A Stash, A Bible, A Rifle & A Bagga Doughnuts: A Y2K Scenariogreenspun.com : LUSENET : TimeBomb 2000 (Y2000) : One Thread
It's quite a shame that an East Coast self-absorbed meglomaniac named after a fatty junk food has garnered so much wanted attention as of late, but I find that as New Year's Evil grows yet nearer, and the news more depressing, I fancy the thought of our esteemed forum moron in the hours and days after the millenial dawn. After all, we need some amusement right?
Walk with me now, to the fuzzy-bunny abode of our ass-minded moron: Mr. Bagga Doughnuts. He's preening in the mirror of course, admiring how beautiful he is in his own eyes, smiling glibly at the thought of how he was going to tell everyone "I told-you-so" upon his logging onto the "YourDonefer Forums" after midnight. He loves himself. A legend in his own mind; A comedic wit that has yet to be surpassed, humor and talent burgeoning on the absurd. Plucking another nose hair with the nail clippers, he sniffs in arrogant self-congratulatories on his surreal fantasies. Snow is blowing briskly outside in the sub zero wind chills, his wifey-poo painting toenails in boredom as the evening draws on. New Year's Evening. All is well. Well, not entirely.
Mister Doughnuts is quite peeved actually at those he believes have panicked an entire nation due to their stockpiling, preparing and warnings of impeding disaster. Outwardly he had laughed and scoffed at them, dismissing the myriad facts and admissions that began to grow to mountainous levels almost a year ago. The queasy fear in his gut that had wondered if the "doomers" had some validity was buried in endless ridicules, chastisements, insults and cavalier quips at others that disguised his own logical concerns and fears, much like an immature bully that attacks the neighborhood bookworm to cover his own intelligent inadequacies. As news of growing breakdowns, company layoffs and economic collapses around the globe swirled to new heights, Mister Doughnuts had grown bitter and more agitated at the doomers for "causing it all". He had even joined the class-action lawsuit filed with the Justice Department against the very Y2K internet forums and authors that Bagga had logged onto.
No, things weren't well at all. Instead of living-it-up at what should have been the greatest new year's Party in a 1000 years, the National Guard and local Police had the cities locked-down, with mandatory curfews and no gatherings of more that ten persons outside. Only those in powerful positions were permitted to the "approved" festivities. The bank runs and sporadic riots had gradually slowed down for months now and promises of possibly opening banks on Monday for resumed limited-withdrawls had many quite hopeful that the power grid would stay up, and that the "Silver Bullet" bypass programs would work. Mister Doughnuts was convinced they would of-course. He knew that all along. He hoped that ten minutes after midnight, the screams and cries of the religious Y2K whacko's, and the intolerant zealots over Bill Clinton's declaration of Emergency Powers in March and again in September would be forever silenced by his righteousness on this issue. He would be the first to scream loudly that he'd been right, and that he hoped the thousands that were interned in camps and arenas for suspected fear-mongering, anti-government incitement and food hoarding would be buried alive and trampled underfoot, never to be thought of again.
Bagga sneered as his eye teared at the plucking of another brillo nose-hair, None of this would have happened he told himself, if everyone would have just listened to him. Y2K was a sham, a marketing vehicle, a rip-off chariot that was designed to rob him of his comfort zone. It was all nonsense, a way for the doomsday crowd to go mainstream. Their cries of "it's too late", "It cannot be fixed in time" "Prepare for the worst" had annoyed his Baggaship for months. We sent men to the moon for chrissakes! Those that expressed those views, and Mr. Yourdon in particular were frequent targets of his pollyanic infantile rage.
But beneath it all was insecurity. Bagga would not permit himself the possibility that facts were facts and that his way of life was going to end. Even more than that, his insecurity about himself was widely known upon his arrogant self-insistance that he was funny, and important. And as 1999 wore on, his cries for atttention were all the more shrill and vile, until he was able to act on the "President's Patriotic Snitch for Security Program " (or PP-SS as it became widely known), wherein he became an active participant in calling the PP-SS to investigate and intern those Bagga disagreed with. Bagga would have the final laugh.
He smiled at that thought as his nostril itched violently at the plucking of a particularly stubborn pubic nose hair that cause the other eye to water. Soon. Another few minutes would bear-out he'd been right all along. THEN, he'd have the last-laugh!
As Boopsie finishes her whinning and toenail fresco, the clock strikes midnight. The sounds of whoops and hollers throughout the neighborhood are heard with firecrackers- or is that gunfire? - the television, which had reported mass blackouts in Europe and Asia earlier in the day (of which Bagga himself was sure Y2K terrorsists caused), flickered and then sent Dick Clark into eternal blackness, along with the rest of his neighborhood.
Annoyed that the Y2K "extremists" under the obvious command of the notorious INVAR had apparently also sabotaged his region's electrical substation by stockpiling food and ammo, Bagga Doughnuts still refused to admit to himself that the rollover itself may have tripped a bunch of imbedded systems that created a cascading fatal failure rate in the power grid. Bagga hardened his miserable pollyanic heart against the truth he knew had always existed there, and decided to retire for the evening without so much as giving wifey-poo a New Year's kiss. Bastard. Well, he thought, they better have the power restored or the National Guard's generator's working before too long, like the Prez had promised.
