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August 13th, 2001
We love Gary. We should start right off by saying that. However, as you long time misinformer fans out there know, Gary isn't exactly a "finish what you've started" kind of guy. Now we're not blaming Gary, of course. I mean, he did have a long and tumultuous six year journey through college to deal with, followed quickly thereafter by a thrashing sea of freelance work to burn his midnight oil. It's not like the man has a lot of free time to make good on his frequent and almost never kept promise of "More comedy to come later this week!" Plus he does an awful lot of blow.
Thus, as a service to our readers who have stayed with us through unfinished cliffhanger after cliffhanger, the boys down at misinformer labs have entered some of Gary's more prominent partial features into our comedy supercomputer, the Hilaritron 5000TM. Using this data, the HT5K has triangulated an estimation of where the incomplete comedic vectors of these features may have gone, had they has been allowed to continue on their paths to fruition. We now present these findings to you, in a scientific report entitled...
Electronically Extrapolated Comedic Conclusions Data projected by the Hilaritron 5000TM
Since we were starting the Hilaritron 5000TM from a cold boot, we decided to give it a little something easy first to warm up.
While it is out of the HT5K's operational parameters to actually implement these features, the machine believes that if it were to be finished, Dancin' Dubya's features would include the ability to make Georgie sing along to the music (changing about every fourth word of the song to one that was hilariously inappropriate), and a button that you could click to make 300 dollar tax checks burst out of his ass in time with the beat.
The HT5K also suggests that these heads may have been included in the final Dancin' Dubya:
   
Considering these answers to be satisfactory, though not terribly funny, the technicians shrugged their shoulders and delivered the Hilaritron 5000TM its next task.
Sure the Editor tried to cover this one up in the archives by changing phrases like "some infomercials" into "an infomercial", and altogether cutting the promise of a new inferiomercial every day that week, but you know better. You were there. You remember. After feeding the first segment of the feature into the HT5K, it produced this nugget.
Having successfully completed a second module in a pre-existing series, the Hilaritron 5000TM was put to the ultimate test: Finishing a narrative already in progress.
As the five misinformants ran from the hospital amidst cries of joy over the announcement of Luke and Laura Spencer's imminent nuptials, the unrest in the group only grew stronger.
Gary: Five misinformants?
Trixie: Yeah, I'm like, totally still here, remember?
Gary: What the... lemme see... "uninteresting Mario"... "denim strap on"... "Trixie was DYING to see the old fashions again!" Hey, son of a gun, you are here!
Marcus: Stop it! Stop it! STOP IT! You're ruining everything! This is the 70s! We're pre-Mario, we're pre-Valley Girl! Gary, from now on you will refer to yourself as being the uninteresting Fred Jones of the group, and Trixie, you're going to talk like Mushmouth from Fat Albert!
Trixie: Obey kaybe, whabutever.
Gary: Right on. Um... who's Fred Jones?
Marcus: The blonde guy from Scooby Doo! Here's your ascot, asshole.
Caster: Don't you remember anything from the 70s that wasn't a cartoon?
Marcus: Well... I was only four when the 80s started... I admit, I don't really remember that much first hand...
Timb: So you read what others had to say about the 1970s and you took the next step. You didn't earn the knowledge for yourself, so you don't take any responsibility for it. You stood on the shoulders of geniuses to accomplish something as fast as you could and before you even knew what you had, you patented it and packaged it and slapped it on a plastic lunchbox, and now you're selling it, YOU'RE SELLING IT!
Marcus: Jesus, Timb! What are you so pissed off at me for? In case you haven't noticed, Gary is the one who cast you as Jeff Goldblum in this feature. Jeff "Must go faster" fucking Goldblum.
Timb: Wait I... holy shit, you're right! Prepare yourself for the deadly DDT, motherfucker!
After Timb had worn himself out, throwing his bony elbows into Gary's thick body, the group piled back into the Explorer and tore off for the center of the island, home of the secret, vacuum tube filled, punch card driven, seven story central computer that ran the entire complex.
Gary: Did you say "punch card driven?" Marcus: No, that was the narrator. Gary: Erm... but what I mean is, why is your secret central computer using 70s technology? Being a secret from the natives, it could be state of the art, you know? Marcus: Too risky. What if some of them accidentally found it while they were stumbling around the forest reenacting an episode of Land of the Lost? Timb: But they've all seen us in this Ford Explorer that we've been driving through their villages. I mean, shouldn't this be a Partridge Family bus or something? Marcus: I don't... I mean... that's a good point and all but... hey SHUT UP! Timb: The 90s finds... finds a way.
