Wednesday, October 20, 2004
Oopsie! Hope Hera Doesn't Find Out...
“C’mon, spit him out!” Falwell was shaking the plant by the top of its stem. “Puke him back up!”
“I c-c-can’t,” Rove gasped. “He’s stuck in some kind of bag or bladder down there. I think he’s being d-digested.”
Falwell kicked at the base of the pot. “Spit him up, I say!”
With the last kick, a slit opened at the base of the bladderwort, and out scurried several hundred cockroaches, all wearing blue pinstriped suits. As Falwell watched, they assembled into a very small version of Pat Robertson. Maybe 2’8” at most.
Mini-Robertson spoke in a high-pitched voice. “Goddamit! They digested about two-thirds of me! What took you so long?”
“I’m sorry,” Falwell chortled, turning his head aside to conceal his amusement.
“What the hell is so funny?” Robertson squeaked.
“You’re a d-dwarf!” Falwell snickered.
Rove began laughing too. “Look at him. I’ve seen bigger sub sandwiches.”
Buchanan arrived on the scene. He was carrying a machete.