The Prez. What style, what grace thought Bagga as Emperor Clinton approached. There he stood on the podium before the nation, after putting them into fits of controlled laughter at his very own one-liners. Bagga Doughnuts would be a houshold name forever. He was being awarded the New World Order's highest Comedian's honor: Head Snitch, for his service in ratting-out over 2,500 suspected Y2K fear-mongers, including the Kingpins of Doom; Ed Yourdon and Gary North. He would share box seats with Clinton at the execution of Paul Milne, the state's Public Nemesis Number One. The Pay-Per-View event had sold out in minutes, and he would be the Guest of Honor-The One To Throw The Switch. "So much for the power-grid going down" Bagga thought. His Clintonship now stood before him, medal in hand - oh what a moment for Bagga - the Prez bent the knee and forcefully pinned the frighteningly-cold broche right into his 'nads-----
Mister Doughnut awoke with a yelp, to find the icicle-cold toenails of wifey-poo imbedded into his balls for warmth. His stale breath clouded the frigid dark room like cigar-smoke, and hung heavy in the air. A light-layer of frost covered the inside windows and Bagga began to shiver as his body registered massive heat-loss. He wasn't sure of the time, Bagga only believed in digital clocks and his nighttable clock was still dark. The possibility that the "doomers" might have been right began to tickle his mind again, but Bagga Doughnuts once again shoved the thought aside in anger, but couldn't think of a single smart-ass remark because he was shivering too bad to think straight.
Thinking straight didn't come easy over the next few days for Bagga Doughnuts either. Lack of food will do that to you. The first day or so found Bagga and Boopsie cleaning out the peanut butter and stale munchkins. Raw eggs made boopsie vomit and the prune juice in the fridge sent Bagga bent over to the bowl to shit out what felt like his lower intestines. The realization that the water was off and the supply in the tank was frozen solid sent an agonized chill through Bagga's heart. Flushing was not an option. Bagga bagan to feel true misery, especially after listening to wifey-poo chastise and lament his sorry-ass all day to keep herself warm. Soon the candles melted down, and the smokey-Joe burned all the newspaper and old yearbooks in the house. Real cold and hunger began to gnaw Bagga's bosom.
After a week, the only FEMA supply truck had been overturned and the driver stoned to death by frozen feces. Roving gangs were told to be pillaging neighborhoods and the sounds of gunfire and screams were heard during the day now as well as the night. Bagga found warmth on only one night, when his house was burned to a crisp by passing thugs that had reportedly killed and eaten the elephants from the nearby zoo the previous evening.
Clasping Wifey-poo's hand, Bagga staggered out of the smoldering ruins of his home and hiked through the back yards, now all devoid of fences, towards his bowling buddie's apartment a mile away. Bagga was sure Sammy Bagga Bagels would be there to assist in his time of need, though he couldn't be sure as the phones had been out for over a week.
It had taken several hours to traverse through the minefield of gutted cars, sporadic firefights and maniacal Guardsmen who were apparently shooting anything that moved out of disorganized fright at the obvious seige they themselves were under. But finally, with wifey-poo's fuzzy-bunny slippers losing their flimsy soles on the barbed wire, Bagga Doughnuts made it to the Estate Manors Apartments, and his bowling buddy: Sammy Bagga Bagels.
It took a moment for Bagga to realize that the structure was merely a shelled-out pile of brick and rubble. He stared in amazement at the burned-out hulk until Wifey-poo's shrill scream startled his daze. She had found Sammy Bagga Bagels. Now it had only been a week, but Bagga swore that Sammy lost quite a bit of weight. Mainly from the neck down, as his head rested atop the front-walk fence post.
Dispondent and suddenly without any smart-ass remark to make himself feel better, Jimmy Bagga Doughnuts felt truly helpless. "What the hell do we do now??" Wifey-poo demanded. "We could have been eating stored-up food and water at that cabin of your Uncle Sacka Grain's in Montana- But Nooooo! You had to be the Know-it-all that said "Nuthin' will happen! ' You're a shit for brains do you know that?"
It's hard to be speechless when you're a moron like Bagga Dougnuts - even in the face of obvious idiocy. But for once, Bagga concurred with the only common sense left to consider. "Okay, you're right. We should have gone to Uncle Sacka's. But why can't we go there now? I'm sure he's got plenty of room to share."
"How do you propose we get there? Walk?" Boopsie asked.
Out of the corner of his eye, Bagga had the answer. Gesturing for his wifey-poo to wait, Bagga returned with a Huffy 10 speed bike that had been lying frozen under the debris of Estate manors. "We'll use this for starters, and get to a highway where we can hitch a ride" Bagga decreed.
Without any other options available, Bagga set off with Boopsie-poo on the handle bars past the overturned National Guard APC and left the smoldering city behind as he looked forward to an adventure that would warm his frozen extremeties and shut his complaining wife up.....
Forced to face reality, Bagga now set out to survive. What will he encounter? The adventures of Jimmy Bagga Doughnuts continues
-- INVAR (email@example.com), December 31, 1998
Finally a thread to chronicle idiocy. What awaits? Invar, you will allow a pause for illustrative mindless cannibalism even in "the best of times?"
Thai Man Kills Child And Eats Brain
BANGKOK, Thailand (AP) - A Thai man drowned his 6-year-old niece so he could eat her brain, believing it would make him more intelligent, a newspaper reported Thursday.
Adul Kasaleh, 18, confessed to police that he drowned his niece, Liliam Jehngoh, in a water barrel, the Bangkok Post said.
The kindergarten student had been ill and was left home alone in Satun province, 600 miles southwest of Bangkok.
Adul told police he pierced the girl's skull and ate her brain because he was a simpleton and wanted to become smarter, the Post said.
Apparently some ppl don't know about the Wizard of Oz yet.
xxxxxxx xxxxxxx xxxxxxx
-- Leska (firstname.lastname@example.org), December 31, 1998.
