my people set the charges, but as it turns out, the locals weren't all that enthusiastic about having it blown up. Oh, well, even if they have horrible tastes in architecture, there's nothing wrong with the accent.

Keith: So, Jake, tell us... that's a bit of an odd name.

Chemiserouge: My family name? By crikey, mate, it might be, but the Chemiserouge family come by it honestly. Not like we went and flogged it off some other family. No, my dad came in from France, mate. All the Chemiserouges come from there. By crikey, we've got some history, let me tell you. A Chemiserouge was the very first man to die back in the First World War. That was my great-great-great-great uncle Louis. And it was the same in the second one. First soldier to die in the French army in 1939 was my great-great-great uncle Pierre Chemiserouge. He was wearing his lucky red shirt, he was. Just like me. Oh, these things happen. Did you know there was a Chemiserouge in the crew on the Titanic? And the Lusitania? Come to think of it, one met his end on the Empress of Ireland too. And the Edmund Fitzgerald. And Pierre Chemiserouge did have a cousin, Fritz Chemiserouge, who was a crew member on the Hindenburg when it had that unfortunate accident. Just like the family tradition, he wore a lucky red shirt too.

Mary: Did it ever occur to any of them that those red shirts might not be so lucky? Maybe you should be wearing gold shirts. Or blue shirts.

Keith: You know, in chapter 743 of my epic tome I Know Everything, So Bask In My Eternal Wisdom, I write what I think, in my usual humble way, is the definitive treatise on the subject of luck.

Jerry: Do you have to keep doing that?

Keith: Doing what?

Contessa: Passing yourself off as a guru.

Keith: But I am a guru. A genius. People adore listening to me talk. Besides, you continue to spend your time telling people you're a Contessa, and insisting they first address you by all sorts of names.

Contessa: I am a Contessa, and you will address me properly as Contessa Evangelista Francesca Nicolette Viola Divinna.

Chemiserouge: Look, by crikey, no need to big-note, blue, or burl. No spitting the dummy or giving a gobful.

Jerry: What does that even mean?

Mary: He's using Australian slang.

Chemiserouge: Well, I am Australian, Sheila.

Mary: My name isn't Sheila, so stop saying that. Why did I agree to come on this trip?

Contessa: You're hiding out from the arrest warrants in place against you, that's why.

Mary: Yes, yes. I know. Honestly, you steal a few million dollars here and there from unsuspecting dupes and marks who deserve to get taken for everything you can get, and all of a sudden, you're being called a criminal.

Jerry: I'm just glad that someone else paid. Otherwise, I'd have refused to come. Or I might have hidden myself in one of the wheelwells of the plane. It's only an eighteen hour flight. Surely a human being can survive exposure at thirty five thousand feet for that long? I've done that with my in-laws to save money on a cross country flight. Granted, it wasn't easy to explain that to my wife when her mom and dad were pulled out of the wheel well, frozen to death. Still, saving hundreds of dollars is worth the risk.

Mary: How is it that anyone wanted to marry you?

Jerry: Look, I'll have you know that living cheap is a good thing, from time to time. It saves lots and lots of money, which you can bank away, and continue to live cheaply...

Mary: My point, sir, is that you're living like such a cheapskate that you don't enjoy life. You killed your in-laws by being cheap, and while I suppose I can appreciate the notion of killing in-laws if they're idiots, ending their lives because you're too cheap to buy their air fare is really, really bad form. I'm assuming you gave them a cheap funeral too.

Jerry: Cardboard boxes. No headstone. Those things are just extravagances, after all, and it's not like they care.

Mary: You're an idiot.

Chemiserouge: If we're all done throwing a wobbly?

Contessa: Throwing a what?

Keith: He means getting mad. In chapter 6789 of my epic tome I Know Everything, So...

Mary: Oh, will you shut up?

Chemiserouge: I was just going to say that Brutus ought to be hereabouts. I'm going to put some kangaroo meat out on the line and feed the croc, by crikey! This is what you all paid to come out to see, after all.

Chemiserouge turns off the boat engine and starts to rig a pole with meat from a bucket.

Contessa: That used to be a kangaroo?

Chemiserouge: Yes, until he went walkabout and ran right into the front end of a truck, by crikey!

He holds the pole out over the water.

Chemiserouge: Here, Brutus! Come get your lunch, boy! Here, Brutus!

Suddenly the water beside the boat erupts, and the top half of a two ton three legged croc bursts out of nowhere. Chemiserouge yells in panic, and Brutus drags him under, into the depths of the river. Everyone is silent for a long time. Finally, Mary Ducky speaks.

