The Real Weekly World Thingy Busters

International Shack of Pancakes

2011-11-11T08:37:00.001-08:00

It was another day at the International Shack of Pancakes. Stan was frying up something no one would savor. Trashywaitress was pestering someone with her Whinyvoice to try the new pie flavor: bubble gum. The Boss was in the office up the little stairway filing taste test reports, all failing grade and all from Stan.

The Whinyvoice is a real time savor for those who are pushy and also underlings. It's one of those voice changer machines but it translates the voice into whiny.

Stan is a bad chef.

The Boss went to Vietnam for 49 tours of duty/times. He's woah woah woah off the edge of crazy.

2011-11-07T13:52:00.000-08:00

Mom was going to try some of Stan's terrible cooking, but before she could, it spoiled. Eight days in the refrigerator would turn any egg stew, except instead of eggs, birds' nests, a little rotten/challenging.

Stan has a disregard for the finer cooking practices because of his above average ability to eat and digest food. He could eat the majority of his creations, since he has an iron stomach. He could have sons on roadkill. A 17 day old cheese sandwich is finely aged cheddar to him. Even if it could cost you $1.35 and a trip to the hospital. Taxes and tip added separately.

2011-11-07T13:36:00.001-08:00

Stan was just about to pop the hood of his festiva to quench up another thirst, when he saw THIS NEW SOFT DRINK OMFG!! TRY RACE QUENCH!! THE REDDEST KEROSENE SODA YOU'LL EVER EAT! yes, we eat soda that is this crunchy here in the states.

Stan collects groceries....... from the side of the road. No, really, at Farmer Bad's Roadside Farmstand. The mushiest apples you'll see all season GUARANTEED!!

Something more is needed to make this stew, though. Some expectation that despite serving and advertising apples as mushy, they would be good somehow. Finely aged apples? Hmm. It's just not cutting the mustard... pre-spiced? Spicy apples. Oh, it might just be bad advertising as well as bad cheflery.

Wasn't cheflery a pokemon? It's also chef hood.

MMM.... gives you something to make everything else taste better in comparison to... bad advertising.

MMM.... doesn't shatter with staleness when I bite into it... bad advertising. It might later.

The least tolerable olives you'll find all year! At bargain basement prices! Wait, I mean at normal prices.

Olives a la mode. Olives decorated with olive iced cream. It could really turn on a few key people, and become a media craze.

Sherri Dolan went to the International Shack of Pancakes where Stan and Trashywaitress work. She sat down in the booth available and said 'I'd...... I'd like a large olive platter. Also could you get my friend Mike Bunker chicken a la blueberries? He said he dislikes it. Or likes it. I can't remember. This order should clarify that all.'

2011-11-07T13:31:00.001-08:00

A vicious biker gang descended on the International Shack of Pancakes. The chief biker arrived at Stan and challenged him to make the best pancakes in reality. Stan had no choice but to flee, but only after making the greasiest, most motor oil having, dishwasher unsafe short stack in history. The biker was so stunned by his defeat when he bit into the pancake, so *unwisely*, as it is bad food, that he had to fake it being good to his biker compadres, who left.

The End.

In the garden of Eden, God said do not eat the fruit from the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil, since Stan made it. Woe, woe, woe unto they who bit it.

Stan still has some of this KGE fruit...... in a little plastic grocery store bag, like, for peppers, you know, in his room/festiva.

Even Stan's homework tastes funny. Try!

2011-11-07T13:24:00.000-08:00

Stan brought to the table next this strange pile of goo. It was neon yellow. And a pick in the goo stood up saying 'yellow number five'. Stan had prepared this yellow five by collecting the yellow five from over 4 servings of mountain dew. few enjoyed the yellow five. few.

