Schneidler's Revenge

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Humor  |  House: Booksie Classic
A short story i wrote about a boy in a television-ruled world.

Submitted: November 29, 2007

A A A | A A A

Submitted: November 29, 2007



-----------------------------------------------------Chapter 1------------------------------------------------------------------------
It was a fun day. I drifted asleep the night before, and my dreams lifted me, and sent me on a long, long journey, teleporting me across the land, drifting north. I crossed the Oregon border, Crater Lake, and the Washington border. When I woke up that day, I was scared.
The ground was wet and cold. Everywhere I saw pine trees. The air smelled crisp and full of evergreen. I knew where I was. Spokane, Washington. My old home. I awoke next to a large building, next to a large football stadium. I was at University High School. Nostalgia flooded me like a great flood. It was new and remodeled, just like I remembered it before. I got up, and walked inside, for being just a boy living in Spokane, I had never seen the inside.
Slowly winding my way back to my old home, I passed Painted Hills Golf Course, where I swung a club for the first time, and the Chester Store, where I had many a slurpee. I tuned left, leaving the paved road, and walked the dirt path I had trodden with my bike so many times before. I saw the hills all around me, winking at me. I saw the hill I had sled down so many Januaries ago. I saw the tunnel beneath the hill where my friends and I had hung out so many times before. I took a load off on the railroad tracks I had sat on so many times before. I felt at peace.
Suddenly interrupting my nostalgic revelry, Dora the Explorer said, “You look lost. He is very far from home. Do you know where Jeffery’s home is?
A desktop cursor clicked on the country of Canada.
“Right. There’s Jeff’s home.”
“No, I don’t think it is,” I said confusedly.
“Of course it is, dumbass,” Dora replied in her high-pitched 6-year-old voice.
So that was how I was deported by Dora the Explorer to Canada. I spent the next year of my life selling hockey pucks in Vancouver. Then I ate pie.
----------------------------------------------------Chapter 2-------------------------------------------------------------------------
After living in Vancouver for over a year, haunting thoughts entered my head. Why did Dora intentionally send me to Canada? Why did she want to get rid of me? Is Boots really gay like the rumors say? All these daunting questions drove me to drop the hockey pucks I was trying to sell, and plan a trip across the border. It wouldn’t be easy. The red coated Mountees would be like U.S. Immigration, and I’d be the Mexican. I’d have to use speed, and cunning. Eventually I decided to just sneak across by climbing in a barrel of lemon juice. It wasn’t comfortable. My eyes stung like the dickens, and the acid was literally corroding my body. I was in so much pain, that when the truck stopped, and I was sure I had made it into the U.S.; I jumped out of the back of the large truck, blowing my cover.
“Who the hell are you,” a nasally voice said behind me. I whipped around, to see a short yellow boy with but 4 fingers.
“That depends,” I said, maintaining sangfroid, “Because I don’t talk to Canadians.”
“I’m Bart Simpson, who the hell are you,” he responded.
“Schneidler,” I said, “Jeffery Schneidler. I’m a native Californian, and I’m on a mission. What is a little four-fingered yellow boy doing five miles south of the Canadian border?
“What’s a Californian doing 1000 miles from home?”
“Good point.” I retorted.
“So what is this ‘mission,’” Bart questioned.
“I was deported to Canada by Dora the Explorer; right on her own show, and now I have to get to her in order to find out why she did this.”
“DORA THE EXPLORER!? I hate that girl. She steals all of our young audience just because she knows how to speak Spanish.”
“Will you join me in interrogating her and her rumored-to-be gay friend Boots?” 
He agreed, and I finally had an ally in my operation. We drove a long ways in order to get to Hollywood, encountering many different challenges. We gave rides to hitchhiking chainsaw-wielding hobos, jump-started 5 people’s cars, and we ran over a moose for food. Finally, though, we finally reached Hollywood, still full of moose meat.
