About the Author:
Buster Manwomb is one of dozens of humans to have been conceived through anal sex, and is the only one who is not a member of the Westboro Baptist Church.
69 Hues of Disney 4: Tommy Wiseau eats out the Hindenburg
The following is a work of fiction. All characters are fictional. Any similarities to real life persons, living or dead, are coincidental and unintended by the author.
Chapter 1: Second Opinion
As narrator, I declare meself a pirate. Yarr.
Once upon a time there be a man. Tommy Wiseau be his name. He was the oddest pink-skin on or off of the seven seas. Many moons ago he directed a film. That film be 'The Room' and sweet mother and child was it something. Ya-har.
The Room be what the scholars refer to as a "cult hit", meanin' that it was terrible as a storm at night, yet many a landlubber with bigger dicks (or clitorises) than frontal lobes be findin' it morbidly compelling. Ahoy.
Such status left Tommy Wiseau saltier than Popeye's voice. Yeh see, Tommy wanted an Oscar, and not just because it was likely made of a few shiny gold doubloons, ya-harr. He legitimately thought that ye be the next Spielberg. Oy.
"You see my dick, huuuh?" Tommy be speaking.
"Sir, please put it away." The woman at ye desk gagged.
"Many prahducers are rich from they blockbaahster movies!" Tommy argued.
"I don't see what that has to do with-"
"FAMOUS MOVIE DIRECTORS GETS DAH POOSSY!" Tommy be yellin', like the lass before ye be singularly responsible fer The Room bein' snubbed fer an Oscar. Yarr. "Blockbuster movie The Room should help me collect tha poosy! My dick isn't wet, huh! My dick look wet to yoo hah!"
"Sir." Yar woman be sayin' "I have already called the police. Put that away and leave now before anyone sees!"
"You lie! YOU LIE!" Tommy be writhin' like a bratty lad at Disney World because ye parents refused teh take him ter Pizza Planet fer lunch. Arr. "If you danno the Oscar, why is the Mickeys Mouses on the waaall, huh! ANSAH ME!"
"Sir, this is a daycare!" The lass be statin' firmly, searchin fer ye pepper spray behind ye desk. "The kids painted those!"
"Wher my Oscar, Huh!" Tommy wailed like a gentle sperm whale on a calm ocean night, refusin' ter cease until he looked in the door behind the lass and saw two infantile labdlubbers. The first be the baby from Eraserhead, who weeped raw chicken lookin' at Tommy's bare belly-piercer. Ye second child was ye somehow even more nightmarish child from the 1988 Pixar Short, Tin Toy, Yahar. He wept, but only because he confused Tommy's dick fer an anteater, and the childrens show 'Arthur' sorely underprepared him fer the nightmarish reality of the creature's appearance. Yar.
"Get out!" ye lass be steamin with fury, and settled fer grabbin a shotgun in ye stead of ye pepper spray.
"Okay Okay, I'm going!" Tommy backed up quickly. "Don't shoot me motherfahcker!"
CHAPETER 2: The Troll Booth
I changed my mind! I'm a COWBOY now! ptoo! (that was chewing tobacco. Oh god, it's like Hubba Bubba had a 'stale caribou turd' flavour!)
Hearin' the sirens of the local sheriff, Tommy reckoned that upon leaving the daycare center, it would behoove him to make himself scarce. Steppin' into his suspiciously luxurious car, Tommy went scarce, hittin' the roadway, out into god's land (least that's what we called it since the last native that lived there was violently relocated and\or died of either tuberculosis or bullets. Colonialism hit them like… well like a bullet I reckon)
Anyway, the point was that Tommy was well out of reach of the lawmen, and well away from civilisation. I mean sure, he was on a california highway, but california ain't exactly civilisation in the strictest sense.
Then Tommy hit a toll booth. He supposed that since he was a few blockbuster movies short of being wealthy by traceable means, he could fall back on his silver tongue to make his way through.
He spat in the face of the toll booth operator.
"The fuck!" The toll booth operator ejaculated, wiping off his face then staring at Tommy with some substantial ferocity.
"You like that kinky shit bitch?" Tommy inquired. "I have plenty more where that came from, your a dirty boy."