Mary: I told him red shirts aren't lucky.

The Contessa And The Blowhard Take The Knickers Challenge

You might recall my taking that underwear challenge thing earlier in the month. Well, I'm doing the same thing again, in the first of two blogs, but this time it's the characters who are answering the questions. For this one, I'm going with two characters who are among those who live only here in the blogosphere, and not in a book. Lars Ulrich would have come, but he was too busy beating the hell out of an entertainment reporter.

I've selected Keith Jarrett, the blowhard author of I Know Everything, So Bask In My Eternal Wisdom, Duck And Cover, The Buddhists Are Coming To Kill Us All, How To Cure Ebola, Gosh, I'm So Smart, and Mother Teresa: Tyranical Despot of India. He's being joined today by Contessa Evangelista Francesca Nicolette Viola Divinna, the explosives loving engineer who very nearly destroyed the Brooklyn Bridge.

***

All right, you two... behave yourselves. That means I don't want to hear about your latest book, Keith. Or I don't want you going around blowing up the Alexandria Bridge, Miss Divinna.

Contessa: That's Contessa Evangelista Francesca Nicolette Viola Divinna. You may call me Contessa.

Keith: But I'm really excited by my new memoir Keith Jarrett: Last Best Hope Of Earth...

Quiet, you. All right, you're supposed to answer a series of questions, to the best of your abilities, and really, Keith, do try to keep to the subject instead of going on and on about how brilliant you think you are. Here we go.

1. What do you call your underwear/undergarments? Do you have any commonly used nicknames for them?

Keith: I call them boxers, because that's what I wear them for. And speaking of boxers, I've been thinking of writing the definitive biography of one of the biggest names in the sport. How does Mike Tyson: Gentle As A Puppy grab you as a title?

Contessa: Panties, of course. Though when I'm out in the field as a demolitions engineer, I have been known to call them knickers. In fact, last week I was all set to blow up the Golden Gate Bridge when I got a call from the city instructing me not to...

Is there a point to this?

Contessa: Yes, I was just getting to it...

Let's move onto the next question, shall we?

2. Have you ever had that supposedly common dream of being in a crowded place in only your underwear?

Contessa: Oh, certainly. I dreamed just the other night of being in Athens, setting charges in that unsightly pile of rocks they call the Parthenon, set to blow it up. For some reason, I was only wearing my polka dot panties and bra while working with the C4. Can you tell me what that dream means?

Keith: Certainly. In chapter 458 of my epic tome I Know Everything, So Bask In My Eternal Wisdom, I delve into the subject of the meaning of dreams...

Keith, stick to the subject. What's your answer?

Keith: Of course, yes. I've had that dream. I was standing in the United Nations General Assembly, making a speech on just how brilliant I am, and the whole audience was enraptured by what I was saying. Audiences just love to hear me talk, by the way. They recognize pure genius when they see it. Anyway, to make a long story short, in the dream, I gave the whole speech while wearing speedos.

3. What is the worst thing you can think of to make underwear out of?

Contessa: Poison ivy.

Keith: I can't argue that. Poison ivy would be horrible for underwear. Which reminds me, I once wrote the definitive work on poison ivy...

Not now. Let's just get through these questions, shall we?

4. If you were a pair of panties, what colour would you be?

Contessa: Orange and red, just like the colour of an explosion.

Keith: Plaid, and in the clan colours of the Clan Jarrett. We've even got our own family crest, all the way back to Glasgow, long history of Highlanders there. In fact, the Jarretts rode with William Wallace at Stirling...

Will you shut up?

Keith: Can I help it if people are naturally fascinated by me?

5. Have you ever thrown your underwear at a rock star or other celebrity? If so, which one(s)? If not, which one(s) WOULD you throw your underwear at, given the opportunity?

Keith: No, I haven't thrown them at anyone. Though I did once write an article for the New Yorker on the phenomenon of knickers being tossed at bands on stage. Perhaps you read it?

Contessa: Only once, and it wasn't a rock star. It was a comedian. Carrot Top. I'll thank you not to dwell on it.

Carrot Top? Are you serious?

Contessa: What did I say about not dwelling on it? I'm a Contessa, and I insist we not talk about such things.

Can I see any proof of your Contessaness?

Contessa: You'll have to take my word for it. 

