Haha, now THIS one--unlike Outfoxed, which I just ever so kindly posted for your reading pleasure--I did only about a month ago, also for school. It's not the Pokémon/YGO/My-own-damn-idea story that I'd rather be posting, but as writing assignments seem to be the only thing I can finish, well... that's what I've got.
For those of you that may have read my eighth grade work Outfoxed--this little sucker I wrote in twelfth grade, so my skill level has changed (hopefully for the better). Also, the writing style is different--while Outfoxed was accidentally written in a sort of "Southeastern US folktale style", this story was written in direct imitation of an old Russian folktale, "Baba Yaga". The idea for the assignment (we're studying Russian literature in school right now) was to read two Russian fairy tales and then re-write one but do so with American themes. Of course, my classmates and I could have written stories that exemplified the good qualities of American culture, but noooo... it's sooo much more entertaining to make fun of our beloved country, isn't it? So that's what we did, and we had a great time writing these stories. Everyone thought mine was one of the funniest (as did I... [/shallow]), so I figured I'd share it. Understand that the story has such a repetitive, childish tone because I was trying to mimic the style of the version of "Baba Yaga" that we were given. Here is the original story I worked from, for comparison. You might want to read it first, but you don't have to.
A WARNING! Baba Yaga's House of Plastic Surgery is rated PG-13. There is mild swearing, crude humor, the occasional sexual comment, the occasional "racist" comment, some alcohol abuse and a WHOLE bunch of sarcasm. Now, I just want to get it out there that I am NOT racist and mean no ill will towards any race or group of people; I have no bias against Mexican people, Germans, Jews, whites, blacks (hell, I'm black), people from Arkansas or anyone else; the only ones that I'm prejudiced against are the kind of judgmental idiots who think that way, and that's the reason that I'm poking fun at the stereotypes that people make. I mean NO offense. All the same, if you think that you might be upset by any such remarks (or anything else I mentioned before, such as the swearing) then please don't read this. And if you're an American and can't take the "insult", well... like I said, this was all in fun and an attempt for us to laugh at ourselves, and I'm sorry if you can't do that.
...Personally, I don't think any of the jokes are really that bad at all. But I wanted to get that out of the way just in case someone might be upset. And one final thing: just to add to the humor and make the fairytale TRULY American, there's a "TM" by just about every brand name in the story... which means A LOT. Of course, the "TM" symbol is a special character, so depending on your computer it may weird out and do strange things all over the place. If this becomes a real problem for anyone, let me know and I'll remove the "TM"s. So, without further ado...
Phoenixsong Presents:
Baba Yaga's House of Plastic Surgery
Somewhere, I cannot tell you exactly where, but certainly somewhere in a smog-choked and overcrowded city in the United States, there lived a Wall Street power broker, his wife and their twin children. The power broker was so absorbed with money and work and yelling at his underlings over his Motorola Razr™ that he was never at home, and so when his wife died in her sleep he did not know about it for two months. When he finally came home on one of his rare breaks and noticed that he was the only one actually moving in bed that night, he first thought that he had forgotten to complement her exorbitantly-overpriced new dress or something and was getting the cold shoulder (and some other cold things) for it. It took him three days of insincere apologies to realize that his wife was dead, and he mourned over her with little sadness for as only as long as was necessary to keep gossipy neighbors from thinking he had murdered her. Then he sent away for a mail-order bride from some third-world country—I am not sure exactly which third-world country, but it was some obscure place no one had ever heard of like Timor-Leste, or Maldives, or Burundi, or perhaps Arkansas—and married her straightaway.
Now, the power broker’s daughter was a smartass who always thought she was smarter and better than everyone else, and this behavior (she was so proud of it!) she had learned from watching all of the obnoxious, sassy, bratty little kids on daytime television. She enjoyed nothing more than insulting people and trying out the new swear words she had learned from her favorite sexy movie actors on small children. The power broker’s son was incredibly obese with much flab hanging off of him, almost to the point where he couldn’t move unless he rolled along the very floor. The son was not very keen on moving, however, as he was most content to sit around and stare zombie-like at the screen of his Gameboy Micro™ and battle Pokémon™ and blast Metroid™ aliens into piles of goo all day. And the power broker was pleased, because his twins were perfectly normal, average American children.