"I'm calling the police." The toll booth operator said.
"No no wait!" Tommy Wiseau halted the toll booth operator before he could reach a telephone operator. "I am very famous movie producer! I make a blockbuster movie!" Tommy reached into a crate in his backseat, pulling out a handful of shrink-wrapped VHS copies of The Room. "I can give you a blockbuster hollywood movie! That worth toll, definitely!"
"Oh hi, Tommy, I didn't recognize you there." The toll booth operator stated somethin' fierce. "We discussed this. You can't keep paying for things with the room."
"But I'm rich and famous Hollywood praducer!" Tommy resupposed. "Rich and Famous don't need to get charged money! Don't be a bitch man! Take a copy!"
"You're not paying toll with a vhs."
"A hard bargainer." Tommy said. "I sign your copy, hah! Deal! Lets go throw a ball later! You have tux?"
"Your signature makes it worth less." The toll operator's eyes rolled like tumbleweeds. "I know you're loaded. Just pay with money!"
"Don't be a wet blanket man!" Tommy Tommy'd. "I can make more fames than just by blockbuster hollywood movie masterpieces you kno-ow!"
"Whatever, Tommy." The toll booth operator went yella', liftin coin from Tommy's pocket when he was lost in one of his bi-hourly cryin sessions.
When Tommy cleared his senses he sped off, determined to make money and moisten his ethnically ambiguous meat needle. He knew of only one other way to make that happen.
He needed to break bad.
Chapter 3: queer and loathsome in Las Vegas
Tommy hit the Lam, followin' the direction of the rising sun, mostly because he wanted to drive to Hawaii but didn't much care that his map was upside down.
If he wanted to break bad, Tommy reckoned that he'd need drugs. Juicy, juicy drugs. Now while the potent hallucinogens that were inherent to the blood and spinal fluid of his species saved Tommy a fortune, he knew that in order to get his dick wet, he needed something more powerful. Something… crystal. something… blue.
There's no saying what demented neuroses inspire Tommy's paths of Logic. Hell, I've been driven to write this because of a very distinctive high derived from snortin' powdered eggs, and the machinations of his mind are still an enigma to me.
Tommy saw a cardboard road sign that said "drugs: next exit" which he went to. The next exit led him to a skyscraper with a neon sign that said "drugs inc". Tommy parked horizontally over three handicap spots.
"I want to see the boss, yah!" Tommy said, storming to the front desk. "Get dick wet! WET, Huh!"
The woman at the front desk glazed over Tommy mighty lazily, painting her nails with one hand and shooting up some of that sweet opiums with the other.
"Whoa." The front desk lady said, a steady line of blood trickling down from her nostril. "I didn't know you can UberEats bitches. This is so much more convenient!"
"Call the boss! I am a big hollywood blockbuster movie star!"
The front desk lady headbutted the intercom, rolling her head so her mouth faced the intercom. "Mister Hindenburg sir, your bitch is here."
"Does they…. *snrrrrrk* Does they has the thicc black hair? LIKE OPRAH!"
"Do you mean if their hair's like Oprah's hair, or if they have hair of a quality similar to the entire being of Oprah, this time?"
"Yesh."
The front desk lady looked up at Tommy Wiseau. Her glasses cracked as he shot a smile like he was going to make a mask out of her face.
"Either way, I don't think you're her first today, mister Hindenburg."
"It matters not!" Hindenburg said in the intercom. "My genitals yearn for percussive suffocation! Send her up! And make… the… announcement!"
"Yessir." the front desk lady said as a pool of dark red blood on the desk was being fed by an intercom-shaped indent in her skull. She turned to Tommy Wiseau. "I hope your vagina is meatier that the last one. Executive elevator is behind me.
"Thanks, hun." Tommy Wiseau Tommy'd as he made his way behind the front left lady into the elevator, slyly wedging a vhs copy of The Room into the dent in her skull as he moved.
