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Supple, buxom, nubile Jennifer I love my boobs
Huitt — the teasing and taunting lass who had given US
cable shopping viewers a berluddy eyeful in her
blockbuster 1997 infomercial, I Know What You Did To
That Treadmill — had transformed literally
overnight from serious university student into shitscared
teenager. Jennifer had a deep, dark secret. And not
your typical 'I played with myself in the back of a
recreational veehickle in high school' kind of
deep secret. Jen’s deep, dark secret threatened her
sanity.....and her cleavage. You see, dear readers
of APPALLING TRASH© back on a dark and
stormy night in late 1997, on Maine’s local expressway,
to be precise, Jenny-baby had kind-of-accidentally
flattened and killed a hitch-hiking vagabond as she drove
to a party of five guests in New England.
Or had
she? Here’s the interesting part, folks ... The man she
thought was dead was alive and primed for revenge.
The blood-stained letter posted to Ms Huitt vowing revenge
was proof of this. In no uncertain terms it expressed the
explicit desire to make La Jennifer’s life a living hell
if she didn’t, among other things, succumb to his
request for an all-over back rub and probing anatomical
examination with a fish hook. Now, knowing full well that
she had not killed a man in cold blood (having only
seriously maimed him when she slammed into his body at
140km/hr) — and also with the knowledge that leaving a man
to die doesn’t earn a person any merit badges — made
Jennifer cry ... and crave the certifiable benefits of an
acute attack of diarrhoea.
Stories Best Left Alone
#6723: "Man and giraffe
become proud parents of triplets!"
Later that afternoon....
"My God,
Debbie," cried Jennifer, as she opened her heart (and,
inadvertently, her blouse) to rooly good college
friend, Debbie Wong (an unwitting guinea pig in new, top
secret laboratory experiments involving sex-starved
echidnas). "This bastard's gonna grab me, he’s
gonna do things so vile, and—and—"
"Calm down, Jen,"
consoled La Debbie, peering excitedly at Jen’s
impressive décolletage. "I'm sure you did the right
thing, you know, leaving a body which you had just
flattened lying on the road in a pool of blood. You did
the right thing, I mean, leaving him there for the
buzzards to attack, for wild dogs to strip shreds off
his body, that was a good way to conceal your
crime...."
"But it didn't
work!"
Ms Huitt looked out of her
dorm window, across the Boston university grounds
towards the imposing nuclear power plant in the
distance.
"I just know, Debbie, if
I don't get out of here—and get out of here
quick—I’ll never finish university. I’ll end up in
a body-bag!"
Suddenly a distracted
Debbie erupted with fury not unlike that of Mrs Bates
(known to blow a gasket or two whenever she stumbled
across trespassers in her swamp). She held up a nondescript
piece of clothing, and screamed at the top of her lungs:
"What the HELL is this
on my red sweater?"
"Oh
sorry," Jennifer
responded, drawn momentarily from her predicament. "I
was eating yoghurt before and accidentally spilt
it—"
"Nice one, you skanky
tart!" Debbie snarled, doing a good impersonation of a
steroid-crazed Doberman-pinscher in heat. "I hope the
sonofabitch rips you to shreds," she continued,
exiting the room via a temporarily constructed
doggie-door.
"I say, shouldn’t
you keep that under wraps?
Why, it could fly up
and knock someone cold...!"
Meanwhile, across town....
Members of global
powerhouse Llama Ladies Auxiliary (or LLA, for
short) had organised an evening sit-down tea and
biscuits get-together at their Boston office to
celebrate some good news. It seemed star recruit Doris
Day had been successful in wooing Michael 'King of Pop' Jackson to perform a medley of his greatest hits
at LLA headquarters in Los Angeles (while molesting
Bubbles the chimp with pipe cleaners and a Siamese cat
with herpes).
"Doris," beamed LLA
President Miss Jane Marple, presently holding court at
the proceedings while thrusting a can of congealing
sardines into a 'slightly' unwilling Sharon
O’Neill’s mouth.
"Well done, dear. How did you
persuade Wacko Jacko to engage the services of Marlene
Dietrich’s tabby for his upcoming show. I mean, that
puss is sick—I mean rooly sick!"
"Speaking of ailing pussies....," interjected Liz Hurley, eyeing up Who
Weekly’s Biggest Wannabes of 2000, in which she
featured prominently. "How’s your sex life,
Jane?"