6. You're out of clean underwear. What do you do?

Contessa: Do the laundry, of course. You know, that's a funny thing to bring up. Last winter, I was down in New Orleans. My demolitions company was working on repairing the levees, and it turns out that local officials weren't all that fond of my plan to blow up the levees. Something about putting the city at risk or something... I don't know, I wasn't really paying attention. Anyway, so there we were arguing, and some of the charges went off. I assure you, the mayor had to change his underwear. Honestly, all I did was put a few tonnes of C4 into the levees...

Keith: Is this a trick question?

You're not going to answer this?

Keith: Not until I know if it's a trick question.

Never mind, let's move on.

7. Are you old enough to remember Underroos? If so, did you have any? Which ones?

Contessa: Do you honestly think a Contessa will admit to ever having an item called an Underroo?

Keith: Yes, I did. I had Napoleon underroos. Mom and Dad must have seen that just like him, I was destined for great things. I think it really had an influence on me. I'm thinking of writing a biography of the Emperor. How does Bonaparte: A Man Of Humility sound?

8. If you could have any message printed on your underwear, what would it be?

Keith: I have a message on the underwear I'm wearing right now. Keith Jarrett, super-genius.

Contessa: Not tonight, dear, I have a headache.

9. How many bloggers does it take to put panties on a goat?

Contessa: Look, I suppose you think such a question has some inherent amusement value, but I don't find it funny. A Contessa like me would never, ever spend anytime around a lowly creature like a goat, let alone dress it in panties. What kind of question is this?

It's supposed to get an honest answer out of you. Something to throw you off track.

Keith: That's an interesting question, and before I answer it, I thought I'd talk a bit about an essay I once wrote, called Goats: What Are They Good For? Absolutely Nothing. You know, the average goat really is a buffoonish sort of animal, something of a cross between a beaver and a duck...

You do realize you're talking about a platypus.

Keith: A what?

A platypus.

Keith: What's a platypus?

An Australian mammal that's a a strange critter, mix of duck and beaver. Looks like something made out of spare parts. A goat is an entirely different kind of animal altogether.

Keith: You're sure?

Yes, I'm sure.

Contessa: This explains why you got laughed out of the Sierra Club, doesn't it?

Keith: No, that was an entirely different matter altogether.

Contessa: Are we done with these questions?

Yes, I'd say we are.

Contessa: Good. Because I have to go explain myself to the city of Paris as to why my company blew up a bridge over the Seine. Honestly, it was there for hundreds of years! Who cares about something that old?

Keith: Curious of you to mention that. I was thinking I ought to write the definitive history of Paris. How does the title Backwater Of The Cultural World sound?

Paris isn't a backwater. It's a cultural gem.

Keith: It is?

The Blowhard Who Thought He Was A Genius

This is the second of the blogs for characters without a book, this time featuring a fellow you've seen before in my blogs. It's the Fox News consultant, self described genius, and deluded nutcase named Keith Jarrett, author of I Know Everything, So Bask In My Eternal Wisdom, Duck And Cover, The Buddhists Are Coming To Kill Us All,  How To Cure Ebola, Gosh, I'm So Smart, and Mother Teresa: Tyrannical Despot of India, among other dubious tomes....

Either of these two buffoons could play this blowhard... take it away, Mr. Sheen and Mr. Ferrell...

****

Oh, hello. You caught me in the middle of gazing into my mirror. I like to get started that way in the morning, look at myself in the mirror for an hour or two before I get the day started. It reminds me of just how brilliant I really am, and how much the world depends on basking in my radiant intellect. I like to look in the mirror and tell myself, "Gosh, I'm so smart." That's how I came up with the title of one of my best selling books.

I'm Keith Jarrett, but you can call me Sir Keith. I'm due to be knighted by the Queen. I'm just waiting on final word from the Palace, it's all very hush hush. Just like my presence at the recent Royal Wedding. I was there, in attendance. You just didn't see me because I was sitting behind the peculiar hat of one of Prince Andrew's daughters. Yes, that was me. I could have gone out onto the balcony afterwards to wave to the crowd, but I didn't want to take the spotlight away from the happy couple. I'm just that modest, you see.

Still, I do so like the term Sir Keith. It rolls right off the tongue, doesn't it? Oh, I know what you're thinking. Americans can't be knighted. Let me assure you, there are rules for most people that don't apply to brilliant geniuses like me. My service to humanity as a sage and genius is well documented.