“OK, we’ve reached Nickelodeon Studios, but how do we get inside,” Bart queried.
“Well I was thinking about doing a Monty Python Lancelot meets Spider-man approach.”
“You mean I charge at the guards, not appearing to get any closer, and then you climb over the fence while I am being watched? Good plan. I want to be Lancelot.”
“OK. Once I’m inside, I will locate Dora and her gay friend, and I will interrogate them in an abandoned room.”
“And I will follow up with the getaway car once we’ve done what we came here for. I’m all over it.”
Bart stopped the van about 1 block from the studio entrance. I walked casually to the base of the wall, and crept a few hundred yards away from the guards’ station. At the tip of my hat, Bart ran at the guards, not gaining any ground. The guards watched him with a puzzled look thinking, “Yellow kids with 4 fingers are slow as fuck.”
Taking advantage of Bart’s distraction, I climbed over the wall, and dropped down behind a dressing trailer. I hugged the back of the trailer, making sure I was not visible, and I waited, waited for the perfect disguise to walk along. 5 minutes later I saw it, SpongeBob Squarepants. When he was just inches from my face, I grabbed him by the hand, and dragged him behind the trailer.
“Hey,” SpongeBob wailed in his even higher nasally voice, “that’s not nice.”
“Shut the fuck up before I take away one of your gold stars, and all your Krabby Patties,” I said rather threateningly. The sponge’s lips never moved again. I struck him in the back of the head, and he collapsed unconscious. 
I took SpongeBob’s pants, and I slipped them on, putting on the perfect disguise. However, I was soon to be proven otherwise.
“Mommy, what the fuck is wrong with SpongeBob!” A 5-year-old girl screamed.
“Daddy! SpongeBob is white! I thought he was Orwiental.”
“Uh-oh,” I thought, “this is bad.”
-------------------------------------------------Chapter 3----------------------------------------------------------------------------
“SpongeBob,” one of the children’s parents said, “you don’t look well. Did you have a few too many margaritas?”
“SPONGEBOB IS A BOOZER,” one of the kids wailed, running away from the disgruntled parent.
I knew I had to fix the situation quick, or I would be mocked like Bart at a track meet. So I ran. I ran as fast as I could go, away from the people. So fast I was a blur. So fast that SpongeBob’s pants flew off of me, and onto the crying girl, which made her cry more.I ran until I was able to hide behind another dressing room. I read the engraved star on the door, Dora the Explorer. “How awkwardly lucky,” I thought. I read Dora’s schedule by peeping though the window:
· 10:00 – rehearsal
· 12:00 – Lunch with Drake Bell <3
“WHAT THE FUCK!” I thought out loud, “He’s LIKE 3 times her age!” However, I shook off this image of pedophilia to focus on my mission:
· 1:00 – shoot episode #45
· 3:00 – staff meeting with Backpack and Map
· 4:00 – gay counseling with Boots
· 5:00 – meet Ellen DeGeneres to discuss movie deal
· 6:00 – return to trailer for quick freshening up
· 7:30 – dinner with Elvis Presley mannequins
“Yes! My opportunity,” I thought. I spoke into my headset, “Bart. I can nab Dora alone at 6:15. Meet me at the southeast emergency exit at 6:45, do you hear me?”
“No-go, no-go,” Bart responded, “I have another duty to attend to.”
“Like what! What could be more important that kidnapping and interrogating the biggest bitch on children’s’ television!?”
“Superintendant Skinner caught me heckling some skinny girls, so he made me write ‘Anorexics are people too’ on the chalkboard in his car.”
“Damn it! What would Jack Bauer do right now?”
A new voice broke in, “call for CTU backup.”
I turned around, and saw Kiefer Sutherland, in all of his glory, pointing a 9mm at my head. I was stunned and exhilarated at the same time.
“Now,” Jack said commandingly, “we need to kidnap Dora. She was on that TV show last night, America’s Most Wanted…Bitches, and I was sent by CTU to take her out.”
“No,” I said back, “don’t take her down. I want to pump her for information. I want to know why she deported me to Canada, land of hockey and fucking people who say ‘eh.’”
