Previously on Blog Wars:
Travolta must speak to Cruise urgently and a phone call won’t do. He must stare into his eyes and know the answer to this quandary. As he flies off, in the three or four block distance that there is between their two houses, he contemplates what he will tell his friend. He will park the helicopter on Cruise’s lawn, look him straight in the eye and demand to know the truth. And, as he is bringing the helicopter in for a landing, he turns his head to the right and notices that…
His passenger’s side upholstery is covered in the sticky remnants of the Coke Zero he had brought with him for the short trip.
“Damnit”, exclaimed Travolta, “is there any fabric cleaner known to man that could clean such an epic stain?”
Just then a knock at the helicopter door grabbed his attention revealing a British butler type holding a tin tray covered in an elegant silk napkin standing just outside. Travolta rolled down the helicopter window to hear his reply.
“Well dear sir”, uttered the man with thinning hair, an enormous nose, and impeccable enuncation, “there is one cleaner than can be counted on to do the job.”
“Well spit it out!”
The waiter unveiled the object hidden beneath the cloth. It was none other than Lysol’s new and improved Multipurpose Cleaning Solution, now with less Thetans!
“Whoa now, that doesn’t look like anything special. Why don’t you prove it’s cleaning power, mister fancy pants?”
The British man sprayed a bit of the solution on the seat, and the image did a time elapsed fade revealing the stain to be completely removed.
“Hey, that’s pretty nice! It looks like this new and improved Lysol Multipurpose Cleaning Solution is the best solution to your biggest cleaning problems.”
Now Travolta and the British man were standing outside the helicopter, each holding a bottle of the solution up for prominent display.
“Now I’m no scientist, but I am a scientologist, and this is the solution if you ever want a stain to be deemed clear!”
The screen turned to static and the lights in the room popped on revealing an antiseptic white room with only a desk which Curtis was currently situated at and a rear projector showing the imagery on the screen at the front of the room, with a single door for entry and exit at the right.
I could’ve swore I’ve seen that butler guy in something before, Curtis thought. An episode of The Big Bang Theory, maybe? Before he was able to continue that train of thought any further, the door swung open and a man in a white labcoat with a clipboard walked in and sat in the chair opposite him at the desk.
“Now Curtis, you’ve seen both commercials: the David Cronenberg Miller Lite ad and the Scientology-sponsored Lysol ad. Which would you say would be more exciting to view during the Super Bowl?”
“Well, I had problems with both of them to be honest.”
“Well the first one didn’t really do a particularly good job of selling the product really, and the violence wouldn’t mesh well with my wife’s patented Super Bowl taco dip. But on the other hand, the Scientology ad was just overlong and didn’t really get to the point until the end. And I’m not sure, but I don’t think helicopters are supposed to have automatic windows. Plus, the Coke Zero wasn’t even established earlier. It’s like the writer pulled that out of his ass or something.”
The man ticked something off on his clipboard. “I see. Now, on a scale of four to six, how would you rank the appearance of John Travolta’s sideburns?”
Curtis was perplexed. “Now waitaminute, I just agreed to this survey thing because you guys promised me a free hat, I don’t know what all this sideburn business is about.”
The man in the labcoat laughed ominously. “Oh, you’ll get a hat alright. A HAT MADE OF YOUR OWN FLESH.”
Curtis screamed as the man lunged towards his eye with a hypodermic needle, the horrible guttural animal noise reverberating off the perfect white walls of the screening room. However, in space, no one can hear you scream. That’s right: the screening room was in outer space.
Todd put down McSweeneys number 58 (subtitled A Heartbreaking Corpse of Staggering Exquisiteness) and could barely hide his disappointment. It started off promisingly enough with Jonathan Safran Foer’s body horror experiment, and Zadie Smith taking on scientology seemed promising enough, but when Rick Moody added in that unnecessary space twist at the conclusion, it sealed the deal: this was the worst issue of McSweeneys yet. Todd wondered if he could cancel the subscription but still maintain the one had for The Believer when his digital wristwatch started beeping. Oh, he thought, four-thirty. He got up and put two slices of whole wheat bread in the toaster and took out the jar of mayonnaise. Luckily for him, his member had almost on reflex begun to engorge itself as the watch beeped, an almost Pavlovian response. He unscrewed the lid and thrust himself inside with vigor three times and then pulled out. The toast popped out and he placed each slice on the top and underside of his shaft and sighed. On cue, his iPod speaker dock started to play “Inna Gadda Davita” and life was good. But then he heard the voice, unmistakable over the music and sticky warmth of the cock sandwich.
“Todd, what in the fuck are you doing?”
Todd spun around to face-
TO BE CONTINUED IN BLOG WARS PART FOUR