WARNING! WARNING! INCLUDES SCENES INVOLVING JACK FENTON'S BACKHAIR! YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!

Chores Chores Chores, Choresity Chores!

Part One

"What do you mean the trashcan exploded?"

Well, I'm back from school and my lovely encounter involving Dash, a water fountain, and my head. You know, I swear the bruise looks a little like Wisconsin... Maybe it's an omen I'm going to Wisconsin at some point. Maybe we can visit that rich dude that lives over there dad refers to as 'Vladdie'. The poor, poor soul.

Well, I'm stuck here, couch ridden. I wish I had control of my powers enough to give Dash an ectoplasmic wedgie. See how long it takes him to get it off his block head. I'd pay to see that, along with 99 of the school.

At least I get to spend the day on my aching tush, watching Spaceballs. That'd be good to do to Dash to, give him the old Darth-Helmet-shwartz ring treatment. Sam doesn't like the movie because they talk about the princess being a 'Drewish princess'. So it sounds like Jewish, big whoop. People make Christian jokes all the time and you don't see me up in arms.

Of course, a perfect day is ruined by the bear I call a father. Or rather, the bear trying to fit in with humans. Or a guy who has the size, strength, gracefulness, and attention span of a bear. The few times I saw under that jumpsuits scarred me for life. Let's just say that dad's metabolism is slower than his reaction time.

He barrels in, sees me, and asks if I cut school. Oh yes. If I cut school I'd hide out in my home with my loony bin father, obsessive mother, and teacher's pet sister. They'd never rat me out, oh no.

I tell him I got bullied, and guess what he says? He tells me that I need to build up some muscle and sends me to do my chores. Yep, that's right. I nearly crack my skull in half and dad wants me to do chores. Tell me again how I am related to this person? As Shakespeare once wrote, "What fools these mortals be!" I read it somewhere. Don't ask.

He then leaves the house, saying something about needing to get the car fixed after trying to use refined ectoplasm as an alternate fuel source. If it ever worked, I am not about to donate. Get it out of the box ghost or something...

So... My plans tarnished, I up myself to get this fun event over with. I venture into the kitchen, heeding to veer away from the refrigerator. I swear I can still hear the barking from the Frankendogs. No need to give them a reason to tear into my skin. Next to the phone is the chore list.

Of course, because dad, no matter how nuts he is will always be the master of guilt trips, managed to shove his chores onto me. I really don't want to clean the lab. The last time I went down there, will, you know what happened. I got zapped into some half dead freak. I'd rather not grow a third arm or something. Firstly because people would notice that Danny Phantom and Danny Fenton both mysteriously grew a third arm at the same time and might make the connection, and secondly, because I REALLY DON'T WANT ANY MORE REASONS FOR DASH TO USE MY HEAD AS A FOOTBALL!

Sorry, Fenton moment. Ranting rears its ugly genetic head again. Worst part is, it doesn't help my witty banter. I swear I spend hours trying to think up quips. It sort of loses the purpose when you actually prepare them ahead of time, but nobody knows that. and if you say a word I will send you into the portal and use the Fenton bazooka's auto target on your ass.

Well, trash first. At least this time it isn't toxic waste. I had a one chair perimeter around me for a month until the FBI labeled me as non hazardous material after the time they made me get rid of the lab waste. I've shirked coming within five feet of glowing liquid in their ever since. At least, when I could avoid it.

Anyway, I grab the trash bag and head out for the door. As was as predictable as Tucker's PDA being confiscated for use in the classroom, my arm, along with the trash bag, went intangible and left a nice mess all over the living room.

Now, one must ponder what one did to cause such things to happen. Maybe me first sentence was '&# god' or something. My parents told me my first sentence was when I yelled 'Vlad is ghost, Vlad ghost get cat!' while 'Vladdie' was visiting, but I doubt it. Apparently, this 'Vladdie' person fainted when I said it. Funny, really. No idea why he would have fainted.

