IDIOMS ATE YOUR WHEATIES (The Thrilling Conclusion.)
A tale of Joy and Woe and Joy in Four Chapters.

By Me, with the assistance of the many intrepid seekers whose use of the following search terms (in boldface) has led them to this site over the past year. (Click here to read Chapter 1, in which your hero faces various challenges en route to Jon Cryer's birthday party; or here to read Chapter 2, in which said hero narrowly avoids a public transportation melee by flagging down a passing taxi; or here to read Chapter 3, in which a sordid tale of shame and redemption is recounted, leading to our hero's confrontation at the gates of Cryer Estates with his archnemesis, one Darya Folsom of KRON 4 News.)

CHAPTER 4

“Aren’t you that Grandpa sniffs granddaughter's panties?” Darya asked as she barred the entrance. “You’re not getting in.”

“No, that’s someone else. Listen, you person that resembles Police Brutality Red Sox in World Series 2004,” I shouted at her, “I’ve been a close friend of Jon’s since before Yasmine Bleeth nose surgery, so you best tuck in your Bob Dob Ellroy t-shirt and let me the funk in before I go medieval ninja on your ass!” (To make matters worse, I could already see Condoleezza Rice naked on a jet-ski, David Schwimmer shirtless, and Emmanuel Lewis's significant other through the fence, reinforcing what a great party I was missing.)

My taxi driver, who’d been gawking at Secretary Rice, came to Darya’s defense: “Give her a break! She held on to your tap shoes in her panties while flying threw the air like a god damn lawn dart!”

“Shut up Father Guido Sarducci!” I screamed, but I suddenly realized he was right, even if I had no memory of the incident in question. Why was I harassing this poor fake nude sportscaster who was only trying to do her job, when I really wanted to tell her that I loved her?

“Listen, Darya, let’s forget about all this,” I said frantically. “Forget Cryer’s stupid party, forget the breast scams, the Red Sox fan flipping the bird, even Felipe Alou's comments about Vietnam--let’s get out of here and start a new life. We can get fake indoor palms in San Diego and sit in my apartment talking about wonderland swimwear etiquette. It’ll be a dream come true. So whaddya say? What’s it going to take to get you to come with me?”

“Why, Asian girls with pigeon eggs in their ass, of course!” she responded with a wink and a smile, and took my arm.

“Sweetheart,” I said as Father Sarducci’s taxi drove Darya, myself, and my wicked cool spatula into the sunset, “did you even have to ask?”

THE END

IDIOMS ATE YOUR WHEATIES (Still Cont'd.)
A tale of Joy and Woe and Joy in Four Chapters.

By Me, with the assistance of the many intrepid seekers whose use of the following search terms (in boldface) has led them to this site over the past year. (Click here to read Chapter 1, in which your hero faces various challenges en route to Jon Cryer's birthday party; or here to read Chapter 2, in which said hero narrowly avoids a public transportation melee by flagging down a passing taxi.)

CHAPTER 3

“My name is Ian and I am awesome,” I said to the driver as I slammed the door.

“Heard dat, douche cat,” the driver responded in an unintentionally poetic way, and sped away towards the Cryer compound, where I feared they’d already begun the internet shooting games and women’s body cavity search and (a favorite of mine) the C.H.U.D.S. wiffleball, or even--perish the thought--gotten out the boinking table.

I was hoping to warm up my conversational skillz before we arrived, since it would take more than my enormous manhood and Montenegro wrestling mighty thighs to impress the Cryer crowd. “Anyone who likes sourdough bread is a douche!” I bubbled, to get the ball rolling.

But the driver remained nonplussed. “I'm Easy, Keith Carradine,” he said, and asked how I came to be invited to the biggest party since the invention of transfat-free coffee creamer.

“Boss caught me wanking... an angry coworker ratted on me...” I began, and proceeded to painfully recount the entire sordid story of my dismissal from my job at Sally Struthers’ the Great Space Coaster, the downward spiral which followed, the snortin poppers pictures, the nights at Lola's Tattoos hot and flying, and how eventually I ended up passed out in the gutter, on the business end of the beam of despair, where none other than the former star of Pretty in Pink (who was fortuitously passing by on his way back from picking up bubble gum wrapper patterns for a science fair backboard) saw me in my shiny catsuit, and asked how I came to such a sorry pass.

"There were naked men... beach...” I mumbled toward his famous crotch, half-dead from gay haircut punishment and other unmentionable trials and tribulations.