"Wouldn’t you like to
know, you Limey bin licker!"
shot back an obtuse Miss Marple, recognising this as a cold, hard attempt by the
British upstart to increase her profile within the
confines of LLA. "Hurley, I don’t know who let you
in here, and I’ll do my darndest to get rid of you,
but if I were you — and Athena Starwoman help me if I
ever become the definition of a pencil-thin,
wanting of personality, and perennially malicious
über-slut—I’d
sit down, cross my legs, and hope I never let another
bitchy comment slip between my oh-so-obviously
collagen-enhanced lips!"
There was deafening
silence. In this brief period of quiet, a
verbally-outgunned Ms Hurley stepped back and did
exactly what Miss Marple suggested.
"Now," continued Miss Marple, eager to celebrate the celebrity coup. "Who’s up for a spirited game of
Twister?"
While several members
joined in, and others went into a back room to compare
liposuctions scars and tummy tucks, a tearful Liz,
further subjected to criticisms of her unsavoury ilk by
insistent blonde (and noted kangaroo groper) Ivana
Trump, grabbed her clutch purse and dashed for the
nearest exit. Stepping out into a darkened alley
way — (her car had been stolen by Fat Cat) —
Liz hoped a
taxi would pass by soon. But as she foraged in her purse
for change she heard footsteps behind her. Sensing
danger, La Hurley made a beeline for the exit door but
was almost immediately cut off by a man dressed in a
black raincoat—his face all but concealed.
"What do you
want?"
cried an already upset Liz, fearing for her life. Eliciting no audible
response, she continued: "I'll give you a
double pass to see Mickey Blue Eyes..."
A fish hook appeared from
the man’s side, glistening in the moonlight. Liz’s
attempts at escaping her tormentor did nothing but
heighten his rage.
The man raised the hook
above his head.
"Oh my God! No! No—"
she screamed.
The hook came down and cut
off Liz’s screams.....and her breast implants.
"Haven’t you heard?
I like to take pictures
of my cat dressed in
French lingerie..!"
The next day....
La Jennifer Love Huitt
picked up the morning newspaper. Splashed across the
front page were telling words:
"Oh, shit!" she
sobbed, her eyes focused on the words 'fish hook'. "It's started! He’s gonna get
me...."
"Calm
down," said
Debbie W, tranquillised (in more ways than one) after
yesterday’s outburst — a needle full of heroin stuck
in her arm. "I don’t think this attack on Liz Hurley
has anything to do with your current predicament."
"Do you really think
so, Deb?" she continued, scared and in need of a Miami
mansion with 24-hour security (and Cuban houseboys to
satisfy her every sexual desire). "I can’t help but
think that the death of this Hurley woman is a sign of
things to come."
"We’ll see then,
won’t we, Lovey."
"I think
I'm going to
ring a good friend of mine," Ms Huitt
continued, dialling a private number on her touch tone
phallic phone.
"I thought I was your good
friend—" ranted Ms Wongi, revealing strings of
malodorous saliva as she spoke. "The one with whom you
could confide? The one with whom you could reveal all.
The one with whom you could comfortably remove your
blouse, lower your panties....."
La Huitt was taken aback
by Debbie’s forwardness.
"Debbie, are you what
some insensitive people like to call a dyke?"
"Hey, for fifty bucks
I'll be what ever you want me to be!"
A sickened Jennifer
demonstrated her distaste by slapping Debbie in the face
with a half-cooked barracuda.
"Get out of my face,
Debbie—Debbie Reynolds!"
Shocked to her very core,
Debbie exited the room.
Establishing a telephone
connection, Jennifer began to talk to her good
friend.
"The dog’s
panting....and, Honey, you’re panting!
What the heck have you
two been doing?"
Somewhere in Georgia....
At the palatial Dixieland
mansion Crap Manor, owned by perennial Aussie wannabe,
Mango Chutney, the said glamourpuss was sunning herself
by the gigantic saltwater (crocodile infested) pool.
Just then her tanning session was interrupted by the
irritating ring of her cordless phone.
"Yeah?" she said,
putting phone to head.
The voice was familiar,
but difficult to distinguish due to heavy breathing and
intermittent retching which Mango presumed was the
result of one too many salsa sauce and strawberry
yoghurt daiquiris.