You know, me being me is both a blessing and a curse. It's a blessing, because I can serve humanity with my awesome wisdom and brilliance. It's a bit of a curse though, I'll admit. So many people come to me looking for advice and counsel, and it seems there's never enough hours in the day. Yes, being a certified genius can be trying at times, but someone's got to do it. Fortunately I have the stunning intellect and time-tested wisdom to get the job done.

The knighthood isn't the only pending honor due me. This year's Pulitzer for literature is a lock-up for my epic tome I Know Everything, So Bask In My Eternal Wisdom. The committee loved it, and they've assured me that I'm guaranteed the prize.

And while I'm talking about honours, the Nobel committee has me on the shortlist for the Peace Prize this year. It's for my extensive diplomatic efforts in getting Moammar Gadhaffi to open himself up to being a nicer guy. As you can see from the news these days, my efforts are paying off splendidly.

Of course, it runs in the family. My kids are going to grow up with their daddy's brains. Not literally, of course. Unless my in-process Experiment Zero turns out to start a worldwide wave of zombies. No, I meant that they're going to be perennial Nobel and Pulitzer winners, of course.

While I've got a moment, I'd like to clarify a couple of things. When I wrote Duck and Cover, The Buddhists Are Coming To Kill Us All, it wasn't meant to be read as a political commentary, even if that's how it seems. It's a satirical novel. I know satire, ladies and gentlemen. And as my good friend the late Mortimer Donnelly used to say, I've got satire coming out my ass. You know, I always found that expression rather peculiar.

And by the same token, my books How To Cure Ebola and Mother Teresa: Tyrannical Despot of India were always meant to be fiction. I mean no disrespect to the memory of Mother Teresa by suggesting she ran illegal casinos and employed a vast army of slave labour.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got another hour of mirror gazing to do. After that, I'm working on my next great tome, which has the working title Keith Jarrett: Last Best Hope Of Earth. Catchy title, don't you think?

E Is For Evil

A bunker, somewhere in the Alberta foothills. A large conference room serves as headquarters for a meeting this night. A group of people have gathered around a round table. Dick Cheney, Ann Coulter, Michael Moore, and Ralph Nader are chatting amicably, which is a surprise, considering the latter of the foursome have publicly condemned the first two. John Baird, currently the acting Prime Minister of Canada, walks in, greeting them, shaking hands. The actress Jennifer Aniston sits at the table, absently staring at an old photograph of herself and Brad Pitt. The actor Mike Myers sits across from her, wearing a light grey Nehru suit, his hair shaved off. He appears to be confused and baffled. Another man stands nearby. It's the self-styled man who thinks he knows everything, Keith Jarrett. A door opens, and in walks the fugitive muppet supervillain Mr. Johnson, aka Fat Blue. He finds his way over to a chair, and sits down.

Mr. Johnson: Hello, everyone, welcome to the first meeting of the League of Really Evil, Evil People. If we could all find seats, we can get things started.

The rest of the group take seats around the table. Myers continues to look around, confused. Mr. Johnson picks up a remote control.


Mr. Johnson: First of all, we're being joined tonight by video link with an old friend.

He presses a button. A giant view screen on a nearby wall comes on, and shortly thereafter, Libyan dictator Moammar Gadhafi appears on the screen from his Presidential Palace. In the background, there's the sound of an explosion.


Mr. Johnson: Moammar, glad you could join us.

Gadhafi: My pleasure, Fred. If I have to depart quickly, it's just because those infernal peasants are trying to overthrow me for some inexplicable reason. Really, am I not their Beloved Tyrant?

Baird: Why don't you try doing what we do, Moammar? Lie, deflect, and cast the blame on your political opponents?

Mr. Johnson: If we could come to order? I'd like to thank John for deflecting the continued RCMP searches for me. That rotten Mountie Lars Ulrich hasn't gotten hold of me yet, and I've got to hand it to you to keep him occupied.

Baird: Easily done, Fred, and anything for an old friend. All it takes is throwing entertainment journalists at him.

Mr. Johnson: I'd also like to thank you for lending us the use of this bunker for the meeting.

Baird: No problem at all, Fred. Next month the Conservative Party will be using it in Operation Subvert Canadian Democracy.


Cheney: Yes, very commendable, very commendable indeed.

Moore: Hah! That'll teach those citizens of yours to shut up!

Nader: Very nicely done. We need to try that south of the border.

Cheney: We came oh so close, Ralph, really, but it didn't quite take.

Coulter: We'll succeed in two years. It's just a matter of time before those godless liberals and anyone else who disagrees with us gets what's coming to them.

Moore: Yes! Yes!! Damned liberals! Burn them all!