This is great! This should be the plot for a sequel to THE TRIGGER EFFECT movie! Mr. JBD would outdo Belushi's ANIMAL HOUSE, to be sure!
-- King of Spain (email@example.com), December 31, 1998.
Invar, that's hilarious. Leska, that's sickening ;)
-- Leo (firstname.lastname@example.org), December 31, 1998.
Good contribution Leska. This leads us into the next chapter of The Post Y2K Adventures of Jimmy Bagga Doughnuts...As we left off in last weeks adventure kiddies, Ol' Bagga has just vacated his shelled out remains of what was his miserable existence-(I suppose finding your buddie's head impailed on a fencepost will do that to a person.A nagging, toe-painting, realist doesn't help the situation either.)
It seems that our self absorbed "hero" finds himself narrowly escaping what is sure to have been a violent gang rape by a traveling band of renegade prison inmates on bicycles that released themselves on their own recognisances from the local federal prison.
When the Huffy's tires finally give out (along with Bagga's lower calf muscles) Boopsie suggests that the two confine themselves to the heavily wooded thickets of surrounding forests for protection from the ever present road warriors, where she berrates him incessantly for hours on his stupidity.
Jimmy Bagga was now having some doubts not since last month's wondering if his investments of Soviet currency futures was still in tact. He wondered if only he could have obtained more knowledge surely he would have seen this and other upcoming events more clearly. Bagga recalled, albeit a little foggy, surfing the cable channels and coming upon a National Geographic Special one Saturday evening ("Had he just finished masturbating to Mary Poppins?") on Cannibilistic Rituals of Ancient Civilizations. Wasn't there something about a tribe that ate the brains of their elders in the hopes of attaining their wisdom? Surely that was the ticket.
He looked at his precious. Funny, the lips were moving but the words - the words - they weren't making any sense now. Perhaps Boopsie was speaking Swahilli or some other ancient tribal verbage? She apparently was squawking monkey-jibberish, and he remembered the "Faces of Death" video a derranged friend had showed him before he was arrested for kiddie-porn. Monkey brains were a delicacy in the far- East. Boopsie looked ape-like with her jabbering jaws just now, and well- Perhaps Swahilli wisdom would help him survive in the wild.
A seven-pound jagged rock found it's mark with a wet-hard smack that caused her eyeballs to vibrate within their sockets. Several more thwops brought the fruit-juicy brain jam to the crushed opening of Boopsie-poos head-bowl. Now for a spoon (the only way you should eat brains). Lucky for Bagga brains, an unwrapped spork found in a dumpster nearby provided the utensil the ancients have always used for succulent dining experiences. Affixing her dress upon his underchin as the appropriate napkin of champoins, Bagga dined and felt alive for the first time in weeks. Truly he was much smarter now. Full-belly meant full-brain. He could now continue to Uncle Sacka Grains unimpeded.
Now if he could only get in touch with his feminine side...
-- Rat Bastard (Ratbastard@att.net), December 31, 1998.
After downing the sawdust from Boopsies skull, Jimmy decides Montana is too far, plus they are going to ask too many questions about Boopsie. Going through his video rental packed mind he remembers "Witness" and "For Richer and Poorer" and thinks maybe I can peddle to Lancaster, PA and join the Amish. They will have food, water and maybe even doughnuts.
-- Bill (email@example.com), December 31, 1998.
This would make a good Outer Limits or Twilight Zone episode.
-- Tim (firstname.lastname@example.org), December 31, 1998.
Now I know you guys are a bunch of wackos.
-- Maria (email@example.com), December 31, 1998.
Nothing has brought this forum down to the gutter as much as people's reactions to "trolls." If this is what you think the future holds, you're welcome to your depressing delusions.
And stop whining about trolls, there are many posting here with bogus e-mail addresses. How is that any different?
Don't bother flaming, I'm outta here. One thing about 1999 is sure for me, I'm leaving this place far behind.
Happy New Year
-- Buddy (DC) (firstname.lastname@example.org), December 31, 1998.
Chapter II: Bagga Doughnuts' Amish Vacation
Aside from the tragic loss of Boopsie Wifey-Poo (of whom I didn't envision getting killed off so quickly in the story), Mister Self- love continued now with full belly towards a closer haven in the Amish farm country.
With frozen nasal snot being surpassed only by frozen toes that registered pain at every step through the thickets (as to avoid the myriad National Guard and civillian road-blocks), Jimmy Bagga meanders his way out of the imploding urban chaos that had consumed civillized existence.
As time dragged on, and the day wore, poor Bagga began to envision his new life in the Amish community. He was certain the bible-toting God- fearing simpletons he had scarcely paid any attention to, would accept him and his fried dough talents. Perhaps he would open the first Amish Doughnuts Shoppe next to Lemm's Barnyard Emporium. He imagined the call at the sound of the rooster: "Time for milking and time to make the doughnuts". He hoped old Oma would do the threshing and wheat grinding - - Bagga would do the tittie yanking on Ol' Bessie, something he was sure he was good at, in order to collect the cream for the large coffee's to go that would accompany the dozen-to- go boxes he would sell. Bagga began to accept the new life he was sure would make him strong and wealthy when the sound of tires from a '99 VW Bug garnered his attention to the roadside. His mind snapped to attention as recognignition of the car registered in his frozen brain. Wasn't that the new VW Bug that his ol pal Buddy DC bought his Troll wife Maria for a Ramadan present?? Why sure! he could see them now, a bit thinner and quite haggard, but still quite the vogue urban couple. Bagga thought about waving them down for a ride towards salvation in the Amish Hinterlands, when a commotion made Bagga hit the earth for cover. As if by magic, the thicket around him came alive with what looked like a Cabella's Hunters Convention, and the group swarmed the roadside like hornets, rifles held high - forcing poor Buddy DC and Troll Maria to slow to a stop due to buckshot-shredded tires that couldn't quite reinflate. Buddy thought perhaps the swarming group was the local country welcome wagon and they wanted to make sure passers-by were treated neighborly. But now something wasn't right because Maria and Buddy DC were running away from the group that now surrounded the car, screaming in obvious terror. Did one of the Cabella's Conventioneers comment on Buddy's pretty mouth?? Bagga wondered silently to himself, hoping Troll Maria would stop screaming for help because soon the Nationa Guard units would hear her and Bagga's trip to Amish salvation might be interrupted by further blockades.
