Men in Really Cramped, Ridiculously Insanely Small Pants

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Today I am here to tell you the truth. Forget everything you know about anything. If you are scared of what I have to tell you, and I wouldn’t blame you if you are, then stop reading now. I’m serious. Don’t read this story. Just go back to reading your silly little books about ninja bunnies from Kentucky and burn this paper. This story was not meant for anyone with a weak constitution, fear of aliens, or psoriasis. As always, ask a doctor before reading this story. Never run with scissors. If you are still reading, you have more courage than I. Ready? Fine, don’t say I didn’t warn you.

It all started four years ago, on December 17, 2008 at 3:24 p.m., the month before what would come to be known as the Infamous Deadly Digital TV Switch, and I was doing fine. My future was looking bright as I walked across the street, waving at one of my old friends. The sunlight glinted off of the limousine speeding directly over my face…

We sincerely apologize for any inconvenience, for we hired the wrong writer. The writer that was supposed to write this story was the man driving the limo. Forget what you have read as we begin again.

It all started four years ago, on December 17, 2008 at 3:24 p.m., the month before what would come to be known as the Infamous Deadly Digital TV Switch, and I was doing…horrible. I was driving a limo for the fifth richest woman in America, who also happened to be the stingiest jerk in the world. I hadn’t been paid in months, other than one empty Cinnabon gift card. My boss was obsessed with them. She had some issues or something, because day in and day out all I ever saw her eat was Cinnabons. I think the kindest thing my boss ever did was give me what was left of her Cinnabon.

After she had swallowed it.

Anyway, I was driving my boss to the mall. We were almost there when she stuck her head into the front seat and said in her shrill, high-pitched, annoying voice, “Are we, like, there yet? Hey, you, like, just hit that guy. Cool. Wait, I just, like, broke a nail. AHHHHHHHHHH!” She wailed like a banshee getting her hair pulled out by a lawn mower. I pulled into the parking lot of the mall as she climbed out the door. All of a sudden, her voice…changed somehow. Suddenly it sounded deep and demonic as she said, “You had better watch it. This will not be forgotten.” That was the first sign I had that something was wrong.

One month later, on January 17, 2009, I was getting dressed in my ridiculously tight limo driver’s outfit. For some strange reason, my boss had actually been kind and given me a day off the day before. She had been acting really strange lately. Like when she would be watching the television in the back of the limo and start laughing at a digital TV commercial for no reason. Sometimes I would ask her what the problem was and she would reply, “Shut up, monkey boy.” She would pick up her custom-made designer remote, glowing neon green, and shut the window. I pondered all of this as I put on my hat and walked out the door.

I pulled into her driveway to pick her up and immediately knew something was wrong. The windows of her mansion were all busted in, and I could hear someone screaming. I grabbed the pistol I kept strapped to my ankle and burst through the door. My boss was sitting in the midst of the rubble, mumbling incoherently, and by the heaving of her shoulders I could tell she was sobbing. “What’s the matter?” I asked. “…you,” she said in that same demonic voice I had heard at the mall. “It’s your fault…Jackson will kill me…I must kill you!” She leapt at me, and suddenly she became ugly. I’m not talking Mister Homecoming ugly, either. I mean bad to the bone, seven-foot tail, multiple head, reptile skin ugly. I dived out of the way of her talons (yes, talons) as she screeched, “I must get the remote!” I ran out of the house and started my limo. My boss let out an almighty roar and chased me with superhuman speed. I sped away through traffic as she leapt from car to car in pursuit of me. I pulled out my cell phone (which was no easy feat as I was speeding down a one way street the wrong way) and called the police. The phone rang twice until I heard, “Hello.”

“Hi, umm, I’m being chased by a ferocious monster, soooo…HELP!!!!!!!!”

“If you would like to report a theft, press 1. If you would like to report a murder, press 2. If you would like to have a policeman sponsor your local event, press 3. If a ferocious male monster is chasing you, press 99. Our ferocious female monster unit is currently down, so please try again…”

I threw my cell phone out the window as I reached for my pistol. I looked down at the spot on my ankle where my pistol had been strapped and cursed my bad luck. I had dropped my pistol when my boss had dived at me back at the mansion. I desperately looked around for something to defend myself with when something caught my eye…
The woman backed away as the convict pointed the gun at her. “Help me, Lord,” the woman prayed. Suddenly, the gun was snatched out of his hand as a limo sped past.
“What the…” The convict never finished his sentence, for a leaping alien’s claw then smashed through his face.
The woman then went on to become one of the world’s most famous evangelists.

