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The Wonderful Wizard of Reno...Part 4

Updated on November 13, 2012

The Romans Used to Vomit and Then Come Back for More...Crazy...

As this particular piece of literary ‘fatty meat’ is being offered in a multi part serving...Beginning this particular story here will, undoubtedly lead to heartburn and Indigestion. Who wants that?

My recommendation would be to start with salad and bread sticks. Clicking HERE will result in complimentary appetizers at the Start of the Story...

I hope you Enjoy!


When Midgets Build Widgets...Your Sentence will Rhyme...

We moved through the woods as a group and followed the two trails...

Toto and Applejacks followed the mysterious trail of puppy-chow, while Kelly, Alastar, and I followed the fragments of straw, sweat, and self-loathing which comprised the second trail. We are followed by Cowardly Lion, Tin man, and L. Frank Baum in a ragged formation.

Unbeknownst to us...our progress is being followed...

Meanwhile...back at her campaign headquarters...

Our progress was being monitored via crystal ball by The Wicked Witch of the West...Sharron Angle.

The fat was in the fire...

She was screaming obscenities into the crystal ball, sweating, fretting, and being a bitch. To use the vernacular of the street...she was bugging.

“I WANT TO GO TO CONGRESS!! I WANT TO GO TO CONGRESS!!” Screams the Nevada Tea Party favorite and, three times Congressional election loser, as she gnaws on her own toenails in a grotesque display of double jointed-ness.

The two men in the room with her, L. Ron Hubbard and Vladimir Putin, look on worriedly.

L. Ron Hubbard moves in and, in a process known as, ‘auditing’, begins talking Sharron down off the ledge.

“Free your reactive mind Sharron...” L. Ron Hubbard coos... “Free your reactive mind...”

Rumors had long circulated, in Nevadan political circles, regarding Angle’s relationship with the Church of Scientology. Angle consistently denies them; however, they are obviously true...why else would L. Ron Hubbard be in this story? He serves as her spiritual, political, and economic advisor.

Putin’s role is a bit more nebulous.

His efforts to reclaim the Presidency of Russia, after a four-year hiatus as Prime Minister, hit a snag recently when tens of thousands of Russians took to the streets in protest over his continued rule. Protestors were tired of his heavy-handedness amidst allegations of fraud by Putin’s United Russia Party in recent Parliamentary elections.

He has derisively dismissed the protestors as “Internet Hamsters” and “Bander Logs” (the chattering Monkeys of Rudyard Kipling’s, Jungle Book), while, likening their white-ribbons of solidarity to condoms.

Still...he was worried...His resume was in his pocket.

A (September 2009) report, from the Committee to Protect Journalists, warned that Russia, with over three hundred murdered correspondents, was one of the deadliest countries in the world for reporters.

He hoped to become Angle’s new Press Secretary...

Sharron settles down and returns her gaze to the crystal ball while motioning Putin over...

“These are the bastards who are fucking with me!” She indicates our progress through the woods. Pointing to me, she asks...

“Can you kill him?”

“Is he a journalist?” Asks Putin.

“Yes. He is with the International (cough, cough) Herald.” Sharron quakes fearfully.

“Well then of course I can kill him...that is my right.” Putin announces, as if, I were already dead.

Far off in the distance...the Munchkins let loose with a ragged cheer...


Sharron was impressed.

“Then kill him and you can be my new Press Secretary.”

“I will need some help on the ground, muscle; I believe you Americans call it.”

Sharron Angle considers his request before saying, “Then you shall have it. Bristol!” She calls...


The Dwarf you say...?

The sound of tap shoes and angrily beating wings signals the approach of Bristol Palin and her brood of winged-illegitimate children. The flying monkeys (of this story) were confused and distracted. They missed their grandma (mom?) ...The Wicked Witch of the North...Sarah Palin...