The power broker’s mail-order bride did not like her new stepchildren and wanted to be rid of them. She became especially angry with her practically non-existent husband’s daughter one day, because the girl called her a whiny bimbo. And even though this was very true, she became angry. So the whiny bimbo mail-order bride decided to send the children away to the witch who performed back-alley plastic surgery.
The daughter, when she heard of this, threw a hissy fit and refused to go live with the liposuction witch, because she knew that the witch would make life difficult for her and her brother (but mostly her). Her brother just sat on the couch, staring at the screen of his Gameboy Micro™, and said:
“Whatever, whiny bimbo, just as soon as I have defeated this monster and saved the Ninth Dimension.”
At this, the whiny bimbo mail-order bride became so angry that she opened up the door and threw her cursing stepdaughter and her apathetic, morbidly obese stepson right out of the house.
The little girl was very sad, because she knew that if she did not do as her whiny bimbo mail-order bride stepmother said, the police would force her to. So first, the girl rolled her brother along the street to the nursing home where their grandfather lived, for their grandfather was very wise and had many great things to say.
When the girl and her brother arrived at the nursing home and were sent up to their grandfather’s room, their sage old grandfather greeted them with a hearty “Hurry up! Get in here and close the door! The Germans have spies everywhere!”
“Oh, grandfather, you insane old fart,” said the little girl, “our whiny bimbo mail-order bride stepmother has sent us away to work for the witch who performs back-alley plastic surgery, and I don’t want to go, dammit! You’re an adult, you do something about it!”
The grandfather thought for a moment and finally told the twins, as any wise old grandfather would tell his distressed grandchildren, that it was high time the troops invaded Germany and stormed Auschwitz. He then gave each child a large bottle of Budweiser™ and shooed them out the door, telling them to get out there and give them Nazi bastards hell. So the children took their leave of their fanatical grandfather, who had been absolutely no help whatsoever, and rolled their way to the dark alley where the liposuction witch lived and worked.
The alley in which the liposuction witch lived was dark, filthy and crawling with disease-infested rats, and, oh, wonder! There was a door, and what a curious one! It had a dried up, gnarled bird’s foot as its doorknob and upon the door hung a small, neon sign with an arrow that pointed to the bird-foot doorknob.
WANT TO GET RID OF UNSIGHTLY CROW’S FEET? COME TO BABA YAGA’S HOUSE OF PLASTIC SURGERY!
With their obnoxious, grating voices the children called out loud:
“Back-alley door, back-alley door! Open up already and let us in, even though we don’t have an appointment!”
The door unlocked itself and swung open with a creak, and the girl rolled her brother inside. Sitting at the receptionist’s desk was an anorexic, artificially “beautiful” woman who looked as though she had more Botox™ in her than muscle, or organs, or bone, or anything else natural.
“Eew, eew, eew!” exclaimed the witch; “I smell greasy American children!”
The children were very disgusted at the way her skin was stretched thin over her skull, but in spite of their nausea they said, very rudely:
“Oh, Baba Yaga, you hideously ugly liposuction witch, our whiny bimbo mail-order bride stepmother sent us here to serve you against our will and all of the child labor laws.”
“All right,” said the witch, “as long as I don’t even have to pay you minimum wage I am not opposed to keeping you. If you satisfy all of my wishes then I shall reward you; if not, then I shall transfer your jobs overseas and you will make Nike™ sneakers in rural Asia.”
