What Ever Happened To . . . Davey Hansen?

Davey Hansen was raised by devout Lutheran parents who spent hour upon hour schooling their children in upright Christian values. Davey, along with his faithful dog Goliath, spent many a weekend cleaning up neighborhood parks, working with the elderly, and raising money for the underprivileged.

On the rare occasion that Davey misbehaved, like the time he disobeyed his mother and went ice skating on the lake, his parents sat him down, talked nicely to him (with only a moderate-to-high amount of guilt-tripping), and reminded him that he should always do God's work and follow His word.

Being raised in such a controlled family structure, Davey's high school years went pretty much like you'd expect.

He snapped like a wooden stool at a Jenny Craig meeting.

During his childhood, Davey and his friends formed a "no girls allowed" club called "The Jickets." Although they seemed harmless at the time, when they were sixteen or so, this "club" evolved into what could be more accurately described as a "gang." In fact, in the aftermath of what would later be known as "The Incident," Officer Bob determined that the seemingly non-sensical word "Jickets" was actually an acronym for "Juveniles Infiltrating the Christian Kingdom with the Eternal Teachings of Satan."

This explained a lot.

On the morning of April 13, 1977, the Jickets, armed with assault rifles, pipe bombs, and grenades, descended upon Clokey High School in Savannah, Georgia. Despite the warnings of the dog Goliath, who was overheard saying, "I don't know, Davey," Hansen and his gang stormed the school and opened fire on the students and faculty.

When the smoke cleared, 28 students and 14 staff members were dead.

Davey and Jimmy decide who's going to run the Jickets.

As agreed upon prior to their assault, the Jickets returned to their clubhouse, drank Jack Daniels' until they puked, and then engaged in a game of Russian Roulette. Davey Hansen survived, but Jonathan, Teddy, Jimmy, and Mickey all blew their own heads off.

When Davey returned home that evening, his parents John and Elaine were watching the evening news, aghast at what had happened at the high school. When their drunken and disheveled son stumbled through the door, John clicked off the TV.

"Davey. Is there something you'd like to talk about?" he asked.

"Piss off, old man."

"David Hansen!" scolded Elaine. "You are not to talk to your father that way!"

"Whatever," he mumbled, lighting a Marlboro.

"Davey," said John, "we saw what happened at school today. Is something bothering you?"

The Hansen Family in happier times.

"Ya think? Jesus Christ, Dad, you haven't noticed that I've been rebelling against you for the past six years? I'm tired of all the holier-than-Davey bullshit going on around here. I wanted to make a statement, show that the Jickets aren't just a bunch of choirboys.  Looks like we did pretty good, huh?"

"First of all, your mother and I would thank you to not take the Lord's name in vain. And Davey, killing innocent people is not the way to prove yourself. It's not your place to pass judgment upon others, only God can do that."

"Then why have you been judging me my whole damn life? Answer THAT!"

Silence hung in the room like smoke in a seedy jazz club.

"Where are the rest of your Jickets now, Davey?"

"Their brains are splattered all over the clubhouse." Davey put out his cigarette on the sole of his Doc Martens.

"Well, you be sure to clean that up in the morning," said Elaine.  "Remember, cleanliness is next to Godliness, and doing chores is a way that we show our family that we love them."

"Mom, do us all a favor.  Get a friggin' clue."

Later that evening, Officer Bob and Officer Dan stopped by the Hansen residence. Despite John's assurance that his son had Learned a Valuable Lesson, the officers arrested Davey and booked him into the Dick Beals Juvenile Detention Center. On his eighteenth birthday, he was transferred to the Fulton County Prison where he remains to this day.

On the fifth anniversary of the massacre, ABC's Nightline aired a documentary entitled "Jickets: The Tragedy at Clokey High School," recounting the events of that day in 1977.

In a live interview from prison, Davey Hansen said, "I got tired of my whole life being a parable. Every good deed, every mistake, I couldn't do anything without my father tying it into some archaic Bible lesson. I thought that if I did something dramatic, Dad might finally see me for who I am, enter the real world for a change. Didn't work, though. After I blew away my classmates and teachers, he immediately went all Book-of-Job on my ass, like it was suddenly all about him. Screw it. The Jickets had purpose. We had a mission, and we accomplished it."

John Hansen moved on quickly after the incarceration of his son.

Well, Davey's going to burn in Hell now, that's for sure. He made his choices. Thank God for our daughter Sally. She's away at college, studying to be a Pastor. We're so proud of her."

Sally Hansen could not be reached for comment. A call to her dormitory at the University of Florida was answered by her roommate, who chose to remain anonymous. When the Nightline reporter asked to speak with Sally, her roommate replied, "Oh, Sally's not here right now. She's spending the weekend at the Alpha Gamma Mu house. She's always at one party or another. That girl's out of control. She's pretty popular with the frat boys, though."

Goliath declined to be interviewed. His attorney released a short statement from the mutt, which read as follows:

"Oh, Davey."


d

What Ever Happened To . . . Jack and Jill?

Jack and Jill: The Myth

In the early 1960's, the town of Windsor Locks wasn't much more than a quaint rural village on the Connecticut River.  Main Street, the home of local businesses such as Patterson's Pharmacy, Dapper Dan's Dry Cleaners, and Combes's Barber Shop (yes, it was his real name), was six blocks long and displayed exactly two traffic lights.   Like most small town residents, Windsor Locksians were a tight-knit community who had known each other all their lives.  In fact, Shirley Graham, the 85-year old kindergarten teacher at Windsor Locks Elementary School, bragged that she was the only teacher in the country who had taught four generations of the same family (the Cormans: John, kindergarten class of 1901; Michael, class of 1922; fraternal twins Charles and Claire, class of '41; Phillip, class of '63).

Jack Liszewski and Jill Murphy, 1963

At the center of town stood Barrett Hill, its steep slope making it a popular location for roller skating in the springtime and sledding during the snowy New England winters.  On warm quiet evenings, teenage boys and girls would often venture up the hill to "fetch a pail of water."  This phrase was actually a euphemism for making out, coined in the 40's when another pair of adolescent lovers did indeed go up a hill with the intent of drawing water from the well.  One thing led to another, though, and the pair came down the hill with not just the water, but also with flushed faces, hickeys, and, depending on your view about when life truly begins, a beautiful baby daughter.

Jack Liszewski and Jill Murphy were sixteen-year old high school sweethearts, and up to this point in their relationship their physical intimacy was limited to hand-holding and light kissing (Jack called it first base, Jill called it third).  Jack's buddies, most of whom had already hit the proverbial home run by anybody's definition, ranked Jack out constantly.

"Hey, Liszewski, when's your girlfriend gonna finally give you some?"

"Hey, Jack, what time's Jill due back at the convent?"

"Got another late night rendezvous with your right fist again, Jackie boy?"

Jack hung out with a bunch of assholes, basically.

Peer pressure being what it is, one summer afternoon in 1964, he decided it was time to take Jill up Barrett Hill to "fetch a pail of water."  Jill, unaware of Jack's expectations, packed a nice picnic lunch of deviled ham sandwiches, cole slaw and Orange Crush.  When they arrived at hilltop, Jack spread a blanket out in the shade of an oak and invited Jill to have a seat next to him.  After finishing their lunch, Jack initiated the kissing, as usual, and after a minute or two he made his move, caressing the side of Jill's right breast with his fingertips.  Jill slammed on the brakes immediately.

"Jack, you know I'm not ready for that yet.  Hands to yourself!"

"Aw, come on, Jill, we've been together for over a year now.  I'm starting to feel like Little Boy Blue Balls."

Put off by Jack's offensive language, Jill stood up to leave.  "Well, if that's all you're interested in, maybe you should find another girlfriend.  I'm sure Jessica Muffet is available, that tramp.  Rumor has it that she went all the way with Jack Horner after the Sadie Hawkins dance.  He stuck in something, and it sure wasn't his thumb."