But Jon Cryer took pity on me, and invited me to his nearly world-famous birthday party, thus giving me a reason to live for a while, and to take a kulti shower, fix my visible pantylines and put the Goonies food stamp he gave me to good use. So imagine my surprise when, upon arriving at the gates of Cryer Gardens in my taxi, I was told by none other than Darya Folsom in tight sweater that I was not on the guest list.

The thrilling conclusion awaits in Chapter 4.

IDIOMS ATE YOUR WHEATIES (Cont'd.)
A tale of Joy and Woe and Joy in Four Chapters.

By Me, with the assistance of the many intrepid seekers whose use of the following search terms (in boldface) has led them to this site over the past year. (Click here to read Chapter 1, in which your hero faces various challenges en route to Jon Cryer's birthday party.)

CHAPTER 2

After eluding the overweight singing volleyballer, I headed to the bus stop, where a couple of self-styled "Chinatown niggaz" and some bald assholes were waiting. “I can mash potatoes I can do the twist!” shouted one of the Chinese kids, and the balder of the two bald assholes replied, “Shaddup a you face!”

I tried to mind my own business, mentally distracting myself by thinking about pressing issues like Michelle Kwan’s ass or Jeanne Zelasko’s big rack or shirtless Korean stars, while the four bus patrons kept fighting like a bunch of snortin' fire ants. The bus finally arrived and one of the bald assholes stepped on portentously. Halted, he peered down the dark winding stairs and called up coarsely: “Manny Ramirez is a big douche!”

“Listen, you fat ugly jew,” said one of the kids (and really, the ethnic slur was uncalled for, especially since the man was clearly no fan of shmaltz herring), “I don’t give a milking fuck if you’re Winston Marcellus or Ed Too Tall Jones boxing a Mexican--if you don’t shut up about Manny I’m going to give you a spanking OR whipping OR whip OR flog your ass until you’re flatter than toddler rat poop!”

Somebody shouted, “Crotch fight!”--and I’m no paranoiac figure, but I knew I had to get out of there pronto or it’d be shoes crushing cock, or maybe even electrified genitals, in no time. And I had no interest in hearing “He ain't pretty no more” behind my back all night as I hobnobbed with the rich and famous at Jon Cryer's party.

Sure enough, tempers rose and the crotches began to fly, and in the commotion that followed, I managed to escape the bus faster than a shirtless Joe Rogan and flag down a passing taxi. “My name is Ian and I am awesome,” I said to the driver as I slammed the door.

The magic continues in Chapter 3.

IDIOMS ATE YOUR WHEATIES
A tale of Joy and Woe and Joy in Four Chapters.

By Me, with the assistance of the many intrepid seekers whose use of the following search terms (in boldface) has led them to this site over the past year. (The author is indebted for the development of this technique to Funnsylvania Rob, R.I.P.)

CHAPTER 1

It all began on Jon Cryer's birthday. I had just finished tying up babysitters before heading out the door to buy illegal steroid creams and get to Mr. Cryer’s party, where I hoped to wow wayward travellers with fascinating facts about ethnic sport team names of Alcatraz and stories of my wicked cool spatula. Unfortunately my sidewalk was blocked by a fat guy playing volleyball whilst being spanked, who turned to me as I stepped around him and rudely demanded, “Who is Suzy Mae rotten crotch?”

I tried to ignore his t-shirt, which featured a rather tasteless photo of a homeless guy crotch, and started to say that I didn’t know a damn thing about any Suzy Mae or the state of her crotch, and that he may as well have asked me why the gods were mad at Oedipus for being so cocky, or what to say to a guy when u really like him, or who tells joke about glow in the dark Cheez Whiz, or even how do astronauts sleep, bathe, keep fit and go to the toilet in space. But before I could respond, fat man sing num num, and I thought it best to ignore him and proceed to the Cryer mansion, where with any luck the Tyra Banks humanitarianism portion of the evening’s proceedings were already over.

I was really looking forward to Jon’s party, and the humorous Masonic toasts and reminiscences about his childhood sexcursions that were bound to come up, and anticipating the smile on his face as he showed us how to make homemade airplane costume out of cardboard, or homemade hand buzzers, or easy homemade costumes cat in the fiddle--the man really knew how to throw a party, even if the last one did end up turning into what can only be described as a Smurf gangbang. I vividly remembered stalking out of that event, stepping over a pair of Smurfette-sized JUICY WET PANTIES and yelling at Jon that I could’ve gone my whole life without knowing what it sounds like when Daffy Duck has a orgasm.

Click here to read Chapter 2.