The Girl Scout Cookie Caper, Part Three and Conclusion

"What's with these start-up villains just popping up and announcing their presence via mail? Maybe we should start staking out post offices", I offered through a mouthful of cookie carnage.
Jeff and Michael shrugged their shoulders.
"Well, this guy is off on the wrong foot if he assumes that just because he sent us all these cookies that we're going to sit around eat them all", I said as I opened yet another sleeve of Thin Mints.
"Regardless", Michael replied. "We should start by figuring out who this 'Turgider' is."
I shot up in my seat and exclaimed, "Wait a minute! Turgider? Traditional spelling?"
Jeff said, "Presumably, yes."
"You guys, Turgider backward is Red Igurt!"
Jeff and Michael looked at each other then responded in unison, "Red Igurt? That doesn't make any sense."
"Exactly. Nothing about this case makes any sense", I said and sat down, self-satisfied.
Jeff said, "Okay. Great. Thanks for the contribution" with an unnecessarily aggressive eye-roll.

We went about working on the case which involved high-speed car chases, fist fights, explosions etc., none of which we have time to talk about due to the space wasted on the verbal exchange above.

Eventually, we found out Baron J. Turgider was indeed trying to put the Girl Scouts out of business. Why? To benefit his baked goods-makin' baby mama, none other than...

LITTLE DEBBIE!

We let both of them off with a warning (seemed fair since they did give* us all those cookies) to stop trying to destroy cherished institutions dedicated to developing young people and never involve us in any Jerry Springer-esque family matters. We would go on to cross paths with Little Debbie again later in spite of this.

* Jeff pointed out that we actually had to pay for all those cookies.

If We Were A Kids' Show...

Now it's time once again for our occasional dip into the Unbelieva-Mailbag...

This one is from Huw Rinal from Tan-Y-Bwlch, Wales, who writes:

Dear Unbelievables, 
     I know you had a TV show pilot that wasn't picked up by the networks, bach, isn'it, there's lovely. But if it could be rebooted as a kids' show, what sort of format would you like it to take - cartoon, live-action, 3D, computer animated, or what? There's lovely, isn'it?

Your pal from the valleys, bach, isn'it,

Huw Rinal.

Great question, and one I think we'll all have interesting opinions on. Myself, I'd like to see us as a Gerry Anderson-type action adventure show, with puppets as ourselves, like Thunderbirds or Joe 90. Intrigue, drama, espionage, technology, jumping out of planes, downhill skiing while shooting at people, etc. Like James Bond on a smaller scale.

Here's a couple of clips to give you an idea:







Can't you just see us kicking Henri Petit's butt in Supermarionation? Or knocking seven bells out of Little Debbie or Sam Snow while dangling dangerously from some exploding tower? Or even taking on extra intelligence a la  Joe 90 to defeat Negative Charge or Dr. Oldschool? And then winding down in the pool at Tracy Island with some lovely ladies (Hello, ladies!!)? 

I  think it would be a sweet idea. I may just get on the horn to some TV types and suggest it, but before I do, I'll have the guys weigh in on this topic.

Ciao!

Sorry, Folks ... We Don't Cause International Incidents

Poutine: Fries with squeeky cheese and gravy

Yes, The Unbelievables are fabulous, well-mannered, snappy dressers and popular with the ladies. (Hello, Ladies!)

But we've said it before: There's only so much we can do.

All requests that come through our mailbag or answering service receive our individual attention, but you have to understand there are certain things that have been set in place which are pretty immovable - they can't be messed with. Often, that's where our many foes choose to venture and when we have to step in. (See previous posts for the many and varied examples.)

Case in point: I don't know why but we receive letters several times a month asking if there's anything we can do about the beginning of the week, Mondays. Why anyone in there right mind would think we would want to tackle such a staple of everyday life, something that pops up week in and week out 52 times a year, is beyond me. And why it's so vilified in the first place is beyond my personal comprehension. I've mentioned it before and I'll mention it here again: There's nothing I, or The Unbelievables, can do about Mondays. Accept them for what they are, however they manifest themselves. Personally, I love Mondays and don't understand all the hate ... which, in my opinion, I hypothesize might be from others' sad and sorry states of attitude.

