In a small run-down apartment sometime last month sat a man named Tom O’Malley. Tom had no idea of what would happen to him soon. He had no idea of the pain that he would save the world, or the evil that he would stamp out. If he had, he would have dressed differently.
Instead though, he dressed in what he could find. Old ripped jeans and a white tee shirt with a large stain of what looked to be blood, but what was instead only hot sauce. As he dressed he thought about what he usually did when he was tired and irritable: the French. Oh, those awful heathens with their unshaven women, irritating accents and hate for personal hygiene. They were somehow the reason, he had convinced himself, that he lived alone in this rotting hole in the wall he called home. He just wasn’t sure how.
On his walk to work (his Buick LaSabre had broken down the week before), he stopped by a coffee shop to buy a pastry.
“Oui Oui Pierre! Ve shall have victory!�
“Oh Lord�, thought Tom, “freaking Frenchmen in line! Since when did they start letting their kind in here?� He stared in disbelief at the sight ahead, three Frenchmen. Nay, he was mistaken, two French men and one French Woman. It is so hard to tell… her mustache was more obvious than theirs. How could he pay an establishment who served the French? Storming off, he dropped his cell phone into a pile of newpapers.
Another day at the office. Doughnuts in the break room, new covers on the TPS reports, routine. Skipping out early, he hurried home. Tom made it half way when he reached in his pocket to check his messages.
“Oh shizzle,� he said aloud, receiving plenty of strange looks from the local Crips who were rollin’ on the corner. “My $200 dollar cell phone! Third one! *exasperated sigh*� He retraced his steps, finally coming back to the coffee shop. He almost lost his lunch when he saw them again. The three Frenchmen.
There is nothing a Frenchman hates more than an Irishman. The French know that they are the weakest of all nationalities and that the Irish are strongest, for as long as there had been words to be said, the naughtiest of all have been exchanged between the two. And as Pierre, Jacque, and Renee sat at their table deep in conversation, they heard the door of the coffee shop open and automatically looked to see who dare tread the land that they occupied (the French are rude like that). Seeing the tall man with red hair, they immediately closed their notebooks and shoved all of their papers into Jacque’s beret. This action was out of instinct, knowing that the red hair indicated an Irishman, and the Irishman indicating complete and awesome power. (Duh.) This action caused a natural alarm to sound in Tom O’Malley’s mind. It was a small alarm, located near the cerebral cortex, that was present in anyone who was Irish. It has been known to disappear when the Irishman marries a Frenchwoman, goes to France, or goes to Canada. Don’t get me started on Canada. Anyway, the alarm is sounded when a Frenchy does something suspicious. Depending on the power of the alarm, and the amount of Irish fuel the person ate that day (potatoes), a person can know exactly what the Frenchman is doing. Unfortunately, he had eaten no potatoes that day, or else he would have known more than simply that they were plotting an international overthrow.
Among the papers stuffed into the cliché black beret was one headed with the logo of the Snails “R� Us Escargot company, based in Paris. It was an outline for their next year. But unlike most years, dealing with advertisements and marketing, this one was different. It instead spoke of mind-control chemicals and brain wave manipulators. And sloppily scribbled on a napkin in the almost illegible French writing of Renee was the truth behind the plan. The three leaders of the Snails “R� Us Escargot company had planned, using certain methods that are almost certainly illegal in the Continental United States, to take over the entire Western World. In Phase Two they would turn them French, and sell to them snails. They would be rich. And it was a good plan, except that they had discounted one Tom O’Malley.
Tom instinctively snatched the beret off of Renee’s unwashed head, and running around the coffee shop, speed-read every single one. The Irish are the second best speed readers, bettered only by the unstoppable, and dare I say, cool, Swedish. He processed the jist of the plan.
“Oh no you don’t!� he yelled. “You may NOT have my counrty! Tom O’Malley says NO!�
“Oh, oui oui, ve vill! Ve vill vin!� What next transpired was a wretched scene. Renee and Pierre flanked Tom, distracting him with a level 18 Smell Attack. Jacque circled behind and got him squarely with a Snail Shooter level 21. Tom was about down for the count. As he was falling down, as if in slow motion, he was visited by the ghost of all his Irish ancestors. They told him that they would be greatly disappointed if he gave up. They said they would disown him. They said… they said that they would exile him to France.
“NOOO!� Tom cried, as he picked himself up. He was debating which ancient fighting style to use, but then realized that it was just three French people. At this realization, he simply picked them up, walked to the coast, and threw the allllll the way to France.
Back in France the terrible group thought. They planned and considered, and after much debating, decided to think small scale. Yes, they would try again. They would try on a target that even the French could conquer… the Canadians.
does any1 no the name of the song that goes WHOOHO! dunananna WHOOHO!skierdude11
please... that is not a question... it is a quote. i know the song. and no, most of you have it wrong anyway.