Dozens of the little bastards (literally) settled in among a rustle of feathers, anger, angst, and issues. Bristol, unwilling to accept her loss, on Dancing with the wearing tap shoes along with a scowl. Her lower back hurts from carrying...yet another...winged-illegitimate child...

L. Ron Hubbard was on the phone busily finalizing details for something, he kept referring to, as ‘Operation Snow White’... campaign workers moved about watering plants while keeping a weather-eye open for representatives of the media. Over-watered plants die a little from root rot...

Sharron introduces Vladimir to Bristol. Bristol responds, by asking Vladimir...

“Would you like to have unprotected sex, plant your seed deep inside me, and then leave once the baby becomes obvious?”

Da.” Affirms Putin. They leave...

“Fucking slut.” Mutters the Wicked Witch of the West as she turns back to the crystal ball. She had wanted Putin for her own self. It was then that she saw Dorothy’s pretty, but bare, feet.

“THE SLIPPERS! WHERE ARE THEY??” She began screaming obscenities into the crystal ball, sweating, fretting, and being a bitch. To use the vernacular of the street...she was bugging.

L. Ron Hubbard hangs up the phone, comes over and, in a process known as, ‘auditing’, begins talking Sharron down off the ledge.

“Free your reactive mind Sharron...” L. Ron Hubbard coos... “Free your reactive mind...”

Sharron settles down and returns her gaze to the crystal ball while motioning L. Ron Hubbard and one of the winged-troglodytes over... After a brief consultation, a number of the illegitimate, winged-offspring take flight from campaign headquarters...

L. Ron Hubbard picks up the phone and initiates...Operation Freak-out...

The fat was in the fire...


“Midget porn is not really my thing...” Admits Dorothy...

We were hot on the trail of Scarecrow and the mysterious trail of puppy chow. Toto would periodically stop, sniff, and then eat each piece of puppy chow. Occasionally, to his delight, he would also find a peanut butter ball. Applejacks is too distracted to eat...she just follows the trail.

About twenty feet behind them were Creative Voice and Internal CD Player. Internal CD Player suddenly remembers something he wanted to say to Creative Voice...

“’re a fucking asshole.” Says the Tin man.

“Put ‘em Up, Put ‘em Up!!” Hollers The Cowardly Lion. “What’s your fucking problem?!”

Tin man stops and turns to face Cowardly Lion. L. Frank Baum struggles past them...gasping for breath, tripping over, all manners, of obstacles. The old guy was about done in.

“What’s MY fucking problem?” Asks the Tin man menacingly. “Would you prefer general or specific reasons?”

The Cowardly Lion considers his odds before requesting specific.

Don Quixote vs. Don Knotts?” Intones Tin man.

“Ohhhh...” The Cowardly Lion wishes he had gone general...

Tin man snarls at him derisively. “Ohhhh? That’s what you have to say? You took my batteries out bitch!”

“Right, right, right...that was wrong, wrong, wrong.” Admits the Cowardly Lion. “I am very, very, very sorry. Let’s go kill Scarecrow.”

“Sounds good.” Agrees Tin man.

Dorothy, Alastar, and I were following the detris of the human being that was Scarecrow. Straw, remnants of sweat-stained clothing attached to branches...the occasional rotted tooth were our road map.

Our search was frozen by a voice which asked...

“Are you looking for a, rather, haggard looking gentleman who might be looking for car-batteries to sell?” Asks the Sponge sitting on the rock opposite us.

It was just a normal sponge. Not like a celebrity Sponge Bob sponge or an interesting sea-type sponge or even, a birth-control sponge. A normal kitchen sponge. Green on one side...greener on the other. He looked new.

Spilled Milk...
Spilled Milk... | Source
Forks in the Road...
Forks in the Road... | Source
L. Frank Baum...
L. Frank Baum... | Source

Once again...I have to Say...Dwarf...

I rush over and ask him... “When did he come by? Did you see Ruby Slippers??”

Alastar and Kelly exchange hesitant looks before following me...