2011-11-07T13:15:00.000-08:00

'It just doesn't make sense! I'm trying my best to like yogurt, but it's just beyond my ability to like it.' said the trashy waitress. Stan approached the table with a square cup of pork yogurt, seasoned delicately with pickles, olives, finely aged scrod and wisconsin cheddar cheese as a stray shot. Trashy waitress paused, savored [aka, despised] the 'yoh-gurt' concoction, and flatly abrupted, 'that's it i'm done with yogurt. thank you stan for helping me end my freakish yogurt quest.'

2008-08-16T06:53:00.000-07:00

Weekly World Thingy: Finest News Source Since Sliced Bread

Editor: William

International News:
All nations except Peru combine into new nation known as "Get Peru"
Neoconservatives Calculate All Cost, Rediscover/Colonialize America
Hot Dogs Adopted As National food of "Get Peru"
Jesus Christ Returns With Marijuana and Music [he did imbibe to the last]
Iran Prepares Second Great Flood for Defense against Aggressors
Georgia Becomes a Church

National News:
Economy in Freakish Shambles
"Buy the Largest Car You Can" Brand Vehicles Goes out of Business
I am Awesome
Gene Therapy Turns Hobo Into Wealthy Man
Enemy Pizza Becomes National Brand Amid Mixes Reviews

PotPourri:
Blueberries Once Again Good
Global Unions Defeated at World Cup
Olympic Stain Lifting
Men Become Of Gods at Olympus [WA] after Arm Wrestling Match
Heaven on Earth: Italy. For Now.

==========

All Nations Except Peru Join Together to Form New Nation "Get Peru"

LIMA, Peru (FP) -- Representatives from all nations except Peru....

2006-08-19T16:08:00.000-07:00

International Shack of Pancakes:

Stan helps a woman realize that she doesn't like yogurt, after trying to like it for years. "Stan, thank you. Your olive and pork yogurt has finally helped me realize that my goal of liking yogurt is selfish and foolhardy. I will never forget you."

Also, dropping stoned wheat thins produces wasted crackers. That journey off discovery took place in the frat, and was shared by one JS and CG. Wasted crackers forever.

And what else?

Ah, the International Bus of Pancakes. Reminiscent of Pete & Pete's bus of justice. Or somesuch. Actually, they had Busdriver Guy, while I did #35, Bus of Justice! And the bus was filled with ice, and the driver, wading inside, said, "That's brisk, baby! I mean, Justice!!" No one could get on the bus because it was filled with bags of ice. Which sequentially melted during his shift into a small pool. Well, a moderate pool. Okay, a bus filled with water to the seated shoulder. Done.

2006-08-09T07:28:00.000-07:00

"alll right hamburglar!!! where's the beef!?"

You Are So Lucky

2006-07-25T08:55:00.000-07:00

Instead, you get transcriptions of International Shack of Pancakes and two entirely new episodes of this fabulous disaster of a sandwich shop/deli/delicatessen.

INTERNATIONAL SHACK OF PANCAKES:
EPISODE 2
"The Shrewsburys Taste Like Shrewsburys!"
by William Bunker

"I heard there's an even shadier restaurant in Shrewbury."

"That's impossible. We have the highest rodent-to-patron ratio in the tri-country area. Even more than The Massive Broomcloset Eatery. And who could match our collection of dead *fake* plants?"

"I dunno... it might just be a rumor, but I heard the chef cooked for the Navy in Okinawa. They say his beef stroganoff once inspired thirty seamen to jump overboard."

"Wow... I once drove out eleven goth kids with my cheese fires ala mode," I said, as I flipped a codfish sizzling on the grill.

"Well Stan, you'd better watch out. Sounds like your reputation is on the line."

"Whatever, trashy waitress. We'll see what this dude's got. What did you say the place was called?"

"Um, I think it's a Windy's."

I got a far-off look in my eye, and held it deliberately until the codfish began to sputter and emit a thick dark smoke that threatened to set off the 'tastiness alarm' on the ceiling, at least until Boss disabled it. This meant that its hickory-flavored deliciousness was ripe. Then I chiseled it from the grill's warm embrace and slapped it on a plate.

"Here, woman. ORDER UP!"

