I used to do xxxxx so now I'm an authority on it...

[Mesozoic Mister Nigel]

Trix = a breakfast cereal, right?  Yeah, whatever, it's poptard.

Thread over.

Sounds about right.

[AFK]

Cept the Trix Rabbit seems more like a flighty tweeker than a flighty pot head. 

[Elder Iptuous]

I'm inclined to agree, Dok.

[BadBeast]

Cept the Trix Rabbit seems more like a flighty tweeker than a flighty pot head. 

Agreed. Maybe Lies could offer some helpful advice from when he used used to be a "hard core user".   

[AFK]

It's probably Law of Fives, but if you think about it, a lot of the Breakfast Cereal Mascots seemed like they were on some kind of drugs.

Tony the Tiger is clearly on steroids.
Dig'em the frog and the bear mascot for Golden Crisp were very clearly potheads.
I think Lucky is on some kind of mushrooms.
Toucan is a wino
I think Sonny is probably on speed.

[Cain]

Snap, Crackle and Pop were clearly doing some kind of LSD/meth combination.

[Eater of Clowns]

Snap, Crackle and Pop were clearly doing some kind of LSD/meth combination.

Rice Krispies - Not Even Once.

[trix]

In an old town located barely outside of what is widely considered civilization, the local townsfolk were very rural and old fashioned.  Things in this town rarely changed, and the advancement of technology and civilization filtered it's way there with country slowness.  The people liked the slow, lazy pace of their daily lives.  This place rarely had disasters, mishaps, and evil folk stirring things up.

In this town there was an old monk, considered by the townsfolk to be both wise and holy.  He was bald, with a huge beard and a sparse robe.  He was never seen without his robe.  He carried a long wooden walking stick, and a small cloth bag containing everything he owned, which consisted of a little food, drink, and one old book.  He was often found on the roofs of houses, sitting in the lotus position, deeply meditating.  When asked for advice or direction, his responses often seemed incoherent and difficult to understand, feeding his reputation of wisdom and enlightenment.

There was also an old drunkard, considered by most to be filthy and a fool.  He, too, was bald, with a huge beard.  He wore rags picked from the trash, and carried a plastic bag that contained mostly stale food and whatever liquor he managed to pilfer and beg for that day.  He was usually found in front of liquor stores, or pilfering junk yards, or trying to sleep in abandoned houses.  On the rare occasion this man was asked for direction, his usual response was to point to his crotch, exclaiming in a slurred voice "All of yer answers are right here, fuckstick!".

One day in this town the rarest of things happened, disaster struck!  A local family was found beaten to death, and their home pillaged of valuables and food.  The townsfolk found themselves extremely angry at this, for this family was well liked.  A manhunt was arranged, and the townsfolk got themselves all riled up and ready for blood.  Weapons were distributed, and these peaceful, simple folk found themselves armed and furious.  Some had guns, others had knives and pitchforks and spears and all manner of murderous tools.

Crap, real life interruption.  I'll finish this later.

[Doktor Howl]

And now, a word from our sponsor:

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I've sat and wished my life away
I know the greyness comes and goes
But the sun don't shine
And the snow don't snow

There's Suzy-Ann with her tits and curls
Where mediocrity excels
For those vicious boys and their boring girls
You know it makes me sick but it's a bozo's world

Then there's always the cash
Selling yourself for some trash
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You're in demand
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City banker looks are in
The heartless heart, the chinless chin
And you'd spill your beans for just a pint of gin
How you got so holy
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In Sunday papers every week
The silly words you love to speak
The tacky photos and the phoney smiles
Well it's a bozo's world
And you're a bozo's child

Then there's always the cash
Selling yourself for some trash
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You're in demand
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Then there's always the fame!
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People who saw you on Blankety Blank
Or in the bank
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[trix]

The people swept through the town like a hurricane of rage, everyone new, everyone different, everyone thought to be even remotely capable of committing such horror was rounded up for interrogation.  All of these people, from travelers to salesmen to recluses and hermits to people that had shown even a minor amount of dislike or distaste for the victims, even the drunkard, were gathered into the center of town.  The town sheriff and his deputies started the questioning.

Hours and hours went by, the townsfolk growing impatient and more agitated by the minute.  The sheriff tried fear and intimidation, tried good cop/bad cop, tried following evidence and every other trick he had ever learned to get the killer to give them self away.  All failed.  Him and his deputies stayed up all night questioning and harassing the suspects, not letting any of them get any sleep.  The townsfolk stayed as well, all of them too angry, too outraged, too excited that finally something big was going down in this small boring little town, to leave and go home.

All of these suspects were terrified, all of them mortified, all of them confused and tired and wishing they had never come to this stinking run-down town of fools.  All save the drunkard, that is.  None of this seemed to faze the drunk.  Every time he was questioned, poked, prodded, threatened, harassed, or offered reward for information, his response was the same lewd bullshit he had been sprouting for years.  He'd point to his crotch and slur, "All of yer answers are right here, fuckstick!"