Or cats. Look: There are dog lovers and cat lovers out there. It's usually the dog lovers who contact us and ask what can be done once and for all about cats. The answer is simple - not a damned thing. We don't mess with evolution (Hello! Evolution is beyond our control!) or the proclivities (wrong though they may be) of feline affection. Again ... deal with it. They're a fact of the matter and they're not going away any time soon.

Where's all this leading? Directly to today's topic, something that reared its head as a result of a small leak in my personal undercover operations ...

"Hey, Michael:

I understand you're soon to be 'on assignment' in The Great White North. While there, see if you can do anything about that odd Canadian favorite poutine. Why anyone would want to eat something so bland is beyond me.

Work it and get back to me when you can. Soon

- Charles"

Well Chuck, first off I'm not about to begin the week pissing off our neighboring country to the north by dissing one of their national culinary treasures. As far as I'm concerned, poutine never hurt anyone.

The dish - french fries topped with cheese curds (sometimes known as "squeeky cheese") and mild tasting gravy - is a personal preference of Canadians. You have every right to indulge in the concoction or otherwise without fear of reprisal or consequence. Personally, I get a hankering for fries and gravy, but gravy of the thicker, more flavorful variety ... and sans cheese curds. Cheese curds, in and of themselves, are often bland as a rule. Why Canadians love them so much is their business, not mine.

This place digs lacrosse, all things maple and cheese curds.
Sure, poutine has migrated its way into the United States, particularly Washington, the Dakotas, Minnesota, Wisconsin. But we don't boycott those folks just because their eating proclivities drift over to the blah, uninspiring end of things.

And The Unbelievables aren't willing to get on Canada's bad side over their food preferences.

That's something our foes (i.e. Little Debbie) might delve into ... not us.

Evil, personified.

Clark and Jeff might have other personal takes on Mondays or cats or poutine and other things too ridiculous to look into as a butt-kicking entity.

Stay tuned ...

More Twists And Turns Than You Can Shake A Stick At

~~~moving on swiftly (we hope)~~~

The Renault stopped abruptly and Petit turned in his seat to face us, saying "So, Unbelie--", promptly falling out of his booster seat, dropping his ciggy, saying "shit" a few times, retrieving the still-burning smoke, realising the carpet was on fire, stamping it out and clambering back up into his seat, huffing and puffing to catch his breath, then finally spluttering, "So... Un... believables *cough*"

"Spit it out, you insufferable toe-rag," growled Clark, "before I defenestrate you again!"

That clearly rattled Petit and his eyes glowed with anger. Or did they? No, they didn't. It was merely the reflection of the roaring fire that was now raging on the floorboards where he had previously dropped his lit fag-end. 

We scrambled for the doors and each of us grabbed one of the TVD girls and bailed from the vehicle, gallantly rescuing them from the rapidly escalating conflagration.

"WAIT! WHAT ABOUT ME!!!" screamed the nasty toddler-like git.

"Shall we rescue him?" I asked the others.

"I suppose we have to if we want to find out what is going on," Michael replied, "although there's no immediate hurry."

"I CAN HEAR YOU!!! GET ME OUT OF HERE!!" wailed Petit, so we resignedly went over and opened the door.

"Wait, the door was unlocked the whole time, you tiny freak! Was that some kind of trick?" I gasped incredulously.

"Well, normally I'd say yes, Unbelieva-goons, but sadly it pains me to say that I just couldn't reach the handle. You guys just don't know what it's like to be me, you know, it's hard, it really gets me down someti--"

His pitiful speech was abruptly stopped by the van exploding (as these things are apt to do, especially in movies, which was somewhat ironic considering we were standing in what appeared to be an abandoned movie set).

"Well, that's our ride gone" said Clark.

Thus far the TVD's hadn't uttered a peep, but just at that moment one of them said, "Sorry guys..."

We heard the familiar sound of a gun being cocked and turned slowly to see the girls pointing weaponry at us.

From behind them we saw the doors of all the fake buildings opening and the familiar figures of many of our nemeses spilling from them - Sam Snow, Little Debbie, Negative Charge, The Double "D" Dames, to name a few -  all led by Tie-Po and Mac Ramey. All of them armed, and looking more than a little menacing.

What was the meaning of all this? Why were we at an old movie studio surrounded by villains? What did they want? How are we going to get home mow? How did we get out of this alive? (Because we did, you know. That's how come I'm able to write this. So there!).

Well you may ask. Fear not though, for more will be revealed on Friday!

