Writing Mitch's Try At Humor And A New Writing Style

[Mitch]

"Untitledness" (it's also rough) [also not finished]

[size=1]It had been love at first sight for Floyd Rolin; or perhaps at first site.

He'd been eating at his favorite restaurant; some stir-fry joint just like all the rest except for one thing. It was all you can eat. Buffet; the full gut-buster and a half. A place of heaven for Elvis Presley, Homer Simpson, and any other Fat Bastard? the one from Austin Powers the mafia god of all the other Fat Bastards.

Floyd Rolin was not one of these Fat Bastards?and sure as hell wasn't their mafia god, thank you very much?but he was a Skinny Bastard. He had a skinny, bald head. He had the skeletal little pigskin that is a skinny white boy. Yeah, he was a skinny bastard. His stomach wasn't a chrome and steel chuggin' wagon, but his stomach was a furnace of pure personal love. That's being selfish for you. Or to the chicks out there, that's sexy, or so Floyd would say with a wink of his eyebrow like some premadonna.

And he knew he was sexy. Call it a Skinny Bastard thing, or anything you want, but to himself he was. He was built strong like all Skinny Bastard Americans should be. He was classic. Vintage. Vintage like Macaroni and Cheese, or a BLT (without the bacon, though, that was for the Fat Bastards). He was 100 percent tasting of whatever it was Skinny American Bastards like himself tasted like. And to Floyd it was sexy. He could almost taste himself. He'd often even, taking his thin wry hand, lick his arm in front of any passing girl, saying that it "tasted like sex."

He was overly confident. Full of himself, you might think. Love to him was like what beer was. It was purely lust. And, he didn't know it then, but that wasn't love. At all.

Seated next to Floyd was a Fat Bastard. But this wasn't just any Fat Bastard. This was Floyd's best friend, Robert Vigle. Floyd and his group of friends simply call him Plant for his love of Led Zeppelin's Robert Plant. Floyd himself absolutely loved Zeppelin. He though of them forever as what could have been, had John Bonham, their drummer, not died, and never as what more could've been if they band hadn't broken up. To him, they were gods. And whatever had caused such Gods to break apart, in Floyd's mind, should be heftily destroyed and brought to hell.

Plant leaned forward from his food, chewing up the stray Fat Bastard Stir-Fry, his gut squashing the admirable face of Jimmy Page on his Zep t-shirt.

"****," he said, "this's 'ome goo' store-fry." He let out a straight laugh and smiled. "Don't ya think'o, Floyd?"

He smiled at the way Plant had said stir-fry. Store-fry. Sounds like something Plant would say, he thought with a little chuckle. "Yes. This sure is some damn good store-fry." His smile broadened even more, almost a half-laugh escaping his lips. "So what do you say, Plant? Can I feed you some right on the lips? Can I give you All My Love?" Floyd said the All My Love part like some wacky impersonation of Elvis, coining on the obvious Zeppelin song reference. "I mean, we are friends, aren't we Plant?"

The random throwing out of song titles was a game they often played. It was like playing Chess or Checkers, or, Plant would often say with a smug grin, it was like playing Who Can **** the Chick First. It was like that because they'd play it strategically. Each and every new song reference brought up lessened their gun of bullets, and each time they'd try to get a more crafty way of putting down the song reference. Late in the game, it got pretty damn hard, since they'd usually only stick to Led Zeppelin song titles; but that didn't exclude other bands all of the time. But that lessened the fun of it, putting in other bands. Because then it wasn't like Who Can **** the Chick First, it wasn't staying on one level ground. There was no strategic element in it, it was like putting an assortment of guns, say magnums, small pistols, rockets, and other clattered crap together. The results were always hazy, and most of the time it wasn't like ****ing a chick for the first time. It was like playing the game as a full-fledged, ****ed-until-forever vet of nothing but jack ****.

To them it was a serious thing. As serious as a whore doing her job, or a kid being what a kid does; mainly annoying the **** out of people, or being all innocent-like. And that's what they liked to do to one another in this game. They liked there to be mind ****ery involved; they wanted, like a kid's intuitional right to bother the **** out of their brothers, parents, and anything they touched, to screw a curve ball and totally throw each other.

That's what they wanted to do, Floyd and Plant. They wanted to be the Skinny Bastard and Fat Bastard's Midas' touch of one another. That was what this game was about. It was like making love, and trying to be on the top of each other. Trying to keep going until someone ****ed over.

Plant knew he had to go quick as he looked around the stir-fry joint. Knew he was running out of time. And he needed something good, something fancy-assed and queer like Prince and his damned symbol. He wanted something irregular, asymmetrical. The thing was, he didn't know what the hell it was going to be as he peered around. Then he saw it. It wasn't exactly what he'd wanted, but it would surely do something to **** with Floyd's mind like Prince ****ed with numerous people's minds with his symbol.

"Yeap, 'ure as hell're friends, Floyd. " Plant said it like a true conversationalist buying clams of time He needed to think of a song title, and fast. He kept looking at her with the corner of his eye, then finally came to Floyd's confident face. I got it, he thought as he stared at Floyd. "Damn, Babe I'm Gonna Leave You. I mean ****." He paused, and finally pointed. It was time to kill two birds with one stone. "**** Floyd, look ove' there. If you Bring It On Home, I'll go 'or the feedin'." And Plant could just not help it any longer, he let out a loud, bellowing, Fat Bastard's laugh. Plant wasn't in the official Fat Bastard Mafia, but boy, sometimes he really thought he could.

Floyd could tell the laugh was only to faze him as he finally looked over to the table on the left where Plant had pointed. And suddenly, everything faded. Like that, like a snap of a finger. The incessant clatter in the store-fry joint faded like a wet dream, Plant's laugh faded like Britney Spear's horrible, bitter-**** wail. And just like that, all he could see or hear or feel was the girl. [/size]

[Guest Zeh]

It's a nice change, but not needed. I love your style anyway... You ended it perfectly, that was probably the strongest point of the story...

It didn't impress me over-all... you used 'bastard' a bit too much, and the whole song title thing was a bit over my head, since i don't listen to Led Zeppelin. It was nice, but it wasn't really humorous like you said...

[Corey]

A very interesting piece Mitch my good friend.

I like the references to Zeppelin, even though I'm not all that big of a fan.
You cursed a little much. I found myself using f*** for all of them. Maybe that's how you planned it?
Very nice ending though. Makes me want to read part two.