"I'm not interested in Horner's sloppy seconds, Jill, I'm in love with you," he exaggerated, hoping that by expressing his deep devotion, his girlfriend would loosen up a little.

She didn't.

"I like being with you too, Jack.  Come give me a hug."

He hugged her all right, and while he was at it, Jack went for broke and grabbed Jill's exquisite behind with both hands and pulled her closer.  When Jill felt Jack's arousal digging into her thigh, she screamed and shoved him backwards.  Off balance, Jack tripped over an exposed root (the tree's) and fell all the way to the base of Barrett Hill, where he cracked his skull on the sidewalk.  As Jill ran down to check on him, she too lost her footing and tumbled downhill.  Fortunately, she did not suffer any injuries.

All the king's horses and all the king's men rushed to help . . . wait, no, sorry . . . the Windsor Locks Rescue Squad arrived moments later, and inexplicably tried to mend Jack's bashed-in noggin with vinegar and brown paper.  They transported the unconscious teen to Hartford General Hospital, where the E.R. triage nurse mocked the paramedics' attempts at first aid and immediately had Jack taken to the operating room.  The surgeons tried their best to save the boy, but due to severe swelling of the brain caused by a cerebral hemorrhage, Jack Liszewski died on the table.

Sister Jill Murphy became a nun in 1966, and spent the next thirty years teaching catechism classes at Our Lady of Perpetual Resistance in New Haven.  She died in 1996.


d

What Ever Happened To . . . Speed Racer?

By the time Speed Racer was five years old, he was already an accomplished go-kart racer.  He also had quite the knack for making exquisite pottery, however, that was a skill that was looked upon with disdain by his father Pops Racer.  When Speed turned fourteen, to appease his dad, he sold his potter's wheel and kiln in order to purchase a kit for a kick-ass Ferrari 250 Testarossa.

Speed joined the Ameri-National Racing Circuit in 1988 at the age of eighteen.  Over the next fifteen years, under the guidance of his crew chief Sparky and with the able assistance of pit crew members Spritle and his chimpanzee Chim-Chim, Speed won twelve circuit championships and became known as one of the great racers of all time.  His Ferrari, also known as the Mach Five, was equipped with all sorts of special gadgets, including auto jacks, cutter blades, belt tires, and the much-admired "frogger mode" which allowed the Mach Five to leap over obstacles and opposing drivers.  These modifications, while not specifically banned by the ANRC, fell within a certain "gray area" and as a result, the other race teams had little respect for Speed and often made a point of trying to take him out of races with aggressive driving or by kidnapping his girlfriend Trixie.  Whatever worked.

By 2003, Speed had become bored with the ANRC, and was quoted in Auto Racing Digest saying, "I think I've achieved all I can at this level.  I mean, I've won twelve straight titles, set seventeen track records, what else is there to prove?  I think Sparky and I, and the rest of the Racer Motors team, need to find out what we can do on a bigger stage."

So in 2004, Speed Racer joined the NASCAR circuit, taking over the Hendrick Motorsports #5 car.  Owner Rick Hendrick said at the time,  "We're thrilled to have Speed Racer aboard.  We've been aware of his career for several years now, and having a kid with this kind of talent is something we're all excited about.  We're going to let him stick with Sparky as his crew chief and we look forward to seeing what both of them can do in the Nextel Cup (now Sprint Cup) Series."

Speed takes out the field at Daytona

As it turned out, Speed wasn't quite as talented as everyone at Hendrick had been led to believe.  Since the Mach Five did not meet any of the specifications required by NASCAR, Speed had to drive one of Hendrick's Chevys and this presented some problems.  Speed had come to depend on the Mach Five's special features to get out of trouble on the race track, and as a result, his driving skills weren't up to par with the other drivers.  No longer able to press a button and vault over the opposition, Speed caused numerous wrecks, and gained a reputation as a dangerously aggressive driver.

According to NASCAR veteran Mark Martin, "This guy is gonna kill somebody if he doesn't get his act together.  Don't misunderstand, I like the kid, but where did he learn to drive a race car?  He's hitting everything out there -- other cars, the wall, heck, at Dover he took out two concession stands and an RV.  He's gonna have to figure this out pretty quick or there's gonna be some problems."

Speed crashes at Talladega, 2004

During the 2004 Nextel Cup season, Speed did not finish 33 of the 36 races.  Twenty of his DNF's were due to wrecks, twelve were caused by engine failure, and in one race Speed fell thirty laps behind and simply drove the #5 car off the track mid-race and went to Burger King.

Losing wasn't a concept that Speed and Sparky were familiar with, nor was it something they were willing to accept.  Their frustration came to a head at the 2005 Daytona 500, when Sparky decided to modify Speed's #5 car with all the old Mach Five accoutrements.  Cutter blades, frogger mode, and as a new touch, twin rocket launchers mounted under the splitter on the front end.  Speed kept the Kellogg's car in the top ten for most of the afternoon, and late in the race he vaulted over Tony Stewart's Home Depot Chevrolet and Dale Earnhardt Jr.'s #8 Budweiser car to take over second place.  Late in the race, he made his move.

Johnson escapes after Speed's missile hits the 48 car.

With ten laps to go in the race, Speed's Hendrick Motorsports teammate Jimmie Johnson had the lead but Speed closed the gap quickly.  The two drivers battled it out with Speed threatening but unable to get by the savvy Johnson.  When the white flag came out signaling the final lap, Speed dropped back about six car lengths and activated the rocket launcher.  As Johnson entered turn two, his #48 Lowe's Chevrolet was struck by a rocket, causing the rear end of the vehicle to burst into flame.  Johnson managed to escape the vehicle without injury, but his chance of victory had gone up in smoke.  Speed Racer took the checkered flag but was immediately disqualified and permanently banned from NASCAR.  Not only that, when Speed pulled into his pit stall after the race, he was met by Jimmie Johnson's entire pit crew who beat the shit out of him with an assortment of lug wrenches and power tools, removed both of Speed's nipples via air-powered impact wrench, and Johnson himself cracked Speed in the jaw with a rubber mallet normally used to repair dented fenders.  Later, in the emergency room, doctors removed eight lug nuts from Speed's rectal cavity.

He was blackballed by the entire racing community.

In 2010, ESPN featured Speed Racer on an installment of their investigative series "Outside the Lines".  Here is a partial transcript of Bob Ley's interview with the beleaguered driver: 

Bob Ley: Speed, what events led to the unfortunate incident at the 2005 Daytona 500?

Speed Racer: It was a lot of things, but mostly an inability to cope with failure.  I grew up in the shadow of my brother Rex, but in spite of that I had a lot of success early on.  NASCAR was supposed to be a chance for me to blossom, and really make a name for myself.  But I lost, I lost a lot.  Without the Mach Five, I was nothing.  It was hard to handle.

Bob Ley:  NASCAR is a big step for any driver, no one has success immediately.  Most young drivers take time to get acclimated to the higher level of competition.  It seemed like you and your team expected to win right away, and when you didn't, you resorted to -- for lack of a better word -- cheating.

Speed Racer: What, like Jimmie Johnson and his crew chief Chad Knaus never cheated?  Knaus got suspended for four races not too long ago for illegal modifications to the 48 car.  Everybody tries to get an edge.

Bob Ley:  Knaus was suspended because the 48 car didn't meet the specs in a post-race inspection.  That's a little bit different than having rocket launchers installed, wouldn't you say?[1]

Speed Racer: You say tomato . . .

In July 2010, Speed Racer moved to Houston and opened a car dealership called Racer Hyundai.  His wife Trixie works in sales, and Sparky manages the parts department.


[1] For the record, Chad Knaus himself never complained about Speed's tactics.  In fact, not too long after the 2005 Daytona incident, Knaus was seen trying to attach similar rocket launchers to the 48 car.  Owner Rick Hendrick talked him out of it.