After denying knowledge of any ruby slippers, Sponge did recall seeing someone else pass by a few minutes after Scarecrow...deeper into the woods. Being a sponge, he was unable to move closer to investigate.

We explain our problem...

“I’m sponging what you are spilling. Commiserates Sponge.

“However, I would concentrate on this Scarecrow fellow you mentioned. He seemed to be quite determined. He headed towards that left fork in the trail over there.”

Sponge doesn’t indicate the fork because, again, he is a sponge. We take him at his word. He seemed to have the type of memory that soaked stuff up...

L. Frank Baum staggers up and collapses across the rock. He grasps Sponge in a tight grip and begins mopping his dripping brow.

Sponge is indignant...

“What the fuck old man!? Am I a mo-frack’n tube of toothpaste?? Lose the death grip!”

Alastar takes control of L. Frank Baum, Kelly pries Sponge from his grip, and I apologize for the group. Sponge has his bristly scrubbing side up. Understandable.

“Are you kidding me?” Complains Sponge. “That was hardly a sponge-worthy activity!”

As Kelly attempts to ‘delicately’ wring L. Frank Baum’s old-man-brow-sweat from Sponge...the rest of our group gathers around us.

“The puppy chow trail keeps heading into the woods.” Toto reports. He wisely keeps the knowledge of the occasional presence of peanut butter balls to himself. After the Blue-Berry Yum-Yum bud...we would have lost focus...

“L. Frank Baum isn’t going to make it.” Points out Tin man.

We agree to split up. Toto and Applejacks would continue to follow the trail of puppy mix. Dorothy, Cowardly Lion, Tin man, Alastar, and I would follow the left fork in the road towards Scarecrow. L. Frank Baum would stay with Sponge.

Sponge asks the only question that would concern a sponge in this type of situation...

“He’s not incontinent is he?”

Alastar, who is standing behind Sponge, indicates that he has no idea with an, uncomfortable, silent shrug of his shoulders...

“Noooo.” We all assure Sponge.

“His bladder is like a rock.” Affirms Kelly.

“As are his arteries!” Points out Tin man.

“No drip before it’s time,” Contributes Cowardly Lion with a defiant nod of his head, “That’s L. Frank Baum’s motto!!”

Sponge absorbs what we have to say before agreeing to babysit L. Frank Baum. Toto and Applejacks head out. The rest of us follow the left fork in the road...


Do Midgets use Salad Forks...?

“So, who left you?” Alastar asks the Fork that was left in the road.

“I honestly don’t remember.” Fork admits. “I do remember a picnic...”

“I have lost so many forks at picnics.” Kelly agrees solemnly.

We were moving through a dark part of the forest. Storm clouds blocked out what little light might have emerged past the tall trees. A brisk wind picks up...

“Hey?” I ask Kelly. “You’re not cold without shoes on, are you?”

“No. In fact, I was going to mention, you keep your stories at a very nice temperature.”

“I don’t care for the cold. I agree.

“I think a story should be kept at 78-degrees, generally.” I say, further expanding, on my theories regarding story-related temperatures...

“Humidity is the key.” Points out Alastar.

“Of course, that is SO true! A little oil is good!” Opines Tin man whose first thoughts tend towards thoughts of rust...

“You DO have nice feet Kelly. A little oil is good!” Says Creative Voice whose first thoughts tend towards thoughts of lust...

Loud voices ahead end our conversation and drive us forward...



The Scarecrow had gotten himself into a tight spot. While walking through the woods he had kept an eye open for cigarettes, ten dollars, or car batteries that might be sitting around.

He found apples...attached to apple trees...mean apple trees...

(Several readers get excited at the prospect of a scene they might vaguely recognize from the movie...)

Scarecrow is ensnared within the boughs of a tree while another tree throws apples at him...

The tree is raging at him. “YOU WANTED APPLES?? TAKE THEM!!” He throws three more apples...

