Help Write The World's Worst Novel

Re: Help Write The World's Worst Novel
Ooh, this should be fun.

Ralph was up to 6,753 when the door to the cafeteria opened. It was Mrs. Figsby, Ralph's secret crush, resplendent in a hairnet and not much else. She had a figure like an emaciated goat, and feet swollen like water balloons from standing behind the lunch line all day. Her purple lipstick was smeared across her lips like she put it on in the middle of an earthquake, and two bright spots of blush adorned her cheeks like clown makeup. He could feel his heart throbbing faster in his chest as she approached him. God, he wanted her so.

As she leaned down, he could smell her perfume, something like a mix of violets and spoiled milk.

Boy, this thing writes itself. Someone better jump in here, or I'll end up writing the whole thing myself. :wink:

She reached her hand forward to caress his head, but at that moment the bell rang. Lunch was here! Mrs. Figsby shuffled back to the kitchen with a sad look on her face, knowing she had missed her chance to slap the man that had left those creepy notes under her car's windshield wipers that were always signed only with "anonymous" and stealing her underwear off her clothesline. He was one sick puppy, and needed to be dealt with.
In time, she thought, in time. Be patient, work him into a lull, a sense that you don't know it's him or that you enjoy it. Play the game. Soon, he will be yours to deal with as you wish. And after that, the world!
Mrs. Figsby, whose name was Bernice, had dreamed of taking over the world since she was a little girl. She used to watch James Bond films, and took page after page of notes on what the "bad guys" did and what James did to defeat them. She saw the errors in their plans and knew that she could do better. She had a plan all worked out, and even had traps in her mind for the secret agent that would inevitably be sent to try and stop her in her bid for world conquest. All she had to do was save up the money she made here at her job, and maybe take out a loan from the bank, and in a few years she hoped she could get her plans off the ground. After she had held the world's leaders for ransom with nuclear weapons or the death ray she drew up, she'd be happy to pay the bank back the money she owed them. Just in time to destroy organized government as the world knew it.
Day after day, she smugly smiled at the endless parade of brats that sidled past her place in line, 2nd from left, serving the beans that Ralph faithfully counted out each day. She knew that soon enough, they would all be dead as the school was near the top of her list of places to destroy after she became Supreme Commander of the Earth. That was how she thought of it, too, with capital letters like that. She wondered how many of them were spies sent to see how her plans for domination and destruction were coming. She had stopped trusting her coworkers long ago, strongly suspecting that two of the cooks, Mrs. Tennis and Mr. Ball, were secretly transmitting her movements via short wave radios hidden in their spatulas to the government van that was sitting in the school parking lot, cleverly disguised as an old, broken down, no longer used school vehicle waiting for the auto shop to take apart.
Paranoia is a dangerous disease, you see, and Bernice was caught deep in the throes of it. But when you are planning to take over the world, you need to be prepared. And she thought she was. But Ralph had a secret. Not only did he have a crush on her, he knew her secrets.
He had seen her notebooks lying on her desk one night when he was sneaking around cleverly disguised as Florence Nightingale during a class play being performed in the auditorium by the 6th and 7th and 8th and 5th grade classes. After he got done smelling her coat that reminded him so much of her, he began poking around her desk in the hopes of finding something else he could sniff to remind him of her. When he saw the books marked "Plans For World Domination" his curiosity, along with other things, was aroused. He opened and began to read the notebooks. He spent the rest of the night reading her notes, only noticing that the morning had come when he heard a car pull up outside.
He quickly changed back into his civilian clothes and went out to greet the new arrival.

Well, jumping in...

The moment Ralph stepped outside, he noticed he still held one of that delicious women's panties. He blushed fiercely, and stuffed them in his trousers, where it had to share space with beans 7013 to 7054, his pocketed bean quota for the day. With those beans, and all the beans he had saved before, he planned to build a replica of the Eiffel Tower, but that is a story for another novel.

