Author's Note: Inspired by a chat I had with Cela Fille. Just so you all know, this is a blatant Clique parody and me making fun of all those insert-myself-in-the-Clique stories muddling up this fandom. I'm sure some of them are well-written enough, but come on! Does "Mary Sue" mean anything to you? This is all meant in good fun. Don't flame me. Read on and cringe. You've been warned.

Disclaimer: Don't own. 'Specially not the dialogue taken from The Clique novel, "Bratfest at Tiffany's."

ADVENTURES IN GABBILAND

-A Clique parody written by: Honour Society-

It all started a couple minutes ago when my fraternal twin sister, Mary Sue, decided we should go on a picnic. And because it was her idea and she is perfect in every way possible, our parents agreed. Minutes after arriving at the private park that is on our property (as we are insanely rich...or merely "insane" and "rich.), however, my mother claimed she had a bout of the stomach flu and left to have a "chat" with the gardener. Not long after that, my father ran out of alcohol, so he went back inside the house for some more.

"Hey, Mary." I turned to my beautiful, talented, kind-hearted sister with an evil smirk on my face.

"Yes, darling?"

"Would you read me a story?" I asked kindly, tucking my feet behind me as she laid out the checkerboard-patterned picnic blanket.

"Of course, button." From our picnic basket, she produced a thin tome with a glossy photo of several snotty girls on the cover and a pattern of chandeliers not unlike the ones found on daddy's golfing socks.

"Ahem." Throat cleared, she flipped through the copyright and title pages to find the first chapter. "All students must keep out until 8 A.M. No exceptions. 'Puh-lease!' Massie Block ripped the sign off the frosted glass doors of the Cafe."

It was around this time that I saw it. A gross, flat-faced puppy dog running through the garden. Now, unlike a whiny blonde girl you may be familiar with, who, despite being allergic to dogs and yet petting them, I hate dogs. And would never deign to touch them. But, then again, something had to be done about this horrible creature. So I did what any girl would do. Grabbed my handy-dandy broom and went chasing after the thing.

Oomph. While in pursuit of the mangy mutt — and not the Trivial kind —, I'd fallen into a bottomless pit of darkness.

"WHERE THE HELL AM I?" I shouted as loud as I could, feeling my way around in the darkness.

"Shh!" A stern voice reprimanded me. The sound of clunky loafers approaching sent chills up my spine. They were getting closer. What was going on? Where's Mary Sue?

"Excuse me, young lady. But this is a children's book. We do not use that kind of language around here." A wrinkly hand grabbed my elbow and dragged me around in the darkness. Weird. Since when do children not curse? After pressing a complicated series of glowing buttons, straight out of the Star Wars saga, she dragged me through a tiny hole. Me, being a giraffe, and therefore, tall, banged my head on the tunnel's low ceiling several times. That was going to leave a bump.

"This is OCD's Bomb Shelter," the creepy old lady hissed conspiratorally. Man, was this a long tunnel. After ten more minutes of walking, I finally saw the light at the end of the tunnel.

"Oh, God. Am I dead?" I caught a brief look of her face, illuminated by the white light. "I always imagined angels as...less wrinkled."

"What's that you say? You can't say that here, either!" Reconsidering, she explained the exception: "You can only say 'Gawd,' so as not to offend our more religious readers."

"We're here." The old woman stepped ahead of me. For an old lady, she had amazing grip on my arm. She sharply tugged on it. "Quickly, now. OCD's most exclusive clique, The Pretty Committee, might still be here, skipping class and claiming they ate bad sushi after."

And 'here' they were.

"Ehmagawd!" A nasal, New York-accented voice screeched. "Who are yew?"

"Gabbi." I paused, "Why do you talk like that? And why do you all say 'click' instead of 'cleek?'"

"You talk funny," the tallest of the five girls, with hair not unlike Ronald McDonald's, said while pinching her exposed belly. It was as flat and pale as a washboard.

"At least I don't draw out my syllables like all of you do." I paused and took some time to take in their bizarre appearances.

All five of the girls wore brightly-coloured couture despite their being my same age. I idly wondered how they got designers to tailor their outfits so much; they were pretty short. The tallest, Ronald, was about 5'6. I was already 5'8 and my extended family were placing bets in Canadian casinos as to how tall I would end up. My Aunt swore I'd make six feet by the time I finished high school. I hoped not.

"Kristen," I turned to the tiny, oddly muscular girl who was sitting in the corner of the bomb shelter, rocking back and forth slowly, whispering math equations and soccer plays like a maniac. "What colour are your eyes? I've always wanted to know. Are they celery green or navy blue?"

At this time, I discovered the reason for her acting like a physco. For one, everyone was ignoring her. For another, her eyes were rapidly changing colour every nanosecond. I wondered if it hurt. I figured it did.

"Nurse Adele?" asked the tiniest of the bunch. Her hair was stuffed awkwardly into two pigtails and she seemed to be wearing the least makeup. It hurt my eyes to look at her lips, as with all the other girls. They were like heated glass. Completely glossy.

"Oh, Claire... What have they done to you? Where is your personality? Remember back in the first book when you stood up to Massie and pulled pranks on her? You do realize this 'Pretty Committee' of yours is extremely similar to a cult, right?"

The identical girls — and the one Spanish one — exchanged weird looks.

Brushing her pin-straight hair out of her 'naturally' tanned face, the Spanish one spoke: "We are kind of like a cult, aren't we?"

"Wait, Nurse Adele!" Claire called loudly and dramatically. The leader of the group with the freaky yellow eyes glared at her. Instantly, Claire clammed up and whispered softly, "Where were you from books three to eight?"

"I was looking for you! In the bomb shelter's tunnel! I'm so glad I've found you!"

Yellow Eyes gave Claire the look of death. "Talk to that LBR, Claire, and you can consider yourself kicked out of the NPC!"

"Why are you called the 'New Pretty Committee' anyway? Besides the weirdo with yellow eyes getting a purple streak and everyone else — except Alicia Rivers — undergoing some minor appearance changes, YOU ARE EXACTLY THE SAME AS THE OLD PRETTY COMMITTEE!" Everyone turned to glare at me.

"But, you know," Claire stated timidly, "she does have a point." Small shrugs went around the group. Ha! I knew I was right!

"What's that noise?" Dylan asked, wrinkling her nose which much resembled the bunny slope at this ski lodge I went to in Whistler one year.

"EHMAGAWWWWWD!"

And that was when my perfect sister, Mary Sue, fell through the ceiling of the bomb shelter.