Providence must have been listening to Bagga's wish as Troll Maria's shrill scream was cut short by the sharp report of rapid fire that sent her delicate form cartwheeling across the far shoulder. Poor Buddy DC was experiencing flight without the aid of mechanics as he now resembled to Bagga, a rag doll that jerked like a mad marionette back across the roadside with each successive blast that rested his lace-doily form across Maria's VW, repainting the snow-white finish to a radical red splash effect.
Jimmy Bagga lay still, his countenance dashed once again in the hopes of a free-ride through life's lottery. He waited until poor buddy DC and Troll Maria's forms were gambrelled atop the ski racks of their VW Bug, and their vehicle pushed along the road a-ways by the Cabella Conventioneers to a gravel road where it dissapeared around a bend.
Bagga Doughnuts waited quitely until the late afternoon shadows had lengthened considerably, when he once again resumed his quest for salvation among the Amish. He refused his mind to ponder the fate of poor Buddy DC and Troll Maria. I mean, how the hell does the depraved condition of the human spirit under diress figure into the Y2K scenario??? Bagga was fuming now. This was all because of religious zealots like commander INVAR and other "doomers" that wished this situation into existence by relying on themselves for everything, and contemplating the scenarios he was now living!! Damn them to hell! Bagga thought.
The anger of Bagga Doughnuts kept him warm for most of the night as he was able to use the road under cover of darkness. He rested only once for an hour or so in a gas station that had been stripped clean of all usable material. By first light, Bagga Doughnuts had made it to the Lancaster PA. limits. In front of him was miles of rolling, lush farmland and old-country style living. His heart was light, and Bagga sang the old Munchkin Hole tune from thousands of Dunkin' commercials he had viewed in his hours of TV viewing. He could hardly wait to start on the dough-making as his stomach registered "Totally Empty".
Bagga noticed how effecient these simple folk were. A field-well there, a barn there, a wood silo there and the cords of wood they stacked-up upon their porches for their wood-burning stoves. ...Wait a minute Bagga thought, the cordwood strewn around the porch of the farmhouse he was approaching appeared quite odd. As he got closer, he noticed the doors hanging off hinges, and the slight smoldering of the interior of the house. By the time Bagga reached the old cedar mailbox with the Lemm's name all routed into the side, Bagga could see that the cordwood the Lemm's had strewn all about the yard would never burn well in a stove. Yup, they were the Lemm's alright, not cordwood after all. All 35 of them frozen stiff like wood soldiers with large caliber holes in their chests. A quick-glance around confirmed Bagga's suspicion that the entire property had been looted clean. He was sure the pantry, the root-cellar and the grain mills were all empty, and the footprints and field straw trampled flat confirmed that a large group of very impolite folks had visited the Lemm's not long ago.
Well, there went Bagga Doughnut's dream. He kicked Old Gramps Lemm's frozen hulk and yelped in pain at the broken toe he was sure he now sported. Apparently our unfortunate waif Bagga had forgotten the part in the 'Witness" movie that made plain the fact that arms and rifles were "unclean" to these harmless farmers. Apparently that didn't stop the hungry urban hoards that didn't respect the Lemm's religious beliefs when passing through. The god of hungry stomach and thirsty windpipe wins over the traditional values of decency and respect for private property. Might as well have painted big targets on them, thought Bagga.
Fillling his maw with dropped hay and straw, Jimmy Bagga Doughnuts chewed his cud and made his way across the Amish slaughterfields that now left the once-hopeful bagga Doughnuts a little more depressed than he was earlier.
Where would Bagga go now? Perhaps you have a thought as the Bagga Saga continues....
-- INVAR (email@example.com), December 31, 1998.
Invar! He has to go back to eat the brains of one of the corpses. Maybe even roast a thigh. Can't go on empty stomach for long, travellin like that. Them there's food!
-- not as hungry (firstname.lastname@example.org), December 31, 1998.
Wukkahwukkahwukkahwakkah.... The increasing sound woke him from his frozen sleep. A black shape as dark as the night settled slowly and landed softly not 100ft from where shivering, miserable Bagga lay, covered in leaves and huddled in a shelter of windfallen sycamore.
This island, where he had waded in order to escape the wild dog pack, was just barren enough for the large black Huey helicopter to land. Acrid smoke from the jet exhaust irritated his nose, but not nearly as bad as the funeral pyres burning here and there along his way. Five men in black jumpsuits carrying black rifles dismounted the craft and began inspecting it. In the glow of their flashlights he could just make out the letters F E M A in dark gray letters on its side. "Just a clean .22 hole in the fuel tank, Major," one of the uniforms reported as he squeezed some sealant goop into the hole. "Guess that gal wasnt quite dead when we were done with her. Were good to go in about fifteen minutes."
