[MiSTed] "Potroast" (1/1)
Mike Barklage
MiSTed: "Potroast" (with short: "Luck")
by Chirpy the Mutant Hellbeast (Mike Barklage)
In the not-too-distant future...
[SOL. Mike and Tom are playing Battleship, while Crow is reading "Variety".]
MIKE: Hmmm... D-7.
TOM: D'oh! You hit my Destroyer! <pauses> Uh, Mike, you have to put the
peg in. My arms don't work, remember?
MIKE: Oh, right, right...
[Mike grabs a red peg and starts over towards Tom's side of the board.]
TOM: Close your eyes! Don't look at my ships!
[Mike covers his eyes and fumbles to put the red peg in the right hole on
the right ship.]
TOM: Warmer. Warmer. Hot! No, now you're cold! Okay, warmer...
[Mike is still stabbing blindly when Crow emits a dismayed squawk.]
CROW: Hey guys, it says here that Hollywood is making a remake of 'Captain
Blood.'
TOM: Hey, I remember that one. Errol Flynn. Pirates. Swordfights.
Good flick.
CROW: Yeah, but you know who's gonna star in the remake? Arnold
Schwarzeneggar!
MIKE: What?!
CROW: That's what it says right here!
TOM: Can you imagine that? <Arnold voice> Ach, ya, I vill make you walk
the plank.
CROW: Heh. It'll probably be the first pirate movie to use AK-47s.
MIKE: That's terrible. That's like making "Casablanca", starring Keanu
Reeves and Pamela Anderson.
TOM: Or "Citizen Kane", starring Pauley Shore. <Pauley Shore voice> Like,
Rosebud, or something. <stupid Pauley laugh>
CROW: Or "It's a Wonderful Life," with Steven Seagal.
TOM: ...and the Olsen twins.
MIKE: Or making a sequel to "Gone with the Wind"!
CROW: Uh... hate to break it to you, Mike, but that's been done.
MIKE: Oh. Well, sometimes I think the UN ought to skip Bosnia and look into
*Hollywood's* crimes against humanity.
[The Mads' light flashes.]
MIKE: Speaking of which, John Hughes and Aaron Spelling are calling.
[Deep 13. Dr. Forrester is wearing an apron covered in flour and blood.]
DR.F: Ah, Mike! You're just in time to see my latest scheme for world
domination come to fruition!
FRANK: <off-screen> It's ready, Dr. Forrester!
DR.F: Excellent! Bring it in here!
[Frank enters carrying a fruitcake. He is also wearing an apron.]
DR.F: Everybody hates fruitcake, right?
FRANK: Hey! I love fruitcake! <he sniffs the fruitcake and sighs>
DR.F: As I was saying, everybody hates fruitcake. But everyone always
seems to get one for Christmas anyway, and it sits in the refrigerator
untouched until Easter.
[Forrester grabs the fruitcake away from Frank.]
DR.F: What I've done is created a new kind of fruitcake to put on the
market. It's a genetic cross between a traditional fruitcake and
a Tribble. This fruitcake, as it sits in your refrigerator, will
*multiply*. If you get this fruitcake for Christmas, I hope you
like it, because within a week you will have 200 MORE!!! HA HA HA!!!
[SOL. Mike, Crow, and Tom are staring at the Mads, shivering in horror.]
MIKE: That's... EVIL!
[D13.]
DR.F: Thank you!
[Frank walks off-screen again.]
DR.F: Now then. Your fanfic this week comes from alt.x-files.creative.
It's an indigestible bit of tripe about...
[Frank re-enters. He is carrying a steaming pot full of some kind of
meat product.]
DR.F: ...oh, you'll find out soon enough. But first a short: an E-mail
chain letter about luck. Hope you're hungry!
[SOL. Lights and buzzers go off.]
ALL: AHHH! WE GOT USENET SIGN!!
TOM: Don't look at my ships!
6... 5... 4... 3... 2... 1... *...
[Mike and the bots enter the theater.]
>
>
> Subject: FWD: Luck
MIKE: Geez, I hope this doesn't have Martin Short in it.
>
> >From: vol...@process.com
> >>From: SMTP%"mo...@madmax.frc.mass.edu"
TOM: Mad Max: Beyond Umass.
>"moet" 2-NOV-1994
CROW: He's a moet and he don't know it!
