Hey all you people! Hey all you people! Hey all you people won't you listen to meeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE! I just had a sandwich! No ordinary sandich! But a sandwhich made with jellyfish jellieeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee! Hey. Man. You've... Got ta try this sandwich, it's no ordinary sandwich! It the tastiest sandwhich in the SEA! Skoobedoobabobshebopdedoo shke bobabady bah, YEEEEEAAAAAAAAAH!

Sorry folks.... I don't know exactly why I put that there, but I just felt like being randomly insane. Hokay! I'm back now! Ahem!!!! This story is a story I wrote for LA class. It's a fractured fairy-tale. Not a very popular fairy-tale, but a fractured fairy-tale nonetheless. I know it's a bit lenghthy (is that how you spell it?!) for a one-shot, but it's a pain in my bum to try to divide it up and stuff like that. So, here it is, my latest Fic. (Oh, and those things are like the little asterisks, but I'm too lazy to see if the asterisks work, and I don't feel like risking it.)

The Stolen Turnips, The Magic Tablecloth, The Sneezing Goat, and The Wooden Whistle: What Really Happened

(hmmmm... seems familier, eh?)

DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN THIS STORY!!!!! THIS IS JUST A FRACTURED VERSION; I AM NOT OLD PETER!!!!!!! (You'll understand by the end)

You've all heard the story of The Stolen Turnips, The Magic Tablecloth, The Sneezing Goat and The Wooden Whistle, but what you haven't heard is- oh. Wait… You haven't heard it?! You poor, deprived being! Oh well, I must carry on as planned. Can't let a little thing like your fairy-tale deprivation stop me!

You see, it all started when I married Al Funcoot. Well, that's what his business card says. No one knows if "Al" is really his name at all, but "Al" is the name I call him by. So, for all intents and purposes, we will call him Al, whether that is his real name or not. Carrying on then... Al stole my heart away. With it he took my keys, my wallet, and my jewelry, but that is not the purpose of my telling you this story. He was a useless prat who had never done a day's work in his life. When I married him I was too stunned by his charm, good looks, and manner of speaking. I mean, who would not want to marry a man who's favorite pick-up line was, 'Not only am I intelligent, but I'm also very smart…'? I was pulled in from the start. But, as is the case in many relationships, Al's charm was as false as my prosthetic thigh. Once we were married, he became an irritable little rotter. Always complaining when I didn't do the dishes. (Mind you, we may be the only people on the planet still USING dishes. It's the 21st Century for crying out loud! Most people are eating freeze-dried confections for their meals at this point, but we're still stuck cooking for ourselves and eating on dishes!) Complaining when I forgot to take out the trash, complaining when I didn't turn off the DVD player, complaining when I didn't help him hook up our Surround Sound system! (Too many electricians spoil the circuit breakers, I had said) Al was always in a foul mood, and never appreciated me for the hard worker that I was. Our marriage was, as you can see, completely doomed.

A few years passed, and I suddenly had the strangest urge to eat a turnip, for I had never tasted one before.

So I said to Al, "Honey, could you fetch me a turnip?" Sadly, Al did not realize that I was asking him to buy me a turnip, so he went off in a huff to plant a garden, mumbling all the while about how he was too old to be doing this, and that I was a nasty old bat, and blah blah blah blah blah blaaaaaaaah…

Of course, living in a city as we did, we had no land on which to grow a garden, so, annoyed as ever, Al built a platform atop our fire escape to grow the turnips in. Unfortunately, the top of our fire escape is a long, long, long way away, and the way was straight up (as is the case with most fire escapes on this earth). Al climbed up the fire escape, holding the bag of mulch in his teeth, for he needed both hands to climb the ladder. After much toilment, he did indeed create a shabby, uglio garden above the fire escape. He planted the turnips, and then proceeded to give me the stink-eye for the rest of the day. (Rotten scoundrel!)

