It’s been a while since I gave anything away to you, my
obsessed faithful stalkers readers. Way back in the good ol’ days of blogging, I used to have contests every week, where I would test your knowledge and ability to read my mind with quotes and references to TV shows, movies, and music.
Today, though, people don’t want to think or write out answers. They want the easy way out. They want to just leave a generic comment and be in the running for an awesome product. Should I give the people what they want?
Resoundingly, I say “Fuck no”!
As you know, I have put together a calendar that I am selling for the low price of $11.99, which includes shipping and a personal note/drawing on the calendar, with all proceeds going to a local animal charity. I’m really hoping to raise a significant amount of money for this dog rescue, so if you have an extra $12 floating around in your Paypal account, which is barely enough for a ticket to go see Adam Sandler’s new shit-fest Jack and Jill plus you won’t even have enough money for a bullet to kill yourself after, send it my way by clicking the image below and make some older dogs really happy.
This is your prize. Two lucky winners will receive free copies of the calendar in time for Christmas. The rest of you fuckers will have a terrible, sad, Charlie Bucket type of Christmas.
How can you win this amazing prize, you are probably asking yourself or random people sitting around you? It’s simple. Read the following short story and see how many TV and movie references you can get. The two top scorers win, and if multiple people score in the top, I’ll randomly pick a winner. Leave your answers (which means a list of the actual movies and TV show titles) in the comments. All decisions are final, and I reserve the right to call you a sore loser with poor pop culture knowledge.
And . . . . go! Oh, and hint: There are 30 references to find.
In the year 2000, on the outskirts of the city of Bomont, a blue box appeared on the horizon, hovering over Macho Grande before landing with an almost graceful, sensual crash. The door to the box opened, and its occupants, two young men wearing shirts representing a poorly spelled band named after untamed horses, emerged carefully.
One of the men reached into Backpack and pulled out a book, wrapped in plastic. Unwrapping it cautiously, he avoided the biting, gnashing teeth on the cover, and turned to page 394. Walking to the intersection of the two roads, he quickly recited this incantation: “Klaatu Baraka Bibbidi Bobbidi Boo Echolls Mars Fyarl Snoochies”.
Instantly a woman with orange hair stood before them wearing nothing but white bandages strategically wrapped around her torso. “Yes?” she asked, her eyes flashing with a metallic green glow.
“Umm, evil lady dude, we want to know our density – umm, I mean destiny,” stammered the shorter of the two men.
“Well, and then we’ll give you our souls. Well, just mine. His is already claimed by gypsies.”
“One is enough, as long as you satisfy one additional demand.”
“What is it?”
“It’s an insistent authoritative request, but that’s not important right now. I want your permission to slap you, one time, at some point in the future without warning.”
“Ok. Let’s make a deal.”
She wrinkled her nose and bobbed her head. “Done.” Her voice lingered on the air like her scent as she disappeared.
In her place was a cardboard box marked “Fragile”. The men knelt around it. “What’s in the box?” one asked.
Lifting out a delicious smelling apple gruyere pie, the taller man shrugged, said, “Well, it’s not our destiny, but at least it’s not $240 worth of pudding,” and began to eat.