Truthers trudged towards the school, reluctant as ever to start his shift as janitor. Usually he would have done his regular cleaning right after school went out, but he had spent yesterday afternoon playing stripcheckers with Mr. Tennis and Mr. Ball. The chains and whips he kept in his office came in quite handy later that afternoon, as well as the two litre can of pea soup he had stolen from that toad Figsby. God, there is no aphrodisiac like cold pea soup after a bottle of cheap Vodka! Of course, he remembered fairly little of the rest of the night after the bottle of Vodka, allthough there seemed to have been some 'rectal examination by Mrs. Nightingale'. At least, that was what the text under the photograph said in which he was grinning like a madman while a ugly nurse with a moustache was doing stuff around his nether regions with stuff that looked a lot like pea soup. That nurse was even uglier then Mrs. Figby.
Speaking of the toad, he checked his pace the moment the door opened, but relaxed again when he saw it was just Ralph, the bean guy. Nothing to worry about, although Truthers had to admit to himself, the boy did have a dreamy butt. At least two of his daydreams this month had centered about the boy. The only dreams he had about mrs. Figsby involved him running away with a can of pea soup in his arms, chased by those bloated fleet going 'splat splat splat' on the floor of the cafeteria.

Ralph noticed the janitor and sighed in relieve. A harmless little man, with... what appeared to be... pea soup in his hair?
"Ehm, Truthers. Hi there! Is that some sort of new hair gel?"

Truthers dragged his eyes upward from Ralph's crotch and addressed the question, blushing slightly not knowing if Ralph saw him gazing dreamily at his manhood. "Oh! Um, yes it is. It's called . . . um . . . Gel-ly. It's very wet and slippery and good for all sorts of things."
Ralph walked by, sighing inwardly to himself about not getting caught, anxious to get back to his office and the new trophy in his trousers. He glanced backward once, quickly, and saw Truthers staring in his direction, but downward, as though Ralph had something interesting on his back. Shrugging it off, he walked onward to his office.
He was so wrapped in the little fantasy brewing in his mind about Mrs. Figsby and her underwear, he didn't even notice when the beans began to fall out of his pants. The wadded up panties he'd stuffed into his underwear had bulged the elastic out just enough that as he walked, a bean would slip out now and again. He was leaving a trail everywhere he went.
As Truthers started his morning sweeping, he was daydreaming of Ralph's butt covered in vodka and pea soup. His dream was broken, however, when he noticed the trail of beans on the floor.
What the hell? he thought. I'd best follow those and see where they go. Could be hooligans. Truthers was extremely distraught over the thought of hooligans up to shenanigans in his school. Sure, he didn't like his job, but he did take a certain amount of pride in keeping the place clean. And if someone got to snooping around too much, they may find his photograph collection he kept in the janitor's office (little more than a broomcloset, really, another reason he hated the job) and that would be unacceptable.

Felicity Dortmunder, the Valedictorian (which isn't saying much, as her grade point average was barely into the Bs, unlike some parts of her anatomy) of St. Egbert's School for Wayward and Sometimes Sassy Young Girls, was walking in the hallway, aimlessly kicking what appeared to be spilled beans that were for some reason falling onto the floor. Felicity was extremely nearsighted and could not for the life of her understand where that godawful clicking noise was coming from, but she knew it had something to do with the beans and that made her giggle when she thought about farting. Still she kept kicking and listening to the clicking of falling dried beans throughout the halls of St. Egbert's School for Wayward and Sometimes Sassy Young Girls.

"Miss Dortmunder!" exclaimed Miss Thripps, the ambiguous gym teacher. "What are you doing in the hallway without a pass?"

"Why, nothing, Miss Thripps." Well, it was something, but nothing important. "At least, I think it's Miss Thripps, although you might be Florence Nightingale for all I know. I can't see you too well. Can you come a bit closer?"

This was Miss Thripps' secret desire, to sidle up close to Felicity Dortmunder and steal one of her little barrettes, shaped like a telephone. There was a loud crashing at the other side of the hall. Thripps and Dortmunder whipped their heads to the right at the same moment, just in time to see Ralph trip over a pile of dried beans as he got his left leg caught in Mrs. Figsby's panties. At least, Miss Thripps saw it. Felicity just saw a blur that she thought might be Mount Rushmore in December. She wasn't sure.