After the turnips had been growing for a while, I politely asked Al how they were coming along. Rather than answering me, he did a tap dance out of the room and left me alone, watching Jerry Springer. (We want Jerry Beads!!!!!) He was obviously avoiding the subject. The next morning I tied him to a chair while he was still asleep, there was no way he could avoid me now! MUA-HA-HA-HA-HA! When he awoke, I stood before him, Axe (as in the cologne spray) at the ready. I was prepared to torture him if I had to… Sadly enough for me, he gave in before I could coat him in Axe and bring in the dancing tubas. He told me that the turnips were coming along fine, but that some were stolen!!!!! I admit that I may have flown off the handle a bit, but really, after all the junk I had to put up with when he planted the turnips, I think I had a right to get a little bit stroppy with him.

"Now, you march out of this house, and don't come back until you found the nasty little prick who stole my turnips!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" I shouted. While Al was gone I did a relaxing home-spa treatment, lord knows I needed one. As I was in the middle of my "Sun Salutation" yoga meditation Al burst in, breaking my concentration and causing me to fall out of my downward-orangutan position, flat onto my face. To my surprise, I found that my thigh had fallen off.

"My prosthetic thigh!" I cried, "Now I'll have to have Dr. Maertge Flobbenhoggen re-do it!" (As everyone knows, the only good plastic surgeons are ones with odd names. After all, who would want to go to a surgeon named "Dr. Bob Roberts"? It sounds so... bleh!), "I hope you at least caught the rotter who stole my turnips, you stinking, evil, stupid fool!!!!!" Al struck a pose, and I immediately knew that he was going to try and tap dance again. Quick as a flash I leapt upon him and pinned him to the sofa. I took a coil of rope from my pocket and tied him down. Don't look at me like that. Just because you don't keep rope in your pockets doesn't mean everyone doesn't! Ahem, back to the story.

After threatening Al, once again, with Axe, he told me what had happened.

"I was walking down the sidewalk, when I heard a chattering in an ally. I followed it and found a cardboard box home. awkward silence Filled with queer little children! They stole the turnips, but I didn't shoot them, like you suggested. And look! They gave me this tablecloth!!" I stared in shock at Al and his precious tablecloth (that he was fondly stoking. shudder) How could a tablecloth (especially one that clashed so badly with our draperies) repay the price of all those turnips?! Luckily for him, Al had more to show me.

"Look! It makes food!" All of a sudden, poof! the tablecloth spun about, landed on the floor, and a feast appeared on it! We ate to our hearts' content. The feast was divine; all the finest things were included in it. (My favourite was the bleu-cheese soup!) When the meal was over, a thought struck me like a solid-lead anvil. CLANGGGGGGGG How would I be able to clean up all these dishes? Al seemed to know what I was going to say, and he shouted (in pig-Latin) at the tablecloth to clean up the mess, and POOF the dishes were gone, and the leftovers placed in the fridge. I thought to myself, I WANT that tablecloth! And my brain hatched an idea. When Al was asleep, I snuck downstairs to the kitchen, stole away his lovely tablecloth, and put it in my drawers. (No, not those drawers…) I replaced it with an identical tablecloth, which I had been keeping in my drawers (Yes, those drawers. This time…) Al didn't need that tablecloth, he was fat enough as he was, without eating feasts for every meal!

The next morning I woke up and went down to breakfast. Al was crying and hugging his tablecloth (the one that had been in those drawers) (I did not feel obligated to tell him where that tablecloth had been. I'd let him think it was his…)

"My tablecloth!" he sobbed, "It's broken!!" I made a hasty retreat to the bathroom for several reasons. 1) That feast was calling again 2) The sight of a crying man makes me want to vomit.

Some time later I made another hasty retreat. This time out of the bathroom, for obvious reasons…(Curse you baked beans, CURSE YOU!!!) I walked into the kitchen and what should I find?

"Cheese?" NO! I found Al, preparing to tap dance. But this time I was ready, I had been keeping the Axe in my pocket. I leapt in front of him, Axe at the ready, and blocked his only escape.