“Hmm, well the writers of 24 will probably get fired for this, but I won’t kill you. I will help you with your mission.”
“NOOOOOOOOO,” exclaimed an obese American watching TV in Amarillo, Texas, “HOW COULD YOU! JACK YOU BASTARD! I gave you 3 years of my life, and you give me this!?”
“Sounds good Jack.” I forced a grin out of myself, and we shook hands.
“BOOTS!” I knew that voice anywhere. “Come to my trailer with me and do my fucking HAIR!”
It was Dora. It was time. We slunk back around the back of the trailer, and waited for Dora and the fag monkey to walk inside.
“So what’s the plan, Mr. Schneider?” Jack seemed eager to go into action.
“Well,” I said, “I was thinking of an Immature Billy Madison coupled with a Ferris Bueller return.”
“You mean you will doorbell ditch Dora the Explorer with a bag of flaming shit and I will sneak into the window and catch them by surprise? It’s genius.”
Although it took a while to find a dog and steal from his pile of poop, we were able to get some into a brown paper sack, and with the help of Jack’s handgun, we lit it on fire. I then walked up to Dora’s mini-porch, set the bag down, and knocked 3 times.
Dora answered the door, and like most common boobs, stomped out the bag of flaming shit.
“MOTHER FUCKER!” Dora was disgusted, “I got shit all over my new shoes. Do you know how to get shit off of my shoes?”
“Shut the fuck up, Dora,” Boots said rather annoyed, “We’re not filming, so you don’t need to ask the imaginary audience how to solve your damn problems!”
“How should I know you homosexual asshole? I’m only six years old!”
It was this short period of chaos that Jack used to get into action. I rushed the door, preventing Dora’s escape, and Jack closed the deal, holding Dora and Boots upside down from their legs. I decided to call Bart, “Dude, are you almost done writing about starved girls, because we need pickup pronto.”
“Sure thing dude, I’m on my way.”
I thought everything was going to work out. We would just sit tight in the trailer until Bart arrived, and we would make a mad dash to the emergency exit. However, an all too familiar squeaky voice shattered my hope. SpongeBob was back, and he was escorted by 2 guards.
“There they are, officers! That’s the son of a bitch who knocked me senseless. They need to be taught a lesson.”
In a quick reaction, I lunged at one of the guards legs, crumpling him to the floor, Jack shot in a quick instinct and shot one of the officers in the arm.
“Let’s play a little game,” Jack said menacingly.
“OH BOY! I love games,” SpongeBob replied.
“It’s called I shoot you in different places, and you rate between one and ten how much it hurt.”
Dora’s voice cut in, “I don’t think you can play that game.”
“Why the hell not?”
“Because I have your gun.” She tossed it to the wounded guard, who aimed it at us.
“Bart,” I whispered, “do you think you can pull a Ricky Bobby into the house on trailer #34B?”
“That’s easy,” Bart said, “I’ll be there in 10.”
“I doubt we have ten minutes.”
“I don’t mean minutes.” 10 seconds later, the whole front wall of the trailer shattered as Bart’s van caved it in, running over the wounded guard, Dora, SpongeBob, and Boots’ tail.
“We yellow 4-fingered boys may be slow as fuck,” Bart said, “but that’s why we drive fast cars.”
“We have to get the hell out of here!” I said, as gunshots from other guards rang out all across the studio. “Take Boots!” I tossed Jack the fag monkey, or “fagkey” as I now called him, “take him to the tabloid papers! Tell them Boots is gay! I’ll draw the guards’ fire. GO!”
Jack obeyed without question, and he hopped in Bart’s van, and they drove to safety.
I ran straight ahead, luring the guards’ fire from the van, and aiming it at me. I felt a sharp pain. I was shot in the leg, twice. I tried to crawl on, but it was no use. I bled out too fast. Another shot struck me in the chest. I struggled to maintain consciousness. The last thought came into my head, “Tomorrow, I will read the newspaper in heaven, and it will talk about how I murdered a six year old girl, her gay monkey, and one of the most popular underwater cartoons over an English paper.”
------------------------------------------------------The End-------------------------------------------------------------------------

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