"Hi, Mango.
It's me, Jennifer," she spluttered, scared shitless to her very
core. "I need your help, A.S.A.P.!"
"What's the matter, honeybunch?"
she responded, springing forth, and almost
wetting her pants at the thought of something being
wrong with her bosomy friend.
"I
can't talk about it
on the phone." Jennifer scanned the apartment for
violators of common good before continuing, whispering
into the phone in breathy tones: "I'm in terrible
danger, Mango...."
Hollywood Sex Secrets
They Couldn't Keep Hidden #346:
"Marilyn Monroe and
Lassie shacked up
in the Beverly Hills Hotel!"
Somewhere in Boston....
Panting was something
people did when they were really puffed, engaged in
saucy sexual athletics in the back of a 1956 Buick ...
or just plain scared
shitless.
Hollywood flop actress,
Demi Moron — never one to pass up the opportunity for
exposure — found herself doing her fair share of panting
in a darkened alleyway in West Boston at about midnight.
It seems the actress (with seven certifiably dud movies
to her name) had stumbled upon something wholly
unwholesome while researching her new character for an
upcoming TV-movie of the week. In the corner of a
crumbling office building, near a rubbish bin with
congealing seafood pizza strewn across its side, sat
someone dressed in a fisherman's poncho. He (She
thought he was a he) was doing something a decent man
just shouldn't do, all the while mumbling, and,
at times, whimpering pathetically.
"Can I be of any
assistance?" came Demi’s lame offer of help.
He whispered something in
her direction.
"Sorry, I can't hear
you....," she replied, moving closer to him.
Suddenly he jumped to his
feet, revealing a glistening fish hook to the scared
actress (with breast implants the size of Fiji).
"No! No!" she
cried out. It was no good. It was a deserted alleyway.
No-one would hear her scream. No-one would see him gut
her. No-one would buy a ticket to her next film!
"Finnish tennis
player proves his mettle by salsa dancing
with ticklish porpoise
at Tokyo Disneyland Resort!"
Back at the university....
"I
can't take this anymore," La Jen cried to recently arrived friend (and
all-round good sort) Mango Chutney, who, dismayed by the
seriousness of the situation, had scratched her arse
with portion of chicken from Uncle Harry’s Crispy
10-day-old Chicken (?).
"What is lil ol'
me to do?" she continued, chucking a
'Scarlett O'Hara'
with less than average success. "Mammy! Mammy!
Come here and wash my ^&%!@#, you little picaninny
bitch!"
Mango stood back and
sighed loudly. Her friend, she thought, was going
completely bonkers.
Jennifer continued,
incomprehensibly: "Remember, tomorrow is another
day...."
Mango grabbed her friend
by the shoulders and shook her hard.
"Jennifer, Jennifer, get
a hold of yourself! You're cracking up!"
Ms Huitt snapped out of
her delirium with skill equal to, or exceeding that of,
a mentally-retarded Ugandan washerwoman with a nasty
case of body odour (combined with the debilitating
effects of cholera).
"Thanks,
Mango,"
she cried, walking to the mirror and stroking her face
in a way that could be construed by Tennant Creek
coal miners as a come-on. "I am going
crazy!"
Just then Debbie
Wong — 'spurned' friend of Ms Huitt — burst through
the door and made a very strange demand.
"Jennifer, if you
don't let me take a peek at your jugs, I'll kill
myself!"
Unaware of Ms
Chutney's
presence — Mango was standing behind the door, touching
herself up with a feather duster laden with dust balls in
the shape of Zsa Zsa Gabor’s dog’s
excrement — Debbie advanced further into the room.
La Huitt
spun around, and then snapped:
"Wong, have you been
sniffing that industrial strength glue again?"
"I mean it, Huitt.
I'll off myself with this shotgun." By now Debbie
was exhibiting all the hallmarks of someone on the verge
of causing bodily harm (or someone eager to take Thai
cooking classes in Oklahoma City).
"Debbie, put the gun
down," came
Jennifer's calm response in the face of
a sawn-off shotgun. "Debbie, Debbie...."