So, now the problem of picking up this mess. I'm hoping my parents invented the 'Fenton vacuum cleaner', but I doubt it. I look around, and low and behold, the Fenton vacuum Cleaner! Or at least I think it is, it says 'Fenton Extractor' on it. Maybe better safe than sorry, no use tempting the fates...

Yeah. I'll be better blasting them away with one of the lasers. Maybe trigger happiness is genetic too. I grab an ecto-gun from the kitchen cupboard (don't ask), and start vaporising the trash. It works pretty well, until I blast a box of Chinese food. BLAM! Raining noodles.

Now I have a noodle encrusted living room. Swell. Wonderful. Zap. Noodles go by by. I hope I can convince mom the singed soy sauce stains are from some garbage grubbing ghost that found its way in here. I could always shove it on that box ghost fellow throwing the Chinese food box. He'd probably do it, too, he shows up every where. Really, it's formed into a case of zap-and-go with that guy. Never, never gives up.

So, I finish zapping away the trash. Next up is cleaning my room. Joy to the world. Do parents ever get the idea I might want my room to be a pig sty? It makes it comfortable. Jazz's room is so sterile I swear Tucker starts yelling about hospitals whenever he goes in there. Well, maybe some day Jazz can get him over his fear of hospitals. You know, before some girl back hands him so bad he goes there and they have to strap him down for an IV. Yet another thing I would pay to see. I'll have to start saving for when I do find a wish granter, I have a lot of things I want. For instance, to not be some FREAK OF NATURE HYBRID!... Fenton moment.

I come up the stairs, and see the sea of clothes and trash I call home. I don't care what mom says, these pieces of trash hold memories. Like this fry bag reminds me of when a fry shot out Tucker's nose the first time he saw Paulina.

I would go to a greater depth about her, but I have an inkling Sam can read my mind, so I'm not going to chance it. I've known her long enough to say that her shoes hit like a rock and that I'd rather not have certain areas faced with those steel toed boots... Happened once and I couldn't talk normally for four days.

There's also the gum wrapper, which reminds me of the time I got my bubble gum bubble stuck in Tucker's hair and it had to be shaved. You know, it never did grow back.

Then there's the soda can, which reminds me of the time Tucker- Woah. I just realized that I associate all food trash with Tucker. That's a new one. I wonder why. Maybe something food based is coming. Like some ghost girl who explodes ketchup or a cafeteria lady gone insane or something. Where do I come up with this stuff? Oh yes, I'll get caught in some fiery explosion of condiments and then get attacked by some fast food monster. Yeah, right. There's about as much possibility of that as Paulina liking Danny Phantom. Oh, and let's throw in Jazz finding out about me too.

Oh, crap, I'm giving them ideas again! NO! Get out of my head you odd manifestation of human morality and will for a better world! ...Where the heck did that come from?

In any event, I began to clean up, zapping the trash and putting away anything of worth. In other words, everything not covered in mold, mildew or something with more than four legs got chucked and everything thing else got stored in the closet until further notice.

Room's done, what next? Clean the downstairs bathroom. If there's one room that I hate to clean evenly comparably to the lab, it's the bathroom. No mortal being should have to reach inside of a toilet bowl. It is as close to Hell on Earth as I want to get.

So, I dawn the normal attire required for such a task. Acid resistant gloves, an eye guard and a hazardous waste suit. This is all normal for anyone wishing to come in contact with the results of dad after one of his fudge cravings. Ew...

I grab my almighty toilet brush, my disinfectant, and my blaster. I'd rather not find out if mom's cooking lives after being digested, thank you gross mental pictures incorporated.

I figure I'll start with the easiest and go from there. Ergo, wiping the mirrors first and the dreaded bowl last. I grab the cleaning spray and I wet a rag, before cleaning the dust off of the mirror. I have to get the corners or mom will flip, she has an unspoken pity for corners. I have no clue why, maybe she thinks they're sad because they never get cleaned or something...

Well, mirror done, sink next. I stick a Q-tip in the drain to get the dirt, when it won't go in. A clogged sink, fun, fun fun... I look in the sink and see something green and glowing. Why has everything suddenly started glowing?

Well, it is time for the greatest weapon in my arsenal, a weapon so powerful that few may control it... the plunger!