The elevator looked like a yellow submarine tied to a foot-thick umbilical cord. The hatch was an eyelid from which an oily black syrup splooshed out as it opened. The sound Tommy Wiseau made as he squeezed into the eyehole was not unlike that if a cow being artificially inseminated using a dead pig's head (known in BIDSM circles as a 'David Cameron')
As Tommy Wiseau sat on a blood-soaked beanbag chair filled with screaming chicken bones, a company-wide PA sounded on the speaker.
"Attention all shoppers" The voice of the front desk lady announced. "For the next hour, the Hindenburg's penis is to be referred to as 'Duran Duran', because it is hungry like the wolf. Do not worry, someone is on their way to take take of it."
The uproarious sound of relieved cheers popped the mic the second before the intercom cut off, and continued to shake the elevator as the eye shut and the umbilical cord tugged the submarine upwards.
Confusing Tommy Wiseau for Oprah was a common mistake. Nearly as common as forgetting to remove the eyelids when you make a mask out of somebody's face. This was not a victimless crime, however, as the secretary had in fact doomed everybody in the building.
Chapter 4: the wreckoning
'We Can Dance' by Men Without Hats played in a warbled tone as the twitchy elevator tugged Tommy Wiseau, director of The Room upward. He was joined in the elevator by a man in a rotted dog costume that lacked pants or skin. His lidless eyes stared unwaveringly at Tommy, watering like he'd just watched his childhood stuffy collection get fucked to death by Manitoban lawnmower-dicked bears.
"Am going to get my dick wet!" Tommy wiseau told the dogman.
The dogman's lips peeled back, revealing all of his teeth, chittering as he made a laughing sound deep in his throat. "Hauhgh. Hauhgh. Hau-au-au-auhgh."
Tommy Wiseau recognized the man. He was the man in a dog suit from the Stanley Kubrick movie the Shining! A real hollywood blockbuster movie star!
"You know, I made a hollywood blockbuster movie too. A really big deal."
"Haurgh. Haurgh. Hrargh."
"You wanna get my dick wet? Ha hahaha."
The dogman lurched forward, gargling sensuously. His penis enstiffened. It looked like Jack Nicholson doing yoga in a rubber sausage wrapper.
Tommy Wiseau stroked Jack Nicholson, making him enstiffen more in the neck until he very quickly leaked a stream of watery cum out of his head. Instead of going limp, the dogmans penis (named Jack Dickolson) froze to death in a labyrinth.
"Now me, the big hollywood movie director, hah." Tommy Wiseau tugged open his trousers, and pulled the dogman by his ears onto his penis, which looked like a handful of awkwardly posed spoons.
Just as the dogman was about to plunge Tommy Wiseau's spoons deep into his frigid gullet, the elevator opened. Tommy Wiseau leaned forward to see a security guard staring straight into the elevator. The dogman pulled back to look at the guard as well. His jaw fell off.
"Gasp!" Gasped the security guard, who sounded like a quebeccer faking a newfie accent. It turned out to be Red skull, who needed a new job after Thanos took the soul stone. "You dusty-thighed pump curmudgeon! How dare you sully the boss's new human cum sock?!"
The dogman's nipples birthed spider legs in shame.
The Red Skull tugged out the dusty-dicked Tommy Wiseau. Before the dogman had the time to get out, a morbidly obese man with balding carrot red hair used a pair of scissors the size and shape of a seven year old Armenian child to gnaw away the umbilical cord, sending the elevator plummeting to the ground with a crash. A plume of black smoke rose through the shaft as the Red Skull pushed Tommy Wiseau through a doorway.
"now, meat receptacle." The Red Skull said with the mischievous fiendishness of Christian Gray in 50 Shades of Grey whenever he disregards consented boundaries. "time to meet the Hindenburg."
Chapter 5: unforeseen consequences
A brief aside:
One night when I was but a young child of eight, I was roaming the snowy mountains of Florida with my adoptive wolf pack when I happened upon an abandoned church made of mossy clay bricks. When I looked inside, I saw a group of eight foot tall and hooded figures encircling an altar of flaming animal bones, chanting 'Hell's Bells' in latin.
I do not remember what happened after the first figure made eye contact with me. All I know is that after the fifteenth meal of every month thence, I will black out and wake up in the nearest swamp two days later, naked, and with my mouth stuffed with exactly fifty-eight whole fingernails and at least one human eye.
