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Lester and Chester were cavorting with ease through the muggy streets of
Hollywood. They didn’t usually cavort. In fact, most of the time they
sauntered or moseyed, but today was special. They were overjoyed at the
prospect of seeing some small-budget B movies in the process of creation.
They licked their lips with glee when considering all of the particularly
bad acting, bad props, and cheesy story lines they would surely encounter.
There were so many choices from which to choose, so they chose carefully and
with great wisdom.
Now, they weren’t technically legal in their current location, but they had
no reason to consider that an important issue. After all, what right did
those big Hollywood types have to go and put gates around the process of
creation? As long as they didn’t interfere, and simply popped their
microwave popcorn far from the set, what harm could there be? They knew from
previous experience that when endeavoring in this form of adventure, half
the challenge was just trying to find an outlet where they could plug in
their microwave and pop their corn. The other half was staying alert for the
Nazis (read as: security guards) for between three and a half to four
minutes, depending upon the popcorn flavor and relative humidity. There had
been more than one occasion where they had to make quick feet with a half-popped bag of popcorn and a hastily-unplugged microwave in tow. With any
luck, there would be no such occurrence this time.
“Chester, what’s the current barometer reading?”
“Twelve-ten millibars, what flavor is the corn?”
“Chocolate mint, of course.”
“Ah, then Lester shall set the time to three point seven five minutes.”
“Roger that, Chester.”
After a harrying and excruciating wait, they were well rewarded by their
trusty microwave: popcorn, hot and steamy, like some of the movies in the
other lots. Unplugging the microwave and adjusting their soda-pop-distributing headgear for optimal distribution, they moved into position for their first viewing: Cactus Boxers on Psychic Planet Z. With freshly-popped corn in hand, they settled into position, transforming the microwave into an impromptu backrest. They donned their binocular/eavesdropping attachments and cast their eyes and ears toward the action. Initially, all that could be made out was that some sort of glove-wearing cactus was attempting to get a free reading from a psychic with two extra eyes. The psychic didn’t get much business because all the really good psychics had only one eye, even though they still called it the third eye. However, this particular boxing cactus was in dire straits and could not afford to be picky with his clairvoyants. He was also quite obviously drunk and mutating, as most boxing cacti are, so “Razortooth” Zippy (as the psychic was called) was carefully distributing his future-tense information, attempting to lure Spikuar, this jaded-green boxer, into parting with his hard-earned cash.
“Spikuar. I see a bottle. I believe it has alcohol in it. Fuzzy.. hard to
see what kind. Please deposit ten dollars in the slot.”
“WHAT? Look, I don’t care if they call you Razortooth. You don’t scare me! I
absolutely WILL NOT deposit ten dollars unless you at least tell me what
kind of bottle it is.”
“Hmm. Perhaps if you deposited five dollars it might be a bit more clear.”
“Very well. There you go.”
“Yes.. I believe it is whiskey.”
“Really?!” Spikuar said with whiskey-fragranced breath.
“Yes, I’m quite sure of it now.”
“That’s amazing! I drink whiskey!”
“Of course you do. Now keep quiet while I finish. I sense that you are about
to enter a battle, or perhaps a contest of some sort.”
“Wow!” Spikuar exclaimed, while crashing down on the table with a six-ounce
boxing glove.
“Yes.. I can almost see the outcome.. Fuzzy, it is.”
“Well, I’m out of money.”
“Oh.. Well, you lose then.”
Chester and Lester were greatly entertained by this, but with so many movies
left to see, they simply couldn’t marry themselves to just this one. They
would come back after checking out the one across the lot, The Last Wooden
Chair, a prophetic Kung Fu movie that starred a plywood chair who
was valiantly crusading in a world of Oak and Maple.
“The Knot is strong with this plywood chair,” an Oak pronounced.
“Yes, he has battled bravely and survived all of the trials but one.”
The brave young plywood trembled slightly.
“The final test is for him to jump in the burning pit. If he is one with
the Knot, then he will not burn. But just in case, I will keep this fire
extinguisher handy, which is clearly marked as inflammable.”
“That is good. For if anything, we must be sure that at least the fire
extinguisher will not burn.”
Groaning at this overused plot, Chester and Lester moved over to the next
lot: Truck Drivers Who Like Clean Toilets and Exorcists That Don’t. The
setting was a truck stop, and two truckers were calmly discussing their ills.
“I tell you man, that Exorcist fellow is going to be the end of us.”
“You mean Lester?”
“Lester, dude, he has the same name as you!” Chester exclaimed.
“Chester, dude, shut your trap, I’m trying to watch the movie.”
“Do you know any other exorcists named Lester that despise clean blue
toilet water?”
“No I don’t suppose that I do. Do you think he’ll know it was me? Do you
think we’ll be able to get the truck fixed and get out of here anytime soon?”
“All I know is this: We have to buy some axle grease before Lester the
Exorcist finds out who turned the toilet water blue.”
“For sure.. there will be hell to pay if we don’t get that truck axle well
lubricated and be on our way, and I mean soon. But first, why don’t you take
those clothes off and use some of that axle grease on me?”
Lester and Chester looked on in horror as the truck drivers started to strip
down, accompanied by rotating purple and red lights. They had stumbled into
the porno sets, and what was worse, there weren’t even any girls! Bumbling
and stumbling, they picked up their meager possessions and scrambled off of
the set. Chester noticed that Lester paused for perhaps half of a second
before leaving, but that passed quickly from his mind when the vision in
front of him became fully realized: a wild pack of Nazis were making their
way towards them, and they did not appear to be happy! After all, most Nazis
do not take kindly to microwave toting, soda-headgear-wearing young men
with an interest in homosexual pornography. They would have to make a quick
exit.
Realizing that timing would be everything, Lester prepared to toss the
microwave directly into the path of the Nazi go-karts. He moved Chester
closer to him, perhaps a bit too close, and then tossed the microwave,
screaming, “Run Chester, run!” followed closely by “Die Nazis, die!” As the
Nazis and the naked truck drivers hashed out what exactly was happening,
Chester and Lester hopped the gate and made their way back to Lester’s
house. Lester’s dad was comfortably reclined in his chair, with his beer-dispensing helmet on, casually watching TV.
“Where have you kids been?”
“Oh, we went over to the movie studios and watched a mutant boxing cactus get
a reading from a three-eyed clairvoyant, witnessed the last hope of the
plywood chair people voluntarily torch himself, saw two homosexual truck
drivers and one can of axle grease (you do the math), and got chased by the
Nazis.”
“I really don’t know where you come up with this crap. Where the hell is my
microwave, anyway?”
