The following is a tale of madness, light beer, and other "shiner"-related illnesses, set in an era of American history known as the "Salem Which Trials?", circa 1799, or possibly 1997. Unfortunately no accurate date could be established as historians have been forced to resort to carbon dating, which as one might suspect proves difficult under the pressures of cheesy drive-in movies, broken condoms, and nine o' clock curfews, not to mention all that annoying dioxide bonding. It is plausible, one prominent hobo speculates, that the incident in question began as long ago as last night.
Enough with the speculation. On with the story!
"Salem Which Trials?"
Holocaust Bill lay on his creamy bed. Creamy because, after all, Holocaust Bill had a particular fondness for cream. (Everybody knows that. Bloody, uneducated American.) Because of this fondness, Holocaust Bill had his mattress replaced with creamy igneous rock. Hoorah!
Hoorah for Holocaust Bill!
So there he lay, on his creamy, old, stone mattress, staring at his teeth. And that's when it happened. He continued to lie there for about four weeks.
After a time, however, he began to speculate. Six days prior he had calculated the number of spectacles in his hand, leading him to the inevitable conclusion, "Which trials were they, anyway?" And thus began the "Salem Which Trials?"
At first it was a simple ordeal. Holocaust Bill sitting astride his golden chariot, creating planets with his breast milk, fucking ribbons with his lip, was still unable to shake that most ineffable of beliefs, that belief which makes us human: "Which Trials were they, anyway?"
And at precisely that moment, things became crazy. Chairs began to purchase microscopes.
Famous Boys, a well-known person, had heard tales from far and wide of his next-door neighbor Holocaust Bill and his eternal question. Dismayed as he was to learn of chairs' recent purchases, he was naturally intrigued, as well as slightly nautical, to learn of Holocaust Bill's fearless quest for truth. And so he, Famous Boys, master of all things save anonymity, embarked upon the longest journey ever to be short.
He fought his way through dogs and wild dogs and dogs, eventually arriving, only one half-dozen pints of blood down and several dozen years late at the threshold of Holocaust Bill's suburban dream house next door.
Famous Boys opened the door. It seemed a wise thing to do. (When one arrives at a house one opens a door. Obviously. Bloody Yankee.) Not so.
Holocaust Bill was hibernating atop the door, and promptly fell upon Famous Boy's head. Not twice, but once.
Famous Boys was outraged. He screamed. He drank lava. He threw-up inside a wristwatch.
Finally, out of sheer desperation, he breathed. When that proved insufficient, he reluctantly called his friend and personal lawyer, Vendetta Queef, and demanded that she represent his lawsuit against Holovaust Bill, at any cost. . .except for $4.39 plus tax.
The charge? Perhaps we should refer here to an article published in "Rolling Dogs Issue Number 5%"
"Famous Boys, represented in Taco Bell's Nacho Supreme Court by Mrs. Queef, announced his intention today to sue Holocaust Bill for not suing Famous Boys first. When pressed for comment by a wine press, Holocaust Bill responded with his usual illiterate eloquence:
"Which Trials?", he said, his fingers buried deep in the uterus of eight- year old schoolgirl.
Despite his lack of comment and calf muscles, Holocaust Bill retaliated with an action that sent a tremor of fear and a flock of waterfowl deep into the hearts of even the most financially successful of playwrights: He took out a lawsuit on Sammy Davis Onion, one of the juror's on the Famous Boys case, for having no bearing to the case (This type of lawsuit within a lawsuit is commonly known as a Leisure Suit Larry). On a side note, the number of successful playwrights currently living within the Earth's atmosphere totals nearly one. . ."
Holocaust Bill was unable to understand how Sammy Davis Onion could be so irrelevant when it came to this particular event. Such inconsequentiality offended and circumcised Holocaust Bill. He was determined to get his just desserts.
After stopping of at Gin and Berry's and picking up a pint of Just Desserts®, Holocaust Bill arrived at the courtroom. He surveyed the scene.
To the right of courtroom sat the jury, consisting of an even twelve juries, each composed of zero members.
In the center of the courtroom in an imposing high chair, angrily nursing on a pacifier, keeping order with a gavel that for reasons best known to him he reffered to as his "rattly-boo", was the judge. A self taught man, he admittedly didn't know much about the law, but he possessed a fondness for--again in his words--"legal things".
The proceeding began. The judge called for the defense team's motto. Sammy Davis Onion pulled out a pennant. The jury craned their necks to read the statement that had been scrawled in White-Out over the Atlanta Braves logo. "Don't Sit on 'Da Fence of Justice.", it said.
Ten of the zero jurors fainted, Sammy Davis Onion being one of them.
While Sammy Davis Onion was unconscious, Holocaust Bill, Famous Boys and the rest of the prosecution deported him and took his wallet. After they had nailed one of Sammy Davis Onion's naked baby photos to the judge's forehead and a book report to his plasma, they produced their own, more impressive motto. Unrolling a banner twice as big as all known matter, they revealed the sentence "Just Two Letters Away From Prostitution". One juror literally trembled figuratively. When for the grand finale, they unrolled a second, even smaller banner that read "Oops. We mean three letters.", that same juror leapt from his seat in an hysterical rage.
"I don't exist!", he yelled. "I think therefore I'm not!"
When he saw that no one seemed to be listening to him, he ran out of the courtroom, arms flailing. He was never seen again.
The time had arrived for the verdict. Because there were no existing jurors, the judge had to announce the verdict as well as the sentencing. With a commanding presence, he rose to his feet in his high chair.
"I want my mommy!", he bellowed.
Thus it was decided. Everyone was awarded a lifetime supply of onions, except for Sammy Davis Onion, who was awarded a lifetime supply of Sammy.
On that note a long dark period in American history know as the Cuban Missile Crisis drew to an end. Everyone lived happily ever after, with the exception of all the people mentioned here, and one schoolteacher in southern Iowa who years later was heard to remark that if she had been on the prosecution, she would have chosen "Add the Ec, Drop the Tit" as the motto, and in this manner perhaps the Embargo could have been avoided. She was promptly fired and date raped by a fireman.
