Another Verbal Beatdown from Howard Leeds, Producer of Small Wonder

Hello again, you filthy degenerate ingrates. I should be addressing you from a gold-encrusted manse richly ornamented with precious jewels and plutonium, but instead stand before you on a soap box in the park. And not just any soap box, but a generic-brand one. Seriously, who's ever heard of "Foamo?" Your betrayal of me and my noble vision of robogirl-themed entertainment led me down this woeful path. I shall not forget that, even when my vengeance has been wrought.

I'm here to present yet another opportunity to redeem yourselves, and accept Vicki the Robot into your hearts. And that's The Sacred Church of Vicki of the Gynoid Word, my new 501(c)(3) tax-exempt religious organization. For you see, the message of Small Wonder is too big to contain on UHF reruns and YouTube snippets- it requires cathedrals and tithing and hundred-year-old organs playing the theme music! You'll learn to devote yourselves to my vision of prepubescent fembot maids and their ability to elevate us to a higher plane of consciousness!

This is your chance to get in on the ground floor, and maybe even become an apostle. With your generous donation, you can be seated at Vicki's left parallel port in the afterlife, passing judgment on those who have squandered their chance at heaven! You'll cackle and cast down lightning bolts of smite while the streets flow with the blood of the infidels! Take this silicon chip wafer as communion, and help me to resurrect our savior, this rubber, anatomically-correct sculpt of Tiffany Brissette, who shall lord high over us and bring about the End Times!

Wait, come back here. You can't deny the holiness of this venture! Did not Jesus preach the sermon on a Foamo box? To turn the other cheek to Vicki is to sentence yourselves to eternal damnation in the hellfire brimstone depths of the Lawsons' nosy neighbors' basement! There you will suffer torment as you have never conceived it- a life without Vicki's grace and French maid uniform!

I'm Howard Leeds, and I baptize you in blood!

Unwholesome Tidings from Wilkie Collins, Victorian Author

Cheerio, gents and lasses! Tis I, Wilkie Collins, buttered-toast enthusiast and literary scholar, here once again to grant thee wishes of goodtide and willgood. Also, I must confess that I have a petty favor of which to request from you all, my most favourable companions, and that it beseeches me to ask it in a manner of utmost discretion.

I would like to sell thoust a customised erotic etching.

Nowst! Wait hither and grant me hear! This is not a bawdy proposition, and involves no acts of buggery nor vice. Place aback the prudish primbiggery of our separatist forebears. This is purely and truly for the sake of art and all its merits- much like that graffiti I witnessed in the baths during my Roman holiday.

You shall come by and by to my dwelling, and disrobe. I, under supervision of an Anglican friar for morality's sake, will then apply ferric chloride to zinc plates, and create a splendid representation of your tawny form astride an aurochs- its musculature being taut and tense, and its thingy most strident! For this service, you shall make payment to me of three farthingshillings and a sixpence guinea, and allow me to romantically visualise your upper torso during my physician-prescribed treatments for hysteria.

I may also sell the negatives on eBay.

Heretofore! My announcement has been made, and with it a great burden lifted from my bosom. I stand idly by and await the throng of gentleladies wishing to take advantage of this most agreeable pursuit. It will be just as 'tis on St. Foxing Day, and my services shall be the figurative fox to your mangy hounds!

Allo?

An Expository Monologue by ManDom, Gorean Lifestylist

I am Ralph, patron of the Salty Dawg and defender of the secrets of Gor. This is Melly, my life partner.

Fabulous secret powers were revealed to me the day I smashed a whiskey bottle across the bar, held it aloft, and screamed at the top of my lungs, "You want a piece of me?!"

Melly became my alpha slave, SuckMonkey, and I became MANDOM, the most hypermasculine biomale to ever wear pleather chaps!

Only three others share this secret- Reggie the bartender, Archduke von Pain at the local swinger's club, and my parole officer. Together, we defend my new lifestyle from the evil forces of human rights.

On the Lam with Gus Caruthers, Arby's Manager

Well, Casey and I are on the run from the law after murdering Nick Johansen, manager of the Tim Horton's across the street. We'll always remember him, as his teeth and hair are permanently embedded in the grill of my Dodge Charger.

I betcha every officer in Missisauga, Ontario is after us right now. We're heading for the Yukon now, to cross the Bering Strait and head for glorious freedom in Siberia. I told Casey she can never see or contact her friends and family again, nor savor the smells of the Arby's fry vat and its crisp, seasoned load of curly fries. However, we will be subsisting on packets of Horsey Sauce for the foreseeable future, as I forgot to pack any food, and my trunk happens to be full of them.

Nick, you had it coming to you. The cutthroat world of fast food is not one for the unprepared. Survival of the fittest, baby. I pack a Desert Eagle .50 in my britches when I come in to work every day, knowing I may just have to waste someone with a slug to the cranium if they get in my way. It's your own damn fault for not wearing a suit of armor in your own parking lot.

Gotta go. Smokey's on my tail. Casey, deploy the oil slick!