Ralph decided to get the beans nice and early today, so he could finish his job and catch some rest. He had spend last night reading about his Bernice and her plans for world domination. This fridayafternoon he could retire and think about what he read, wear her panties, and decide how he could help her achieve her goals. He grabbed the panties out of his pocket, desperate for that heady aroma of spoiled milk and violets.
Distracted by the panties, Ralph opened the door to the storage room and stepped inside. But all was not right in the storage room, and he tripped over something soft that lay on the floor behind the door. With his arms flailing around for support, he stumbled forward, desperate to regain his balance. He didn't succeed, instead he fell into a large pile of canned goods. His head hit one of the heavy cans and he lost his consciousness.

What Ralph could not have known, was that Mr. Tennis, the biology teacher and yesterdays' grand loser at stripchess, had been undressed and tied up by Mr. Ball and Truthers, and left in the storage room. The ballgag had prevented him from screaming for help, and had been forced to wait until the janitor, curse him, came around to untie him. But instead of the janitor, it was the beancounter who came in and kicked him in the spleen. And to top it all off, a pair of decidedly rancid panties landed on his nose. All in all, things were not going well for Mr. Tennis. All he could hope for now, was that the janitor came here to free hime before his wife did...

Mrs. Tennis, one of the cooks and also the lovely wife of Mr. Tennis arrived at the school just as that vile man Truthers came out of the doors. She despised him for never showing her any attention. Not that she liked it when men other then her husband gave her any attention, but she was used to it, because she was hot. Well, maybe she liked it a little. Perhaps a bit more then just a little, but not much. But the janitor never looked at her twice. Not even when she had granted him a 'cleavage' look. Instead, he was ogling the beancounter's butt. She sniffed and strutted past him, making sure to switch her hips seductively. Not that he would notice, but it couldn't hurt to keep in practice. After all, she would be shopping tomorrow for clothes AND cute men.

Oops... cross post. Damn. Well, luckily enough, the two paragraphs talk about different people, so no harm, no foul

Psst no problem, I'm enjoying it quite a bit.

So am I. I'm looking forward to how this thing will go.

Heh, btw, Mr. Tennis was the grand loser of stripcheckers... not stripchess.

"Truthers!" commanded Mrs. Tennis, in her most imperious tone. "I want my husband and I want him now. This instant!"

Truthers looked down, there was something about someone so in charge and vital, it made him feel alive although he wished Mrs. Tennis would have looked a lot more like Mr. Tennis. "Right away, Ma'am."

Just then, Felicity Dortmunder burst out of the school building. "Mr. Truthers! Mr. Truthers! Oh, hello there Miss Nightingale." she said, addressing Mrs. Tennis. "Something's happened with Mount Rushmore! Come quick!"

Truthers would have ignored her, she was a silly girl after all, even though she did have a great set of ... barrettes ... but Mrs. Tennis was watching. He followed as Felicity ran down the hall towards the janitor's closet, the approximate location of the commotion.

"Damn." said Truthers, under his breath. "Mrs. Tennis, would you like to see our new library?"

"I, I thought you would never ask." blushed Mrs. Tennis.

Miss Thripps took Mrs. Tennis by the arm. "It's in here. We have an original Winnie the Pooh."

At the sound of the word "pooh", Felicity giggled, then looked at the janitor, who was doing something odd to the Mount Rushmore in the janitorial closet.

The library was not a very accurate name for where Miss Thripps took Mrs. Tennis. It could more properly be called the cafeteria, because that is where they went. No one was inside, except for Bernice, the lunchlady. Mrs. Tennis didn't like her, and from the way Miss Thripps tightened her grip slightly at the sight of her, neither did she, Mrs. Tennis thought. Of course, she didn't like Miss Thripps either, but that was for another reason entirely. She reminded her of a deer she saw run over on the road last Tuesday. Bernice looked like someone stretched a burlap sack over a dead tree. Two different reasons.
The two of them walked over to a table in the corner of the room, casting sidelong glances at Bernice, and she noticed them. Bernice saw everthing. It was her blessing; it was her curse. It was the reason she despised these peons so. Why she had to be their ruler. It was for their own good, really. Someone had to show them how to live right, and that someone was her.
Soon. Very soon, her preperations would be complete.
Bernice smiled one of her trademark smug smiles, and pulled out a small notepad she kept with her in case an idea struck her while she didn't have access to her notebooks. She had just come up with another brilliant trap for those pesky secret agents, and she wanted to get it down before she lost it.
Mrs. Tennis saw her writing and smiling, and shivered deep down inside. Miss Thripps, still holding her arm, noticed this, and thought it was the beginning of a seisure. She jumped up and screamed, startling the two women and a family of crows living outside the window they were near. Realizing her mistake, she sat back down, trying to pretend nothing had happened.