Knucklehead's Blog-Off 2011 Round One voting continues through Wednesday, January 12th.  Click here for details, and cast your vote over in my sidebar.  Thanks!

d

What Ever Happened To . . . Thing One and Thing Two?

Mike and Mark Fitzmulligan were identical twins, born in Springfield, Illinois in 1952.  For the most part, the boys' childhood was unremarkable.  They were friendly young men and excellent students, adored by their teachers as well as their peers.  After school, the boys worked part time at the market owned by their parents Henry and Connie, where they stocked shelves, swept the floor, and bagged groceries.  The Fitzmulligan Twins were among the most popular and well-liked kids in all of Springfield, which makes what happened to them even more tragic.

One afternoon in April of 1967,  Mark was manning the checkstand when a suspicious-looking customer entered the market.

"Good morning, sir, welcome to Fitzmulligan's," said Mark.  "Can I help you find anything?"

"Why yes," answered  a six-foot three-inch black and white cat wearing only a red and white hat and bow tie.  "Where do you keep your tuna?"

"Here, let me show you," said Mark, stepping out from behind the counter.  "The canned fish are right over . . ."

That's as far as he got.  Without warning, the cat clubbed the unsuspecting twin over the head with an umbrella, dragged him out to the street, and tossed him into a large wooden box in the bed of a 1962 Ford pickup.  The cat closed the latch on the box trapping Mark inside.  That's when Mike came out of the store, trying to figure out why his brother was no longer working the cash register.

"Excuse me, sir," he said to the cat.  "Did you happen to see my brother?  He's about four-foot two and looks, well, exactly like me."

"Why yes, he's standing right there behind you.  I don't know how you missed him."

Mike fell for it -- hook, line and sinker.  When he turned around, the cat whacked him with the umbrella and loaded him in the box with his twin brother.  The cat climbed into the driver's seat and sped away.

For the next month, the felonious feline subjected the Fitzmulligan twins to various types of physical and mental torture.  He dressed them in identical red jumpsuits, dyed their hair a hideous shade of blue, and fed them nothing but brown sugar cinnamon Pop Tarts and Jim Beam whiskey.  To dehumanize the twins, the cat referred to them only as Thing One and Thing Two; if the boys dared to call each other by their given names, the umbrella came out and the beatings commenced.  The two Things spent most of their time drunk out of their minds, and the cat only let them out of their box when he wanted to vent his anger, which often included playing a game he called "Hit That Thing".

In addition to being a violent psychopath, the cat was a petty thief and he often took Thing One and Thing Two with him on jobs, one of which has been well documented.

It was a rainy Saturday morning.  Sally and Tommy McCrumm were left at home, just the two of them, while their mother Josie went to the store to do the weekly grocery shopping.  Mrs. McCrumm was a single mother, and while she would have preferred to hire a sitter to look after her children (Tommy, the older of the two, was only eleven), her budget didn't allow for such luxuries.  Most Saturdays this wasn't a problem, as the kids were fairly responsible, but on this particular afternoon some adult supervision would've saved an awful lot of heartache and paperwork later.

As Tommy would explain to the investigating officers, at around 1:25 PM something went "bump", and that bump made them jump.  They looked to see what caused the noise, and that's when they saw him.  They saw him step in on the mat.  They looked, and they saw him, the cat in the hat.  Tommy immediately told the furry intruder to leave the premises, as they weren't allowed to have visitors while their mother was out.  The cat, however, ignored the boy's pleas and began to destroy the family's possessions.  He started with a book, a teapot, a cake, a rake, and most troublesome of all, a glass bowl containing the family goldfish, Mr. Krinklebine.  The cat later claimed that he was merely trying to juggle these items to entertain the children, but Sally insisted, "the cat wasn't juggling at all, he just tossed everything up in the air.  The cake splattered, the coffee cup shattered, and if Tommy hadn't caught the fishbowl, Mr. K was a goner."

As the kids scrambled to clean up the mess, Mr. Krinklebine screamed at the cat, "Get out of here!  You should not be here when their mother is not!"  The cat did, in fact, leave the house at this point, only to return moments later carrying the wooden box containing two things formerly known as Mark and Mike Fitzmulligan.  As usual, the Things were completely hammered, and as a new twist, the cat had laced their morning Pop Tarts with a healthy dose of PCP.  When the cat opened the latch, Thing One and Thing Two shot out of the box like a couple of hyperactive weasels zapped with a cattle prod.  For the next hour and a half, Sally and Tommy McCrumm (and Mr. Krinklebine) experienced a level of chaos unmatched in the entire history of poorly-supervised pre-adolescents.  The cat and the Things flew kites in the house, played tennis, and caused a variety of damage to the floors, walls, and the overall structural integrity of the McCrumm house.  After the drugs wore off and the Things slowed down a bit, Tommy was able to capture them in a net and secure them back inside their box.

By this time, Mrs. McCrumm had finished her shopping and was about to return home.  In a rush, the cat haphazardly straightened up some of the wreckage (though the plumbing and electrical work would require extensive repairs by certified professionals which created a financial hardship for Mrs. McCrumm, since her homeowner's insurance did not cover damage caused by psychotic cats and drug-crazed teenage Things) and fled the scene.

Mrs. McCrumm asked Tommy, "What the hell was going on here?  This place looks like a bomb went off!"  Tommy was an honest kid, so he told his mom an accurate, if watered-down, version of the day's events.  Mrs. McCrumm immediately contacted the authorities, who questioned the children.  Mr. Krinklebine refused to talk to the officers without his attorney present.

Meanwhile, the cat drove away at a breakneck speed and when he turned the corner, the box containing the Things fell off the truck and smashed on the pavement.  Confused and injured, One and Two sat down on the curb where they were soon picked up by the police.  Using information the Things provided, Officer Marvin K. Mooney and his partner were able to track down the cat at his home and launch an investigation.

As it turns out, the hat-wearing cat was much more than a petty thief and vandal.  His real name was Skitch Morris, and the ransacking of the McCrumm home was but the latest (and least disturbing) of the cat's criminal activities.  An extensive search of Morris's home revealed drug paraphernalia, unregistered hand guns, and an extensive collection of underground kitty porn on his computer.  To top it off, buried in the backyard, crime scene investigators found the bodies of three Sneetches who had been brutally murdered a few months earlier.  Apparently, two of the Sneetches had been tortured prior to their deaths because while one Sneetch's belly had not been mutilated, the others had scars upon thars.

Skitch "The Cat in the Hat" Morris was convicted on all charges and sentenced to death.  His execution was carried out on February 7, 1978.

After six months in a drug rehabilitation facility and three more in a mental hospital, Mark and Mike Fitzmulligan returned home to their parents in the summer of 1969.  Though not quite the same as they were before their abduction, both boys were able to return to Geisel High School that September and graduated the following June.  Neither of the twins discussed the details of their ordeal ever again.

After high school, Mike went on to the University of Northern Michigan where he majored in criminal justice.  He served thirty-five years with the Lansing Police Department, and retired in 2009.  He currently lives in Bloomfield Hills, Michigan with his wife Mitzi.  They have three grown children and seven grandkids.

Mark, on the other hand, spent his time redefining the word "lazy".  Uninterested in attending college and unwilling to look for work, the disturbed twin never moved out of his parents' house.  He sat around all day in his underwear, eating potato chips, drinking root beer, Coca Cola, Dr. Pepper, and any other soft drinks he could find in the refrigerator.  One afternoon in early '71, while completely hopped on pop, Mark stole the keys to his father's '69 Chevy Impala and went for a drive.  He didn't make it very far.  While speeding on the Interstate, Mark lost control of the vehicle and collided with an eighteen-wheeler transporting a shipment of Spaghetti-os to Pittsburgh.  In a gruesome avalanche of twisted steel, burning rubber and neat round spaghetti you can eat with a spoon, the Chevy tumbled down an embankment killing Mark instantly.  The driver of the truck was uninjured, although he could never quite get the smell of tomato sauce out of his trailer.

