1A/N: Yzay! I'm baack. I bet you thought you'd finally gotten rid of me. Well, you were wrong. Sooo sorry for the extra-long wait between chapters. I did get a lot of reviews for that chapter, though, which I thank you guys for. I'll respond to your comments at the end, in exchange for this chapter. Meh, so I don't use the respond thing...It's annoying anyway.
-uses favorite theme music to begin chapter, which currently is BttF. Yaay!-
DUN DUN-DUN-DUN-DUN DUN DA (rpt)
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"What was that?"
"Who hark what them when sha schwing?" asked a random person from the studio audience.
"Hark the herald angels sing!"
"Oompa loompa doompadee doo!"
"My mother!"
"No, yo momma!"
"We are lookin' for Blues Clues, cuz it's really fun! Whee!"
Random voices sang out from above, and God told his angels to come back to heaven and quit bugging the earth creatures.
"No!" cried Bartleby. "NOOOOOOOOO! Die Loki die!"
"I don't believe in voodoo," Loki laughed randomly. And they disappeared with a blaze of fangirls wanting them to both be gay and together.
"There's been an accident," Violet murmured, continuing with her lines as if nothing had happened.
"One of the hotel managers has died," Klaus said.
"Which one? Bartleby? Loki? Jay?"
"No, stupid, the Apostle!"
"Silent Bob, no question."
"Was I the only one who thought it was the Muse?"
"I DIDN'T REALIZE THIS WAS A SAD OCCASION!" shouted a random voice. "This isn't code, so back the fuck off!"
"Shee," Klaus said in a very hard-to-express-in-words-but-you'll-understand-if-you-hear-it-ou-loud-maybe way. Violet rolled her eyes. Hyphens were so UNFATHOMABLE.
"We should call the Muse!"
"We should call Angel. No, Collins!"
"We should call Jessica Martin!"
"We should call Elphaba!"
"We should call Jay & Silent Bob!"
"We should call Trekkie Monster!"
"We should call White Goodman!"
"Meh," a very UNFATHOMABLE man appeared out of the abyss (walked a cow, Elsie. Any Rentheads out there? No. Never mind). "Hello Baudelaires," he said a la Rod Serling in the Twilight Zone. "I'm here to give you an UNFATHOMABLE taxi. Would you care for a ride?" The cigarette smoke, a la old movies, completely blocked his face UNFATHOMABLY, a la UNFATHOMABLENESS.
"Frernest!" Klaus screeched. Hey, it wasn't a bad guess. The man was tall, thin, and was UNFATHOMABLE like what.
"No, you idiot. I'm–erm, never mind. I'm here to bring you to–erm, never mind. Just get in the fucking car. Please?"
"Very trustworthy." Violet tapped her chin. "We should get a ride with him. Maybe head for his pimp crib." All of this was said in a very Violet-y (not homedog) way. "But are you who I think you are?"
"I DUNNO!" The man said, throwing his hands in the air, and pacing. "You've blown my cover! I have no idea! I should probably ask Oprah or Dr. Phil who I am...maybe they know."
"Listen, hunny," Klaus said. "Oprah is fat, and Dr. Phil is Southern. You do not wanna hang around with them."
Then, to ruin everything even more than usual, Mr. Poe appeared, but was rolling like a Roly Poly. "Poe!" Klaus screeched again. "Bumbling Poe, here to help our foe, without even meaning to, look at that fat man go!" He sang that last part. Finally Poe stood upright. "Hmmph," he said dramatically and bumbled away.
"Anyway..." someone said to break the silence. The silence screamed (oxymoron, eh?) as it was chopped in half by some random audience member.
"I have a name, you know!" The audience member screeched...UNFATHOMABLY, a la...repetitive things. -big grin- (S)He stomped off in a huff. Teehee.
"Anyway, on with the plot." Mrs. Bass said, adjusting her UNFATHOMABLE wig. "Here we go–they're bad."
"They're good!" shouted the JS's, Charles, the boring people, you know.
"They're bad!" shouted Bass, Olaf, Carma "Isn't she dead yet?" Lita Spats, etc.
This rambled on for another 4500 minutes and we got bored. Nearly everyone died for lack of food and water, but we decided to have a trial to make it all better.
"'Ow'd you like the trial for lunch, eh, Pat?"
"Never better, Bert."
"I liked it too. Better than tea, even."
"Tea! Oh, tea! I love tea. Should we 'ave some tea, then?"
"Bloody hell, oi mate, bless our dear old Queen, I'M BRITISH, yes!"
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I am sooo sorry to Oprah. No offense meant, she's a really smart (and rich) lady. Apologies all around. However, all offense is meant to Dr. Phil. And rednecks. -sticks out tongue-
A/N: Well, there we go. Letdown? No? Tell me what you think...in a dazzling review! Por favor, thank you Amsterdamn (hee), goodnight!
-Chandler, Friends