COMMUNITY SINGING ANNOUNCEMENT COMMUNITY SINGING ANNOUNCEMENT COMMUNITY SINGING ANNOUNCEMENT
OMGWTFBBQ!
*Runs around in circles flapping hands up and down like Zan trying to demonstrate flying to Sam in 'Piening For The Ones We Can't Save'*
YEEHEEEEEEEEEEEE!
*runs around some more*
Our own Denizen of the Jimiverse, Leahelisabeth, has set The G.W.N. Song to music! You can see her video on YouTube: just tack the signifier watch?v=jHwOghkX5mc onto the end of the YouTube address. Don't forget to leave a comment; she really has quite a lovely voice. I has teh jealous. The tune she set it to is amazingly similar to the one that played in my head while I was writing it. (No, anonymouse, it really doesn't work to the Mickey Mouse Club song...)
The whole address is: httpCOLONSLASHSLASH wwwDOT youtubeDOT com/watch?v=jHwOghkX5mc (It's unlisted, so you can't search for it in YouTube, you have to have the link. But now you do. Ta-dah!)
The Ladeez of the Denizens are such talented individuals, they draw, they sing, they do the Dance Of Welcome... I think that we should take aeicha's comment for our motto: "Denizens of the Jimiverse - we may be depraved, but we get shit done."
Um, you lot do get that it's just a joke, right? It's just a story? Singing the song won't really make their clothes fly off? I don't do Twitter, or obsessive cyberstalking, but I do consult Superwiki occasionally - if in the near future it comes to my attention that J1 or J2 tweeted 'Holy crap pants just jumped off my legs and towel flew away WTF?' I will be asking pointed questions here...
Chapter 6
"Mornin' Augustus and Minnie Haha," said Bobby as Dean and Sam wandered into the kitchen. "You slept late."
"It's all that towel-wrangling," Dean told him. "It exhausts a man."
"That, and constantly having to hold your blanket up, and keep watch for drafts," added Sam, "This blanket-wearing thing is mentally draining." They quickly exchanged a sheepish look - there was no way either of them was going to admit to ANYBODY that they had slept well because they was so comfortable, due to the blankets in fact being warm and soft and snuggly, once you got past the whole duckies or rabbits-drinking-tea thing.
"I see," ruminated Bobby, charitably not letting the alarm on his bullshit detector sound audibly. However, since he liked a giggle as much as anybody else, he casually told them, "I'll get a couple of spare blankets out for you while those ones have a wash today."
Both Winchesters looked up in alarm.
"What?" yelped Dean. "You can't wash our blankies, er, blankets!"
"Well, I didn't want to say anything," confided Bobby, "But you've been wearing them – and sleeping in them too – for a few days now."
"No!" said Sam. "I mean… what if they shrink?"
"Yeah, yeah," Dean nodded vigorously, "Blanket shrinkage would be a really bad thing. Especially for Gigantor. We do not want a repeat of the, er, diaper view incident."
"And what if… what if… what if your spare blankets are too, um, generic?" Sam theorised. "What if they're, you know, too ordinary, too plain? Not ludicrous enough to evade the spell? Like towels? We could end up chasing flapping blankets around the house."
"We should stick with what we know works," asserted Dean, clutching his blanket firmly.
"Yeah, you could be right," Bobby relented, stifling his grin as both Winchesters visibly relaxed. "Now, I think I have an angle on this whole G.W.N. spell."
After breakfast, he started his computer, and opened a YouTube clip.
G.W.N., G.W.N., Gratuitous Winchester Nudity…
"For fuck's sake, Bobby, mute that damned thing," growled Dean.
"Sorry," grinned Bobby, not looking that sorry at all. "But I think this one is the original clip that was posted first, by the person who wrote this little show tune, and possibly kick-started the whole thing." He pointed at the paused clip, where a thirty-something woman wearing a shirt emblazoned with the acronym 'L.E.W.D.' and a suggestive leer was launching into the song. "She's got two vases on her table here, which look like they have flowers of the genus Salvia," he pointed to them, "And a very peculiar looking paperweight. That's definitely a couple of tea-lights, and there's also an ornate, possibly antique, letter opener."
"Oh, God," groaned Sam, "She's set up an altar without even realising it."
"Uh-huh, and throw in the unusual necklace she's wearing, it looks like it could be some sort of amulet. She probably doesn't even know what she has. And to cap it off, we have the, er, choreography…"
The hand gestures the grinning woman made were somehow even more suggestive with the sound muted.
