Parody paradise

The erotica of fast food, the car salesman pitch of a president, and the Internet by Bacharach, this week in Salon's reader community, Table Talk.

By Salon Staff
Published September 17, 2007 9:34PM (UTC)
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TT Central

Best Posts II

David Lettvin - 07:24 am Pacific Time - Sep 12, 2007 - #6809 of 6828

At the sound of her voice, I turned.

"May I take your order, sir?" she asked. There was a slight hesitation, an embarrassment, in her voice. Her eyes challenged me to look away, but I did.


I let my vision drift down, past the rising flush in her cheeks and the tentative smile, to the white, smooth, vulnerable softness of her neck framed by the open neck of the dark red polyester shirt. The hollow at the base of her neck dewy with sweat. Would it taste of fries? I wondered.

She leaned forward as my focus drifted further down, falling into the dark, softness of her cleavage. Her breasts strained the tight fabric into radiating lines of protest at being pushed to its limit.

"Sir ... ?" she said quietly.


I tore my gaze from the sweet swell of breast.

Her smile was more direct now. The quirk at the corner of her mouth told me that she knew where the cords were to make me dance as her marionette.

"Your order ... ?" She dropped her eyes slightly, as if to say "I can ... but I will let you go."


"I ... " I had to stop. my voice thick with some primal hormonic flow. I cleared it with a cough. "I'll have the double quarter pounder with cheese." I slightly raised an eyebrow. Would she take this the way it was meant? " ... and a medium coffee, black."

"Do you want fries with that?" she asked softly.


"Yes," I said (yes and again yes). My gaze dropped to her midriff the man-made (would that it were so) material gaping slightly between the buttons displaying glimpses of her navel a perfect portion cup for the ketchup, a container that I would so thoroughly tongue clean.

She leaned toward me more deeply. "Do you want to super-size that?" she asked forthrightly.

My heart fell. She had seen through me. She had just been toying with me. Lulling me into lust. And here at last, was the challenge, the eternal challenge. Am I man enough to super-size? Am I worthy?


Now my gaze dropped to the counter. I saw myself in the specks of salt and dried blobs of special sauce. The spirit left me. I could fell my shoulders droop with the slackness of self-defeat.

"No," I muttered.

"That's good!" Her words startled me out of the downward spiral. Once more I looked in her face. It seemed to glow.


"I like a man who knows his limits," she said, and handed me the tray.

White House

Beat the Press -- Media Atrocities

Ron Legro - 11:46 am Pacific Time - Sep 12, 2007 - #7325 of 7370

Re WOULD YOU BUY A USED WAR FROM THIS MAN, this brief commercial interruption, designed with your mind in mind:


Yas, yas, here at Dubya Cross Motors, we're dealing, dealing, wheeling and dealing FOR YOU!

Just look at this hot, freefire-zone example. What a deal! A five year old conflict, barely scratched in the polls, and only driven by a little old general who only visited the White House one Sunday every six months. Sure it leaks a little blood, water and oil, but what war these days doesn't? It's all yours, complete with metal-shrapnel-pan bucket seats, five-speed surge control, air conditioning and unitary executive power windows, for the complete price of only ONE TRILLION DOLLARS!

And how about this beauty? The War in Afghanistan! Her sandstone-glossy finish reeks with exotic mystery. Be the first man on your block to be the last man on your block. I won't Bora Bora you with details. Just hand over a hundred billion and she's all yours, baby! Throw me a Curveball! Mission accomplished!

Remember: At Dubya Cross Motors, every car is fully backed for three years by our warrantless surveillance program. And don't forget our body-count shop: We'll paint over your constitutional protections for just ninety-nine, ninety-nine!


So stop in today at our end of Congress seasonal sale! Get a free trial balloon for the kiddies, feed the detainees in our petting zoo, and take home giant corporate tax breaks for your boss. That's Dubya Cross Motors, corner of Saddamm and Gonnorhea.

This is ol' Dubya himself, repelenishin' the coffers and sayin':


Work Life


True Tales of the Office: Wilbur's Revenge: The Musical!

Fogharty - 11:21 am Pacific Time - Sep 14, 2007 - #1613 of 1663

What do you get when you bitch online?
Replies pointing out all your misspellings
Soon it becomes all CAPITALS YELLING!!
I'll never bitch online again.
I'll never bitch online again.

What do you get when you vent online?
Get lectured to all sanctimonious
Even tho' they're all erroneous.
I'll never vent on online again.
No, I'll never vent online again.

I don't know when I've had it worse
My spouse is lazy and my kids are cursed.
My house is heading into foreclosure
Mom was charged with indecent exposure.

What do you get when you post your crush?
You get rants about your sexuality
Your politics and your morality.
I'll never crush online again.
I'll never crush online again.

Gosh how they yell when you post online
About your great love for Bill O'Reilly.
It was a joke (I should have used a smiley)
I'll never joke online again.
No I'll never joke online again.

I've just about had my full
Of nagging nannies and harpy trolls.
Some of those posts, those posts are way rough
That is why I'm forced to ENUF.

What do you get when you go OT?
Star Trek spats, cat fights and quibbles
That's what you get for all your tribbles
I'll never go OT again.
I'll never go OT again.

What do you get when you post online?
You get an audience for your dumb parodies.
Hey at least it's way cheaper than therapy.
I'll prob'ly post online again.
Oh yeah, I'll post online again.

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