"Um…sorry…more turnips are gone…" he said at length. As all well-wishing, (not to be confused with pill-pushing) women would do, I immediately became very angry, and proceeded to beat him over the head with my can of Axe. I told him to go yell at those little queer chillins, (and maybe shoot them as punishment) and he hurriedly obliged, leaving me alone, free to watch a DVD. I decided on "Lord of The Rings: The Return of the King". An excellent movie, riddled with almost as many hot men as "Troy". (A/N: Oh my god, I LOVE THAT MOVIE!!!!) In the middle of the movie however, who should burst in but Al, carrying a sickly looking goat over his shoulder. I suppose I threw a right tantrum at him, but really, if you had been in my position I'm sure you would've done the same thing. I mean, he interrupted a scene with Leggy! (For all of you deprived people out there, "Leggy" is a widely adopted nickname for Legolas) Nobody can interrupt Leggy without suffering some sort of consequence!

"Look! The queer children gave me this goat to make up for the turnips they stole!!" he said. I gathered from this several things. 1) That he had not shot the children, as I had advised of him 2) That the children were rotten little thieves that obviously had no idea how much turnips are worth (They are worth about 27 cents a pound, by the way) and 3) That he was incredibly stupid, and thought that an ill goat was just compensation for stolen vegetables. Oh, what a fool I took him for... But, just as he had done with the tablecloth, Al proved the item's worth. He told the goat to sneeze, and it sneezed its brains out. Along with its brains, dollar bills flew out of his nose!

"It's a Christmas miracle!" I shouted in a high-pitched, girly voice. Al made the goat stop sneezing and tied it to our bedpost. When he was asleep, (HE meaning Al, not my goat) I took the goat, hid it behind our stereo, and replaced it with a large, stuffed penguin. Al didn't deserve money! He had let my turnips fly out in the night! I went to bed and slept soundly, with visions of buying a new package of Fig Newtons with the goat-sneeze.

The next morning I awoke to the sound of Al's anguished cries.

"OH NO!!!!!! MORE TURNIPS ARE GONE! AND MY GOAT DIED!!!!" he wailed. I frantically leapt out of bed, did a couple of handsprings down the hallway, ran down the stairs, vaulted over the banister, and landed in a split on the table in front of Al.

"SOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO..." I said, "You let more of the turnips get stolen! You useless, po-faced weasel! GO PUNISH THOSE CHILLINS, OR YOU WILL SUFFER DIRE CONSEQUENCES!!! MUA-HA-HA-HA-HA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! And then I went back to bed, for I was tired, my legs hurt (from my split) and I was feeling a tich cranky. A short while later, I was brought awake by the sound of Al tripping over the dirty dishes from his breakfast. Fool...

Suddenly, Al came over to me and jammed a wooden whistle in my mouth. I didn't know they even MADE wooden whistle-pipes anymore! I decided to be polite and blow on the whistle (as I'm sure all pill-pushing- er- I mean, well-wishing people would do!) (NEVER hurt a whistle-pipe's feelings! It may be the last thing you ever do!) and, all of a sudden, phew phew phew whips came out of the whistle and began to beat me! I am an easily bruised person, and did not like the prospect of walking around for the next several weeks covered in bruises from that accursed whistle, so I started to shout out random phrases to get it to stop.

"STOP! CEASE AND DESIST! OPEN SESAME! WHEAT BUNS! FLOBBENHOGGEN THE HOBO ROCKS MY SOCKS! FUHFUH-NINE! I HAVE COLLARBONES! WINKELHAVEN! SQUIRRELS MAKE ME FORGET ABOUT MY DERANGED EMACIATION! LIFE IS JUST A MOLDY OLIVE IN MY MARTINI! OH FUNKELWEEVEN! MICE EXCITE ME! CHEESE CUBES ARE FUN!! I'LL DO ANYTHING, JUST PUH-LEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEZE, MAKE IT STOP!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" And with that, Al took the whistle away from me, shouted something in Windish at it, (which sounded suspiciously like "FIGOSHMOCKOS!" which, everyone knows, means "Go make figs!"very insulting in parts of Europe) and it stopped at once. Al looked at me with a devilish glint in his eye. (Note that Al DOES indeed have two eyes, but only one of them had a devilish glint. I assume the other one was closed, or spinning wildly about in his head, or something of that nature.)