I grab the plunger and carefully put it over the sink, before starting the suction, ergo, jumping up and down on it. I start to jump, piston like an air pump. I check every half dozen strokes, and nothing is happening. Great, it's hardened... This calls for the ectoblaster.

I open the cupboard to get the ectogun, when I am confronted by several weapons. Which gun, which gun, which gun to destroy ectoplasm... I grab a small one and aim it at the glowing green gunk. One well aimed shot, and BOOM!

There goes the gunk, along with the sink. How, pray tell, will I explain this? I don't think the neighbors heard the crash, I hope. By now explosions are common place from the Fenton house. Not the best indicator, I swear, of we ever get new neighbors the entire block will have them convinced we're testing government bombs by the end of the first week.

Well, I can always blame a ghost, saying that it came up through the sewers and exploded out of the sink. They'd probably buy it too. That, or I could say that I nudged a Fenton Grenade accidentally and it nailed the sink... On second though, blame the ghost. What they don't know can't hurt them.

Well, next is the rugs, then the showers, then the dreaded portal to hell known as the toilet.

You may ask what's so bad about the rugs. One reason, ladies and gentlemen. The things my family hides under there. My parents are notorious pack rats, and will hide things so they escape Jazz on a cleaning spree. Under rugs, couch cushions, inside buckets, you name it.

I can't see anything obvious on top of the rug, but as Jazz puts it, 'You couldn't see anything in the tell-tale heart either'. I think all three of them are insane on some level. Who, pray tell, quotes dead guys that spent their time in a dark corner with their only companion being the little imaginary characters floating around in their heads.

I grab a corner, before ripping up the rug. Thankfully, the only thing there is a stain from some ectoplasm and some dust bunnies. They are soon taken care of, placed in a bucket that somehow appeared. I don't know how, I don't control this crazy world.

I set the rug down, before facing my second last challenge... Next up, the bathtub. This is second worst for one reason, which I will show you once I make sure it is safe. I look gingerly in, in case any goo traps got set up. I wouldn't put it past them, not by a long, LONG shot.

I see nothing. I pull back the curtain, and see nothing out of the ordinary, except a rubber ghost taking the place of a rubber duck. I pull something out from behind me, yanking out a piece of steel wool. Yes, steel wool. you have any idea how dad's back hair sets when it gets cut? What did you think that black ring around the sink was? Sadly, it was overlooked so long it became permanent.

So, I take the steel wool to the ring. You can tell that it's the end of Summer, dad's hair follicles are in hyper drive, which lots of scraping fun for me. You always hear jokes about shaving your dad's back hair, try trying to get it off the bath tub.

In fact, thanks to the expanse of experimental soap dad's using, it becomes apparent I will require other means when the steel wool starts turning into filings. Well, I guess it's time to break out the chisel. That's right, chisel. I kid you not, those are the lengths we have to use during September regarding dad's back hair.

I get it out from the bag of cleaning supplies, and begin to chip off the hair ring. To hell with the paint, just get off the damn hair! Of course, because my life is every so much fun, I eventually breath in a hair. Not pleasant.

For reference to anyone who has never been in the predicament, having a harder-than-concrete back hair jammed up your nose is not fun. It burns, tickles, and stabs you all at once. Like something sticking electricity through a pipe cleaner and jamming it up there.

Of course, being the kid I am, at this point I fall in the tub, right in the mound of hair in the center. Great, now I'm being stabbed, and I'm laying in a pile of hair. Isn't life, my life in particular, fun? Dear lord, it itches!

I jump out of the tub, and try to get the hair off of me. However, it sticks, like thousands of little pieces of velcro. I had decided to be smart and forget the face mask, and now I was paying for it. Do I even need to say it? Someone upstairs has it in for me. There, I said it again...

I get up, now covered in so much black hair I look like cousin it gone Goth. Sam would be proud. Worst part is, I'm not done. There is still the funnel into the unknown. Only dad uses this toilet, and for good reason. There has been known to be a methane build up in it for years, and dad's the only one who's so big it doesn't affect them.

