The Unfavorable Five

Meat "The Unfavorable Five"

No, really. Meat them.

These do-nothing, no-good scoundrels are the scourge of the earth. I suggest you stop reading about them now to preserve your sanity. Go on, get a sandwich. You've earned it. Have some ice cream. Pour a beer out for nature.

No? You're still here? Alas, you've chosen to press on. Therefore, I'll tell you their story.

Filthy Steve

At first, they were just whispers; upon tickling your ears, they would fade to nothingness. But as the years droned on, the whispers became too potent to ignore and they demanded action from each who heard them. None were strong enough to resist the call, so on the 15th of December, 1398, thousands arrived from miles around--gathered to witness the astonishing jaw strength of one Steve Schnorble. You see, with just his mandible and molars, Steve could crunch cars, chomp cherry pits, and munch entire mansions. Hyperbole? I think not.

So what becomes of a man possessed with this rare talent? Could Steve live out his days free from notice? No, you freak. The town gathered, the town deliberated, and the town decreed. "We need a trash compactor," yelled the townspeople! "We need a trash compactor?" asked the mayor (rarely abreast of the needs of his people). "Yes!" roared the townspeople. And thus, Steve's fate was sealed. "Look at his jaws!" came the cries. "If he can't compact the trash, no one can!" shot out the shouts. From this day forward, Steve was to earn his keep as a trash compactor.

As time passed, no longer did the common folk address Steve with his once honorable sir-name, Schnorble. For how could one as dirty and grungy as the local trash compactor merit such a name? No...he was too gross, too unclean, too...filthy. Yes! Steve was too filthy. He was filthy, filthy, filthy, Filthy Steve.

How unfavorable.

Uncharitable Sam

charit (čå'wrįT) verb 1. to be blessed with a preternatural ability to sing ballads

Sam Whallophen was born into a privileged existence on the Upper East Side of North West Manhattan (of the South). His father, an avid fan of Billie Holiday and Nat King Cole, spun records during the day. Always the same pattern: one on each thumb, a 45 per toe, and of course a platinum on his nose. They would spin and spin and spin, these records. During the day. But records being sharp as they are, a disaster was imminent. I'll spare you the details, but suffice it to say that blood spurts mightily when the thumbs, the toes, and the nose are simultaneously amputated. By spinning records. During the day. You are hereby spared the details.

What made Sam of this eventuality? Ah! He sung! He sung East, he sung West, he sung to the South of the North! He sung bossas, he sung bops, but did he sing ballads? No, you fool. He lacked the necessary charit. He was too...uncharitable. Yes! Sam was too uncharitable. He was uncharitable, uncharitable, uncharitable, Uncharitable Sam.

How unfavorable.

Slimy John

"When I grow up, I would like to wear a hoodie," proclaimed the boy. "But you will get the hoodie dirty," protested Mother. "I won't Mother!" "You will young John Maan. I know because I am Mother," said Mother. She was right. After all, she was Mother.

But John's desire could not be abated. For his 9th birthday, what gift did he request? Yes. He requested a hoodie. His Mother, being Mother, did not oblige. He spent his 9th year hoodieless. Like his 8th year. And the year before that.

Why was Mother so confident that he would get a hoodie dirty? Ah, because John was not like his siblings and friends. His nose was narrower, his lips more lavish, his lungs more attuned to the wash of water than the approach of air.

You see, John was a fish. How? No one could be sure. Oh, meiosis, how strange your whims. Being a fish meant John should not wear a hoodie. His skin was too wet, his sweat too oozy, his being too...slimy. Yes! John was too slimy. He was slimy, slimy, slimy, Slimy John.

How unfavorable.

Horrible Mike

To dye or not to dye, that is the question:

Whether 'tis nobler in the 'stache to suffer

The taunts and jibes of outrageous colorlessness,

Or to take arms against a sea of troubles

And by opposing end them. To dye--to color,

No more; and by a new color to say we end

The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks

That a colorless mustache is heir to: 'tis a consummation

Devoutly to be wish'd. To dye, to color;

To color, perchance to dream--ay, there's the rub:

For in that dyed color what new taunts may come,

When we have shuffled off this colorless coil,

Must give us pause--there's the respect

That makes calamity of so long a 'stache.

Upon completing his soliloquy, Mike dyed his mustache. Why? Because Mike was not good. He was too terrible, too awful...too horrible to resist the eternal temptation to dye one's mustache. Yes! Mike was too horrible. He was horrible, horrible, horrible, Horrible Mike.

How unfavorable.

Inconsiderate Joe

Each morning when she awoke, her joints creaked louder than the day before. Her eyes grew more crusty, and her milky cataract more foggy. Her left arm hadn't been especially useful in years, and her right was hardly better. All in all, it took her about 45 minutes to get out of bed and another 30 or so to clamber down her steep stone steps. This was Gertrude DeRosen's daily routine, and had been since the untimely death of her kind and gentle husband Slimberfloof some years back.

Being as old and decrepit as an 18th century rat's nest, she required assistance to pursue even the most mundane tasks. There was a neighborhood boy who she paid to do such things as her shopping, cleaning, and other assorted tasks. However, it had been days since this boy, Joe Trabogen, had been by to check on her. And alas, her stockpiles of cottage cheese had long since been depleted.

As her stomach groaned and she grew lightheaded, Gertrude considered her options. She could starve. That wouldn't be so bad. She could self-defenestrate. Ah, but it might prove too challenging to open any of her windows. Or she could journey to her local Shell gas station and inquire about their cottage cheese stores. While the first option was tempting, she chose the third.

Long days and nights crept slowly by as Gertrude trekked to the Shell. Being over a quarter-mile away, it was the furthest she had traveled since Slimberfloof had died. The first day had been so unbearably hot that she had chucked her clothes in a ditch, but the night brought with it a terrible cold. As she finally arrived, naked, emaciated, and in desperate need of cottage cheese, she was delighted to see none other than Joe Trabogen framed in the doorway. She croaked his name with as much force as she could muster, and he turned to see her reaching feebly for the door. Her smiled warmly at her, despite her sorry state, and the corners of her mouth rose as well, only to hear a deafening slam. Joe had entered the gas station, leaving the door to swing shut behind him and thereby cutting off poor Gertrude from her final chance for a taste of sweet, sweet cottage cheese.

Why didn't Joe hold the door? Ah, because he sucked. He was too rude, too discourteous, too...inconsiderate. Yes! Joe was too inconsiderate. He was inconsiderate, inconsiderate, inconsiderate, Inconsiderate Joe.

How unfavorable.

Page updated

Google Sites

Report abuse