EndTimeWorks: #
The Australians have accomplished teleportation. You know they'll use kangaroos to test it. They'll teleport a kangaroo to Tom Cruise's workout room and it will punch him in the face.
Australian ruffians will run amok, materializing in women's locker rooms to wag their tongues and yell "struth!"
The fists of world leaders, raised to declare war on teleportation, will suddenly be holding cans of Fosters. They will sigh and look at the camera, then twist their mouths into perturbed little knots, as safari hats with chin straps appear on their heads.
No one will be safe.
Mel Gibson and The Vines will be criticized for not speaking out. They'll be detained indefinitely, then rescued by Yahoo Serious, who will dance a bandy-legged jig, all the while maintaining his Buster Keaton stoicism. The sound bite will be played incessantly.
As Saturday night live parodies the Yahoo serious incident, Jimmy Fallon will disappear into thin air, only to be replaced by a startled Mike Myers in bath-robe and socks. The Prime Minister of Australia will deny responsibility, and Jimmy Fallon will never be seen again.
Months later, a group of Tasmanian school children will admit, (to Ashleigh Banfield disguised as an Aborigine, speaking in clicks and whistles that she learned on the flight over) that they and many of their teachers did not find Jimmy Fallon funny in any way. "We thought he was a dick," they'll say. Ashleigh will make clucking noises and the children will stare at her.
George Bush will meet with the Australian Prime Minister, and will guffaw and slap him on the back after learning that baby kangaroos are called Joeys. "That's just about the dumbest dang thing I ever heard."
America will invade Iraq.
Both of The Proclaimers, beamed in to assassinate him, will accidentally fuse with Osama Bin Laden. No one will notice.
And it just goes on and on like that. Another obnoxious throwaway cartoon bit.
I think I want to learn how to fix cars.
It's the jumpsuit. I need to spend a portion of my life in a jumpsuit.
My dad knows everything there is to know about cars (American, pre 1990.) I used to climb up and peer under the hood to help him work on the Chevy, my feet dangling.
After about ten minutes, this would happen:
"Can you go down in the basement and get me the socket wrench attachments? I need a 3/8 inch"
I would walk down into the basement and scan the work bench, my six year old idea of a socket wrench being something about three feet long with cogs and a motor.
Then, back outside, I'd quietly ask, "What does it look like?"
He would angrily throw a distributor cap, or hit his head on the hood and say "You wouldn't be able to find your ass if it wasn't attached," then stomp into the house to find the socket wrench.
One time, I considered my ass, and how it was always there no matter what. He was right. If it hadn't been attached, I probably wouldn't have been able to find it.
I left and threw a rope over a high limb in the front yard, tied one end to my Green Machine and hoisted it into the sky over and over again.
So, instead of learning how to change spark plugs, I was perfecting this bizarre and useless bit of performance art.
And, of course the garbage men would ride by on the side of their truck, clad in jump suits and bandannas, obviously living life to its fullest, obviously bound for genuine glory.
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