Bagga got stiffly to his feet.and then fell over as his frozen toes were unable to help him balance. Slowly, painfully he began to crawl through the half-frozen mud toward the downed helicopter. As he approached, the roar of its twin turbines increased; the black uniformed men jumped inside. "Wait. Wait for me," he croaked. His hoarse pathetic whine lost in the whine of the motors. He somehow managed a last ditch grasp onto the landing skid as the craft rose slowly into the sky. The last weeks meager rations had reduced his ample girth so that his excess belt was able to secure him to the skid. The chopper, with Doughnut-man tied screaming and trembling to the skid slid Southward into the night.
Nightmares, of bodies stacked like cordwood; rapid-fire gunshots punctuates with occasional shotgun blasts; groups of people pushing the remnants of cars piled with belongings and food; other mobs lying in wait at the side of the road, attacking and firing on them. Dreams of death and devastation haunted his delirium as the aircraft rushed through the sky. The first light of dawn smeared the horizon, when a shudder and coughing sound ripped Bagga from his hellish reverie.
Trees and rocks, no sign of man, covered the corrugated landscape as the helicopter slowly, then more rapidly, lost altitude. It was skimming the trees now as the steady drone of its engines broke up into a grating mechanical hacking. They were going to crash. Bagga loosened his belt to try to get into the cabin when a tree-limb tore along the side of the craft snatching him cleanly off the skid. He dropped through the tree, bouncing off branches at last landing on his head at the base. He lay there, cold, miserable and aching for what seemed like hours before he passed out.
He opened his eyes to the sight of the wrong end of a rifle barrel, a .22 squirrel-gun capable handled by a thirteen year-old girl. Off to her side a very serious fifteen year-old boy was aiming a beautifully scrolled 30-06 deer rifle right between his eyes. He may have been a stupid bag of dough, but he knew better than to move. Resolutely approaching from behind them, his AR-15 casually slung over his broad shoulders strode what was obviously their father. Well over six feet tall, rawboned and stern with graying hair and trimmed beard, the farmers ice-blue eyes bore into Baggas. "Wha...wha...Where am I?" Bagga mewled. "Who are you?"
"My names Milne. Paul Milne. What are you doing on my property?"
(more? I hope)
-- Hallyx (Hallyx@aol.com), December 31, 1998.
Stay tuned for the next exciting chapter of the Baga Saga....
The Milne Factor Strikes Back.....
(LOL, LOL, LOL Hallyx!!!!!)
-- INVAR (email@example.com), December 31, 1998.
Oh, and BTW Not As Hungry,
Amish aren't good eating. Very tough and gamey with all the physical labor y'know.
Fat lazy New York Doughnut eaters on the other hand are as tender as milk-fed veal. Eat them with a plastic spork to get every morsel....
Hmmmmmmmm. Tastes like chicken.
-- INVAR (firstname.lastname@example.org), December 31, 1998.
Paul Milne pointed a gun at him and goes: "die you red scuzzbucket!"
invar jumps up and says, "no kill me instead!"
"and me!", sas diane
"and me!" yells leo
"and me!" donna says.
"no shoot me first!"
"no me me me me"
"this is a gun" says richard, "and if you do nott shoot me first then I will blow your pink brains out the bak of your hed."
"oh bugger" says p[aulm ilne. "damn i have not got enough bulltts for them all. but what i can do is shoot my kids."
he does that. then he swears
"bugger i just shot my kids."
"never mind" says jimmy "i can shoot my kids too. if i had any. and i ate my wifes brain."
"that sounds like a good idea" saes paul milne. "can i have a go?"
"there's a skunk over there" says jimmy.
milne whirlss round and spins to look for the skunk with his binocculars. jimmy biffs him in the face and goes "i am the skunk you dumb assed punk hehehe thatt rimes!"
-- mr jebs (email@example.com), December 31, 1998.
No, Mr. Jebs, that was just another feverish nightmare. JBD can't quite keep conscious even with the gun pointed at him. Gone though too much, and is auto-toxed out by sugar-acids swarming out of diminishing fat.
-- skipped dinner (firstname.lastname@example.org), December 31, 1998.
Your foresight has served you well. Yes it's true. You can see by Mr. Jeb's (aks:JBD) post that he dreams imbecile as well as thinks imbecile when he's awake. His ability to compose legible sentence structure has much to be desired. Methinks Jeb has a key role in the grinding of flesh in the next installment. Good call Skip.
We guffawed like sick mules at your mastery of adjectives Skipped Dinner.
Stay tuned folks....
The Baga Saga WILL continue with "The Milne Factor Strikes Back.....
Coming soon to a thread near you.
-- INVAR (email@example.com), January 01, 1999.
Darn, you got him to Milne's place before I could send you my suggestion.
I was gonna have him hop a train of empty coal hoppers and meet a guy named "Kosky" headed south. Kosky used to work for the government on Y2K, but "He never dreamed it could be this bad". Kosky got kicked out of the FEMA bunker after a shouting match with his boss, Bill something like a month into 2000 and he's wandered the rail lines ever since, surviving by eating the grain that's leaked out of the passing trains.
Kosky and Bagga got split up in the railyards at Roanoke, VA. Kosky gets put to work in the railyards when he tells the bosses his story. They feel he at least tried to do something about Y2K, but he just couldn't see the true size of the mess. Bagga on the other hand, rails at them how he knew Y2K couldn't happen and how he told everyone not to bother preparing and to keep their money in the markets. The rail workers tell him to split town quickly.