~~~continuing on with all the continuation and stuff~~~

Schooled By Kip

"Kip!" I yelled at the schoolboyish face as he entered the room, "You got some 'SPLAININ' TO DO!!! Sic'im, Ulf!" and with that I unleashed Ulf towards Kip, who immediately fell under the force of Ulf's UnbelievaPaws.

Ulf in training. He can catch all those balls before they or he hit the ground.

The poor sap lay in a semi-fetal position while Ulf jumped all over him, shouting "Stop, stop, c'mon Ulf, stop, boy!" and crying... or was that laughing?

It was then Michael noticed something. "Hey, guys... Ulf's either gone soft or he's trying to slobber Kip to death!"

We pulled Kip to his feet and as he wiped the doggie drool from his face, we saw he was smiling broadly.

Clark was incensed. "Hang on just a cotton-pickin' moment, you snot-nosed little twit," he said. "What the heck just happened here?! C'mere, you little..."

Kip expertly dodged Clark's lunge towards him - a little too expertly, if you ask me - and began to explain.

"Guys, guys, calm down. What you're all probably wondering is how is the idiot mailboy behind all this threatening stuff?"

"You ain't just whistlin' Dixie, brother!" said Clark, who is rather fond of quoting Daffy Duck when irritated.

"Well, the truth is, I'm not. Or at least I wasn't to begin with. The Ominous Tall Man All Dressed In Black is - was - a concoction dreamt up by none other than Little Debbie, Henri Petit, Sam Snow, et al - to spur you guys into thinking you were under serious threat. Which worked. Their aim being to catch you guys off guard at some point and kidnap one of you for a huge ransom."

Heh-heh!

Whatevs.

"Uh-huh" said Michael. "So how did you get involved?"

"Well, I'd seen how sloppy you guys were getting lately - I mean, making frozen cocktails and chilaquiles while under threat -

Mm mm mm.

Chilaquiles Verde Con Pollo, Unbelievables style.

 that's either ridiculous over-confidence or not giving a rat's patootie, either of which is dangerous. You need to be ever vigilant. So I solved the case for you and then decided to up the ante and pretend to be The Ominous Tall Man All Dressed In Black to give you a much-needed workout. Which I hope I have."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" I cried. "Back the truck up uno momento, por favor! What do you mean you 'solved the case for us', Mail Boy?"

"Yeah!" said Clark. "How would you be able to do something like that without utilising our butt-kicking UnbelievaFu-type skills, etc.? Not to mention being extremely handsome and sexy? Huh? Huh, Mail Boy? Huh?"

"Who says I didn't?" replied Kip, coolly raising one eyebrow.

"WHAT?!" spluttered Michael, scarcely able to believe his ears (actually, nobody can believe Michael's ears. They are rather hairy, but let's not get into that right now). "You don't mean...!?!"

Not actually Michael's ear. Honest.

Interview With A Stalker

So, it was my turn. I gingerly reached into the hat, not knowing whose name I would pull out. Under my breath, I chanted a mantra: "Not Petit. Not Petit. Not Petit." I unfolded the paper ever so slowly and breathed a large sigh of relief followed by a gasp. The sigh was because it wasn't our most hated villain Henri Petit, that malformed infantile tobacco-stained wretch. The gasp was because it was someone who had proven themselves in the past to be quite formidable. Little Debbie.