> >>> From FRC95...@mecn.mass.edu Wed, 02 Nov 1994 00:25:42 -0500 (EST)
> >>>> From: ho...@student.umass.edu
MIKE: Boss Hogg is in on this? Tell the Duke boys!
> >>>>> From: jc...@student.umass.edu
> >>>>>> From: hunt...@cleo.bc.edu
> >>>>>>> From: wor...@cleo.bc.edu
>
> This message has been sent to you for good luck.
TOM: Heh. Just our luck that we have to read it.
> The original is in New
> England. It has been sent around the world nine times.
CROW: Great, now we're sending junk mail to other countries!
> The luck has now been sent to you. You will receive good luck within four
> days of receiving this message - Provided you, in turn send it on.
ALL: <laugh>
> This is no joke.
ALL: Oh.
> You will receive good luck in the mail.
MIKE: From Ed McMahon!
> But no money.
TOM: So exactly what will be in the mail? A rabbit's foot? Fuzzy dice?
> Send copies to people you think need good luck.
CROW: Bill Clinton?
MIKE: The British royal family?
TOM: The AFC team in the Super Bowl?
> Don't send money as fate has
> no price.
CROW: Woo. Deep.
> Do not keep this message. This message must leave your hands in 96
> hours.
MIKE: This message will self-destruct.
> A United States Air Force Officer received 470,000 Dollars.
TOM: He then spent it on one hammer.
> Another Man received 40,000 Dollars and lost it because he broke
> the chain.
CROW: The fact that he was a heavy gambler had nothing to do with it.
> Whereas, in the Philippines, Gene Welch
TOM: ...heir to the grape juice empire...
> lost his wife 51 days after
> receiving the message.
MIKE: Geez, now where the heck did I put my wife?
> He failed to circulate the message. However, before
> his death, he received 7,555,000 dollars.
TOM: So he *didn't* circulate the letter, and he got 7 million dollars?
MIKE: A lot of good it did him then.
TOM: Hey, I found 7 million dollars! <gag, croak, die>
>
> Please send twenty copies and see what happen in four days.
CROW: With any luck, you will be flamed beyond recognition.
> The chain comes from Venezuela and has written by Saul De Groda,
> A Missionary from South America.
MIKE: Who also grows and makes his own cocaine.
> Since the copy must tour
> the world, you must make twenty copies and send them to friends and
> associates - After a few days you will get a surprise.
TOM: Your sysop, terminating your account.
>
> This is true, even if you are not superstitious.
CROW: Just trust us on that one.
> Do note the following:
MIKE: This *will* be on the exam.
> Constantine Dias received this chain in 1958.
TOM: Wow! He got E-mail in 1958?
> He asked his
> secretary to make twenty copies and send them out.
CROW: She then sued him for harrassment.
MIKE: Heh, not in 1958.
> A
> few days later he won a lottery of two million dollars.
MIKE: Well, that's not fair! His secretary did all the work!
> Carlos Daditt,
TOM: ...sat on a taditt...
> an office employee, received the message and forgot that
> it had to leave his hands in 96 hours. He lost his job.
CROW: Incidentally, he had forgotten to go to work in 96 hours, too.
> Later, after
> finding that message again, He mailed twenty copies. A few days later he got
> a better job.
MIKE: After getting fired from McDonald's, that janitorial position was
a real lifesaver!
> Dalan Fairchild received the message
TOM: Isn't he a character from "Lord of the Rings"?
> and, not believing Threw the
> message away. Nine days later he died.
CROW: He was 97 years old and had bacon at every meal.
> In 1987, The message received by a young woman in California was very
> faded and barely readable.
MIKE: It was in Spanish.
> She promised herself that she would retype the
> message and send it on,
TOM: WHY?!
> But she set it aside to do it later.
CROW: I guess she actually *has* a life.
> She was
> plagued with various problems, including expensive car repairs.
MIKE: That's what you get when you buy a Yugo!
> The letter
> did not leave her hands within 96 hours.
TOM: She carried it around constantly. It became an obsession.
> She finally
> typed the letter as promised and got a new car.
CROW: That's not luck! That's someone with money to spend!
> Good Luck but please remember: 20 copies of this message must leave your
> hands in 96 hours...
MIKE: You don't have to send them to anybody. Just dump them on the ground
or something, just as long as they're not in your hands.
> You must not sign on this message...
TOM: And be the object of national ridicule? No thanks!