I was plagued by the notion of this terrible chef for the rest of my shift. He haunted my dreams as I slept in my secret hiding spot behind the furnace. He distracted me as I was yelled at by The Boss when I retuened from the nap. He even mocked me as I pelted The Boss' car with salamis later. I had to find this Windy's and its legendary chef.
So I drove with no delay to neighboring Shrewsbury and found the disturbing Windy's that trashy waitress was talking about. If I could learn his cooking techniques without alerting him I would gain the upper hand. I approached the drive-thru.

"Kherble cruf-sher furble?" came from the perforated clown's face.

I spoke into the clown, "Yes, I'd like a small burger with pickles and mustard, a Foothill Dew, and an order of radish rings."

"Ferburd urkle serdurner?"

I had to ask the clown what he meant. "Did you just say, 'serdurner'?"

The clown eventually responded, "Well, yes... Fergurkle zu murkle zurger?"

"No, I'm in a hurry. Maybe next time."

Fortunately, I spoke the chaotic and staticky drive thru clown language.

"Murkle derk, gerv burgyhurd."

I 'gerved' up to the next window and handed the grizzled old man behind the window some money. He shook open a small plastic trash bag and carelessly tossed a hamburger into it, missing one side of the bun. No straw for the soda. Four pathetic, uncooked radish rings graced the bottom of the trashbag. Upon closer inspection, the 'burger' was not meat at all, but a hastily disguised pigeon's nest.

I was in over my head. It didn't even have mustard. He obviously knew what was tasty far better than I did, and had the guts to prove it.

I devoted the entire next day at ISOP to perfecting my chefmanship. Now, by 'perfecting', I mean 'neglecting entirely and harboring a powerful disdain for anyone who places an order'. Nothing would distract me from inadvertently proving to the world that I was the worst chef alive. I had to challenge this culinary evil genius to a cookoff.

There is a certain... je-ne-sais-pas to the art of being a bad chef. You are not allowed to actively sabotage the foods you make, or you fall into the realm of 'evil chef', which is sinister, and an entirely different league with entirely different rules. One becomes a master bad chef only through true neglect and a strong disbelief in the mere existence of common cooking practices and standards. It takes a bold man indeed to combine summer squash, Dannon yogurt, and pork rinds over a platter of finely aged scrod. Unless you have played cards with a stranger until seven burritos that you stuffed into a toaster pop up black and drilling green fluid, and then push them back down yet again, you are not a true bad chef. I have spent years wandering the farthest depths of the most abandoned delicatessens searching for that one 'special' turnip, obviously hidden from the light of day, or left in it purposefully, and that one 'ultimate' cut of pork, the reamining portions never actually used by their original owner because they were 'too greasy'. Sorry, when I said 'greasy', I meant to say 'good'. Now this man threatens to claim my throne.

It would be twelve more hours until my shift was done and Frankie the Baby took over for me. For once I almost longed to smell the melted plastic of his toys forgotten on the grill and hear the chatter of martbles as he scattered them on the floor. Finally, he sauntered into the restaurant, backpack teeming with comic books and treasure trolls, or whatever crazy charms those children collect these days. Without a word I bolted from my post like an underpaid bodyguard, leapt into my blue-with-pink-racing-stripes Festiva, and sped to Shrewsbury. I crashed my car into the handicap parking sign halfway up the curb and marched into the Windy's.

The restaurant was quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that significed customers were wise to avoid this food vendor at great personal cost. I heard the crinkle of tray paper and whirled around. Behind me stood a robed man with a chef / veteran's hat on. It was amazing. It had some small medals, grease stains, insignia, and the poofy top. It was certainly intimidating to a young chef such as myself. His grayed hair and irrationally long foomanchu moustache flowed in the wind, even though we were indoors. His nametag read, "Sarge".

"I know why you have come here, Staniel-san." Said the Sarge.

"How do you know my name, and why did you add two syllables?"

"I know much, and I add or take away many things from the proper recipes..."