Bagga hops a loaded coal train heading east and ends up riding it into a wroking power plant, somewhere in southern Virginia. He's found and put to work on the plant coal pile, where human labor replaces bulldozers used to keep the coal moving towards the feed conveyors. After thirty days labor, he is released and hits the rural backroads of his new surroundings.
In two days of walking, Bagga sees many families on scattered farms busily working in their gardens. He does not stop because as he nears them, someone in each group picks up a rifle and points it in his direction. Bagga gets the repeated messages. Finally he arrives at one farm where there is no one in sight with a gun. Only a pathetic looking, bespectacled man in a worn three-piece suit that's way too large for him. He's following several cows around a field with a bucket. As the cows relieve themselves, he runs over and scoops the excrement into the bucket and then goes and deposits in the garden. Bagga watches, amazed. He finally goes over to the fence and loudly calls "What the Hell are you doing?" "Earning my keep" is the reply.
The wretched fellow comes over towards Bagga and offers a somewhat suspect hand, "Pete, my name's Pete..." "DeJager get back to work!" booms a voice from a large, rapidly approaching figure, AKS rifle in hand.
"Hands up and what are you doing here?" the man demands. "I, I, I dunno..." replies Bagga. "Are you looking for a handout or to help out?" is the response. "Huh?" grunts Bagga. Somewhat angrily the man repeats "Are you looking for a handout or to help out. Are you just another bum passing through or are you willing to work for your keep?"
From behind the gun weilding man the disheveled Pete DeJager adds "It's three meals and a warm, dry place to sleep. I, I'm thankful for getting a chance here. I hiked here from Dulles Airport. Noone along the way would help. I don't know why I was on that plane at midnight, I should have been home with my family. Then... and they wouldn't let us go back to Canada. I've heard almost everyone around my home died during the cold. Paul here took me in, he's tough but fair. It's really your best chance mister."
Bagga thought for a second. He had worked hard on the coal pile and he did enjoy the work for meals and boarding over his first month in this strange new world. Sticking out his hand towards his new benefactor he said "Paul, I'm Jimmy Bagga Doughnuts and I'd be very happy to take you up on your offer". Paul took Jimmy's hand in a crushing handshake and said "Good for you Jimmy. I'm Paul Milne, welcome to our farm. Bwahahahaha!"
PS, I was also gonna have Bagga get caught stealing a turnip from a farm in Maryland. He recieves mercy from an AR-15 carrying, oriental fellow named Cory. But Cory's partner on the farm insists on getting at least one shot off at Bagga as he hightails it down the road. Bagga feels lucky that the guy was such a bad shot and only nik=cked his ear.
You know, this could become addictive. Jimmy really does have a useful purpose in this forum.
-- wildweasel (firstname.lastname@example.org), January 01, 1999.
WW, I like that..
In fact, I like this whole thread. It's an amusing guided tour of the post-y2k world ;)
(don't forget the capitalist entrepreneurs who get the whole shebang going again..)
And now, Invar- hurry up with the next instalment ;)
-- Leo (email@example.com), January 01, 1999.
Well Done Mr. Weasel!!!
I think we shall work this entry into the "Baga Saga Special Edition" so it's canon. Yes, I've decided that this happened exactly the way you envisioned it. The fun thing about a living work of prophecy is the ability to go back and revise key elements in the story.
I was wondering how to work in the Quasimodo limp to Bagga Doughnuts in the upcoming sequel. But an ear clip?? No no no, a pain in the ass deserves a pain in the ass. I believe we can all rest assured that oriental marksmen named Cory are excellent shots with a Remmington 870 Express, even at 50 yards. I do believe that Darth Hamasaki will be pursuing our hapless hack throuhout the countryside to exact Turnip Justice
I believe by the time Mister Doughnuts reaches the farm, the rump wound is festering profusely.....
-- INVAR (firstname.lastname@example.org), January 01, 1999.
Turnip Justice, I love it! But even the most harden Bushido warrior had mercy for the lowest of humanity.
Not to digress from the story as is stands. But the honorable Mr Hamaski voluntarily lowered his AR-15 and clicked ON the safety, seeing the stumbling, fearful Bagga desperately fleeing while trying to eat his dirt-encrusted prize. It was Cory's landlord, the mysterious, aggressive, Springfield M1A carrying, owner of the farm who expertly and intentionally "clipped" Bagga's ear.
I had no intention in any way to impune Mr Hamasaki's abilities with either his prized AR-15 or a shotgun. I second his choice in weaponry. I only thought that it would be fair to show that Cory will maintain his impeccable sense of humanity during the worst of times, and would show mercy to even those of Bagga's ilk.
Where to from here? Does Bagga get to stay at Milne's farm or does he "Open mouth. Insert foot." and get forced to hit the road again? His future in this saga is as strange and unknown as any we all face.
-- wildweasel (email@example.com), January 01, 1999.
Alternate realities and parallel universes are alway gratefully accepted and sarconically appreciated in these shaggy-dog threads.
I think I'll start on the roudup of the capitalists and politicians and the indictments for the Y2K Tribunals. (Sorry, Leo. It wasn't the Commies that made this mess.)
More of the Milne Saga, please.
Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men?" ---the Shadow
-- Hallyx (Hallyx@aol.com), January 01, 1999.
Yes, it was the capitalists who got us into THIS mess.
The communists got their country into a far BIGGER mess. If there's one place I'd less rather be than America, it's Russia.
On the other hand, you're right; the other communist countries don't have as big a problem with y2k as we do. Because they are still undeveloped dictatorships in which the best piece of technology the average non-Party member owns might -if they're lucky- be a small radio.
-- Leo (firstname.lastname@example.org), January 01, 1999.