"So, there you have it," Bobby finished, shutting the window, "Some imagination, some Girl Power, a modicum of training in music, and a series of geometrical, botanical, ornamental and Terpsichorical coincidences…"
"The adjective is Terpsichorean," corrected Sam, "If you're using it to refer to anything inspired by Terpsichore, the muse regarded as pertaining to dance during the late Hellenistic Period…"
"The point is, Mr Funk & Wagnalls," frowned Bobby, "It's a series of coincidences that have… coincided, and resulted in the L.E.W.D.-ers actually managing to cast a spell."
"Leaving us doomed to bunnie blankiedom," sighed Dean.
"So, how do we undo it?" asked Sam.
Bobby stroked his beard thoughtfully. "Well, I've been thinkin' about that, and strictly speaking I don't think we can undo it as such..."
"What?" Dean was horrified. "I don't want to spend the rest of my life wrestling with towels and living in fear of looking at Sam's ass!"
Sam bristled. "Well I'm not too crazy about the idea of spending the rest of my life watching daily performances by The Amazing Naked Dean And His Performing Flying Linen, either," he humphed.
"I'll never be able to work on my car again," moaned Dean. "Naked is strictly for the inside of cars. Unless you're hot women doing a charity car wash."
"And I'll never be able to go into a library again," sighed Sam sadly, "Unless they're holding Native American History Week, and even then, cheerful duckies holding balloons are not an authentic textile motif."
"I won't be able to go to bars anymore," mused Dean unhappily. "If a place has a 'No shirt no shoes no entrance' policy, I sure as hell won't get in with a blanket. Even if it's freshly washed and ironed."
"A stylised duck per se, yes, symbolising clarity of thought in many native traditions, but not a duckie holding a balloon," Sam went on.
"Diners are out, even ordering drive-through will be difficult," Dean complained. "How do you hand over the money, and not let go of your blanket?"
"Balloons would be totally anachronistic – the use of inflated animal bladders as toys for children is plausible, but not perfectly spherical, brightly coloured modern balloons that are clearly made of modern latex rubber…" continued Sam.
"And strip clubs are absolutely out," Dean practically wailed. "I'd just look creepy! That totally sucks! No more strippers, no more pole dancers, no more lapdancing. Ever!"
"I suppose I could claim to be a descendant of the Guanche people of the Canary Islands," Sam went on, "Or one of the lighter-skinned tribal groups that Columbus and Cortez claimed to have encountered."
"Yeah, food and girls are going to be a problem… oh, no, I'll never be able to visit Hooters again!" Dean realised.
"Although the weaving of large blankets to use as cloaks is more associated with the Navajo, and other tribes of the Southwest," Sam debated with himself.
"How the hell we're supposed to Hunt buck naked I don't know," ranted Dean, "Unless we can find proof that crazed fangirls who enjoy the whole G.W.N. thing are in fact all possessed and therefore evil, in which case I am prepared to lure them with sex in order to gank them. The sacrifices I make for this job…"
"Dean, there really won't be any call to go ganking fangirls," Bobby told him firmly.
"Why not? They'd die happy. Which is more than they deserve, the evil, leering, depraved, lecherous, clothes-tearing-offing, weirdos suffering from nudity-phila…"
"I think the word you're looking for is 'omolagnia', arousal from nudity. or possibly 'iconolagny', arousal from pictures of nudity," Sam finally let the blanket thing go. " 'Gynonudomania', arousal from ripping clothes off other people, probably doesn't apply here, because they didn't realise that's what effect their petitions for more explicit writing would have…"
Bobby dropped his head into his hands, and briefly asked an uncaring universe what he'd done to deserve this.
"What I was tryin' to say, before Dean started lamenting the loss of his playboy lifestyle and Sam started angsting over native cultural accuracy and terminology of Greek derivation, is that we probably can't undo it, BUT," he glared at them before they could start complaining about non-authentic ducks or overly strict dress codes again, "I think we might be able to counter it."
The Winchesters paused in their argument over terminology, and blinked at him.
"You think we can?" asked Sam, hope in his eyes.
"Yep, I think we can," Bobby affirmed.
"Great!' enthused Dean, "So, what do we have to do?"
"Well, I've been giving it some thought already," Bobby informed them, "And I think I can see what we have to do. I'm pretty sure I have everything here that we'll need. I just have to write the, er, spell, get the wording just right…"
"I can probably help with that," suggested Sam.