I confronted him. "You are obviously a master, I will grant you that. But I must inform you that we are enemies. I challenge you to a cookoff!"

"HMMMMMM....."

Sarge rubbed his chin ponderously and opened his eyes very wide as he considered the challenge. "It must be so! We will meet tomorrow, at sunrise, on the griddle of honor!!"

"um, is that... the Windy's griddle?"

"YES."

"cool... ... so, can I get a biggie fry?"

"That will be dollar-nineteen."

I barely slept that night... especially considering that I live in a Ford Festiva. Tomorrow came too soon. I was not prepared enough to meet this challenge. However, when I arrived at the Windy's all I found was a smoldering pile of debris. I later learned that Sarge died in that terrible greasefire.

I dug from the rubble the one relic that still testifies to his culinary might: the spatula bearing his real name, which I will never reveal, and which I have never to this very day actually washed.

The End

International Shack Of Pancakes:
Episode... 6?
The Case of the Seasick Car Thieves
by William Bunker

"Stan! Man the drive through!!"
"...I'm sorry, I must be tripping, The Boss. Did you say 'man the drivethrough'?"
"YES!! It should be arriving in... oh, 5 seconds."
"What? You can't install a--"
"4 seconds."
"drivethrough?"
"3, 2--"
And suddenly there was a massive explosion coming from the south wall

damned pancakes

2006-07-24T00:47:00.000-07:00

Dude! WWT issue like 15 is soon to be released! But it's 343am and a bout with the paper would surely kill me! So instead..

DANCING PANCAKES!!!!!!!

Rock Lobsters

2006-07-13T09:38:00.000-07:00

Okay. So this could be a claymation or animated short. A big big bunch of lobsters are crowding along and we are told that lobsters are *continually* excstatic, about almost everything. Okay, everything. They are empassioned beasts.

Suddenly, one lobsters stops for a moment, pauses, and says, 'WAIT!' He looks around the tank, everybody's looking at him. He says, "You know, I feel something! There's a threshhold of likability. We can't just go around thinking everything is *amazing*. It's why our children face harship!"

"Yeah, he's right. All that."

One lobster looks down, "DUDE!!!! I FOUND A SHRIMP BUMP!!!"
The main lobster's face shatters into a grin, then he backs off the face a little.
Then the other lobster is just like, "Yeah, you're right. This is just... pretty good."

====

Also, I demand a modern video game based on being the boss of an office tech company from 1983. I demand room sized office equipment, scandalous fashion, migrant workers, and cold satire, wildly inefficient modes of transportation. So you're this boss, and you are suddenly facing an investigation for fraud, health code inspection, a series of other things making it seem like you're guilty of all kinds of things. And there is likely a saboteur to your cause, possibly someone trying to frame you. You've got to find who it is within the 5-day allotted fact finding time period, make the court case, continue to turn profit [which is listed in thousands or so red or black based on your actions.] Manage your workers, and go about and do all these things too with the satirical machinery and stuff. *I* dig it.

I also imagine a dump truck object with a pointed front and a spark plugged muffler coming out the front top towards the bottom of the point. And brutish police. And a bunch of street people hanging out around rubble in your office if you win. And you've just got the newest version and model of a kind of paper packing machine, which is the size of a large RV, and has large 'story and a half' magnetic ladders to operate. The old version was 2 story ladders. It gets compressed up like an old car and the ladder is something else.

One of the most critical things of video games is their repetivity. If you play a game one or twice, or a generically functioning game for a few hours, it's done. You're low on fun. Playing a game or even a level a second time should produce entirely new and unique events. Predictability steals that fun.

And provide lots of quick breaks like the rock lobster short, or mini games, they save a game. Monkey ball was good for the sole reason of Space Monkey. I also demand Sierreqsue levels of whimsy and satire, or greater. There must be the disco/club evening. You've probably got a weekly planner lined up of possible things to do, and it's a solid line of fun and challenge, [but they are by no means the only dig].