At the funeral, Mike Fitzmulligan spoke fondly of his twin brother.

"I loved him, man, we were two brothers sharing one soul.  We looked out for each other, we took care of each other, we shared each other's secrets.  As most of you know, we went through a terrible time together, but we were able to put that behind us and move on with our lives.  At least, I thought we had, but it seems now like Marky needed me more than I thought.  I wish I'd been there for him at the end.  That's one Thing I'll never forgive myself for."


d

What Ever Happened To . . . Ranger Smith?

John Francis Smith served as chief forest ranger at Jellystone National Park from 1955 to 1981, earning a reputation as a friendly-yet-firm peacekeeper who did his best to ensure the safety of the thousands of tourists who visited Jellystone each year.  For the most part, Ranger Smith did his job perfectly.  In fact, in 1968, he was presented with the Servicewide Harry Yount Award for his "overall impact, record of accomplishment, and excellence in traditional ranger duties."  The Harry Yount is the most prestigious award a park ranger can receive, so Ranger Smith's co-workers celebrated their colleague's accomplishment with a lavish party and his award plaque was proudly displayed at Jellystone headquarters.

Starting in 1972, however, Smith's work performance started to suffer.  Not coincidentally, that's the same year that a hat-wearing brown bear named Yogi arrived in Jellystone.  Proclaiming himself to be "smarter than the average bear," Yogi, along with his perpetually-stoned accomplice Boo-Boo, continually ransacked campsites, hi-jacked RV's, and occasionally mauled random tourists simply to rob them of their "pick-a-nick baskets."  To be fair, Yogi's larcenous tendencies were not born of mischief, it was his all-consuming addiction to deviled eggs and potato salad that made him do it.

That's no excuse though.  He was still a criminal and as such, Ranger Smith took it upon himself to rid Jellystone of the dastardly bear and his guilty-by-association sidekick.

Initially, Smith's efforts were futile.  Not only was Yogi indeed smarter than the average bear, he was apparently smarter than the average award-winning park ranger.  No matter what tactics Ranger Smith tried, Yogi continued to separate campers from their picnic baskets and over a period of several years park attendance dropped dramatically.  I mean, really, who wants to go camping when there's a pretty good chance your deviled eggs are going to get swiped?  And of course, as tourism decreased, so did Jellystone's revenue and there was talk of massive cutbacks including the laying off of park rangers.

That's when Ranger Smith decided to take drastic measures to get rid of Yogi Bear once and for all.  So he contacted the Acme Company.

Acme was a corporation attempting to rebound from a troubled history.  In the mid-70's, the company lost a high-profile lawsuit (W. E. Coyote v. Acme Company, 1974) which cost Acme seventeen million dollars in punitive damages and led to a complete overhaul of their manufacturing guidelines and safety procedures.  According to Acme CEO Hannibal Blatch, "We at Acme maintain that our products have always been held to rigorous quality-control standards.  The lawsuit brought against us by Wile E. Coyote was frivolous at best, fraudulent at worst.  Seriously, what did the guy think was gonna happen when he attached an Acme Giant Spring to a friggin' boulder?  And our Acme Catapult comes with a very detailed operator's manual, instructing the customer to stand off to the side of the catapult after the loading process.  The reason for this is simple.  If you load an extremely heavy object into the catapult like, for example, another friggin' boulder, the device has a tendency to tip over backwards and crush anyone standing directly behind it.  Still, losing that lawsuit made all of us at Acme take a more serious approach to product quality, and we haven't had any complaints since."

Ranger John Smith was well aware of Acme's new-and-improved reputation, and when he placed an order for some highly sophisticated deadly devices, he was rewarded with state-of-the-art equipment.

The morning of July 15, 1981, the last day of Yogi Bear's life, literally started off with a bang.  Ranger Smith had set a picnic basket full of Acme Exploding Deviled Eggs and Acme Radioactive Potato Salad right next to the entrance to Yogi and Boo-Boo's cave.  When Yogi went outside for his morning stroll, he couldn't help but take the bait.

"Hey, Boo-Boo!  Take a look at this pick-a-nick basket.  Hey hey hee!"

"I don't know, Yogi," said Boo-Boo.  "Don't you think that's a little suspicious?  A picnic basket just sitting out here with nobody around?"

"Nonsense, Boob.  Never look a gift basket in the mouth."  He scarfed down a spoonful of potato salad and a half dozen deviled eggs, and with one horrific KABOOM, Yogi erupted like Old Faithful, if Old Faithful spouted blood, fur, and bear guts instead of water and steam.

Boo-Boo, though shaken, was physically unharmed.

Unfortunately, it didn't take long for the good folks at PETA to figure out what had happened, and when they did they were all over Ranger Smith like a fur coat on a Mafia mistress.  Succumbing to the media pressure, Jellystone Park's Board of Directors relieved the dishonored ranger of his duties, which is to say, they gave him the boot.

John Francis Smith packed up his belongings, sold his house in Casper, Wyoming and bought a lovely cottage on Martha's Vineyard where he is currently a best-selling novelist.  His most recent novel, Deader Than the Average Bear, tells the story of a Chicago football star who gets into trouble with the local crime syndicate.

Smith says he has no regrets about his past.

"Look, I'm not proud of what I did back at Jellystone," he said in a recent interview.  "I was frustrated, I lost my temper, things happened that I can't take back.  I'm enjoying my life as a writer, and I wouldn't trade it for anything.  I mean, hell, park rangers make about thirty grand a year.  My last book pulled in three million.  Who's laughing now, Yogi?"

Boo-Boo died in 1984 when a hunter blew his head off.  He is now a cozy rug in front of a fireplace in Aspen, Colorado.




s

What Ever Happened To . . . Ranger Smith? (Blogger Throwdown Edition)

As I mentioned a couple days ago, a blogger by the name of Reputation@Stake (from the blog The Stupid Bet) has challenged me to a Blogger Throwdown.  According to the Official Blogger Throwdown Rulebook, Fifth Edition, as the challenger I am permitted to select a topic for both myself and Mr. @Stake to write about.  Readers are then asked to determine which piece was written by me, and which was written by Mr. @Stake.  The idea, of course, is for Mr. @Stake to try to copy my style and "fool" my readership into thinking he's me.

Which calls into question his sanity, but what the hell, it should be fun.

So the topic I chose is another episode in my "What Ever Happened To . . . " series, this time focusing on Yogi Bear's arch nemesis, Ranger John Smith.  The two pieces will be labeled "Version A" and "Version B", all you have to do is figure out who wrote what and post your opinion in the comment section.  The truth will be revealed a few days after the initial posting.  Have fun!


WHAT EVER HAPPENED TO . . . Ranger Smith?  (VERSION A)

The problems for Ranger Smith started long before he was a Park Ranger chasing two nicely dressed bears away from pick-i-nick baskets. Before ever meeting Yogi, he’d struggled with the rejection of being passed over for the part of The Lone Ranger. His mood lightened momentarily when he got the part on The Yogi Bear Show, but darkened just as quickly when he learned that the show wouldn’t be renamed after him, nor would he be the lead character. In fact, learning that even someone with a name like Boo Boo, would get higher billing than him, is what first drove him to binge drinking.

“On camera it may have been difficult to see,” says Cindy Bear, Yogi’s on-screen love interest, “but most of the time he was as wasted as a homeless bartender.”

But Cindy was also part of the trouble. Ranger Smith had a not-so-secret crush on Cindy, and constantly badgered the script writers to put in a passionate make-out scene between he and Cindy. They said America wasn’t ready for an inter-species couple yet, at least not until HBO became available. But Cindy did not feel the same way about him, yet she would often try to make him feel better by buying him a whiskey with a beer chaser.