Without any delay the witch ordered the girl to clean all of the used needles and other surgical equipment that a proper plastic surgeon would have disposed of, and the boy to empty out the vats of adipose fatty tissues that had been liposuctioned out of the witch’s patients; she then left to go hang out with her friends at the Playboy Mansion, since today she would have no customers. The girl sat down angrily and began wiping the contaminated equipment, cursing under her breath and imagining Baba Yaga and her whiny bimbo mail-order bride stepmother getting shot by gangsters. All at once around her appeared small mice, squeaking and saying:
“Rude little girl, do not cry. Remove us from these mousetraps so we do not suffocate or bleed to death, and we will help you.”
The little girl was already unhappy about having to clean contaminated needles and was not about to touchy dirty mice on top of that, so instead she poured out a little of her Budweiser™ on the floor for the mice to drink. Upon drinking the beer the mice became so plastered that they no longer noticed their pain or suffocation, and they took the filthy equipment to the liposuction witch’s secret dishwasher and ran it through a few cycles with some Electrasol™.
“Now,” said the hammered mice, who were still slowly dying and still did not realize it, “go and find the black cat. He is very hungry; give him aid and he will help you escape.”
The girl speedily went in search of the cat and saw her brother in great distress about the vats of fat. At first, he had been too disgusted to touch the slimy gobs of lard to do anything about moving them, and then he had started thinking about how the obscene amounts of fat in his own body must look very similar; then he had started thinking about how much he wanted a Big Mac™. Some little birds flew by the window and chirped to the children:
“Rude little children, give us some insects to replace the ones all of the pesticides are killing and we will help you.”
The children did not care that the birds’ food chain was being disrupted by pesticides; besides, they wouldn’t have touched any nasty little bugs in order to have them for the birds in the first place. All the same, they needed the help, and so they poured out some of their Budweiser™ on the windowsill for the birds to drink. Upon drinking the beer, the birds became so plastered that they no longer cared that human chemicals were destroying their food supplies, and they all flew into the room, gripped the edges of the fat vats in their talons, flew back to the windows with them and poured the liquid love handles outside and into a sewage grate that drained into a river full of endangered species. Then the birds flew away.
The children rolled around the dingy office in search of the black cat the mice had spoken of, but they could not find one; the only cat they could see had fur as white as a sheet. At a loss, the children approached the animal and asked him where they might find a black cat, to which the cat replied:
“Wuz th’ matta wit’ you, ho? I am black! Now gimme some chicken wings!”
Now of course, the children did not have any chicken wings (although the boy rather wished he did), so they poured out some of their Budweiser on the floor. Upon drinking the beer, the cat became so plastered that he no longer noticed how hungry he was. “Man,” said the drunken cat, “you kids sho’ is stupid, comin’ here jus’ cuz yo’ stepmotha’ tol’ you to. Ain’t you never heard o’ no DFACS?”
“Dammit!” cried the little girl. “DFACS! Why didn’t we think of that?!”
“Probably because we get a public-school education and spend all of our time watching TV and playing video games,” her brother answered. And the little girl could not disagree with this. So the children turned to the black-white cat and said:
“Mr. Ghetto Gangsta Kitty-cat, tell us how to escape the liposuction witch or else we shall put you in an animal shelter to sit abandoned for ten days before they put you to sleep.”
“Well,” answered the cat in a slurred voice, “I’m gonna give you a gol’ chain and a red Doo-Rag™, and then you li’l hoes gotta run like a Mexican dodgin’ th’ Border Patrol. If the lipo witch chase after you, throw th’ chain down behind you. If you still hear her comin’ after that, then throw down my ol’ Doo-Rag™. That oughta protect you from the witch long ‘nuff fo’ you li’l idiots to call D-FACS on yo’ mama already.”
Baba Yaga came back home just then and, on seeing the jobs she had assigned the children completed, said:
“Is it not wonderful? Everything is exactly right… except for all of these dead mice lying around smelling like beer. Oh, well; cleaning up the dead-drunk mice shall be one of your jobs for tomorrow, children. The work will be much more difficult, and I hope that I shall transfer your jobs overseas and you will make Nike™ sneakers in rural Asia.”