The Sheriff figured the drunk's mind was gone.  Too much alcohol over too long a time can erode even the best minds, and the Sheriff had heard from his grandfather that this drunkard had been a fool even before the drink.

As the interrogation and accusations continued, the mob of townsfolk were growing ever more impatient.  Shouts could be heard from within the crowd, accusing this man or that woman of being guilty of the deed, various people making up their minds that it HAD to be so-and-so because he'd been acting so odd lately.  The Sheriff was trying his best to maintain order, but the situation was getting worse, and he knew it was only a matter of time before he lost control of it all.  Suddenly, he remembered, who would have been in the best position to see who was going where that day, but the monk!  Yes!  The monk was always on the rooftops, with a clear view of the whole town, he might have seen what went down!   The Sheriff sent one of his deputies to find the monk and bring him, with all haste.  The deputy agreed and ran off.

Rooftop to rooftop, it took the deputy nearly an hour to locate the old monk, sitting in the lotus position on the roof of the town church.  Shaking his shoulder gently, the deputy asked the monk if he would please go see the Sheriff and answer a few questions.  The monk agreed, stood up, stretched, and walked calmly to the center of town.

The situation was getting worse, the crowd was getting loud and shouting, worried that the murderer or murderers were going to get away with it.  The Sheriff spotted the monk approaching and felt a little relief.  "Quiet people!" he shouted at the crowd, "Here comes our wise monk, the one man that might have seen who did it!"   Hearing this, the monk slowed his pace and looked around at the crowd, noticing for the first time the weapons in their hands and anger and righteousness in their faces.  He approached the Sheriff, and nodded the man to begin his questioning.  The monk had seen nothing, meditation requires closed eyes and deep focus.  But the monk had advice to give regardless, "Beware the path you are treading, the line between justice and vengeance lies not with intent, but execution."  As usual, few of the simple townsfolk understood what the old man was on about, and most rolled their eyes, less patient then usual with the monk's useless nonsense.  "Answers!" somebody shouted, "Somebody here murdered my friends and they are NOT going to get away with it!"  Shouts of agreement spread through the crowd, the excitement and anger thick and suffocating.  Another shout was heard, "My money's on that weirdo McFennin couple!  Them been keepin to themselves since they got here!  And everybody knows they needed the money, with that baby on the way and them being new here!"  The couple in question looked up in surprise, "Your a treacherous little shithead, Molly!  You're just pissy that we got that acre behind the old windmill that you were after!"

More and more shouts could be heard, until the Sheriff was heard yelling over all "CALM, people!  This isn't the dark ages!  We need to interrogate and find out who is really responsible for this and arrest them!"  Somebody shouted, "Interrogate, interrogate, you been saying that all night Sheriff, you haven't found anything or anyone you useless knob!"  Another shout was heard "Arrest them?  Those murderous freaks don't deserve to relax in a cell and eat our hard earned food, I say we rip the killers to peices!"  Suddenly a bottle was broken over someone's head, and the Sheriff pulled out his iron and fired a shot into the sky. "Enough!" he shouted, "All of you go home, you have become an out of control mob!"

The shouting and anger got worse and worse, reaching it's peak when somebody shouted "I say we take them all until whoever did it admits it!" and the rest of the mob exploded in anger.  Surging forward, the mob of townsfolk attacked the mob of suspects, and surrounded, they could only try to defend in kind.  Blows were thrown, weapons were used, the whole thing quickly dissolved into a bloody war.  Even the monk was caught in the middle, screaming things like "VIOLENCE BEGETS VIOLENCE!" before somebody finally stuck a hatchet in his head and shut him up.  Only the drunkard, sitting a little to the side sipping from a paper bag and watching the whole thing with wide eyes, only he was untouched and unnoticed by all.  After all, he was just a drunkard and a fool who nobody gave a shit about.

When it was all finally over, more then three fourths of the townsfolk, including the 'suspects', were dead.  The survivors were, to the man, heavily injured.  Many more would later die from wounds that went untreated, due to the towns three doctors all being killed in the melee.  Only the drunk was unhurt.

In the days that followed, those who were left abandoned the town, and tried their best to leave the horrible memories behind them as well.  Except the drunkard, he stayed and pillaged the houses, setting up a living space right there in the town liquor store.  Nobody ever found out who had committed the murders.

The moral of the story:
(pointing at my crotch) All of yer answers are right here, fuckstick!

- trix

[BadBeast]

I think we've got a live one here.

[Nephew Twiddleton]

[Doktor Howl]

Trix's story reminds me of the Spider game.   

[Mesozoic Mister Nigel]

That story was pretty dumb.

[trix]

That story was pretty dumb.

I agree.

I think I started okay, but I couldn't figure out how to end it.  I was just in the mood to make shit up.

Your amazing detective skills have paid off, you have discovered that I am new here!  Wow, I bow to your ability to ferret out the truth.

Fuckwad.