Jellystone Park could be a tough place to work. Running in a straight line, and passing the same tree twenty times, can be very disorienting. Eventually Smitty (as squirrels affectionately called him) decided to call it quits. This decision came immediately after hearing that the show had been canceled, but he still felt good about his decision.

But the demand for rangers in Hollywood is somewhat low, so he was forced to look for income in less reputable places. And that’s what led him into the seedy underground world of RPS (Rock, Paper, Scissors). Competitions were fierce, and could turn violent if competitors brought real scissors or rocks. But Smitty was a natural, and he dreamed of making it into the Professional RPS League.

He hoped that going pro might impress Cindy.

That dream finally became a reality in January of 1993. Unfortunately Cindy was hibernating at the time, so Smitty had to wait until Spring to tell her. But before he could, a couple of things happened. A new show was debuting, called, “Power Rangers.” Ranger Smith felt this was his big chance to break back into show business. And since ESPN refused to televise RPS Championships, he saw that it might be his only chance to be on screen again.

So he retired from the RPS League and headed back to Hollywood.

Unfortunately he was not the type of ranger they were looking for. He tried to return to RPS, but the league was dwindling, unable to compete with the new flashier sport, “Chain, Leather, Knives.”

So Ranger Smith decided it was time to go after Cindy, once and for all. It had been a long winter, and she was still unconscious, but he crawled into her cave anyway. Unfortunately her paws were wrapped around another bear, who was wearing a much better tie than Smitty had ever worn.

With this final failure, Ranger Smith completely lost it. He started running around naked in the National Park, living under boulders or in hollow logs, and barking at the moon. He has become somewhat of an urban legend, and visitors come to the park hoping to catch a rare glimpse of the mad man of the woods. But the only time he is really seen anymore, is when he comes out to steal people’s pick-i-nick baskets.

WHAT EVER HAPPENED TO . . . Ranger Smith?  (VERSION B)

John Francis Smith served as chief forest ranger at Jellystone National Park from 1955 to 1981, earning a reputation as a friendly-yet-firm peacekeeper who did his best to ensure the safety of the thousands of tourists who visited Jellystone each year.  For the most part, Ranger Smith did his job perfectly.  In fact, in 1968, he was presented with the Servicewide Harry Yount Award for his "overall impact, record of accomplishment, and excellence in traditional ranger duties."  The Harry Yount is the most prestigious award a park ranger can receive, so this was quite the big deal for everyone at Jellystone.  His fellow rangers threw a gala celebration in Ranger Smith's honor, and his Harry Yount plaque was displayed at park headquarters.

Starting in 1972, however, Smith's work performance started to suffer.  Not coincidentally, that's the same year that a hat-wearing brown bear named Yogi arrived in Jellystone.  Proclaiming himself to be "smarter than the average bear," Yogi, along with his accomplice Boo-Boo, continually ransacked campsites, hi-jacked RV's, and occasionally mauled random tourists simply to rob them of their "pick-a-nick baskets."  To be fair, Yogi's larcenous tendencies were not born of mischief, it was his all-consuming addiction to deviled eggs and potato salad that made him do it.

That's no excuse though.  He was still a criminal and as such, Ranger Smith took it upon himself to rid Jellystone of the dastardly bear and his guilty-by-association sidekick.

Initially, Smith's efforts were futile.  Not only was Yogi indeed smarter than the average bear, he was apparently smarter than the average Harry Yount Award-winning park ranger.  No matter what tactics Ranger Smith tried, Yogi continued to separate campers from their picnic baskets and over a period of several years park attendance dropped dramatically.  I mean, really, who wants to go camping when there's a pretty good chance your deviled eggs are going to get swiped?  And of course, as tourism decreased, so did Jellystone's revenue and there was talk of massive cutbacks including the laying off of park rangers.

That's when Ranger Smith decided to take drastic measures to get rid of Yogi Bear once and for all.  So he contacted the Acme Company.

Acme was a corporation attempting to rebound from a troubled history.  In the mid-70's, the company lost a high-profile lawsuit (Coyote v. Acme, US District Court, Southwestern District of Arizona, 1974) which cost Acme seventeen million dollars in punitive damages and led to a complete overhaul of their manufacturing guidelines and safety procedures.  As a result, when Ranger John Smith placed an order for some highly sophisticated deadly devices, he was rewarded with state-of-the-art equipment.

The morning of July 15, 1981, the last day of Yogi Bear's life, literally started off with a bang.  Ranger Smith had set a picnic basket full of Acme Exploding Deviled Eggs and Acme Radioactive Potato Salad right next to the entrance to Yogi and Boo-Boo's cave.  When Yogi went outside for his morning stroll, he couldn't help but take the bait.

"Hey, Boo-Boo!  Take a look at this pick-a-nick basket.  Hey hey hee!"

"I don't know, Yogi," said Boo-Boo.  "Don't you think that's a little suspicious?  A picnic basket just sitting out here with nobody around?"

"Nonsense, Boob.  Never look a gift basket in the mouth."  He scarfed down a spoonful of potato salad and a half dozen deviled eggs, and with one horrific KABOOM, Yogi erupted like Old Faithful, if Old Faithful spouted blood, fur, and bear guts instead of water and steam.

Boo-Boo, though shaken, was physically unharmed.

Unfortunately, it didn't take long for the good folks at PETA to figure out what had happened, and when they did they were all over Ranger Smith like a fur coat on a Mafia mistress.  Succumbing to the media pressure, Jellystone Park's Board of Directors relieved the dishonored ranger of his duties, which is to say, they gave him the boot.

John Francis Smith packed up his belongings, sold his house in Casper, Wyoming and bought a lovely cottage on Martha's Vineyard where he is currently a best-selling novelist.  His most recent novel, Deader Than the Average Bear, tells the story of a Chicago football star who gets into trouble with the local crime syndicate.

Smith says he has no regrets about his past.

"Look, I'm not proud of what I did back at Jellystone," he said in a recent interview.  "I was frustrated, I lost my temper, things happened that I can't take back.  I'm enjoying my life as a writer, and I wouldn't trade it for anything.  I mean, hell, park rangers make about thirty grand a year.  My last book pulled in three million.  Who's laughing now, Yogi?"

Boo-Boo died in 1984 when a hunter blew his head off.  He is now a cozy rug in front of a fireplace in Aspen, Colorado.




s

What Ever Happened To . . . The Grinch?

Stanley "The Grinch" Wadsworth spent the first thirty or so years of his life terrorizing Whoville from his decrepit cave atop Mount Crumpet, in the state of Who Hampshire.  Most of the time, he merely played innocent pranks on the Whos, like removing all the city's stop signs or cutting all the Who-television cables.  Other times, though, when he was in a particularly Grinchy mood, he became much more dastardly and, dare I say, psychotic.  The best example of this is the incident in 1969 when the Grinch poisoned the Whoville water supply, resulting in 12 Who-deaths.

His most well-documented attack on the Whos, though, came on Christmas Eve, 1971 when he committed a series of home-invasion robberies.  The Grinch had a long-standing hatred of the Whos and their propensity for celebrating the Christmas season by singing obnoxious Who-carols and festooning their entire village with tinsel, wreaths, mistletoe, and other traditional Christmas paraphernalia.  It should be noted, however, that not all Whos participated in this holiday cheer-fest.  The Who Jews, for example, did not celebrate Christmas at all.  Instead, they would light their menorahs and exchange gifts on the eight nights of Who-nukkah.

It was on that fateful Christmas Eve that the Grinch met his future wife, Cindy Lou Who.  Dressed as Santa Claus, the Grinch broke into the home of Cindy Lou (a cute little Who, who was no more than two) and attempted to steal the family's presents as well as their Christmas tree.  Cindy Lou caught him in the act, but The Grinch fed the gullible Who-kid a line of bullshit about taking the tree back to his workshop to fix a light that had burned out.  The naive Cindy Lou bought his story, and the Grinch went on about his Grinchly business.

