MAYDAY!! Mayday!! Shaq panique!! Fifty cent funk!! We-the members of the Wheels of Fire Tsunami Express-are going down. Hard!! And Babs packed 1 measly parachute for George Hermann and His Empress to ride piggyback "just in case." As for the rest of the Express crew, she traded our chutes for 2 new iPod nanos and a lifetime of free downloads from the iTunes FEMA HazMat Jukebox-"music to calm your paniqued soul while waiting for the FEMA Calvary to mobilize, establish a well-defined organizational chart, and get you all the MRE ration coupons you will need to survive a lifetime of personal catastrophic LEVEL 4 situations." Dammit!! We are screwed beyond recognition!!
Shaq and his copilot-50 cent-are duking it out in the cockpit cause Shaq is hogging all the flite time and refuses to let 50 do "a little riff" with the rudders. Even worse, our mission to provide relief and free Twizzlers to the tsunami victims has been totally blown out of the water as we have been bought lock, stock, and NanoPod by Pacificare-United.
Instead of flood relief, we are on tap to provide comic relief-The Bill and George Hermann Bombs Away 19th-Hole Bogeython-to the UniPacific Torrential Pines 12-Step Pro-Am in beautiful uptown Peoria. So, if we can pull out of our Twizzler tailspin, we have a Bombs Away payday and a week at the Peoria Red Roof Inn dangling in the balance.
Shaq is totally peeved cause 50 gets to play with Mariah Carey-double eagle!!-while ShaqDaddy has been paired with those 2 little cashflow midgets who waddle around on their megahit doublebreasted infomercial plugging a new future for the financially lost sheep (like yours truly) wandering around on the Our Lady of Perpetual Amortization Freeway.
However, trash the cashflow and give me a little anger management for the Big Guy or his future with the Miami Heat is up in smoke, not to mention our immediate viability as a comic relief crew. We are (burnt) toast unless Shaq shakes off 50 and focuses on pulling our nose up.
So I quickly check his Ultimate Heat HealthPlan mental health benefits and call the EAP Heatline to get a qualified STAT mental health anger consult. Shaq did not know his SS number or his group health number so we got shunted to the EAP HeatHelpLine, and, I swear on a stack of Guantanamo Geneva Convention Bill of Rights downloads, we somehow end up talking to their STAT Obesity SlimLine facilitator.
We are in a 707 death spiral, and Shaq is getting Deal-a-Meal recipe cards from this guy who sounds suspiciously like the great Richard Simmons.
"Mr O'Neal, please get out your Deal-a-Meal Cardpack, and let's start shaving off some of those ugly fat globules that have made your existence a big ball of cholesterol-soaked hell. I am here for you and your flabby self-esteem."
Shaq is speechless, mainly cause he is frantically searching for his Deal-a-Meal recipe file plus, more acutely, the G-forces we are experiencing make coherent speech inoperable in the true FEMA sense of the word.
Richard's voice has become soaked with tears of slovenly empathy for his newfound plus-sized instant friend when suddenly his voice turns to shrieks of rather violent indignation.
"Mr O-you have not paid your Deal-a-Meal monthly Meltaway Fee so I am ending this consult."
As Shaq tears up with the searing pain of losing Richard's phone-empathy, Babs bursts into the cockpit, shoves the Shaqster aside, pulls our nose up, and saves the whole damn boatload of Tsunami Samaritans. We erupt into instant applause as Babs angrily redials Richard's Swinging to the Oldies Hotline and chews his ass out for not verifying Shaq's mental health benefits and precerting his consult. She nails him for possibly costing our ShaqPilot a copay and an out-of-network, out-of-pocket consult fee.
50 cent fires off a slew of cheap badass profanity as Babs coldly pushes Shaq and 50 out the left wing exit, calling them out for goofing around with the Wheels of Fire rudders. Shaq is crying for his Mama as, I swear on a stack of UltraHeat rejected mental health claims, the 2 "cash generator" little guys swoop out of the sky wearing their best double-breasted outfits. They decisively put Shaq in a scissor-legs WWF deathgrip that holds Shaq between their micro-buffed mini-torsos and saves his triglyceride-infested life.
Richard Simmons wept and 50 screamed (the little guys can only do so much jaws of life relief work) as Babs joined George Hermann in a Diss the Shaqster rap that would have made a hardcore capo blush like a pampered newborn.
Meanwhile, I make a mental note to send off immediately for the midgets' FEMA-approved Cashflow DVD as we headed, nose up with Captain Babs at the controls, for 18 holes of Pacificare inplan, outtasite, no-copay bliss.