However, I am scrawny. That gas will get to me before long, I'm cutting it as it stands. Thus, we made the Fenton face mask. A face mask, with the word Fenton in front of it! ...Oh dear god I'm turning into dad! NO!

...Okay, I think I gathered myself. The idea of even being related to dad scares me, but I am never turning into him. Never! -Why do I suddenly feel like I'm having a serious case of deja vu?

Well, I guess it is time for my funeral. I lived a good, long, happy life, and I accomplished... nothing. Okay, really my life has been crap lately, but it wasn't so bad for a few years. I may not remember those years because they were before I was acquainted with the social pyramid and Dash's fist, but still, I guess they were good. I wouldn't know past the concussions the populars gave me that happened when I 'fell down the stairs', but still. I just wish I didn't have to perish from toxic fumes at the age of fourteen. I'm already half dead, so I wonder if this'll make me one and a half times dead... Or if I'll still have that sweet jumpsuit when I pass on.

Suddenly, a song starts playing in my head. I heard it once, and it takes a while to make out, but there it is.

'...and we will all go together when we go, what a comforting fact that is to know. Universal bereavement, it will be a great achievement! Yes, we will all go together when we go!

We will all go together when we go, all suffused with an incandescent glow, no one will have the endurance, to collect on his insurance, Lloyd's of London will be loaded when we go."

I cut it off there, Tom Lehrer is not exactly my favorite musician. Poisoning Pigeons in the Park was pretty good, though. 'The birdies may all try and hide, but they still go for peanuts dipped in cyanide...' I'm done now.

I gulp, I guess I'll have to find out eventually, and it looks like now. I approach the bowl, looking down. It is a murky yellow, with a brown ring of lord knows what. I would puke right now, but that means getting closer to the fumes.

I grab the industrial size toilet brush, and begin scrubbing. Oh dear lord this is sick and wrong, make dad do this. I have been scarred for life already, let me go in peace! If any of you have any morals you'll let me go!

As if in answer, the toilet seat came down and broke off the toilet brush head, and that happens to have been the last brush. You know that that means, right? I'm going fishing for a toilet brush in a biohazardous pool of water.

Who ever's up there has a sick, sick sense of humor. For all I know this will burn the skin off my bones. I can't seriously do this. I rack my mind for something, anything that I could use to not have to touch that chemical soup... Of course. One item comes to mind, and I rejoice. Pliers!

I can stick them in the bowl and use it to retrieve the brush! Genius, pure genius! I search the tool bucket, and I find tweezers. It'll do, I hope. Now the problem of actually getting the brush. It can't be that hard... Right, keep on telling yourself that, Mr.-Half-way dead-punching-big-of-karma...

I look in the bowl, it is pretty much on the side. Throwing chance the winds, I grab the head and try to yank it out. However, much like in those rigged crane games, it won't stay, the tweezers can't grip it. I try again, but the thing's too damn slippery.

I hiss, before finally stabbing at the dang thing. And for once, brute force won out, and it stuck. I grabbed it and was lowering it to the trashcan... When it fell off. Right on my gloved arm. Thank goodness it was gloved. However, a strange scent filled the air... In a minute, I recognized it as burning rubber.

I always knew this would happen! I always knew dad would be the death of me in some form, but I didn't count on it being from his toilet water! I guess that's why my parents never let me get a dog. I yank off the glove, which is now burning through. The floor should be able to handle it. I hope. I wouldn't count on it, but there has top be some measure around that accursed acid bank.

I run out of the bathroom just in case, before checking my arm. It doesn't look harmed, I guess it was a small miracle the liquid didn't eat through quick enough to get me. Still, I need to give dad a serious talking to regarding his diet... and what could be next? Something bad is brewing if I escaped without relative injury. It is at this point I remember that I'm covered in dad's hair, great. Let's hope I can get it off before my parents start blasting my ass off. What's next on my chore list?

XXX

Yes, I realize this isn't done. That's because this is horribly long, and would take a heck of a long time to finish if I were to submit it as one piece. Sorry about the wait, Summer School's killing my brain cells...