As the story goes, the Whos barely even noticed that their homes had been ransacked and their presents and decorations were gone.  They simply joined hands in the village square and continued with the Holiday Whoo-pla.   The Grinch couldn't believe it.  What was the use of being a despicable bastard if your victims didn't get all freaked out about your evildoing?  Upon hearing the Whos break into a rousing rendition of the holiday classic "Wah Who Doray, Wah Who Doray, Welcome Christmas Christmas Day," he realized that  maybe, just maybe, Christmas was about more than just presents, it was about family, and friends, and the Who-spirit.

Who-nukkah, however, still sucked.

After the holiday bonding with the Whos, the Grinch's heart grew three sizes and he became a model citizen in Whoville (although he kept his residence on Mount Crumpet, because there's not much of a real estate market for decrepit old caves).  He was elected to the Whoville City Council, he opened a small "handyman" shop, and he and his dog Max could be found at many Whoville parties and events.  Finally, in 1989, he married 21-year old Cindy Lou Who, the girl who he'd tricked on that Christmas Eve long ago.

The marriage was not well-received by the Who-population as a whole, primarily because of the age difference between the bride and groom.  The Grinch was now pushing fifty, and many Whos spoke out against the so-called "cradle robbery."

"Cindy Lou was always a sweet girl, but she was incredibly naive," said her brother Yuno Who.  "When the Grinch softened up that Christmas, she started to worship the guy.  Yeah, he seemed to be pretty nice after all that, but everyone knew he had that dark side.  No one can change THAT much, and I never really forgave him for swiping our family's Who-Hash and Whoberry pie.   Cindy Lou, though, the older she got the more she adored him.  I tried to tell her that he was too old for her, that she didn't know what she was getting herself into, but it was no use. She was determined to marry the guy."

After a wonderful honeymoon on the island of Oa-who, the Grinch and Cindy Lou were happy for awhile, but before long the difference in their ages proved to be an impossible obstacle to overcome.  The Grinch did not age gracefully, and the youthful and exuberant Cindy Lou began to crave excitement.  One night, while working her waitressing shift at Who-ters, she met a 22-year old surfing champion named Troy Watt.  One thing led to another, and Cindy Lou started seeing Watt on a regular basis.  It didn't take long for the Grinch to become suspicious.

"So, where have you been?" he asked one night, as Cindy Lou arrived home three hours after her shift ended.

"I can't hide this from you anymore," she said, refusing to make eye contact.  "I'm having an affair."

"WHAT?!?"

This stunned Cindy Lou.  "Oh Stanley.  How did you know?"

"Know about what?"

"Yeah, him.  That's the guy I've been seeing."

"Who?"

"No, it's not a Who.  It's a regular human."

"What is?"

"Yes.  Watt is a human."

The Grinch was befuddled.  "Look, all I'm asking is what's the name of this guy you're sleeping with."

"That's right.  Watt is his name."  Cindy Lou started crying.

"Why are you asking ME?  How the hell would I know?"

"I'm not asking you, I'm telling you.  Watt is the name of the guy I'm sleeping with."

"I'm asking YOU!  What's his name?"

"That IS the guy's name!"

"What is?"

"Yes."

"So let me ask one more time, you're sleeping with who?"

"No, Watt is not a Who."

"Isn't he?"

"Hee?  Wait, why are you bringing him up?  Hee is just a friend."  It was true.  Jimmy Hee was a Who who Cindy Lou knew, and their close friendship grew from the time they were two.  They were life-long pals, more like brother and sister, really.

"Who is just a friend?"

"Hee is.  And yes, Hee is a Who," said Cindy Lou.

"Okay, so now you're saying that he's just a friend?"

"Hee has always been a friend."

"Then what's the name of the guy you're banging?"

"Right.  I'm sleeping with Watt and Hee's just a friend."

The Grinch could feel the blood boiling in his veins.  "He's not just a friend if you're SLEEPING WITH HIM, DAMMIT!"

"Hee's not the one I'm sleeping with, Watt is!"

"WHAT?"

"Right."

"What's his name?  The guy you're nailing?"

"Exactly," said Cindy Lou, calming down a bit.  "Now you've got it.  I'm glad that's off my chest."

"I DON'T EVEN KNOW WHAT WE'RE TALKING ABOUT!"

"I'm having an affair, I just told you."

"With . . . who?"

"No!  With Watt!  The Who, Hee, is just a friend!"

"Okay," said the Grinch, exasperated.  "Let's start this again.  Tell me the name of the guy you're sleeping with."

"Watt."

"TELL ME THE NAME OF THE GUY . . . "

"That's his name!"

"What's his name?"

"Yes."

"Let's try it this way," said the Grinch.  "Suppose one night I come home early from work and catch you in the act.  I bust through the bedroom door and I see you doing . . . what?"

"Now that's the first thing you've said right."

"I don't know what the hell I'm talking about.  You're doing what?"

"Yes, dear, I'm doing Watt.  Sometimes Watt does it to me."

"What does it to you?"

"Sure.  And, if I may say so, he does it pretty damn well."

"Fine, forget it then bitch, don't tell me.  I don't give a shit who the bastard is.  We're finished, Cindy Lou 'Ho!  Get the hell out of my cave!"

Wisely, she did just that.  That was the last she or any of the Whos heard of the Grinch.

For about a month and a half.

Losing his dear Cindy Lou caused the Grinch's heart to not only return to its original diminutive size, but to shrink one size smaller to the point that it resembled a shriveled up Monukka raisin and, even more significantly, he lost his fucking mind.  One night, he and his dog Max were sitting in the cave doing shots of Who-quila when the Grinch started singing to himself.

"Wah Who, Doray, Wah Who Doray Cindy Lou's a fucking whore.
Wah Who Doray, Wah Who Floray, kill some Whos and kill some more."

Okay, so he was no Cole Porter.

The Grinch and Max headed down to Whoville, where they wandered around in smoldering rage.  The Grinch was smoldering, that is. Max, on the other hand, really didn't give a damn.  He was about 231 in dog years by this point and it was all he could do to not shit on the sidewalk (though the Grinch would definitely have been okay with that sort of thing, especially on the streets of fucking Whoville).

As they passed the corner of  Horton Street and Lorax Blvd., the Grinch noticed a young couple smoking and giggling on the patio of a Who-kah Bar.  It was Cindy Lou and Jimmy "Just a Friend" Hee!  Without a word, the Grinch pulled out a Seuss and Wesson nine-millimeter semi-automatic and popped Jimmy in the back of the head.  Hee died instantly, while Max lost control of his bowels.  Cindy Lou just looked at her ex-husband and cried, "Why, Stanley, why?  Why did you murder my friend Jimmy?  Why?"

He shot her in the chest.

Stan "The Grinch" Wadsworth was convicted of multiple Who-icide and sentenced to life in prison.  Compared to his cave on Mount Crumpet, this was an upgrade in lifestyle.  He died in 2001 of natural causes, which is to say, another inmate shanked him.

Max is currently the mascot of the Whoville Fire Department.
d


s

What Ever Happened To . . . The Little Engine That Could?

It was a beautiful morning in Toyland.  The dolls were singing, the teddy bears were smiling, and the Slinkies . . . well, the Slinkies weren't doing much of anything because for the most part they're a bunch of lazy bastards.  Meanwhile, on the other side of Mount Whiteman, hundreds of good little boys and girls (and a couple of obnoxious brats whose sense of entitlement was truly disgusting) eagerly awaited the arrival of toys and goodies scheduled for that afternoon.

The train was loaded and ready to go.  As it pulled away from the station, however, Ellsbury the Engine sustained an injury which caused him to grind to a halt.

"Hey, Ellsbury, what the hell's going on up there?" hollered Raggedy Andy.  He was an impatient asshole to begin with, and since Raggedy Ann had gone over the mountain a week earlier, he'd been anticipating their reunion with lust in his nether regions.  He was going to loosen her stitching tonight, that was for damn sure.

