A Ridiculous Story That You Will Not Be Able To Stop Reading

*disclaimer... i am here shamelessly admitting that i did not compose this story wholly alone. My arch enemy is responsible for all the bad spelling, grammar, and damage done to the real superhero. We switched off every other paragraph (some of which became ridiculously LONG as a result) - i began the first one. Certain elements have been kept the same for comic interest - others have been changed to protect the innocent. Beware. It is very stupid. Brilliant, but stupid.*

The dancing dappled sunlight slid smoothly over the hood of the fire-engine-red SAAB convertible as it sped down the country highway. It was exactly 5:37 on a Friday afternoon and the posh executive businessman was just settling in for a long weekend. His Ralph Lauren tie was loosened, his Versace shades were in place; the air conditioning vents blew the woodsy scent of his aftershave around the sleek leather interior of his car and out into the cloudless azure sky. He ran a perfectly manicured hand through his Pert Plus hair and over his carefully stubbled Gilette chin. His brilliantly shining shoes flashed recklessly from brake to accelerator in staccato beats. The calming strains of Mozart could be heard playing subtly in the background. He flicked his Gucci studded wrist to the side out of sheer habit to monitor the time, allowing his attention to be drawn from the road ahead for a split second. That proved to be his merciless downfall.

As he careened round the curve, the vehicle skidded down the dropping corner at a refractory speed of 87 miles per hour. The Michelin Symmetry tires leaving their prints behind, put a smell of burn in the air so strong it covered Brand Name Boy's Stetson cologne. Track Nine of Missa Longa skipped in the Bose radio as the Samsonite briefcase filled with Pilot ink pens, important notes, and a Motorola cell phone; flipped chaotically around the soon-to-be scrap metal speed ball of a horrific sight vehicle. Leaving the road and tearing the metal guard rail in two, the car flew through the air. After being slowed down by the branches of the giant native oak trees, it hit the side of the mountain and scraped itself all the way to the bottom of the fog-filled valley. As the bystanders called out to the smoking pile of crushed glass, leather, and metal... there was no reply. With flames slowly starting to build at the back of the convertible, the bystanders panic heightens and they rush to call Dunk Rappingtin, the eccentric rescue worker who would jump at any opportunity to risk his own life at the prospect of saving another.

The ringing of the onlooker's cellphone stops as the low and raspy voice of Dunk Rappingtin answers. "Just a minute - i'm all wet." He was just stepping out of the shower, as his last rescue attempt had made him quite dirty. He quickly dried his suave in a rather dorkish way hair and grabbed up the phone again. Unfortunately, he forgot to dry his hands and it slipped out of his soapy grasp... right into... the toilet!! OH NO!! He yells in dismay and jumps up and down in abject consternation. Man oh man oh man! He finally decides he must rescue his precious handset and suddenly wishes he HAD hired that maid to clean his house for him. Dunk, true to his name, reaches into the wide mouth of his avacado green toilet and **ZZAPPP!! BRAAAZZERR!! BZZZTTT!!** gets the shock of his life. Finally he is able to pull his hand out, dripping and smelling limey fresh (he had one of those neat little thingies that you drop in the tank to smell terrible every time you flush). He quickly runs to the sink, slipping on the tile floor and banging his chin on the trash can. Mr. Rappingtin, completely devoid of any pride at this moment, pulls himself gingerly up on the edge of the sink and catches sight of his hair in the mirror. It is sticking up all over and reminds him of Frasier holding on to a lightning ball at a museum. Not attractive. He reaches for his no name comb to fix the mess and has an incredibly bright thought (for someone named Dunk, that is). "I'LL ANSWER THE LIVING ROOM PHONE!!" He tucks a towel around his waist and explodes from the bathroom, reaching the purple tele in record time. He grabs it up (hands are dry by now) and at the exact same moment, the doorbell rings, startling him out of his wits.

The front windows have no curtains and any minute the person at the door could look around the corner and see him in this state - but what about the poetically life threatening adventure beckoning his daring devotion? In his moment of weakness, he held higher his dignity than the life of another; throwing himself around the corner and back into the bathroom, safe away from the embarrassment of being caught in a nerdful appearance. In the safety of his hiding place, he puts the phone back to his right ear. "What's the emergency?" he asks in near uncontrolled anticipation. But there is no answer; examining the situation he realizes that the cord of his phone wasn't long enough to reach around the corner and his humiliating dash to the bathroom had torn it right apart. In great haste, he snatches the sewer scented cell. But as he holds it to his head, leaving the horrific smell on his face, he finds that it too is of no use, as the water has surged it out. The realization that he has let the unknown victim of nature go unsaved in order to save himself from embarrassment and the thoughts of that faceless man falling victim to any imaginable fate put Dunk Rappingtin into a state of delusional slop of helpless stupor. Overcome by tormenting thoughts of failing and missing out on a great adventure, Dunk falls into a coma-like trance on the cold tile floor. Just as he hits the ground, the neighbor peeks around and, through the unwashed window, sees him slam down like a driving dummy. The peeping tom quickly calls for Dr. Frizwal Hipocken (all vowels short, except for the "a" which makes the -all- sound) who specializes in mentally ill patients.