I fired at the monster with my newfound gun. The bullets didn’t even phase it. I eventually had to resort to throwing the empty gun at the monster. She was gaining distance every second when two limousines stopped in front of me. I slammed on my brakes and dived out of the door. Two men stepped out of the limos, dressed in the same suit that I was. They stood there silently, until I said, “Get back in the limo! Can’t you see we may die?” I heard a deep, rattling breathing noise and turned around slowly. My boss was standing on my limo, staring directly into my face. We stood there for several seconds, until one of the men stepped forward and grabbed his hat. He slowly approached the monster, and then, at the last second, he threw his hat at her. I spun around and said, “What are you doing? How could that possibly…”
My voice was drowned out by the wailing of my boss, which sounded like the mating cry of the Argentinan Ground Squirrel (tsk-tsk-AAAAAAHHHHH!). She then thrashed around in the middle of the road, taking out several trucks, three stop signs, and a mailman, then said, “I…will…not… fail!” She dived through the sunroof of my limo and grabbed her remote. I followed the other man’s example and threw my hat into her face. She clawed at her face and then, with a final screech, exploded. My limo was in ruins. The once beautiful paint job was now a twisted piece of scrap metal. I ran up to one of the other limo drivers, grabbed him by the shoulders and asked him, “What is going on here? My limo is destroyed, my boss just exploded, and I’m pretty sure I need some new underwear! You had better give me some answers, cause I am seriously freaked out!”

“Calm down and get into the limo. Everything will be explained in time.”

I turned around, and where two limousines had stood, one extra long limousine stood in its place. I climbed in the door. A flat-screen television dropped down from the ceiling and hit me in the head. “Ow,” I said as I pressed the play button. “Hello. If you are watching this, I can imagine that you are seriously freaked out right now. You probably want some answers,” the guy on the TV said. He looked to be in his forties, still wearing the same outfit that I had on. “Unfortunately, there is no memory left on this DVD, because I recorded the Powerpuff Girls marathon last night. If you want answers, put in disc 2.” A DVD case holding several discs hit me in the head. None of them were labeled, so I pulled out the first one I saw and put it in the disc tray. “Sugar, spice, and everything nice. These are the ingredients to the perfect little girl. But Professor Utonium accidentally…” I hit the eject button and put in the next disc.
One hour later, I found the correct disc. The man began to speak. “Okay, here is the truth. There is another planet to our solar system. It is in between Mars and Venus. Its name is…Kakkurot. This planet used to be rich in minerals, Cinnabons, and resources, until one fateful day. This was the day that satellite broadcasting began. One stray broadcast of “Walker, Texas Ranger” collided with the volatile atmosphere of the planet, and BOOM! No more Kakkurot.”
“The few who survived vowed to seek revenge. They concocted an elaborate plan to defeat our planet. They have assumed the positions of pop stars and celebrities. They brainwash our youth with their subliminal messages and annoying lyrics. In response to this, those of us who realized the problem have founded a secret organization of men with powerful clothing that we like to call Men in Really Cramped, Ridiculously Insanely Small Pants, also known as M.R. C.R.I.S.P.*”
“We battle foul villains, such as Ileymay Yruscay, who you probably know better as your boss, Miley Cyrus. The only two that currently pose a threat are Ichaelmay Acksonjay and Arthamay Tewartsay, who you probably know better as Michael Jackson and Martha Stewart. They, along with Ileymay, were planning something big. Intelligence tells us that they had lobbied in Congress to get a law passed, forcing everyone to get a digital TV converter box. These boxes, although seemingly harmless, are Kakkurot’s final revenge. The boxes will take over the minds of everyone who watches them, which accounts for more than seventy percent of the population. Luckily, there is one fatal weakness in their plan. If someone can reprogram the remote that controls them, then the boxes will be harmless. We have heard that you have found this remote. They will come for you. You must climb to the top of Mount Everest, carry a fifty-foot antenna on your back through the snow, and reprogram the remote using a complex series of button presses. Of course, you could just press the on/off button five times, but what’s the fun in that? Good luck with your mission. Here is a donut.”

I climbed out of the car, happily munching my donut. I dug through the wreckage of my car and found the remote. I pressed the off button five times. The remote beeped loudly as I heard the DVD player in the limo say, “Oh, and by the way, the remote will explode with the force of a fifty-megaton atom bomb. Enjoy!” Suddenly, discs started to pour out of the door, and I knew what my destiny was. I started to pick up the Powerpuff Girls marathon DVDs, threw the remote in the car, and threw in as many of the discs as I could. I slammed the door and dived behind a dumpster. I watched the limo fly into the air as the explosion was muffled by the immense strength of the Powerpuff Girls, and then crash to the ground. The door creaked open and I heard the DVD player say, “Oh, and in the off chance you survive, it will turn into a radioactive Cinnabon that will give you powers beyond your wildest dreams.”

And so, through my valiant efforts, the destruction of the world was halted, at least until June 12. I shall continue fighting the good fight until then. Because…
I’m a rumor, recognizable only as deja vu and dismissed just as quickly. I don't exist; I was never even born. Anonymity is my name. Silence my native tongue. I’m no longer part of the System. I’m above the System. Over it. Beyond it. I’m "them." I’m "they." I am, we are, the Men in Really Cramped, Ridiculously Insanely Small Pants.**


*An in-joke.
**Eerily like the Men In Black.





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