My last fifteenth meal was had in the ball pit of a McDonald's playplace, and the children who witnessed the aftermath were still less disturbed than Tommy Wiseau should have been when he stepped into the Hindenburg's office.
It looked like someone designed the room specifically to recycle the stripped flesh of all the skeletons buried in the french catacombs. The walls were made of bricks of dried muscles. the floors were blood-stained teak with a layer of freshly shaved skin growing over it. Chandeliers made of eyeballs dangling from their cords seemed to follow Tommy. A mosaic of the Hindenburg rubbing the base of his penis over a pile of money was made from a lot of other organs nailed to the wall.
Tommy was excited. He thought it was a movie set.
The Hindenburg was splayed out over a water bed filled with oobleck in the center of the room, wearing nothing but a fedora and a goatee. A coalescence of the shiny body chocolates smeared over his body and the intricate lasers projecting images all over the room made it look like Tigger was fisting Mater from Cars on the Hindenburg's skin.
"So, mister Wiseau." Hindenburg declared in the same tone in which Lex Luthor would greet Superman. "I didn't realize you were getting into the cock receptacle business! Or is it some other nefarious purpose that brings you here?"
"O hai, Hindenburg." Tommy said. "I didn't see you there!"
This puzzled the Hindenburg. "I'm literally the centre of the room. How could- eh, nevermind. Why are you here?"
"Drugs. I want drugs and a wet dick. That good shit. Drugs." Tommy said. "O hai, Hindenburg, I didn't see you there! Want to throw around a football?"
"I somehow doubt that you need more drugs." the Hindenburg said, spreading his legs to reveal that his penis was concealed by a plate of blue crystal meth. "But who am I to judge?"
Tommy crawled up to the plate and shoveled the blue meth into his mouth like it was clorox. "I try to get my dick wet, and even make a hollywood movie!" Tommy sobbed, wondering why the hard candy tasted so weird. "The actors use me and betray me and ruin mah laiff!"
The Hindenburg patted Tommy's head as he opened his legs. "Oh my poor movie star." Hindenburg "I know how you can moisten youse phallus."
Tommy make the most disgusting snorting sound as he wiped his nose. "How?"
"First!" Hindenburg said, tossing the plate aside "You must receive my shaft!"
The Hindenburg's penis looked like the placid trouser batons of a hundred pale men stitched together.
"Whaow!" Tommy Wiseau said. "That is the looks the Room of Penises! Appealing and natural!"
The penis blushed.
"Duran Duran, though you may call him The Inhuman Centichode, is pleasured by your compliment!" The Hindenburg said as the inhuman centichode enstiffened curtly. "Now, let's roleplay!"
"That's right! Haha ha." Tommy Wiseau laughed as if he'd just heard about a woman getting beat half to death.
"You're ass is an oil rich territory." The Hindenburg smooshed the frontmost head of the inhuman centichode against Tommy's r̶e̶p̶u̶b̶l̶i̶c̶a̶n̶ ̶s̶e̶n̶a̶t̶o̶r̶ shit dispenser. "An my penis. Is. AMERICA!"
Inhuman Centichode: American Metaphor squeezed into Tommy's bum, slithering up his colon as the Hindenburg smothered Tommy with his blimpy tits.
"Oh yes, this is quite sexual!" The Hindenburg held his hat in place as he shakily pumped his penis deep into Tommy Wiseau.
"A hahaha." Tommy laughed, struggling to calculate the proper emotion for this situation.
The Hindenburg sounded like a Super Sayian charging up as he stuffed his penis into Tommy. As the Hindenburg grew ever more erect, hydrogen gas pumped into the Inhuman Centichode, straightening Tommy's digestive system up to halfway up his smaller intestine.
"Ow ow hahaha!" Tommy barked. "You're tearing me apart, Hindenburg!"
The hindenburg thrusted into Tommy deep into the night, and then deep into the next day as he pulled out, then deep into the next night pumping it in again, and so on. This lasted for roughly the lifespan of any job in the Trump administration until the Hindenburg ejaculated a crew member into Tommy's ass and turned over. Satisfied, the Hindenburg lit a cigarette.