A creaking noise alerted
Debbie to something in the vicinity of her arse (or
somewhere close to there). She spun around in haste but
by then it was too late. The fish hook had been
unleashed, and was now causing quite a lot of cosmetic
damage to the body of Ms Wong. As she fell to the floor,
guts all over the place, voluptuous (but eternally
dopey) Jen Huitt took her leave via the dorm bedroom
window.
"Help me! Help me!"
she screamed, angered that Mango was too busy pleasuring
herself with a feather duster to offer any assistance.
"Pick your tits up
and get out of here!"
The climax....
"Help! Help!"
came the screams of supple Jen Love Huitt, as she
dangled precariously from her bedroom window, attired in
nothing but a pair of undies and a skin-tight tank top.
This is it, she thought.
Now I’m gonna die, she thought. Boy, I haven’t got
anything decent on, she thought.
Then came the fish hook in
the direction of her head.
"Piss off, you big chunk
of crap!" she screamed, finding some bravado in the
face of death.
The fish hook wielding
psycho moved closer to the window and readied himself
for one final slice with his killing instrument. That
was until hero-of-the-moment Mango S. Chutney leaped
forward, ably attaching herself to the murderous
fisherman-dickhead.
"Don't think
you're
gonna get away with this, you lousy sack of donkey
shit," screeched the always eloquent Mango. She
looked out the window and saw La Jen dangling below.
"Hang on, sweetie.
This'll be cleared up in a couple of minutes."
So as Mango and Moron
fought feverishly, who should waltz in but Fairvale's
famous corpse-matriarch, Mrs Norma Bates.
"Mrs
Bates," cried a
startled Ms Chutney, stepping back at the sight of an
MBK (or Mobile Bazooka Kit).
"Prepare to meet your
Maker, wanker!" cackled Mrs Bates, aiming the bazooka
in the killer's direction. "Hasta la
vista."
The explosion was very
loud (and shattered several windows in the opposite dorm
building). As students galore gathered around the
apartment, wondering what the hell had just happened in
their sleepy little university, Jennifer, at last too
exhausted to hang on any longer, dropped to the ground,
grazing her knee and bruising her ^%&*&@.
"What the hell has
happened to you?" enquired law student Pamela
Anderdaughter, helping the terrified prey to her feet. "You look like
you've seen a killer in a
fisherman’s poncho, resplendent in all his glory with
a glistening fish hook..."
Fixated by her
helper's
words, Jennifer looked up to discover that all
surrounding her were grinning and laughing at her
predicament.
"What's so
&*($#@ing funny?" she demanded.
"April
Fool's Day."
"What?"
"April
Fool's—"
Jennifer cut her off.
"Quit with the
'April Fool's' crap. Do you mean to tell me this whole
thing has been a monumental joke at my expense?"
"Pretty
much,"
interposed Cher.
Just then from an upstairs
window Mrs Bates let out a huge fart. Jennifer looked up
and saw, to her horror, the said corpse-matriarch,
Mango, Debbie and the 'killer'(in reality, Neve
Campbell) standing arm-in-arm, beaming ear to ear.
At first she was angry.
This anger turned to sheer horror when she noticed
someone behind them, fish hook in hand.
"Look out!"
"Oh,
that's a good one," chuckled Mango, impressed by
Jennifer's acting
ability in the face of mass humiliation.
"No, really.
There's
someone behind you...."
It was no good. The
'real' killer struck the fulsome foursome with
brutal force. As students ran screaming from the scene,
Jennifer lit a cigarette, scratched her butt, and then
yelled skywards, spinning around, arms akimbo:
"What do you want from
me? What do you want from me...?"
"Cut," said the
director, Grace Jones, of Pigmy's new
film, I Still Know What You Did To My Cat. "Jennifer, that was fantastic. Your skill in capturing
the horror and, you know, the hopelessness of movie
Jennifer's situation is laudable. How did you, you
know, do it?"
"Simple, Grace. Very
simple." She stubbed out the cigarette.
A fascinated Grace waited
with baited breath.
"You wanna know, so
I'll tell you. At the beginning of the shoot I shoved
a fish hook up my arse. It’s been so painful that I've been unable to do anything but scream and
sob for mercy during the whole movie!"
Ms Huitt noticed the
stunned look on Ms Jones' face, and continued in
earnest:
"I suppose you could say
I've suffered for my art...."
THAT'S
A WRAP!
original version © 2001
this version © 2008
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