Mr. Johnson: I still find it surprising to hear you say that. Your public face is so... left wing. So are your film documentaries.

Moore: I know. Perfect way to disguise my true political leanings, isn't it?

Aniston: Why doesn't Brad love me?

Moore: It's a Trojan horse doublebluff.

Aniston: I'm America's sweetheart, right?

Mr. Johnson: So, how have we been in keeping with doing evil lately?

Cheney: I invited a bunch of ACLU lawyers to my ranch last week. Then I let nature take its course and started hunting them.

Nader: I announced my intention to consider running for President in 2012. The Democrats are up in arms.

Moore: I stole candy from a whole lot of babies.

Coulter: I tortured a few godless liberals.

Baird: I had an orphanage blown up.

Myers: Um, excuse me, can I just say something?

Mr. Johnson: Certainly. We're all equals here in the League of Really Evil, Evil People.

Myers: Yes, well, that's what I meant to bring up. See, I'm not actually evil.

Jarrett: Oh, that's hilarious, Doctor Evil. You, of all people, claiming you're not evil.

Myers: No, see, Doctor Evil is a character I played. I'm an actor. This guy here had me kidnapped, had my head shaved, and dressed me up like this, but I'm actually Mike Myers. I don't think I really belong here. And aren't you that muppet who's threatened to destroy the world?

Mr. Johnson: Yes, and proud of it.

Jarrett: Doctor Evil's just having some fun, everyone.

Aniston: What does he see in that awful witch and all those kids?

Jarrett: He's just as committed to evil as anyone else here is, you know.

Myers: I keep telling you, Doctor Evil is just a character! I'm only an actor! And not a very good one!

Jarrett: Doctor Evil, why aren't you speaking with your Belgian accent? And you're supposed to put your hands up in a quotation hand signal every time you emphasize a word.

Myers: I'm not Doctor Evil, damn it! Now let me go! I have to get back to filming The Love Guru 2! Sure, the first film tanked, but this time we'll get it right!

Aniston: After all the dues I paid, all the popularity of that show, why can't I hold onto a man? Why is my womb so cobwebbed? Why doesn't Brad love me?

Mr. Johnson: I'm sorry, but I don't recognize you, sir.

Jarrett: I'm Keith Jarrett, Mr. Johnson. Author of the books I Know Everything, So Bask In My Eternal Wisdom, Duck And Cover The Buddhists Are Coming To Kill Us All, and my ill-timed How To Cure Ebola. Come one now! Everyone knows me!

Coulter: He does the occasional consulting gig for Fox News.

Nader: Didn't he write that book about knowing everything? Or was that Gore?

Cheney: Maybe both. Gore, that bastard. You know, I always wanted to take him hunting...

Moore: So he could meet with a... hunting accident, right?

Aniston: Is it my perky haircut? My whining voice?

Cheney: Exactly, Michael, an accident.

Baird: Dick, can I send a few journalists hunting with you?

Nader: Aren't you the fellow who infected that guy with Ebola virus?

Moore: Maybe we can infect Wolf Blitzer with the Ebola virus.

Jarrett: Look, that was a simple oversight. My lawyers are working on getting the charges dismissed. We all have those kind of moments. It happens. I assure you, Mr. Johnson, I'm more then qualified to be a member of the League of Really Evil, Evil People. I'm a world renowned expert on so many things, including the true nature of evil. In fact, in between writing my new work Gosh I'm So Smart, I've been thinking of writing a definitive biography on the most evil person in the twentieth century. I'm thinking of calling it Mother Teresa: Tyrannical Despot of India. What do you think? Catchy title, am I right?

Gadhafi: You do realize Mother Teresa is a saint?

Cheney: A real do-gooder. I hate do-gooders.

Coulter: You couldn't ask for a more righteous person.

Moore: One of the most selfless people to ever walk the earth.

Jarrett: Wait... so you're saying she's not irredeemably evil?

Nader: Certainly not, young man.

Baird: Back to the drawing board, huh?

Aniston: I'm so miserable and alone and lonely. And barren. Would one of you people mind killing Angelina Jolie for me? If she's out of the way, Brad's sure to come back to me! Yes, I'm sure of it!

An explosion rocks behind Gadhafi on the screen. He looks shaken.


Gadhafi: Damn! The rebels are closing in! John, can you put in a good word for me at the UN?

Baird: Sorry, Moammar. The UN doesn't like Canada anymore. Not since the Prime Minister told the General Assembly they could kiss his ass last year.

