More Brad CrumbsPosted: 2013/06/14 | |
Stay away from my Brad Crumbs!
Since when were you so obsessed with Brad Crumbs?
A tiny army of Brad Crumbs.
Spanko my panko.
I wasn’t always a 5-Star Restaurant Chef specializing in Brad Crumbs. I was once a lowly firefighter.
That’s when I realized: When the going gets tough, the tough get Brad Crumbs(tm).
Did I ever tell you about the time I met Brad Crumbs at the 24-Hour Drive-Thru Carwash Parlor?
This story is not for the fainthearted or fashion-minded. It contains Saw-quality levels of gore and is just generally unpleasant and uninteresting. I was 16 years old and in the bloom of first romance, working for a disgraced surgeon who had discovered a way to synthesize a better penis enlargement pill from the glands responsible for the registering of pain in the human body, so it was my job to extract those from unsuspecting partygoers and then subject them to a series of stress tests before cherrypicking the best and ripest pain receptors for my employer. We had discovered jointly that the ideal canditates for these kinds of experiments were high school athletes: their glands were young, not yet beaten down by alcohol and steroid abuse, and they were used to pushing themselves to their pain threshold on a daily basis. We employed a process we had dubbed “waterfall-chasing,” after the TLC song that was popular at the time. What we did was, we scouted out the teams at regional football games, looking for weak links like drug abusers and bitter bullying victims. We would then lure them to the local carwash by inserting a suggestive message into their lockers, tailored to fit their vices. After drugging the boys but before removing their pain receptor glands, we would force them to send a Facebook blast out to another low-ranking member of the team advertising an after-hours party at another covert spot, where we would carry out the same process again, picking them off like dominos before it became overly apparent that the first boy had gone missing. Once we had cleared out the entire team, we moved our operations to a new location. For this reason I spent the latter stages of my youth being educated in the “school of hard knocks,” as they used to call it. I also picked up an impressive fluency in medical terminology from the disgraced surgeon, all of which is gone now. As a matter of fact, my only clear memory of that time was my bizarre meeting with then-forgotten actor Brad Crumbs, which I am about to relate.
I have mentioned that I was in the bloom of first love. Her name was Carrie, and she was the younger sister of the star quarterback of the Wolverinas, the varsity team of the town we were currently targeting. (In case you were wondering, that is not a typo. The Wolverinas’ mascot was a morbidly ugly werewolf-like creature in glittery, plum-red lipstick and a frilly pink tutu. Although it does not feature in the story I am telling, I heard that they had to put it down a couple of years after all of this happened, when they caught it installing pinhole cameras in the boys’ locker room. It mauled 3 campus security officers before it was finally subdued.) Carrie was also the secret lover and public property of the selfsame star quarterback, as evidenced by the appalling “tramp stamp” that declared, in 12 languages, his ownership of her body and soul. This, I don’t have to tell you, simply would not stand. For one thing, I had discovered, via an underground website maintained by the Wolverina itself, that the boy’s package was comically small and featureless, almost doll-like in appearance. I had been partaking of the disgraced doctor’s secret serum since I started working for him, so by that point my own anatomy was capable of swelling to skull-bludgeoning proportions. I quickly devised a plan to murder/humiliate Carrie’s brother and demonstrate my own sexual superiority all in a single blow, so to speak. Without seeking the disgraced doctor’s approval, I elected Carrie’s brother, Cary, as the first candidate for local gland extraction. This was to be my downfall.
The meeting place was Sudsy Sal’s 24-Hour Drive-Thru Carwash Parlor. I was wearing my usual costume: cowboy boots, surgical smock + paper mask (the disgraced doctor knew where to get them cheap), yellow dishwashing gloves, DJ headphones, and fluffy bunny rabbit ears. The DJ headphones were to protect my ears, which I had found was the first place high school varsity football players will go after when you are trying to drug them at a secluded carwash parlor. Cary showed up at the appointed time, but there was a snag: He had brought his sister! Of course; she was his property. I had it in writing, same as everyone. Still, I hadn’t suspected it, and I was still working out how to react when Brad Crumbs drove up and demanded a wash! I was starstruck. I had seen all his films, from The Time-Travelling Nutjob to Mussolini’s Carrier Pigeon. And comically, he had mistaken my athlete-drugging uniform for that of a carwash employee! What did I do? I gave him a wash, of course! Only, as it turns out, it wasn’t his vehicle he was interested in washing…
(TO BE CONTINUED)