>
> "If tomorrow never comes, could you live for an eternity with your
> conscience?"
> --- Anonymous
ALL: YES!
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
CROW: Oh good, some whitespace to separate us from that short.
MIKE: Brace yourselves, guys. Here comes the main event.
TOM: What, no break?
MIKE: I guess not.
>
> From: gyrf...@delphi.com ()
> Date: 20 Oct 1994 03:06:18 GMT
> Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
TOM: Deny Everything.
CROW: Wouldn't we like to!
> Subject: Potroast-short story
MIKE: Whoops, hold on for a second. I've got a short story in the oven!
>
> This is another from the E-mail Creative Club on AOL. This story is
> available at the FTP site at mtp034.mtp.semi.harris.com
TOM: Although we're not sure *why*...
> and thru email
> requests to Gyrf...@delphi.com. All comments
CROW: ...insults, viruses, e-mail bombs...
> should be sent to the author
> at the AOL address. Enjoy, Gyrfalcon~Gerri
MIKE: Gyrfalcon, destructor of Gerri.
TOM: You've been doing C++ programming again, haven't you?
> -----------------------------------------------------------------------------
>
> Oh joy, disclaimer time!!
CROW: Joy.
> Well, the characters all property of FOX
> broadcasting and are used without permission. If this should ever find its
> way to the fiction library...ha ha, I win :-)
MIKE: My quest for world domination will be complete!
> This story doesn't make
> much sense,
TOM: Uh-oh, guys. I think we're in for a tough one.
> but then, I'm only half awake. So what can you expect.
CROW: Well, maybe... GOOD WRITING??!!
MIKE: If you can't write well, then *don't do it*!
> I wrote
> half of it in my head during dinner tonight. Can you guess what we had?
ALL: Um... er... ah...
>
>
> Pot Roast By: Anna Adler (Ann...@aol.com)
ALL: Ohhhh!
>
> Chilmark Mass. June 3, 1974 6:32 pm
TOM: A day that will live in infamy!
>
> Fox Mulder scooted
ALL: Ewwww!
> his chair noisily across the linoleum floor. He
> got up, went into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator,
CROW: The smell of decaying body parts washed over him.
> stood in front
> of it intently for a moment,
MIKE: <as Mulder> If I stare at it long enough, maybe something new will
appear.
> finally he took out a bottle of Heinz ketchup.
> "Fox, what are you doing?" his mother asked from the dining room.
TOM: <as mother> You're not touching yourself, are you?
> "Just getting a drink, Mom."
CROW: <gags> He drinks ketchup?!
> he lied.
CROW: Oh.
MIKE: Lying to your mother! For shame!
> He brought the ketchup to the
> table with him and held it under the table. His father said grace,
ALL: Grace.
> and then
> his mother served the pot roast. <There is going to be too much pot roast>
> he thought to himself. <We can't eat all that tonight, I'll end up having
> the leftovers for lunch.> he thought unhappily.
TOM: Mulder is complaining about too much food?
CROW: I think there are people in Somalia who would see it differently.
> "I could use some pepper."
MIKE: Or some heroin.
> Fox said, looking at his mother with his dark hazel eyes.
TOM: Uh-oh. That sentence was almost... Stinky-esque.
ALL: NO!!!!
> "I forgot to set it out, I think," she said. "I'll go get it." His
> mother disappeared into the kitchen.
MIKE: Man, this fanfic is action-packed so far!
TOM: No one will be seated during the tense kitchen scene.
> Fox pulled the ketchup bottle out from
> under the table and shook it until it began to come out onto his plate.
CROW: Hmm... are you sure this wasn't on alt.sex.stories?
MIKE: CROW!
TOM: Read carefully. It says 'ketchup bottle,' dickweed.
> His mother came back from the kitchen, but did not notice.
> His father looked up from his plate.
CROW: SEGA!!
> "Fox, what are you doing?" he asked.
MIKE: <as father> That's disgusting!
> "Nothing, Dad." he said, looking at his ketchup.
> "It's not nothing Fox, it looks like you were putting ketchup on
> your pot roast."
TOM: We're going to have to kill you now, son.
> "Well, I guess it looks that way..."
> "That's what you were doing right? You were going to eat your pot
> roast with ketchup weren't you?" his father asked, raising his voice.
CROW: You're the spawn of Satan, aren't you?
> "I guess I was."