"HAhahah, my turn!" Tommy declared, aiming for the Hindenburg's belly button."
But before Tommy got even one nubby spoon into the Hindenburg, an ember from the cigarette landed on his blimpy skin, igniting the gas within and causing him to burst into flames.
"Oh! The humanity! Hahaha" Tommy said. "What a story."
Just as men with guns who heard the explosive commotion rushed into the room, prepared to blame Tommy for the havoc, a flying saucer tore off the ceiling and pulled Tommy i no it, disappearing into orbit after liquefying the entire structure to ensure no trace of their presence would ever be noted.
Chapter 6: Highlander 2 wasn't that bad
"Wha happen?" Tommy asked. At first he thought it was a dream, but then he saw Christopher Walken, looking down at him from a dull aluminum throne, wearing a foil suit.
Tommy instantly dropped to one knee. "O hai, my queen."
"Tommy, hello. Please, sit… We, must talk…"
"Am okay, my queen" Tommy blustered. "I need to-"
"As, the humans say, Tommy…." Christopher walken said sternly. "Sit, or get off the pot."
Tommy chose to sit.
"Tommy" Christopher Walken started. "Our consultants… have, told me, some… very disturbing news. About... your behavior. Is it, true… that you quit your, acting lessons?"
"I didn't need them anymore, queen!" Tommy said. "I made a hollywood blockbuster movie! I'm a big star and people laahve me!"
"Ah… yes, about that…" Christopher Walken continued. "Is... the bank account that we, hacked for you… not working?"
"Is working perfect my queen." Tommy explained. "That's how I make my movie!"
"Then, WHY!" Christopher Walken stood up, taking an angry tone. "Are, you violating… the EXTREMELY… specific parameters, of your mission!"
"I was ready, my Queen!" Tommy proffered. "I wanted to become a big hollywood star, like you!"
"I spent…. DECADES studying, the humans first!" Christopher Walken declared. "The. Humans only, call, me eccentric! But, you! I have, looked at the, interred-webs! It's the... generally accepted, theory that, you're… extraterrestrial!"
"That not's true, my queen!" Tommy retorted childishly. "I've never compromised myself, huh!"
"Do… you even, have a backstory?" Christopher walken asked.
"...Uh hah!" Tommy affirmed.
Christopher walken rolled eyes at Tommy. "Where, are you from?"
"I'm from America!" Tommy insisted.
"And, what... about that accent?"
"..." Tommy stared blankly into space for five seconds. "I have parents from France!"
Christopher Walken grumbled. "How do you explain all of your money! What do you do?"
"I'm a blockbuster-"
"BEFORE, the movie!" Christopher walken yelled.
"Odd jobs… here and there…" Tommy Wiseau supposed. "I was really super good at selling toys…"
Christopher Walken sighed. "Tommy. Where do, human females... have sex?"
Tommy stared at Christopher Walken, petrified.
Christopher Walken stared back, unmoving.
Tommy slowly, carefully, begun to point towards his belly button.
"Ridiculous!" Christopher walken slammed the arm rests of the throne.
"Nobody thinks I'm not human!" Tommy said. "I show off my human suit so much in my movie!"
"I saw, your movie!" Christopher Walken bellowed. "Your face, was crooked! The… whole… time!"
Tommy stared up at Christopher Walken. "...Ahaha-"
"GET, OUT!" Christopher Walken stood up. "Don't you... DARE! make another, movie, until you work on, your acting!"
"Yes my queen!" Tommy declared as the teleporter began to distort his atomic makeup.
"and, for FUCK'S, sake!" Christopher Walken instructed. "Watch… some porn!
Once Tommy Wiseau was gone, a butler wearing a hand-me-down skin of Kirsten Stewart's walked into the room, a clipboard in hand. "Who next, my queen?"
"Send, a message. To Jeff… Bridges." Christopher Walken said. "Tell… him, to keep… up the good, work."
THE END
Sorry for the delay. I'm weaning myself back onto the Clorox. Thomas the Tank Engine will try it in the Caboose next time, I swear.