A shriek echoed through the halls of St. Edwards school for Wayward and sometimes sassy young girls. A shriek that startled three girls, a family of cows, and twentytwo rats. The rats already rattled by the sounds of the whips and chains the other night, declared they had had enough, and decided to leave. They had heard someone closeby had started something huge with beans, and that sounded like a tasty new place to live, but that is a story for another novel.

The shriek also had quite a devastating effect on several of our main characters. Mr. Tennis, still tied up and now almost delirious from the heinous odors wafting through his nose got scared so bad he entered into a seizure. His bound body shook uncontrollably, and the frantic moves caused some canned supplies fall from a shelf which fell on the floor with a hideous clamor.
Felicity, a sweeter girl was never born, immediately rushed of towards the shrieking woman, hoping she could help. Of course, someone as blind as she was had little cause running through the hallways like that, and, not very unexpectedly, she bumped into something very solid and very male, called Mr. Ball. Mr. Ball was just looking at some of the juicy pictures he had taken yesterday evening.
She crashed into him, and he lost the photographs. Most fell on the floor, but a couple fell over the banister Mr. Ball stood next to, and fell two floors down, landing in front of the entrance. Little did the school suspect that the board of inspectors had decided to send an inspector over for a surprise visit today, an inspector who was just in time to see the pictures fall on the ground.

Truthers heard the scream as well and was thankful at first, because the noisy git ran off. It might have been the aftereffect of the massive dosed of Vodka he had drunk the other night, because it took some time for the scream to fully register. It came from the general direction of the cafeteria. And thusly, the storage room. Where he had tied up Mr. Tennis the other day... With the promise he would free him in the morning.
Damn Ralph and his dreamy butt, he had forgotten about Mr. Tennis! There was no time to waste, so he slammed the door of his office shut and ran like Florence Nightingale and a flock of rabid Figby's was chasing him down. Alas, the door of his office had not fallen in the lock.

Felicity shrieked, "His eyeballs are melting!" and pointed in the general direction of the cafeteria storage closet. Mrs. Figsby ran out just in time to hit Felicity with a rolling pin. Felicity collapsed.

"What-what did you do that for?" asked Ralph, his eyes bulging in horror as he beheld Mrs. Figsby's rolling pin poised to come down on his head.

"Witnesses. We don't need no witnesses." muttered Figsby.

"Witness?" asked Mr. Ball. "Miss Dortmunder can barely see her own nose." Whereupon Mrs. Figsby bonked him on the head with the rolling pin.

"Ah, my plans are about to succeed!" she exclaimed, just as a rat carrying a handful (pawful?) of dried beans ran over her foot. "Araugh!" She yelled as she tried to kick the rat away.

Mr. Tennis watched in horror as the drama unfolded. Damn, there's the wife, he thought, as Mrs. Tennis, attracted by the noise, returned from the library with the completely ambiguous Miss Thripps. He ran through several scenarios in his head about how to explain his present circumstances before hitting on a doozy.

"Mr. Tennis!" Miss Thripps' hands clapped to her cheeks in horror - so quickly that she slapped herself silly. Recovering, she took the ball gag out of his mouth. "What happened to you? Mr. Truthers, what, pray tell, is going on?"

Chief Inspector Llewelyn "Skippy" Mondale appeared by her side. "Ma'am, I think we may have to shut the school down. This has all the hallmarks of a Code G."

"A Code G?" asked everyone in unison, even Mr. Ball and Miss Dortmunder, although admittedly they were still a bit woozy so it sounded like Code B, which is nothing at all like a Code G.

"Yes, a Code G." said the Chief Inspector, rubbing his goatee and making sure his trenchcoat was secure with his other hand. After all, he was wearing just a light summer slip, in a lovely peach shade that complemented his skin tones, and wasn't about to show it off to just anybody.

"So, what's a Code B?" asked Felicity.

"A Code B is frogs falling from the sky and they land into the chipped beef on toast." rattled off Figsby in a monotone.