> "Fox, this pot roast was stewed in it's own juices. It doesn't
> need any ketchup on it," his mother said.
MIKE: <as father> Speaking of stewing in my own juices, I gotta go to the
little overbearing parent's room. Excuse me.
> "I like the ketchup though."
TOM: <stupid voice> Duh... I like ketchup.
> "I don't care." his father said. "You are going to put the ketchup
> away right now."
CROW: And you're going to say the Hail Mary 500 times.
> "May I be excused?" Fox asked.
> "No, you haven't eaten dinner yet. Now put the ketchup away."
> "Why can't I eat pot roast with ketchup like everybody else?"
> Fox complained.
MIKE: <as mother> And if everyone else was jumping off a cliff into a big
pile of pot roast, would you do that too?
> "You know that very well," his mother said. "Don't make us make
> you repeat it again."
> "Fine." Fox said, and took the ketchup back to the kitchen. "I
> still don't get it," he said under his breath.
TOM: Derivatives. I'll *never* understand calculus!
> "I heard that!" His father yelled. "Now you're in trouble.
CROW: <as father> Go get my belt while I'm still liquored-up.
> Come on
> Fox, you know what you have to say."
> "I forget." He lied, to buy time.
MIKE: <as Mulder> Superman should get here any second...
> "You don't forget."
> "I do, I swear, I forgot."
> "Fine, fine. Okay: 'I will not eat ketchup with my pot roast
> because Samantha ate ketchup with her post roast.'"
TOM: As opposed to 'pre-roast'?
> "I will not eat..." Fox began, then abruptly stopped.
CROW: <as Mulder> Ummm... I forgot again.
> "Come on..."
> "NO!" He yelled loudly, "I won't say it! Why can't you just forget
> about it?? Why can't you just forget?" he yelled.
> His mother began to cry and his father made him go up to his room.
> "Why can't you just forget about it?" he yelled at the top of
> the stairs.
>
MIKE: Well. Does anyone else feel *really* uncomfortable right now?
> Washington DC June 3, 1994 5:45 pm
TOM: At least we're away from *that* little scene.
CROW: Yeah, but now we're in Washington.
>
> "Why can't you just forget about it?" Special Agent Dana Scully
> asked Fox.
MIKE: But Fox just can't forget about "Married... With Children."
> "Because," he said, searching through papers strewn across his desk.
> "That was my favorite tie."
TOM: <as Mulder> And I *like* putting ketchup on my ties!
> "I swear Mulder, you left it at that hotel in Denver. I'm sorry."
> "Damn. Hey Scully," he said. "Will you promise me something?"
> "What?"
CROW: <as Mulder> No matter what I do in the next week, don't slap a
restraining order on me.
> "That you will never wear burgandy again."
> "Why?" she said, looking at her burgandy jacket. "I like burgandy.
> Is it a bad color for me? You know the woman at Bloomingdales..."
MIKE: Biblically?
> "No, no, it's a very nice color on you. It's just that I love the
> color burgandy, and my tie was burgandy."
TOM: <as Scully> You're a messed-up little freak, aren't you?
> "I'm sorry, I'm just not making the connection."
CROW: Don't try analyzing the logic of a whacko. You'll just get a headache.
> "Would you not wear burgandy out of memorial for my tie?"
> "Mulder, you're crazy!
MIKE: Yup.
> Where on earth did you ever get an idea like
> that from?"
> "I don't know," he said, frowning.
TOM: <as Mulder> Maybe my psychotic parents?
> "Never mind. That was an awfully
> stupid thing to say."
> "Mulder, you need to get some sleep."
> "That's a good idea. I think that I'm going to go home now."
CROW: <as Mulder> I like Jell-O.
> "Good night Mulder." Scully said, "I'll see you tomorrow."
> "See ya." He said, his back already turned. Scully shook her head.
MIKE: <as Scully> Sometimes I truly fear for my life...
>
> 6:32 pm
TOM: Y'know, I sure hope there's a *plot* coming up here.
>
> Fox peered into the refrigerator. There wasn't much there.
CROW: Except for the green meatloaf.
> He found
> the mystery package his next door neighbor had sent over last week, when
> he had the flu, in the freezer.
MIKE: Heck, staying in a freezer will give just about *anyone* the flu.
> He never looked at it, he was too sick
> to think about eating then. He slowly unrapped it. Pot roast. A lot of
> pot roast.