(Smack. Smack. Smack.)

“Ouch. Ouch. Ouch.” Replies Scarecrow, dutifully.

We rush in and extricate Scarecrow while taking our fair share of apple-related hits. At the height of the battle, Fork is forced to double over and ram the holding tree, while Dorothy uses her, recently purchased Tazer, to nail the tree that was expertly whomping us with apples...

(Those same readers are largely disappointed, in themselves, for their misplaced optimism...)


I Saw a Dwarf with a Ladle Once...

Once we remove ourselves, beyond apple hurling distance, we confront Scarecrow...

Flick. Flick. Flick. Went the three lighters in Alastar’s, Kelly’s, and my hands.

“Where are my Ruby slippers, asshole?” Asks Kelly.

“Our doomed populist alliance between Eastern industrial workers and Western farmers (as illustrated by the roles of the Tin man and Scarecrow, respectively) is now over!” Tin man announces formally.

“Put ‘em Up! Put ‘em Up!”

“Let’s find ourselves a needle in that there haystack...” From Alastar...

“What the fuck, Tweaker?” I ask, disappointed.

Scarecrow adopts a put upon tweakers will do...

“Hey? I didn’t take your shoes! I was looking for a cigarette, ten dollars, or a car battery I could sell!” He wipes his runny nose on his shirt sleeve. His hands shake...

Taking a tweaker at his word is always an option. Not a very good one. We fall upon him, tearing at the hay encased within the ragged clothes. That’s where the slippers would be hidden. His head becomes detached and rolls a short distance away...

“EEW...” From Kelly...

“What?!?!” From the rest of us...

“He has three rotting teeth in his shirt pocket...?”

“Don’t judge me.” From the severed head...

No slippers. Just the normal accoutrements of a tweaker. Smelly clothes, mildewed hay, and three rotting teeth in a shirt pocket. No slippers.

What the fuck?

It made sense. If Scarecrow had the slippers he wouldn’t be gathering apples in Oz. He would be pawning the slippers in Reno. Who took the slippers? We gather to discuss this turn of events as Scarecrow begins gathering his composite parts...


A Midget Named Gidget...a Fish Named Hector...

“Where does this lead? Does it go to the Emerald City?” I ask Fork while indicating the road.

Fork chews on it for a bit.

“Yeah...this road will get you to Emerald City. Also, take you to Kansas and spots west I reckon. After about a mile up...there’s a dog’s leg in the road...that...”

His travelogue is interrupted...

“WHAT!?” Several of us call out...

Fork stutters to a stop...

“Where’s the rest of the dog??” An appalled Cowardly Lion inquires...

“I honestly don’t remember.” Fork admits. “I do remember a picnic...”

“I have lost so many dogs at picnics.” Kelly agrees solemnly.

“I don’t want to go that way!” Tin man complains.

I consider our options before asking Fork if he knew of an alternate route that avoided dismembered dogs.

“You could go that way.” Points out Fork as he indicates an overgrown trailhead. Yellow colored bricks were an underfunded reality for this particular stretch of highway. Passage would be single file and crouched in places...still...

“So, no dead dogs?” I ask.

“No, no.” Fork says assuredly. “Not this time of year.”

It was agreed that Fork would remain in the road in case Toto and Applejacks happened along. He would let them know we had entered the trail at this location.

“You are a classy piece of cutlery my friend.” I tell Fork before knifing into the woods...

Fork waits for us to round the first bend. Once we are lost from view he, further, disguises the entrance to the trail head. His role in Operation Freak-Out was completed...

He clasps his hands behind his back and begins casually whistling as he begins the walk to the Emerald City.

Since it was just, “casual” whistling, it didn’t violate the strictures put into place against musicals...I mean...It’s not like it’s a production or anything...

(End Part 4)

(Part 1) (Part 2) (Part 3)(Part 5) (Part 6)(Part 7)(Part 8)(Part 9)(Part 10)


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