Then, I also want the freakishly real dinosaur fighting game.

On TV yesterday: 'He feeds the female to induce her to mate, while the younger unpaired ones engage in play fighting.' Seems quite a lot like human culture, but with cars and video games or other cultural expressions of the same-ish feelings.

Dastardly Scofflaws Tribute Song

2006-06-22T01:58:00.000-07:00

Pear juice, fair juice, a fairly loose noose will snare you, scare you, mentally prepare you to share your wealth with a string bean orchestra of orcas flying from the coast the lowest boast of toast will roast the pope in his grandfather's cloak elope on the wedding boats of Acupulc... oh!

Snow didn't go to giggy giggy go-go low blow to the rowboat sail or towboat. King's moat and a truckroad, the wind blowed the binload, my shin knows which way the ring goes, marimbo....

solos, and the stand up electric space base a thousand miller lights in space a place race to Saturn, Venus, or Mars take your pick the directions, to the stars on the map of a street man neighborhood watch laying chicken on a windsill government clocks while the barb wire windmill selling me shelling me rocks. my socks in a box of shocks i lost. the last stop.

Coz the metric system is 1.6 times as funky.

-Those Dastardly Scofflaws

WWT #14 you Betcha/Guessed It

2006-06-14T12:26:00.000-07:00

Weekly World Thingy #14

You Betcha/Guessed It.

Updated every Fuenfundhalbjahrely! Say it! Fuenfundhalbjahrely!!

Fun Brought to You By:

A small Elf

Everything else is imaginary.

A small power glove should show up on the left side of the screen and let you know that the super up box is ready for action. GO!

Headline News

FILA soccer 2006-7. A radioactive snake wins the World Cup, since no one will go near it and it has the ball. It is also expected to win the 2007 World Cup, unless a poisonous badger wanders into the stadium, which case….

POISONOUS BADGER 2007!!!!!!!!!

…and now, the news.

======================================================

Elves

Elves located in Northern

Michigan decided to run their car on pure seawater [sweaters] late Monday. The effort has been met with much consternation, as the elves are still waiting for the tide to come in to power their vehicle. The indiscriminate and nondescript group of elves have tried several other methods of power, including horseradish, mayonnaise, elves, children with handcranks, baking soda, children with baking soda, and elves as power for their car. Unfortunately, the elves are not actually real and their car is abandoned and sitting in the woods near the lake. It will never run.

One of the elves, named Blinky, stated, “Even though I am not real, I am affected by the power shortage and I have the right to try new sources of fuel for my motorcar. Even toxic jalapenos could yield the answer. Unfortuately, we already tried them, and they merely stung our faces and mouths with a fire the like of which has not been seen since 1907. Or was it 1906 and a half? Hard to say. Well, I must be on my way. Sometime you should look us up and come on down to the Elf Shop, where we frolick and play.”

Every other time the elves have appeared they have carried off bits of biscuit, tools, sheds, toolshed, barrels of whiskey, and other Canadian goods with them. No one really knows where they came from and they have never been filmed, but they haunt our memories like so many other memories associated with elves and frolicking. Like pies.

Small Boy

The other day I was reporting on a news story in which a car ran over a small boy. Fortunately, the car was even smaller, so the boy was unharmed.

Picnic Weasels

Every now and then I get a hankering for some picnic weasels. A picnic weasel is a weasel that hops out of a basket and offers you products. Sometimes fruit or candy. It’s usually wrapped and almost always still good. But when it’s not, boy watch out. Those weasels can be crafty. Every day they show up strumming yukelaleys from the Yukon Country. Filled with pure gold and whistling gibberish tunes out of their whiskerey chittering little faces. This is ‘news’ because they also report the financial status of the top 500 companies, in order, as they sing. They have requested that I place this phone number in the news thingy and distribute it to friends who may also want their fiscal advice or strings.