"Can it be?" asked the Chief Inspector, turning to face the scantily-clad creature resplendent in a hairnet and little else. "Are you - are you - former inspector Marcia Clutterbuck?"

"That was my maiden name." said Figsby, batting her eyelashes, which gave off a faint aroma of spoiled milk and violets.

"I still want to know what a Code E is." said Felicity, more confused than ever. Letters are so puzzling.

"Oh, yes, a Code G." said the Chief Inspector, momentarily dazzled by Marcia Clutterbuck Figsby's cafeteria-style radiance. "It's an alien attack."

Everyone gasped in horror. There was a silence, only broken by the sounds of a rat dropping a few dried beans, Mr. Tennis dropping the ball gag on Miss Thripps' shoe, and someone farting and failing to excuse themselves. Felicity giggled.

BBB
Felicity's giggle was the final clue that something was terribly wrong. Someone had called the Psych Squad. They came running down the hall in their white suits with butterfly nets in their hands.

"We're looking for Felicity. Any one seen Felicity?"

Everyone in the hall began giggling.

But then, Felicity always giggled. She giggled when people stumbled. She giggled when she ran red lights. She giggled at store window displays. She had even been known to giggle at a symphony once, creating confusion in the middle of a virtuoso performance of the 1812 Overture that resulted in the cannon going off prematurely. Several VIP patrons were wounded in the mayhem, and even as the ambulance arrived and paramedics began frantic CPR on the wheelchair-bound wife of the Symphony Guild president as the climax crescendoed, Felicity giggled.

Mrs. Figsby hit her with the rolling pin again. "Stop that!" she cried.

BBB
Being bashed by the rolling pin caused Felicity to giggle with even more gusto. She giggle so vigorously that her upper denture flew out of her mouth, careening down the hall like a Curling Ball sliding down the ice.

This was amazing because it was Mrs. Figsby's upper denture, since Felicity is only 16, and a giggly, legally blind and sprightly lass she is.

But that didn't take anyone's mind off the aliens.

Meanwhile, on the nearby planet X, hidden in the shadow of the earth's moon . . .
Phlermington knew the transmitter they had implanted into Chief Inspector Mondale's right nipple at last year's Christmas party was working perfectly. He heard every detail of every conversation the inspector had, and was powerful enough to pick up even whispered replies. But now, he was concerned.
He grabbed the nearerst xzierty, which was what they called their communication devices.
(In the interest of making this readable, the following is translated from Pytherawquerian, the native language of planet X, into what the Pytherawquerians call "grarg", what we call English)
"Sir!"
Supreme Overlord Spartlingdorn answered the page.
"Yes?"
"We may have a situation here, sir."
"I'll be right down."
S.O. Spartlingdorn was dressed in full Pytherawquerian battle gear made from the most powerful substance on planet X - Nerf foam coated with extra-hold hairspray. What the earthlings didn't know what that this combination was so strong, it repelled every weapon the Pytherawquerians had, so they naturally assumed it was strong enough to repel anything. Of course, their wars consisted of weapons that hurled small animals short distances as low speeds, so this armor was sufficient for such applications, but they didn't know anyone had anything more powerful. After all, they had perfected space travel and probing and implantation of devices; who could be more advanced in any field than they?
Anyway, S.O. Spartlingdorn took a while to get off his chair, since the armor was slightly heavy and very hot and pretty awkward. He made his way slowly, carefully downstairs, a trip of some three hours and forty seven minutes, during which he had all sorts of amazing adventures that I won't bore you with here. But, he got to Phlermington finally,
"What is it, Communications Monitor Expert and Implantation Specialist Fourth Class Rank Gfirld (there is no translation for this word) Station 3 Monitor Phlermington?"
This was Phlermington's official title, and, coincidently, his birth name, so it took a while to hold a conversation with . . . it, I supposed you'd have say.
"Implantee number 25398734 designation Ingredsver (sorry, no translation for this either) may be on to us. I've just monitored him telling several others of species Hoiolkgpe (that's us) that an invasion may be coming. This was followed by several noises that I attribute to the arming of what we assume to be their primitive weapons."
The Supreme Overlord turned his gaze on the screen that displayed the planet Earth, his eyes hardening like mayo left in the sun.
"Prepare the Yavbernaw." (That's the attack fleet)