"I think I snapped a connecting rod!" cried Ellsbury.  "I can't move!"

"Well shit," said Rollo the Clown, snuffing out a Marlboro on the sole of his size 38 Chuck Taylor sneaker.  "Someone get this worthless sack of nuts and bolts off the track while I flag down another engine to take us over the mountain."

A few minutes later, a passenger engine pulled up.

"Hey, bro, how about giving us a lift over the mountain?" asked Rollo.  "Ellsbury crapped out before we even got fifty yards so we're pretty much screwed."

"Piss off, clown, I only pull passenger cars.  You and G.I. Joe can sit out here all night for all I care."

As the passenger engine sped away, Rollo gave him the finger.

A rough-looking freight engine came by next.  Rollo decided to try a more diplomatic approach this time.  "Why, hello there, Mr. Freight Engine.  We seem to be in a bit of a pickle here, as you can see.  Would you mind hooking up to our train here and taking us over the mountain?  We'd be ever so grateful."

"Aaaaaaaaaah!" screamed the freight engine.  Like 99% of the world's population, he was scared to death of clowns because they're friggin' creepy, so he chugged off without looking back.

"I hate it when that happens," muttered Rollo, lighting up another cigarette.  Off in the distance, he noticed a small-but-enthusiastic-looking engine heading their way.  It was Phillip, the train yard rookie.  With all the other engines dispatched to their usual duties, Phillip was the toys' last hope.  Rollo couldn't risk blowing this one.

"Hey, Barbie!" he yelled.  "Get your ass out here!"  He quickly briefed her on the situation.

"No problem, Rollo," said Barbie.  "I'll take care of it."  She adjusted her outfit into "full slut" mode, and stood by the tracks.  Phillip went from 50 MPH to a dead stop in about half a second, sparks spraying from his wheels.

"How YOU doin'?" he said.

Barbie laid it on thick.  "We're in so much trouble," she sobbed.  "Our engine, who isn't nearly as strong or as good-looking as you, he broke down and now we can't get over the mountain.  The good boys and girls won't be getting any toys for a long time if we can't get there.  Do you think you could help us?"

"I think I can," he said, half to himself.

"Oh, I'm SURE you can," purred Barbie.  "You're the best."

Phillip never would have admitted it, especially not to Barbie, but he wasn't sure he could pull this one off.  He was the new engine in town and had never gone over the mountain before, not even alone.  With a fully-loaded train of cargo, Phillip was afraid his crankshaft had made a bet his power supply couldn't cover.  Well, no turning back now, he'd have to give it his best shot.

And faster than you can say "all aboard," they were off.

Phillip kept chanting his confidence-building mantra all the way up the mountain.  "I think I can, I think I can, I think I can . . . "  It wasn't easy, but with maximum effort (and sultry encouragement from STD Barbie, who was painting her nails in the engineer's seat), he made it to the top.  At the summit, he beamed with pride and all the way down he boasted, "I thought I could, I thought I could, I thought I could."  Phillip had saved the day and when he pulled into the station, the toys disembarked and showed their appreciation by hosing him off and giving him a good scrub.  Barbie polished his smoke stack.

For the next several months, Phillip was the "Big Engine in Train Yard."  He was well-liked by the other locomotives, and they'd taken to calling him "The Little Engine That Could".  His confidence was sky-high, as he was assigned to all the important shipments in a five-county region.  But after a while, Phillip's ego spun out of control and he started acting like he was "all that and a boxcar full of iPads."  That's when the steel-toed boot of reality kicked him square in the ball bearings.

One morning, Phillip was hooked up to fifty cars loaded with brand-new Porsches.  This was, by far, the heaviest and most expensive shipment he'd ever been responsible for. 

"You up for this one, Phil?" asked the train yard captain.

"I think I can, Joe.  I think I can."

"Well, that's good enough for me," replied Joe.

As it turned out, Phillip was wrong.  About halfway up the mountain, he started slowing down.  "I hope I can, I hope I can, I hope I can . . . "

Two minutes later, as he was being dragged backwards down the hill, his screams became even less confident.  "Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, OH SHIT!  OH SHIT!  OH SHIT!"

The ensuing damage was reminiscent of Hurricane Katrina if, instead of wind and rain, Katrina had pelted the Gulf region with a torrent of train parts and mangled sports cars.  Carreras burst into flame, Boxsters bounced down the hillside, Phillip himself was pitched into a cow pasture where he landed at the feet of a startled Holstein.

When he returned to the train yard, he was no longer a hero.  He was a laughing stock.

"Hey, look!  Here comes The Cocky Engine That Couldn't!"

"I think he sucks, I think he sucks, I think he sucks!"

Locomotives can be a bunch of assholes when they put their minds to it.

After the Porsche Incident, Phillip's confidence was shaken.  He became irritable, and refused to pull any load that was more than a couple flatcars, preferring instead to transport cargo that was inexpensive and had limited desirability.  Things like throw pillows, lawn furniture, DVD's of "The Office".  Joe the Train Yard Captain grew frustrated with his defiance.

"Come on, Phil," said Joe one day.  "Snap out of it.  Today's run is just a few oil tankers, it'll be easy."

"Leave me the hell alone, Joe.  I'm not going to do it."

"What, are you saying you can't?"

"No.  I think I can.  But I don't want to and you can't make me."

That's how he came to be known as "The Oppositional-Defiant Engine That Wouldn't".

No one has much use for a freight engine with a shitty attitude, so the train company had no choice but to sell Phillip to a local zoo where he spent the rest of his days giving kiddie rides to snot-nosed children eating cotton candy.  Then, in July 2005, a circus act came to town to give a special performance at the very zoo where Phillip worked.  That's when the engine noticed an old friend approaching.

"Rollo, how the hell are you?" asked Phillip.

"Dude, what the fuck?" replied the clown.  "How'd you end up doing this shit?"

Phillip told him the story.

"Damn," said Rollo.  "Isn't this a little humiliating?  You look like a beaten-down pile of garbage.  Have some pride, man, you're better than this."

"You know, I used to feel that way, but the hell with it," said Phillip.  "Right now, I'm just The Apathetic Engine That Doesn't Give a Damn."

Phillip the Freight Engine broke down for good in 2008.  All of his metal parts were recycled, and no one knows for sure what became of him.  But his old friend Rollo has a theory:

"I think he's cans.  I think he's cans.  I think he's cans."[1]


[1]  I apologize.  That's just awful.




d

What Ever Happened To . . . Ferris Bueller?

Charming Illinois native Ferris Bueller graduated from Shermer High School in 1986, boasting a 3.65 GPA despite a less-than-stellar attendance record.  After high school, Ferris married his longtime girlfriend Sloane Peterson-Bueller, and the couple attended Purdue University where Sloane majored in art history while Ferris studied political science.  Ferris's college career came to an abrupt halt in 1988, when he was expelled by University President Steven C. Beering for "an attendance pattern that could best be described as apathetic."  When informed of his expulsion, a stunned Bueller said, "I was afraid this might happen.  Apparently the computer network at Purdue is a bit tougher to hack than the one at Shermer High."

Added President Beering:  "And I'm no Ed Rooney."

Always one to land on his feet, Bueller returned to his hometown of Shermer in 1990, where he was elected to the Shermer Unified School District's Board of Trustees.  Though inexperienced, Bueller's engaging personality and charm enabled him to manipulate the other four board members, and as their first order of business, terminated the contract of SHS Principal Rooney and added ten additional student holidays to the school calendar.  While this decision made him the hero of Shermer's teenage population, parents eventually saw him for the slacker he was.  He lost his bid for re-election in 1994 to a retired economics teacher[1].

Unemployed, and with a child on the way, Bueller became desperate.  In 1995, he located his estranged friend Cameron Frye, who had become a successful pediatrician in Chicago.

"What are you doing here, Ferris?" asked Dr. Frye.