So, I duly rolled up to the private space in the Unbelievabase to await Little D's arrival. I noticed she looked a little different to how I remembered. She was also clutching an 8x10 glossy of our own Mr. Michael Noble (she seems to be a bit of a fan of his. There you go - it takes all sorts).

Here's how it went, after she was allowed to bring in a handcart full of boxed baked goods with her.

ME: What's all that stuff?
LD: Oh, that, it's a gift for you guys. (Grabs box of Honey Buns, proffers them) Snack cake?
ME: No, I'm good thanks. And by the way, that was question number one.
LD: Dangit! OK. Um, Do you think I stand a chance with Michael?
ME: No. Well, maybe if you, uh...
LD: If I what?
ME: Sorry, yes or no questions only. Nine to go. 
LD: But what were you going to say? If I lost some weight, is that it?
ME: Yes, and stop wasting your questions. You have eight left.
LD: That's really hurtful. It isn't easy being a super-villain-baker, you know (tears into box of Honey Buns and starts to devour them), I mean I try and I try but there's just so much stress in this job and I end up snacking on whatever's closest to hand, and... (sniff, sob)...
ME: My heart bleeds. Now then, hurry up. Next question.
LD: Have you always been this rude?
ME: Only with people like you. Seven.
LD: (composing herself) You sure you don't want a Zebra Cake? I can't tempt you with a Honey Bun?
ME: No, twice. Five left, Little Debbie - or, should I say, not-so-Little-anymore-Debbie.
LD: Will you please lay off the fat jokes!
ME: Yes. Four questions.
LD: Four?!?
ME: Yes. Three. Make'm good ones.
LD: Alright. Is there any way I can talk to Michael instead?
ME: No. You haven't asked a single worthwhile question yet. Two left.
LD: I don't suppose there's any chance of a do-over?
ME: No. Last one. And before you say anything - think. Just think what you are saying.
LD: (pause) Alright (sighs heavily). I'm seriously hoping you'll say yes to this. If I'm very good and promise to get out of the villainy game and because I want to get fighting fit and back in shape, is there a chance I can learn UnbelievaFu and UnbelievaZen?
ME: Listen, Debs. I wouldn't want you to go away thinking that this was a pointless waste of time for both of us, but you have to understand. You caused us a great deal of trouble and a lot of extra work. You're an unstable, emotional secret-eater who wants to drive every mom-and-pop local bakery out of business, not to mention some not-so-small ones too. You wanted to make sure your additive-filled crap was on every shelf in every store, so you could be super-rich and buy up the world piece by piece. 
LD: So...? Yes or no?
ME: I'm gonna have to say no.
LD: Waaaahhh!! (collapses in a teary, cakey heap and begins to weep freely)
ME: (to Kip the Mail Boy) Get her out of here. I have a date with a hot tub and a Rob Roy.
LD: But where's Michael?! Lemme ask Michael!!! MICHAELLLLL!!!!
ME: Don't let her ANYWHERE NEAR Michael, got it?

Oh, and yes - we kept all the baked goods. We tested them rigorously in our labs before consumption. I'm not saying Little Debbie's products are bad for you, but this is what my chair looked like after eating them.

The Sweetest Comeback Ever?

Sooo... I guess you're all aware by now that Twinkies, the nutritional equivalent of trucker hats, are back on the shelves in the good ole U.S. of A. Just when you thought it was safe to go down to the Kwik-E-Mart for a six pack of PBR and a cardboard tray full of flavoured sandpaper covered in tasteless molten yellow lava  serving of nachos, there's the box of nasty spongey things staring at you, just taunting you... "you want to buy me, don'tcha... you know you do... c'monnnn, just for old times' sake...". That's the LAST thing you want or need, and the last thing you should think about doing. 

Remember back last November when the Twinkies disappeared? We wrote about the whole sorry saga. Well, now they're back, saved from extinction by Apollo Global Management (Carl's Jr.) and Metropoulos & Co. (PBR, as it happens). At least, that's what they want you to think. We are keeping a very close eye on the affairs of Hostess, lest we suffer a repeat of last year's doings. Watch this space.