"Now you have to be NICE to me, or else, I'll use the whistle again! HUAHUAHUAHUAHUAHUAHUAHUAHUAHUAHUAHUA!!" Well, he had me there. I HAD promised to be nice to him. Or so he thought. Ah, the wonders of loopholes such as crossing one's fingers... cough cough

The next morning when I woke up, I felt terrible. I was tired, bruised, and my legs were killing me. Nonetheless, I hobbled downstairs to pester my drippy, prat husband about my turnips. I HAD TO HAVE those turnips or else I might die. But, to my surprise, Al was sitting happily in his recliner, humming "Work It" and staring at the screen of his laptop with a glazed look in his eye. I snuck up behind him to see what he was looking at. "The National Flapjack Society of Germany..." I whispered. Freako...

I tapped Al on the shoulder and asked him about the turnips. I shook my can of Axe behind my back menacingly. Al readily told me that the turnips were fine, that he had cut a deal with the queer little children and that they'd never steal my turnips again. I, as one can easily imagine, did not believe him at all. He was probably going senile in his old age.

"Al dearest, do you have any photographic evidence of these so called, 'turnips' of which you speak?" I asked in a voice as sweet as poisoned honey. Al slowly shook his head. "Well I guess you'll have to carry me up the fire escape then!" I replied in a slightly evil-sounding tone. Al looked at me, then at the fire escape, then at me, then at the fire escape, then at me, then at the- oh, you know...

After a while of his lookings, Al said to me, "You know I cannot get up the fire escape without the use of my hands, I surely cannot get up carrying YOU with me, I mean, after all, you weigh at least 2-"

"Yee-up-bup-bup-pup-pup!" I said, cutting him off, "Carry me up some other way then!" After a long while of thinking, Al suddenly grabbed me and stuffed me in a garbage bag. He put the end of the bag in his mouth, (or so I think) and began climbing the fire escape.

"Are we there yet?" I asked. The little poof didn't answer. I just kept asking him, "Are we there yet? Are we there yet?"

And after what must've been at least 30 seconds, he said, "Yes, we're almost there." Unfortunately for me, when he opened his mouth to speak, the bag fell out of his mouth.

BUMP BUMP BUMPITY BUMP!

And that was the end of me. (!)

So that's how I got to where I am today, sitting on a cloud, telling you my story. Okay... maybe not sitting on a cloud. But I bet you can't guess where I am! Go ahead, guess!

Okay... I guess I'll give you a hint: It's very hot here...

Anyways, back to the story. Al was semi-devastated for about 3 seconds, and then he shrugged, climbed back down the ladder and went to the ally to hang out with the queer chillins. They became his only friends in life. Whenever he was lonely, he went cruisin for chicks with them. If he was hungry, he used the tablecloth. (He found it after looking in my drawers...) If he needed money, he made the goat sneeze, (He found that too) and if he ever had troublesome tax-collectors, he used the wooden whistle on them, and they never bothered him again. And Al was blissfully, blissfully happy, for ever, and ever, and ever.

THE END (!)

Well, aren't you glad that's over now? If you're going to ask, it's a demented Russian fairy-tale, so I doubt ANYONE in this country has heard of it. I got it from, "Old Peter's Russian Tales", which is a book me and Emily COUGH borrowed COUGH from my reading/SS teacher last year. And, if you're dissapointed that I wrote a fic that wasn't perverted or nasty, or stuff like that, I'm sorry. That was actually the un-edited version. I didn't hand this draft in. I had to edit all the funny stuff out. (I'm STILL mad about that...) ie: I put it in my drawers, and nasty prick, and WE WANT JERRY BEADS! etc.

-Rosemary Parkinsons