"Just came to see how you're doing, buddy.  Let me help you with that throat culture."

"I don't think so, Ferris.  If you screw up I could lose my license.  Why don't you wait in the lobby and I'll take you to lunch?"

"C'mon, Cameron, let me see that blood pressure thing --"

"It's a sphygmomanometer, Ferris."

"Whatever.  Let me see it."

"No."

"Hey, I have an even better idea," said Ferris.  "How about you hire me to help out around here permanently?"

"This is a doctor's office, not Dairy Queen.  I can't just hire you as a medical assistant."

Bueller left in a huff, saying that he'd call Cameron the next day.

Later that night, sitting at the cherrywood desk in his home office, Dr. Frye began to have second thoughts.  "He'll keep calling me, telling me to give him a job.  He'll make me feel guilty. This is ridiculous.  I'll do it.  I'll do it.  Shit."

By the next afternoon, Dr. Frye had a partner.

Though completely unqualified, "Dr." Bueller developed a knack for working with children, and before long, Dr. Bueller and Dr. Frye's medical practice was booming.  According to Jennifer Anderson, "Dr. Bueller was wonderful with my son.  I remember one morning when Brandon woke up complaining of a variety of symptoms.  I just knew he was faking, trying to get out of the math test that he was supposed to take that day.  I figured I'd call his bluff, so I picked up the phone and gave Dr. Bueller a call.  He was almost psychic, rattling off Brandon's symptoms without me telling him.  Stomach cramps.  Clammy hands.  He recommended that I keep Brandon home from school, not just that day, but for the rest of the week."

Inspired, Ferris went back to school and earned a medical degree from Indiana University in 2003.

Ferris Bueller divorced Sloane in 2004, leaving her with their children Ferris Jr. and Ashley.  He remarried in 2007, and currently resides with his wife Carrie Bradshaw, a successful New York City writer.

He is a very successful pediatrician in Manhattan, and treats over 2,500 children per year.  Kids and parents adore him.

Dr. Cameron Frye is his receptionist.



[1] You know, the one played by Ben Stein.


d

What Ever Happened To . . . Little Red Riding Hood?

Jessica Hood was a child of the streets.  They were dirt streets, since she lived in the forest, but these mean streets couldn't have been any meaner if they'd been located in the Bedford-Stuyvesant section of New York City.  From the time she was just a baby, Jessica lived on the periphery of the criminal underworld.  Her father Robin was a local outlaw, burglarizing the homes of the upper class citizens in and around Nottingham County.  Robin Hood claimed he was a benevolent crusader for the underprivileged, simply "robbing from the rich to give to the poor," but that didn't fly with his victims or the local sheriff.  Mr. Hood was finally apprehended in 1983, convicted on 129 counts of burglary, and sentenced to death by hanging.  The sentence was carried out publicly in early 1984.

But back to Jessica.  Devastated by her father's death and unable to get along with her mother Marian who upon being widowed became a raging alcoholic and, to be honest, a bit of a whore, Jessica spent a lot of time at her grandmother's house.  Most mornings, Jessica could be seen pedaling her bicycle through the woods toting a basket of goodies, sporting her trademark crimson bonnet and cape.  This snappy outfit earned her the nickname "Little Red Riding Hood."

One morning in April of 1986, while en route to Granny's, Little Red Riding Hood was confronted by Oliver James Wolfe, or as he was known in law enforcement circles, The Big Bad Wolfe.  Through an amazing zoological coincidence, Mr. Wolfe was in fact an actual wolf and as such, he approached the sprightly Miss Hood with bad intentions in his heart.  Seeking at minimum to pilfer the girl's basket of goodies, which contained a dozen snickerdoodles, three cake donuts, a two-liter bottle of Diet Dr. Pepper and a strudel, Wolfe bared his teeth and snarled, "Hey, little girl, what's in the basket?"

To which young Jessica replied, "Ah, just some stuff for my grandmother.  I'm in kind of a hurry, though, so if you'll get out of my way, maybe I'll bring you a few cookies if there are any left over, 'kay?"

Wolfe was somewhat taken aback by Jessica's cool demeanor in the face of his intimidation tactics (not to mention her offer of leftover snickerdoodles), so he mumbled something like, "Um, okay, sure.  I'll be waiting over by the lake if you happen to come by later."  Jessica smiled kindly and pedaled off to Granny's.

A short while later, while sitting by the lake skipping stones, Wolfe was struck with a "what the hell just happened here?" moment.  Regaining his sense of entitlement and overwhelming thirst for the kill, he took off down the road and headed for the cottage of Darla Hood, former co-star of The Little Rascals [1] and Jessica Hood's grandmother.

Wolfe managed to arrive at Granny's before Jessica showed up, locked the old woman in the basement [2], threw on a nightgown and cap, and curled up in the bed.  When Jessica arrived, she entered the bedroom and noticed a certain inconsistency in the eyes, ears, and teeth of what she was slowly beginning to realize was an impostor.  A wolf in senior citizen's clothing, if you will.

Jessica managed to escape and contact the Nottingham County Sheriff who, after dragging his feet a bit when he found out the victim was related to his lifelong nemesis Robin Hood, arrested Wolfe on charges of trespassing and kidnapping.  Oliver James Wolfe was convicted and served two years in county prison. [3]

In 2002, at the age of 23, Jessica Hood opened a bakery called "Hood's Goodies" and for a while, her business thrived. She was known for her business savvy and firm control over her employees. As she told Good Housekeeping magazine in 2003, "Quality control and customer service are essential in the goodie industry.  Customers expect fresh, delicious baked goods served with a smile.  Every one of my employees is expected to maintain a high standard of professionalism and if they don't, well, they won't last long.  Just last year I had to fire the head of my pastry department for continually sticking his thumbs in the pies, if you can believe that.  There's just no room for that kind of behavior at Hood's Goodies."

The employee in question, Mr. Jack Horner, could not be reached for comment.

Despite the popularity and financial success of Hood's Goodies, Jessica became the subject of controversy in 2005. On September 23 of that year, the five-year old Dumpty Quintuplets (Bumpty, Frumpty, Lumpty, Mumpty, and Phil) stopped by the bakery to grab a few cupcakes to snack on before school.  Running low on supplies and behind schedule for a birthday cake order, the stressed-out Jessica cracked the five youngsters over the head, disemboweled them, and used their innards as ingredients in the cake batter. In a frenzy, Jessica beat them and whipped them and marked them with a B, and tossed them in the oven with no remorse whatsoever.

The distraught father of the quintuplets, who chooses to remain anonymous, released a statement through the family's attorney:

"My wife and I are devastated by the murder of our five children. What kind of a world do we live in, if kids can't go into a bakery without being scrambled to death? We're asking the citizens of Nottingham County to join us in the fight to protect children everywhere by making a donation to our foundation Five Good Eggs, which we've established in memory of our wonderful quintuplets."

Jessica "Red Riding" Hood was convicted of assault and bakery, and is currently serving a life sentence in Nottingham County Prison. She's occupying cell number B213 which, on a sentimental note, was daddy's old room.


 [1] Okay, Darla Hood died in 1979 at the age of 47, which kills my timeline, but you must admit you didn't see that one coming. 

[2] Some history books claim that Wolfe actually murdered and consumed Red Riding Hood's grandmother, but that account is pure fiction. As Wolfe would testify during the trial (Nottingham County. v. Wolfe, 1988) "I' ain't never ate a human in my life. Pigs, chickens, the occasional sheep?  Hell yeah, that's the food chain and I ain't gonna apologize for it.  But eat a human?  Man, you gotta be kiddin' me."

[3] A few years after his release, Oliver James Wolfe was back in court facing civil charges of destruction of property (Winchester L. Pigg, et.al. v. Oliver James Wolfe, 1992).  He lost, and was ordered to pay three million dollars in damages.  Since then, he's turned over a new leaf and is on the straight and narrow.  No one is afraid of him.


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