The poor children slept on the floor that night while the liposuction witch snored loudly in her Swedish Tempurpedic™ memory foam mattress. The next morning the witch ordered the children to program her VCR so she could tape episodes of Laguna Beach and American Idol; then she left to go vacuum the blubber out of a patient.
“Program a VCR?!” cried the little boy. “No one uses VCRs anymore; everyone watches DVDs and Blu-Ray™ discs and records things with TiVo™! No one even knew how to program VCRs back when they were used!” And the boy sobbed into his dinner plate-sized hands, for the liposuction witch had set them an impossible task and they were certain to be transferred to rural Asia to make Nike™ sneakers.
But the little girl, who despite having a public-school education was still smarter than her brother, slapped her brother upside the head and said:
“You’re a big, fat, drooling idiot! Now is our chance to take the gol’ chain and the red Doo-Rag™ and escape from the liposuction witch’s clutches!”
So the children took up the gol’ chain and the Doo-Rag™ and rolled for the door. The door would not open to let them out, but then the girl poured some Budweiser™ over its hinges and it unlocked itself and allowed them to escape; the children rolled outside into the dark alley. The hobo who lived outside of Baba Yaga’s House of Plastic Surgery and wanted to ask certain favors of her tried to stop them running away, for he thought the good deed would make him sexier than Brad Pitt in Baba Yaga’s sight; the girl gave him some of her Budweiser™, however, and the hobo let them pass.
In the meantime, the liposuction witch had finished vacuuming her patient and charging him an exorbitant amount of money and so came out to see how the children were doing with her VCR, for Laguna Beach started in half an hour. She saw that the two were nowhere to be seen and so she asked the cat where they might be. The cat, who was still very hammered, replied:
“Them chil’ren run D-FACS. Get away from liposuction whiny bimbo, to chicken wings, yes. Mexicans!”
The witch went up to the door and asked it why it had allowed them to run out. The door, which was still very hammered, replied:
“Hic… Mel Gibson was right!”
The witch went outside and saw the hobo, and she told him that if he really wanted her attentions then he should have stopped the children from escaping. The hobo, who was still very hammered, replied:
“Hey, mama! Tengo el fiesta en mis pantalones! You’re… hic!... invited…”
Baba Yaga understood that there was no help and started to follow the children herself. In her haste she forgot to see whether the gol’ chain and the Doo-Rag™ were still there, but she jumped into her Escalade and drove down the streets, looking for the missing children.
The children heard the liposuction witch coming and so they threw the gol’ chain down behind them. Instantly a busy intersection, full of cars pouring out harmful exhaust fumes and smashing into one another due to road rage, sprang up. The witch could not cross the rush-hour traffic in her Escalade, so she got out and ran along the sidewalk after the children.
Again the children heard her coming after them and so they threw down the red Doo-Rag™. Instantly a group of gangstas appeared, a menacing gang of talking cats with pistols and rifles. The witch tried very hard to pass by them, but she was trespassing on gang territory and they would not let her by. The witch tried flashing the gang sign, but she accidentally got it turned around so that it looked like an “East Side” instead of “West Side”. So the cat gangstas shot her and went off to buy chicken wings.
The children rolled home as fast as they could and found their Wall Street power broker father on one of his rare breaks. They told him all about their terrible experience and cursed him out for being an oblivious, insensitive idiot, and the power broker, who didn’t really care about his children but wanted to keep his job and his image intact, called DFACS on his whiny bimbo mail-order bride. The whiny bimbo mail-order bride got deported back to her third-world country—whichever third-world country it was, Timor-Leste or Maldives or Burundi or perhaps Arkansas—and the power broker paid his children tons of money to keep them from telling the police about his neglect. And the little girl spent the rest of her days watching sex, cursing and violence on TV, and the little boy spent the rest of his days playing video games and eating Big Macs™, and the power broker spent the rest of his days not giving a damn, because his children were American, and he was pleased.
How do I know this story is true?
C’mon… this is America we’re talking about here.
Baba Yaga's House of Plastic Surgery (another short story! Yay!) Rated PG-13