With the increased fury that Marcus only gets when he's beginning to realize that one of his ideas has turned out to be completely retarded and everybody knows it, the anachronistic SUV crashed on angrily through the jungle, and directly through the small village of Barbapapa. Finally the car burst through a thin curtain of bamboo and came to a screeching halt in front of a large complex that looked startlingly not unlike the Hall of Justice, flanked by two enormous guards wearing Star Trek: The Motion Picture style security uniforms. "Now to straighten this mess out once and for all," Marcus seethed. "I'm going to purge all post-December 31st 1979 information from the main computer MYSELF, by HAND, and if you don't like it, you can... you can KISS MY GRITS!" And with that, he stomped his wiry little frame up the front steps and threw his tiny fist into the first security guard's stomach. The guard barely flinched, but instead looked mostly confused and extremely nervous.
Guard: Um... groovy afternoon, sir. Mr. Hart, sir. Would you like to come in then?
Marcus: Who's signing your paychecks, ass?! I punched you!
The guard's eyes darted around madly for some clue as to what, exactly, he should do if he wanted to keep his job. Luckily for him, his glance caught Caster's, who made a little "falling to the pavement" gesture. A look of appreciative relief spread over the guard's face as he said, "Ahh! Right then!" and collapsed, apparently unconscious, to the ground, taking care not to hit his knees or his head on the way down. "Right, and now for you," Marcus shrieked, rounding on the other guard, "Sit on THIS, Potsie!" Marcus leapt forward, and with a blood-curdling scream of "fannn-riffic!" he awkwardly karate chopped the cement wall, a good foot and a half from where the guard was standing. Without missing a beat, the guard grasped his stomach and fell forwards, throwing out his tongue for good measure. "Come on, men," Marcus bellowed, clutching his already bruised hand and kicking open the doors to the Hall, "It's time to clean house Three Days of the Condor style!" Before anyone could even argue against Marcus' poorly called 70s reference, a veritable sea of sound and light surged outwards from the open doors, as if it had been too large to fit inside the building in which it had been born. The misinformants all gazed wide eyed into the smoke filled, laser lit atrium. The building was full of the island's natives, but there was nothing tribal about them at all. For that matter, there was nothing 70s about them either. Everywhere you looked, there seemed to be faux-metallic clothing, tiny electric blinkies, and bottled water, all covered with a thick, pulsating blanket of thumping house music.
Trixie: Libike, hoboly shibbit! Pabass me a blowbee-bpob, yo!
Marcus: It's... it's a DISCO!
Timb: (Shaking his head apologetically) Dude, it's a rave.
Marcus: (Transfixed, yet looking at nothing in particular) It's... it's a DISCO! Look! That guy is on cocaine! See!
Gary: Ha! That's not what a guy on cocaine looks like, let me tell you, a coke high feels more like... er... anyway, that guy's on Ecstasy.
Marcus: But HOW!? How could this BE?! Everything that comes onto this island is checked and double checked for 70s-ocity! How did all of this 90s crap slip through security?!
Caster: Check out the two DJs spinning the phat trax!
Timb: Holy crap! It's John Travolta and Pam Grier!
John Travolta: What up, G?
Marcus: But how?! But why?! You're ruining my 70s!
Pam Grier: The 70s are dead, and they need to stay that way, Marcus. Do you think we want to be remembered as Foxy Brown, or as Vincent "Vinnie" Barberino?
John Travolta: Hell no. We're Jackie Brown and Vincent Vega. That's why we used our 70s Icon SuperClearance Badges to smuggle all of this 90s onto your island.
Timb: The 90s will find a way.
Gary: I don't mean to interrupt, but did it occur to anybody that the 90s aren't the present anymore?
John Travolta: Up your nose wid a rubber hose!
And that was it. The 70s were over again. Throngs of villagers from the townships of Bellbottoms, Converse, and ABBA were already streaming through the doors, trading in their afros for spikes, bellbottoms for baggy denim. And through all the commotion, nobody could hear Marcus as he threw back his head and let out a primal roar of defeat, while the banner reading "When disco ruled the Earth" fluttered slowly to the ground around him.
All content © 1999-2007 misinformer.com. Happy Birthday to Gary on August 18th!
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