Yes Hallyx. Work on the Tribunals. Make it an apocalyptic version of "The Man behind the Glass", where the starving-huddled masses hold the trials of fleeing politicians and scrotumless business leaders. Hahahaha!!! I can envision the comedic ingredients already!!!
WW, you forgot to mention that the turnip Bagga swiped was out of the hands of Cory's youngest offspring who had mistaken the rooty bulb for a doughnut, thus Cory's righteous rage in targeting the once ample hindquarters of Jimmy Bagga. But in the spirit of artistic license and the Bushido Code, I say we have Mr. Hamasaki flay the first seven layers of Bagga's ass off with expert precision from his razor-sharp katana.
The end result to this point in the story would be the same.
Another thread soon in the continuing Bagga Saga: The Milne factor Strikes back...
-- INVAR (email@example.com), January 01, 1999.
Jimmy's festering ass wound still hurts. Taking pity on the fool Paul pours peroxide on it. However,Paul won't put up with Buttheads, so Jimmy is down the road. Where will he go now? He ass hurts so bad he can't sit on the Huffy, so he stands and rides for as long as he can. Is there any chance he can make it to Gary Norths' compound? The Ozarks is a long way from Virginia, but now he has no choice.
Knowing that his ass and the Huffy will never make it, he hooks up with a motorcycle gang from DC named the "Y2K Angeles". Mostly former members of congress and headed by a guy simple known as "Horn". Jimmy begs them to let him join, in return he will tell them what he knows about Gary North's exact location. "I know he has food, water, generators, natural gas wells, etc... and he is in Arkansas or Missouri somewhere". Horn says, "I heard Arkansas is where the f**khead Clinton is hiding with that Monica chick! Hop on Jimmy! Let's head for the Ozarks boys." "What about gas and food you guys? Arkansas is a long way", Jimmy asks. "Before the government shut down, we had seceret stashes prepared by FEMA", said the old guy with thick glasses called "Greenie". "You guys know the FEMA guys?" "Sure Jimmy we created them, but now that they are in charge, we don't trust them." "Won't they be looking for you guys at the seceret stashes?" "No, all that information was stored on the FEMA mainframe that had former Russian programers fixing it's code. That system was the first to go. By the way Jimmy, why aren't you sitting down on the seat?" "I got shot by some crazy Jap for stealing a freaking turnip!" "We just got make sure you aren't a spy from Barney Frank's gang." "Hell no, I have pus dripping from my ass." "Jimmy, most of Barney's gang does, too."
Next stop the Ozarks....
-- Bill (firstname.lastname@example.org), January 01, 1999.
Great Stuff Bill. There is almost nothing more irritating than a festering pus boil between the cheeks (except perhaps a pollyanna troll), and the introduction of Barney "My Boy Lollipop" Frank will provide the humor that only the old Bob Hope/Fred Astaire On The Road Movies could touch.
However I do believe you're getting ahead of the story a bit. The Barney's Angels bit will be the vehicle needed to bring Jimmy Bagga Doughnuts from his encounter with Milne in the upcoming installment that as I write, am now finishing.
This is turning out to be The Y2K Wizard of Oz. Thanks to all of you who have contributed. Let's do more. The possible effects of the Post Y2K world as seen through the glazed-over eyes of Jimmy Bagga Doughnuts is a great way to entertain ourselves about the stark realities that may befall us all. Perhaps this serial might find it's way into print someday?
The Bagga Saga Continues soon on a new thread near you.
-- INVAR (email@example.com), January 02, 1999.
Don't forget to include "Jimmy flashback sequences" on how his life could have been different IF ONLY he hadn't scoffed at the YourDoneItes. "If only, he had prepared..." "If only he had learned how to win friends and influence people..." "If only, like the Tin Man, he had a heart..."
He obviously has a migraine headache to go along with the pains in his neck and festering rear.
-- Diane J. Squire (firstname.lastname@example.org), January 02, 1999.
Funny you should suggest that Diane. A critical plotpoint revolves around that very suggestion. Even more amazing is that the sequence features our Forum's very own Communal Togetherness Guru.
After all, I bristled at Bagga Dougnuts' immature portrayal of Cupid this past week. He will have much to atone for.
The Bagga Saga will continue....
-- INVAR (email@example.com), January 02, 1999.
INVAR, Please continue with a new post, this one will be dropping off pretty soon. This is great!! Where is Jimmy, I thought he would be here by now?
-- Bill (firstname.lastname@example.org), January 02, 1999.
Look up at the top of the TimeBomb 2000 (Y2000) forum and select New Answers to keep track of the active threads. -- Diane
http:// www.greenspun.com/bboard/q-and-a-new-answers.tcl?topic= TimeBomb%202000%20%28Y2000%29
-- Diane J. Squire (email@example.com), January 02, 1999.
It was raining. Jimmy Bagga Doughnuts was tired and he was limping badly. He hurt all over from the beating he had been dealt on Paul Milne's the week before. "It wasn't my fault. It was that damn Butthead." he though to himself, "It's all his fault. If that damn goat hadn't attacked me, I could still be on the farm, having something to eat and a warm place to stay. And I missed the big Easter meal we had all been working so hard for."
It had been a bad week for Bagga. He had been at Paul Milne's farm for over a month and had grown to feel comfortable there. As comfortable as one could in the first three month of Y2K. But spring was arriving and the farm creatures were beginning to show signs of the mating urge. Bagga was still showing signs of his encounter with Cory Hamasaki, but he was able to perform his farm chores. Primarily he was asigned the task of garden weeding and "fertilizer (manure) acquisition". He was hard at work when this combination of states turned horribly against him.