Lowell Calamity

Horrible calamity struck downtown Lowell yesterday as a massive wave of spaghetti brewed over the township. Mills that previously ran their wheels on water now found themselves entirely destroyed by several tons of wheaty spaghetti. The remaining mills’ waterwheels were turned by the broken pieces of the fallen mills, mixed with the spaghetti that caused the calamity in the first place. Nobody knows where the spaghetti came from or why it was so scalding hot, but it sure satisfies… the rent check.

1950’s

A man from the late 1950’s was heard to say the term ‘Whop!’ yesterday, which was taken to mean only one thing: Let’s disco. It’s all the rage in 1960’s California. Yes, that’s right. Confusion sets in.

Sauce

Once the spaghetti hardens, the brick and spaghetti wall should be complete and firm enough to be stackable nearly six feet tall. This is high enough to stack uncooked spaghetti strands along the top and corners, providing several feet of shelter, until the rain sets in. Then not even paper mache mortar can withstand.

Area Publisher

Area publisher is struck with delerium. It is difficult to write a string of blatant blather and nonsense this disreputable and lengthy in such a short period of time without falling into the trap of delerium. The only cure is whiskey and dollars. AND PLENTY OF CONTRARIAN SPANISH JAZZ!!! BRING ME THE SPANISH LOUNGE CUEVO!! Ahem, HECHO me the Spanish Lounge Cuevo. Immediately….

Ah, there we go. Streaming pure insanity from the aether is an exhausting and draining process. It is so intense that even when I stop writing and do something else it still tries to go. And I’m just like no, that is far too random and I am tired and the quality and newsworthiness of this article is deteriorating rapidly. In fact, the entire newspaper is falling to pieces. Read more in next week’s follow-up edition. Now, Tom with the weather:

Briefcase

Tom shows up, carring a middling sized briefcase. He opens it up, pulls the sun out of it, lays it on the counter. Then proceeds to unfold the clouds and place them slightly overlapping the intensely glowing sunball. Then, a square of *actually falling precipitation* is pulled from the briefcase. You are befuddled that the rain, liquid rain, falls from the top of an empty square in space appearing out of nothing, and disappears once it reaches the bottom of this undefined area. Tom picks it up without hesitation and it simply follows. As if the burning sun the size of a bowling ball and floding clouds that hover in the air beside the sun, which is by now charring it’s way through the roof of your blue 1991 sub-sportscar. With pinkish salmon accent stripe. You should do something about that. Now, Fred with the weather.

Weather:

We’ll have bright clouds on monday and a sprinkling of chainshowers. Yes, that’s right. Chainshowers. Chains will form in the upper atmosphere and slowly extend down towards the ground. Then once the chainstorm is over, the remainder of the chains will fall in a pile around the bottom portion of the chain.

No, there won’t really be chainshowers. It was something else, but chainshowers were so exciting sounding that I decided to tell you about them anyway. The real weather is fake. We’ll be having burgers for dinner Monday night. Welcome home.

Someone Asked

Someone once asked me about my extensive collection of clear things, and I told them ‘what clear things?’. They never believed in them again. Clear things don’t actually exist. Not plastic bags, not windows, not doves. Certain tinted bottles may be mistaken for floating pudding, but other than that, there is just no excuse for clear things to ever exist. I demand transparency in the government. It’s good for the bottleneck crabs.

CPU Fans

I am trying to update my computer module so it will run to the center of the Linux. The Linux is about 7,000 miles in diameter and consists of a molten nickel-iron core, which surprisingly well enough conducts quite a lot of energy. The atmosphere of the Linux conducts randomly with the core, as it is positively charged and the bits from the sun show up negatively in the atmosphere/space interface. These lightning strikes form an excellent program known as “Doom 95”. The other day I briefly played Doom 95 on the atmosphere while in the middle of a field. It simply requires knowing what programming language the stormcloud is using, and running Doom 95 while it is churning bits. The bits will churn out like monsters and you can command your fighter to battle them. It is fun.

Later I ran a spreadsheet application, but the data was lost when it dispersed in the ground. I am currently digging for approval.