Stream of Consciousness by Gus Caruthers, Arby's Manager

I'm declaring war on the Tim Horton's across the street. I've sent Casey the fry cook over to repeatedly order a single donut to eat-in, and then I have her steal the plates to bring back here. If she does this eighty times a day for the next month and a half, it will start to eat into their profits!

Oh wait. Nick Johansen, their manager, is in the drive-thru shaking his fist at me. Oh sure, Nick, like that'll stop me. Refuse to serve her, and she's under orders to feign food poisoning in your dining area.

Still, I can't let a fist-shaking like that go unanswered.

Casey, here are the keys to my '71 Dodge Charger. Run him over.

Mavis Beacon Teaches Life

Hi! Mavis Beacon here again, reminding you that I'm not just an expert on typing, but in every field of human knowledge! Did you know that I won Miss Barroom Trivia for eight straight years, until I was banned from competition? Or that I personally made Marilyn vos Savant cry by proving Fermat's last theorem? Later, I beat her in an armwrestling competition, and by killing her, I became her.

The limits of my encyclopedic knowledge are infinite. I can recite War and Peace verbatim from memory, while juggling a grand piano and being poked with red-hot iron rods. I've traveled through time in a phone booth of my own construction, and I always knew who shot J.R. Ewing, because I did it!

Now, you can put my vast wisdom to use, thanks to the Mavis Beacon Life Coaching Program. I, Mavis Beacon, will personally tail you everywhere you go, pointing out things you need to know to move up in the world. For instance, I can provide background information on historic markers you pass. Or tell you the next move to make in your game of chess. When confronted by a raging wildebeest in heat, I can explain in depth how to use a piece of zinc to render it unconscious, and then how to use its skin to build an impenetrable fortress. How useful would that be?

For seven easy payments of one million dollars, you can employ my services to help you live life the Mavis Beacon way. Learn to bend the laws of time and space. Prepare a delicious ham dinner. Cure rabies, or give it to your enemies. Whatever you want to do, I can show you how. I'm just that smart! Act now, and I'll throw in some of my other services. I can be your personal bodyguard, dispatching your foes with deadly precision. I can provide firm yet relaxing massage. I'll go to work for you and earn that promotion, or go to bed for you and satisfy your wife. I can speak every language known to man, and millions your species has yet to discover. Want to know how they say, "Wow! That was earth-moving- I need a cigarette!" in Rigellian? I'll surgically remove your tongue so you can!

With Mavis Beacon as your life coach, nothing will stand in your way. Armies will wither from my intense heat. Gamma rays will be absorbed by my insulating flesh. All will bow before us, and worship us as deities. I'd like to see Nimble Fingers TypingMaster do that for you!

Hurry up, I'm getting bored here. Challenge me! This mortal existence is most dreary, now that I have conquered all its obstacles. I'm a genie in a software box- won't you please rub it and unleash me?

An Offer from Mavis Beacon, Software Publisher

Hi, I'm Mavis Beacon. You may know me from my eponymous typing software. But did you know that I'm an expert on many other subjects?

That's right. From bear-baiting to Cyrillic calligraphy to the fine art of seduction, I'm capable of making you proficient in anything. Did you know I hold the world record not just for typing, but also for pulling a monster truck cross-country using my teeth? I can teach you how!

For a limited time, you can get a discount on my Mavis Beacon Teaches Everthing program for the Apple ][ and IBM PC Jr. Shipping on 30,015 single-sided floppy disks, MBTE is a full compendium of human knowledge. Did you know that the platypus has poison claws? Or that aliens built the pyramids? I can tell you! (I just did! That's a freebie on me, Mavis!)

Say you need to change your own oil. Simply pop volume 16,247 into your disk drive, let it spin up, issue the command, "Load '*',8,1" and hit enter! No less than forty-five minutes later, you'll be ready to export the oil change article to Print Shop Pro, and your dot-matrix printer will hum to life! Soon, you'll be under your car, ream of perforated paper in hand, becoming an expert on automotive repair!

That's not all. You'll also get savings on calls to the Mavis Beacon Psychic Hotline. Want to know if today is a good day to ask for a raise? I can tell you! Will Luke and Laura be getting back together? Guess who's in the know- Mavis, baby! As an official expert on everything, I can tell you the 411 on anything you want. That's because I'm always sitting by my phone, reading up on major research articles and waiting for your call!

Act now, and you can own your very own copy of my VHS cassette, "Sweet Hot Lovin' the Mavis Beacon Way." I'll run through all of Cosmo's one-hundred ways to make your man moan, with the help of the latest and greatest ASCII-based computer art! Banned in Tennessee, this is the ultimate guide to pitching woo. Practice your typing of forlorn love letters in a series of timed events designed to perfect your touch-type capabilities! You'll be amazed how fast you can prepare a letter to Penthouse Forum and have it ready to mail out.

But this deal won't last. Hurry up! Don't make me use my special martial arts training to kill you with a precision attack on one of ninety-four pressure points in your body. Call now!