TOM: He's had it in there since 1974! That *was* a lot of pot roast!
> He made a mental note to thank Rob for this. He put it in the
> microwave and rejoiced that there would be enough for lunch the next day.
CROW: <as Mulder> Yes! Yes! YES!!
> He got the ketchup bottle out of the refrigerator and set it down on the
> counter. All of a sudden,
MIKE: ...he snapped, and spent the rest of the night whimpering in the
corner clutching an Uzi.
> ketchup on pot roast seemed like a ridiculoius
> idea, and he put it back in the fridge. He sat down and rested his chin
> on his fist. It was strange today.
TOM: *What* was strange?
CROW: With Mulder? Just about everything.
> He and Scully had found evidence that
> would nail a murder suspect,
MIKE: Huh? What? Is that a trace of a plot??
> but all day, he had been having the worst
> cases of deja vu.
>
> Fin~
>
ALL: WHAT?!
> This story is based on the characters and situations created by Chris
> Carter, Ten Thirteen Productions and Fox Broadcasting.
TOM: THAT'S IT?! Where was the plot? The action??
CROW: What was the author *thinking*?! Let's see... this story has a meat
product in it... okay, let's post it!
MIKE: I taste copper. Copper with a meaty aftertaste.
> All used without
> permission and no infringment of copyright is intended.
>
>
>
>
CROW: <deep voice> There is a thin line between science fiction and science
fact. You have just seen that line shaved even thinner.
TOM: <sobbing> Oh, don't even *joke* about that!!
MIKE: Come on, guys. Let's go.
[Mike picks up a whimpering Tom and they leave the theater.]
1... 2... 3... 4... 5... 6... *...
[SOL. Mike and Tom are sitting at a dinner table. There is a heaping pile
of pot roast in the middle of the table. There are three place-settings out,
and Crow hops into the last chair.]
CROW: Hey guys!
[Mike and Tom appear shocked.]
MIKE: Crow, you *know* you're not supposed to say, "Hey guys," like that.
CROW: Why not?
MIKE: Because... because...
TOM: *GYPSY* USED TO SAY, "HEY GUYS" LIKE THAT!
[All three of them suddenly burst into tears. They bawl loudly for several
seconds before suddenly settling down again. Mike begins serving the pot
roast.]
CROW: Could someone please pass me the salt.
[Mike and Tom appear shocked again.]
TOM: Don't you *ever* ask for the salt again.
CROW: Well... why not?
TOM: Because... because...
MIKE: *GYPSY* USED TO ASK FOR THE SALT LIKE THAT!!
[All three begin crying wildly again. Tom, in his sobbing frenzy, bashes
his head against the table several times. Then, again, they all suddenly
stop crying and turn their attentions back to the meal. Nobody says
anything for a while.]
CROW: So... <pauses> how 'bout them Steelers?
[Mike and Tom appear shocked yet *again*.]
MIKE: Don't talk about the Steelers!
CROW: Let me guess...
MIKE: Because... because...
[This time, before Mike or Tom can finish, Gypsy walks into the room.]
GYPSY: Hey guys! What's going on?
[Mike, Crow, and Tom begin screaming incoherently in terror. Pandemonium
ensues, and the table and everything on it gets knocked onto the floor.
Meanwhile, the Mads' light flashes.]
[Deep 13. Fruitcake is stacked everywhere, covering every square inch of
the laboratory. There is enough of it to feed the US Army for a month, or
Rush Limbaugh for a couple of days. Dr. Forrester is unsuccessfully trying
to wade through the sea of fruitcake.]
DR.F: Frank! Frank, you can go ahead! Just help me out of here!
[Frank enters close to the camera. He is wearing a bib and holding a fork
and knife. He gets a goofy grin on his face as he pushes the button.]
\ | /
- O - Pwoosh!
/ | \
FRANK: Mmmmm... fruitcake...
[As the credits roll, you can hear Frank chomping, slurping, and burping
his way through the fruitcake.]
Mystery Science Theater 3000 and all of its characters, situations, etc.,
are copyright of Best Brains, Inc. Since I have no money, don't sue me.
Also, this is NOT a personal attack on Anna Adler (aka GyrFalcon) or anyone
on the alt.x-files.creative newsgroup. It is meant in fun and games, and
should not be taken seriously.
> You will receive good luck within four
> days of receiving this message - Provided you, in turn send it on.
> This is no joke.