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.

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