Congratulations on Finding a Talking Car!

You’ve been driving around for most of this week in a Subaru Hatchback.  That’s fine if you want to pick up moms or posture yourself in a manner that implies you care about the environment.  But it’s not great if you want to fulfill an elaborate plot to disgrace a corrupt infrastructure.  So today you’re going to drive your car, with your sister and your talking giraffe with a shadowy past riding along, into the wall of a secret government lab.

Once you’re through the wall, you’re going to go deeper and deeper into its halls, with your sister ripping out throats and the giraffe shooting people in the face left and right.  It’ll be tremendously interesting, but it’s all ancillary to what we’re here to talk about today: the sweet ass talking car you’re going to find in the sub-sub-basement of this government lab.

It’ll be a hybrid of David Hasselhoff’s consciousness and the chassis of a classic Dodge Charger (1969), which will make it the perfect car for people who still think mullets are cool and/or people who build plans based on the plot of Night Rider episodes.

Once you enter its car-chamber, you’ll be greeted by David Hasselhoff’s rich voice emanating from the car’s trunk subwoofer.

“Oh thank Christ!” the car will scream.  “I thought I was going to die here!”

You’ll ask it how it, as a car, can actually die, at which point a buzzing will take over its speakers before it repeats:  “Oh thank Christ!  I thought I was going to die here!”

You’ll give up talking to it right away and instead load your sister and your weird animal friend into your sweet new ride and take the elevator up, out of the lab.  On your way out the car will drive itself, largely avoiding harming any lab personnel because of an ethical subroutine in its consciousness programming that prevents it from killing unnecessarily.  You’ll grudgingly accept that you won’t be able to use the car to kill anyone directly, and that it’s probably a bad idea to make what is effectively a robot capable of committing acts of random murder, but it’ll be vaguely anticlimactic.  After all that trouble, the killing and the breaking and entry and the destruction of the car where your lost your anal virginity to your frat brother Glenn, you thought you’d get more.

But, of course, life doesn’t always work out as you want it to. So as you drive back to your college, filling in the car on the last five years of popular culture with help from your sister and the giraffe, both of whom watch a lot of reality shows about drag queens and weddings, you’ll come to terms with disappointment, loss, and the bittersweet joy of a plan coming together.

Congratulations on Finding a Talking Car!

Congratulations on Convincing the Giraffe to Join You!

You’ll find Neck McGee on your way back to the city with your sister.  He’ll be sitting in the roadside diner, just where the PI you hired said he’d be, smoking a cigarette and staring into a cup of coffee like it held the answer for every bad decision he’d ever made.

“Whaddya want?” he’ll murmur without meeting your eyes.

“We need you, Neck,” you’ll say softly, sliding a pistol over to him.

He’ll look up at you, which is really down on you (he’s a miniature anthropomorphic giraffe), with red rimmed eyes, blinking once, twice, three times before licking his lips and removing a flask from his hip pocket.

“Didn’t much care for the quiet anyway,” he’ll say before taking a swig and licking his lips once more with his massive blue tongue.  He’ll follow you to your care, where he’ll awkwardly splay himself in the backseat, head poking forward, so that he rides with his face next to your sister’s.

“What’s your story?” he’ll ask her.  She’ll smile back knowingly, prompting a frown from you.  You need Neck, but you’re not sure how you feel about him fucking your sister.

Congratulations on Convincing the Giraffe to Join You!

Congratulations on Finding a Girl Who Will Associate with You in Public!

With your old-man recruit in the bag you’re looking good, but you still need to round out your team of misfits if you want to take down all those corrupt authority figures who fucked up your frat shit.  That means you’re going to have to take some drastic measures:  you’re going to have to get a girl.

She’ll be able to do things (seduce men outside of frats) and go places (women’s restrooms) that you simply cannot.  And you have the perfect girl in mind: your sister.  She’s a huge whore, she hats fratboys, and she loves slutting it up.  She’s also a disgraced CIA operative living under the radar in the middle of nowhere, Nevada.

Today you’ll pull up to her trailer and step out of your car cautiously.  A shotgun blast will kick the dust up near your feet.

“You know the danger you’re putting me in?” your sister will shout.  The sound of her voice will echo around the canyon surrounding her mobile home.  You won’t be able to tell where she is, though you’ll know she’s not in the trailer.

“I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t worth it,” you’ll shout back.  She’ll be quiet a while, then speak up.

“I’m listening.”

You’ll explain the whole story, emphasizing the whole “love” and “betrayal” thing, since chicks tend to dig shit like that.  After you finish you’ll just be standing there alone for a good long while in silence.  After almost five minutes, your sister will appear, shotgun still in her hands.

“You’ve got me until the end of the week,” she’ll murmur as she throws her shotgun in the back and hops in the front seat of her car.  “After that, I’m going to have to disappear again.”

“Thanks,” you’ll mumble at her.

“Don’t mention it,” she’ll spit back, staring out the window, wondering what she’ll have gotten herself into this time.

Congratulations on Finding a Girl Who Will Associate with You in Public!

Congratulations on Your Sweet New Recruit!

Today you’re going to take the first step towards frat vengeance: you’re going to recruit the greatest partier that ever partied.  His name: Partyman McJohnson.

You’ll arrive at his one bedroom apartment, accompanied by frat bros.

“Sup,” you’ll nod at him when he opens the door.

“Sup,” he’ll respond with a curt upthrust jaw.  He’ll look old, worn down.  Like life took a little too much out of him.  He’ll be holding a coffee cup in his hand filled with whiskey.

You’ll explain the situation to him: deans, dastardly presidents and damsels all laid out in classic form to make a frat underdog story.  He’ll shake his head when you finish.

“Naw, bra,” he’ll mumble as he sips his whiskey.  “That ain’t me no more.”

You’ll be shattered.  But then you’ll remember your frat orientation seminar and cock out your arms, pointing your thumbs up and saying “Duuuuuude,” to him in a long, drawn out manner.

He’ll look at you like you’re crazy, like you just lost your god damn mind.  Then he’ll smile and nod at you.

“Duuuuuuuude,” he’ll reply, holding out his hand for a handshake. You’ll take it and bro-shake the shit out of that hand.  Thus will conclude phase one of your elaborate revenge plan.

Phases two through four to follow.

Congratulations on Your Sweet New Recruit!

Congratulations Panty Bandits!

Today you and your fraternity brothers are going to be called before the Greek Council.  It will be a somber occasion.

“Sigma Epsilon Omega,” they’ll announce to the world, “we find you guilty of Party Foul Supreme.”

The hall will collectively gasp.  An effeminate man from the fraternity where bros don’t have to be on the DL will faint.  The dean will smirk from the corner.

He told you he’d get you two weeks back, and now he’ll have done it: set you up, you and all your boys.  You didn’t really Party Foul that hard.  There were no Repeated Spill Offenses or Unauthorized Roofie Attempts.  There was not a single Uncalled For Pantsing to be had.  All of the charges brought levied upon you by the Greek Council will be pure fabrication, spare one.

Coveting the girlfriend of the president of the Greek Council.

This most capital of offenses will be your true crime.  But this is not grounds for disbarment: this is grounds for challenge under Greek Code.

Or it should be, but the Dean, the president of the Council and one scheming math professor will have collaborated to keep you down.  And they’ll have covered all their bases, checked all the angles.  All spare one: they forgot that no one keeps down a Panty Bandit.

What ensues will be nothing short of an epic quest for revenge deserving of encapsulation in a myth of some sort, possibly a Greek one.  You and your brothers are in for one hell of a week.

Congratulations Panty Bandits!