"… And pick the music," Bobby finished.
They both stared at him again. "Er, what music would that be?" asked Dean suspiciously. "We don't have to dance naked, do we? I am totally NOT dancing naked, Bobby!"
"No, no, no dancing required, naked or otherwise," Bobby assured him hastily.
"What about the nudity?" queried Sam, narrowing his eyes. "Nudity, partial or otherwise, bareness, nakedness, dishabille, state of undress, or any and all other exposure of skin?"
"None at all," Bobby answered, "In fact, we'll need to take a… conservative tone towards matters of dress. In fact, I'll have to set up some short-range wards, because you'll definitely need to wear clothing for this."
"So, no dancing, and must wear clothes. I like the sound of it already, and I got some good music," nodded Dean, satisfied.
"Weeeeeell, you may want to hold judgement on whether you like it until you hear what it will entail," Bobby warned.
"So, what do we have to do, then?" asked Sam warily.
Bobby told them.
"Aw, hell no!" shouted Dean. "I am NOT doing that! No way!"
"Well, we can spend a few more days trying to find something else," offered Bobby, "But if you wanna do that, I demand that you surrender your blankets for laundering."
Both Winchesters unthinkingly clutched their blankets more tightly around themselves.
"Look, Dean," began Sam, in his most reasonable tone, "If it will counter the spell and let us wear clothes again, it's worth it. I mean, on the grand scale of traumatising things we've done on a job, it's not that bad."
"Why does it have to involve humiliating ourselves?" Dean asked, a cross between a whine and a wail.
"I think you're over-reacting, in terms of how much, er, humiliation it will entail," commented Sam. "It could be worse. Remember that time we had to dance a grand waltz in that condemned music hall?"
"You made me be the girl," pouted Dean, "You made me put on a tiara. And you kept standing on my feet."
"Well I did tell you to let me lead… and remember the time we had to have a pretend tea party with that little girl's ghost?"
"I had to have a pretend tea party with that little girl's ghost," corrected Dean resentfully, "While you finished the salt and burn. She insisted that I wear a feather boa. AND put on some of her Mommy's lipstick," he added in an accusatory tone.
"Yeah, and the time we had to go undercover to catch that witch operating out of a day spa?"
"Ha! How could I forget?" Dean scowled. "What I want to know is, why did you get to have the deluxe foot massage, while I got the leg wax…"
"Or the time you impersonated a male stripper, when we were dealing with the haunting in that club?"
Dean's eyes narrowed. "Just for the record," he rumbled dangerously, "I have not forgotten, and I have not forgiven, and you will never, never be able to make it up to me…"
"Right, so my point is, we've done worse things than this before. I don't know about you, but I'm kind of looking forwards to being able to put actual clothes on again. And have them stay on, I mean."
Dean looked like he was contemplating murder, then relented. "All right," he groused, "I'll go along with this. But I reserve the right to be as pissed as hell about it."
"Acknowledged," agreed Bobby. "Now, we'll need to drag out some stuff, and if one of you knows something about ripping and cutting music electronically…"
"I can do that," Sam told him.
"Just nothing by Nine Inch Nails," muttered Dean mutinously, before he headed for the kitchen, presumably in search of beer.
"Actually, I had something classical in mind," Bobby said. He turned to Sam, who was starting up his laptop. "Who's Nine Inch Nails?"
"A band," Sam explained. "When Dean did his stripper gig, he did his, er, act to one of their songs."
"Oh." He cocked an eyebrow. "Was he any good at it?"
"I'm not claiming to be an expert in judging male stripping, but the crowd went wild. He made several hundred in tips."
"Hmmmm, beats me why the boy didn't enjoy it," shrugged Bobby. "I've heard about them hen nights, and women's parties, where they get male strippers. I'd have thought that Dean would be in his element, with a roomful of women drinkin' and screamin' and hollerin' and trying to grab his ass and making lewd suggestions."
"Yeah, that's what I thought, to start with," muttered Dean, as he returned and opened his beer.
"So what happened?" asked Bobby, genuinely curious.
Dean fixed his little brother with a glare that would melt iron. "Mostly, the fact that, right up until he pushed me out on stage, Gigantor the Total Assbutt let me assume that the audience would be female."
Reviews are the Stripping Winchesters in the Haunted Club of Life...