Mr. Johnson: Speaking of the UN, it's only a week now until my deadline. Grover must die, or I'll wreck a terrible vengeance on the world. Everything I have ever done, murdering that little red menace Elmo, framing Grover... all of it, has been meant to destroy my greatest nemesis. You know, it somehow seems like it's been much longer since I made the threat. Maybe time passes differently for a Muppet. At any rate, in a few days, Grover will surely be dead. No human will stick their neck out for him! Ha ha ha ha! Ha ha ha ha ha! How's my evil laugh coming along, by the way?

Coulter: Wonderful, Fred.

Baird: Just right, Fred.

Nader: Splendid.

Jarrett: Are we all certain Mother Teresa wasn't evil?

Mr. Johnson: Oh, will you just shut up already?

The Wretchedly Horrible Death Of A Lab Assistant

Know It All Blowhard Dooms Best Friend To Grisly Death

Fox News consultant, writer, and self described genius Keith Jarrett, author of the books I Know Everything, So Bask In My Eternal Wisdom and the ill fated Duck And Cover, The Buddhists Are Coming To Kill Us All, summoned reporters to a press conference today at a facility outside New York.

"Thank you for coming," Jarrett told the reporters, accompanied by a rather dim-looking man he introduced as his good friend Billy Bob. "I'm announcing a major breakthrough in medical research, one that will surely win me the Nobel for medicine. And when I publish my findings, the resulting paper will be surely so compelling that it'll win me the Pulitzer for literature too."

The assembly of reporters, who were more interested in the ongoing world crisis surrounding the Muppet supervillain Mr. Johnson, seemed impatient. "What's on your mind, Mr. Jarrett?" a Reuters reporter inquired.

"I'll get to that. And it's Doctor Jarrett. I did graduate from the Jarrett University with a PhD, after all. Ladies and gentlemen, recently I borrowed a sample of pathogen from a highly secure medical research facility..."

"By borrowed, do you mean stole?" another reporter asked.

"Semantics! Which, incidentally, I go into great detail on in chapter 5678 in my tome I Know Everything, So Bask In My Eternal Wisdom. Now, pay attention." At this point, he removed a medical syringe from a case. "Billy Bob here is patient zero for my experiment. I will cure Billy Bob through a rigorous treatment of herbal teas, homeopathic remedies, and singing Kumbayah around a campfire. No need for pharmaceutical companies to get involved when you've got the soon to be patented Jarrett treatment." The reporters eyed Jarrett nervously; the well-known blowhard seemed oblivious.

Billy Bob, for his part, appeared confused as Jarrett prepped his arm with a swab of alcohol-dabbed cotton. "Hey, dude, when do I get my case of beer?"

"Soon, Billy Bob, soon. Now, then, ladies and gentlemen, if you'll watch carefully, I'm about to inject the pathogen into my good friend here..."

"What is that?" this reporter asked, as Jarrett pricked the needle into Billy Bob's upper arm. Billy Bob appeared to be used to needles.

"Nothing much. Just the Ebola virus," Jarrett replied cheerfully as he injected the contents into Billy Bob. The reporters took a big step back.

"The Ebola virus? Are you insane?" This question came from a reporter with the New York Times.

"Nothing to be worried about, just a typical disease," Jarrett assured everyone, oblivious.

"Mr. Jarrett..."

"Doctor Jarrett."

"The Ebola Virus is one of the most dangerous viruses ever known," the Reuters reporter insisted, a fact known to the rest of the reporters on the scene. " If not the most dangerous one. It's got a fatality rate of 90% at its most virulent. It eats the body from the inside out. The patient dies within days, in horrendous pain. It's about the worst way I can think of for anyone to die. There's no cure! The CDC and every other virus research lab have been looking for decades!"

Jarrett looked confused. "Are you sure?"

"I've seen the dead from outbreaks myself! Believe me, it's a horrible way to die," the Reuters correspondant answered.

Jarrett looked over at Billy Bob, who seemed even more confused. "Well, I.... that is... You're certain herbal teas won't help?"

The Reuters correspondant appeared exasperated. "What did you think the ebola virus was?"

"The one that makes you laugh."

Charges are now pending for Jarrett for breaking and entering. Billy Bob has been taken into quarantine by the CDC, and isn't expected to last long. The virus is already working its way through his body, eating the inner organs and the blood. Best estimates are he'll be dead within the week.

Jarrett, meanwhile, is busy cancelling print runs of his new book How To Cure Ebola.