Bagga had already weeded the garden for the day and was performing the distasteful, yet needed task of manure gathering. He had taken over these tasks from Pete deJager on being accepted as a guest at the farm. Pete had moved up to being the "swinemaster", tending the Milne's hogs, Getrude and Heathcliff and their progeny. This in-turn freed up Paul Milne's oldest son to go and help a neighboring family with their garden. In previous years the Hutchinsons had been prosperous tobacco farmers, but this year they were going to be unsuccessful subsitance farmers. The past two generations of tobacco farmers had moved away from growing their own food and a food garden was a lost art on their farm. All looked hopeless.
That is except for their one outstanding famiuly asset: Sarah Hutchinson. The eldest of the Milne sons was enthralled about having the chance to help out the apple of his eye. And with his assistance and access to the Milne's plentifull stock of seeds and manual farming tools, the family would make it through the year.
Bagga watched the young, eighteen year old leave for the neighbors and waved goodbye. It was good to see life in the normal sense of humanity, continue despite the ravages of Y2K. Paul Milne's shortwave radio brought in news of a world gone mad and going madded by the day. But here was a youg man pursuing romance in the midst of it all, although with a definitely Y2K unique twist. Bagga watched the young man walk around the bend and then got back to his work.
Bessie the milk cow was over by the goats and had just deposited a fresh load of manure. Bagga went over to retrieve the valuable stuff but made the mistake of positioning himself between the female goats and Butthead, the male or billy goat of the herd. As Bagga bent over to scoop the manure into his bucket, Butthead took his positioning and posturing as a threat against his dominance over the herd. Being a goat, he reacted as male goats do, he charged Bagga with his head lowered and lived up to his name of "Butthead".
As circumstances had, the very spot where Butthead chose to strike was the exact same spot where the majority of Mr Hamasaki's twelve gauge load had been lodged in Bagga's posterior. Paul had goen back to his Navy days as a corpsman and removed most of the offending pellets, but there were still enough left to make the spot very sore without any additional disturbance. However Butthead did disturb the stop hard enough that the force of the impact threw Bagga forward several feet.
This was far enough for a second impact to occur. This one with the south end of a northward facing Bessie the cow. Startled by this, she did what was natural to her, she kicked. Bagga was hurled by this another ten feet in the opposite direction. He landed in a heap behind Butthead, followed closely by his manure bucket which landed squarely on his chest. Open end first. Bagga could only remember seeing stars, then a rapidly approaching cow's ass, a low altitude view of the goat underneath him, the the taste of manure and then seeing even more stars as he landed on his once ample rump.
After partially regaining his senses, Bagga exploded in a sense of rage. Taking his manure bucket he swung at the goat, striking it alongside its head. The goat was stunned and then took off running. Bagga, still stunned and swinging the bucket as a club followed closely behind. Still stunned Bagga wasn't quite fully under control as he chased the goat and with a full head of steam he missed a turn the goat managed to make. Bagga ran squarely into the rabbit hutch at full Bagga speed. The hutch and Bagga collapsed to the ground and the youngest of the Milne son's pride and joy, his litter of rabbits being raised especially for Easter dinner, escaped into the farmyard.
As happens, the Milne farm was equipped with its requisit pack of hounds. Seeing the rabbits loose, they began their favorite game, chase the rabbit. But since these weren't wild, field cottontails but were now stunned, pen raised, domestic, eating rabbits there wasn't much of a chase for any of the dogs. They proceeded to tear apart the helpless bunnies as the horrified Milne family ran from their house and their work locations.
Bagga was still lying amidst the carnage when Paul Milne arrive on the scene. Bagga was fearful for his life, not only from Paul but from all of the Milne children. He had just ruined their most substantial contribution to the upcoming Sunday meal. And he had indeed injured Butthead the goat with his first blow with the bucket. The goat was bleeding seriously from the eye where the bucket had struck. And Bessie the cow was also bruised and bleeding were Bagga had struck her after the first leg of his flight.
Standing amidst his tearful children and surveying the damage done, Paul Milne had only seven words for Bagga, "I have to ask you to leave." He then added "Wash the cowshit off your face and we'll get you some food and water for your trip." Bagga was amazed. In his mind he was surely going to be killed by Paul Milne. The resolute calm displayed by Paul stunned him, but minutes later when Paul accompanied him to the gate he was brought back to reality.
"Jimmy Bagga Doughnuts," Paul Milne started, "take this food, this water and our prayers for you and be gone. And if you ever come back you will never make it past this gate alive." Jimmy Bagga Doughnuts believed what he had just heard. The words were hoarse and strangled as he said them, but Jimmy managed to get out "Thankyou and God bless all of you." before he could say no more. He waved faintly, turned and began his way down the road.
-- wildweasel (firstname.lastname@example.org), January 03, 1999.
As I'm almost finished with Episode II, I will need to consider your last post a work in progress, so I will incorporate some of your paragraphs verbatim into the new thread for continuity.
Hope you don't mind, these are great suggestions - but I've got a chronological flow that I will need to adhere to so this saga makes sense as others add their two-cents worth. Good stuff WW.
-- INVAR (email@example.com), January 03, 1999.
Glad you like it. I tried to e-mail it straight to you late last night but it was kicked-back to me. I guess you have a "no spam" in place. Is there a way I can get any other suggested plot points to you?
-- wildweasel (firstname.lastname@example.org), January 03, 1999.
A Stash, A Bible, A Rifle & A Bagga Doughnuts - Episode II: The Milne Factor Strikes Back
-- (***@***.net), January 09, 1999.