“Whacking with the Stars”
by Kelly Anneken, managing editor
We’ve simply got to stop meeting like this, Readers. Me, driving cross country in my stolen Shaker El Camino. You, sitting on your couch in your underwear, cramming kettle corn into your snackhole like there’s no tomorrow. You’re embarrassing me! Put on some pants!
I was doing just fine with my furniture scam and jury duty avoidance until one Hobo Pancakes editor-at-large named Isa Hopkins (Stupid McStoop-Stoop hereafter) called me at Zane’s dead grandmother’s place. I was all, “How did you get this number, Stupid McStoop-Stoop?” And she was all, “Nevermind that you crazy, larcenous slut! I need 800 words on Popular Culture, stat,” like she was George Clooney or one of those anorexics who work at Seattle Grace. So I packed Zane into the car and headed back to Sabbathday Lake to write this dumb piece.
That’s where it all fell apart. While I was “writing” (aka shopping for clogs on Zappos.com and charging it to Sister June’s PayPal account), Brother Arnold got his asexual hooks into my Zane and converted him to Shakerism. I don’t know why I’m surprised. It took him 30 seconds to go from paying for Chinese food to sucking my toes when I mentioned that my bunions were acting up. He’s really impressionable, which is why I thought I’d be able to seduce him back to the sexy side with a quick flash of my nips, but all that accomplished was getting kicked out of the Shaker settlement. Before they could remand me to a facility equipped with enough lube to house the sexually insane, I grabbed their laptop and peeled out in their El Camino.
I’m writing this from Stockmen’s Truck Stop in South St. Paul. This trucker named Norm is letting me use his mobile hotspot since this place looks straight out of the 1950s. I asked for wireless and a side of A-1 Steak Sauce for my biscuits and gravy and they looked at me like they’d never heard of either one. But it’s all for the best because I think I’ve just about convinced Norm to trade me his rig for the El Camino. I haven’t mentioned that he’ll want to remove the license plates and get a new paint job if he wants to avoid the fuzz, but, like, caveat emptor. Everybody knows that.
I’ve got a great plan, probably my best one yet, but first I have to get to Randy and Evi Quaid in British Columbia to see where I can find the Star Whackers. I’m not sure they’ll tell me, since they’re convinced the Star Whackers are trying to kill them, which I think is all wrong. I mean, we all know that Mary-Kate Olson killed Heath Ledger and that Jeremy Piven sabotaged his own career with that car dealership movie, and Lindsay Lohan’s going to drown in a nightclub toilet by Valentine’s Day. Besides, why would anyone who’s seen Independence Day want to kill Randy Quaid? We will need his drunken pluck to defeat the coming alien invasion!
But I digress. I have my own theory, which is that the Star Whackers are Hollywood’s premier suppliers of upscale hand jobs to entertainment industry elite. Ever wonder who polishes Harvey Weinstein’s Oscar? Star Whackers. Who’s going to initiate Justin Bieber into the world of sex for pay? Star Whackers. Where did Elton John meet his husband? At a dinner party. A dinner party organized by Star Whackers. So obviously these people know how to stroke their way up the ladder, and I’ve practically got a bionic wrist. I mean, it’s just got some screws in it from the time I broke it trying to steal a Ring Ding from a vending machine when I was fifteen, and we all know that the introduction of metal into the human body gives you superpowers. I gave someone a blow job during X-Men Origins: Wolverine. I understand science.
So my plan is to track down the Star Whackers and give some complimentary hand jobs until they’re convinced I’ve got what it takes to join their cadre of glamorous dolphin-floggers. It’s either that or work at Sea World. Shudder.
I really can’t think of anything more popular and cultural than becoming a celebrity jerker-offer, Stupid McStoop-Stoop, so I hope this article is “mainstream” enough to “permeate the everyday lives of [our] society,” which is what Wikipedia says it’s supposed to do. I can’t write anymore, anyway, because Norm welched on our vehicle trade deal and is taking his mobile hotspot with him to track down a lot lizard to give him a completely pedestrian, not at all refined hand job in the cab of his truck. Well, we’ll just see what happens after I bust in while they’re in flagrante delicto and sma
Editor’s Note: The piece ends here. Have had no further contact with Kelly.
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