Shareware Supreme Volume 6 #1/swsii.zip/swsii/201/RUBYV25.ZIP/RUBY25-8

Text File | 1993-09-19 | 10KB | 170 lines

Copyright 1993(c)

   A Ruby on the Half Shell Adventure outside the Half Shell

                          WHAT A RUSH!

     Ruby tossed her head, causing her Harley lugnut earrings to
dance.
     "Those things are gonna bruise your shoulders or put
somebody's eye out or something," predicted Sludge.
     "Nah," said Ruby. "I know what I'm doin'. It's important I
look nice."
     She pirroueted in front of the mirror, adjusting her seamed
lime green fishnet hose, and tugged her leather boutierre
heavenward.
     "This is an important dude, you know."
     "Who? The bigmouth? He's just another talking head who ain't
got a tv program much longer than a good burp," said Sludge.
     "You just never you mind," said Ruby. "You ain't got no tv
show at all, remember?" She huffed off and Slude picked up his new
Archie comic and went back to sounding out the words.
                               ***
     "Yo! Lumbog!"
     The portly person inside the control booth merely stared at
her, his jaw gaping.
     "Shutcher mouth, Lumbog," Ruby advised. "Ain'chou s'posed to
be a talk show host? Ya got to talk, buddy-boy," she advised as she
swept into the room, earrings clunking against bare shoulders, hips
swaying, irredescent eye shadow casting a blue glow in her path
like a headlamp. "You need me, Lumbog."
     Rush Limbaugh, who'd had all his shots, wondered what he could
possibly need her for. He was about to say so when she plunged
ahead, barely drawing breath. The lugnut earrings went ka-chunkka-
chunkka-chunk-achunk-achunk-chunk against the microphone and set
it to making that screeee sound so annoying to the eardrums.
     "You see, Lumbog, I'm a bit of a truth stretcher myself, and
I heard you was mouthing off about lying and all so I thought I'd
just come on along and help you get your listeners really informed
about stuff and I said to myself, I said, Ruby, girl..."
     "Security!" shouted Limbaugh into the nearest telephone.
     Ruby crossed her legs, popped her gum, and launched into a
tale about her romance with Sludge as Limbaugh frantically tried
to call in reinforcements.
     "...so I said to this douchebag, I said, listen, honey, you
just pack up your little kit and get it on down the road before I
have to rearrange your A-frame, you hear? Sludge might be a mite
rusty on the outside and I'll grant you he mostly just looks at the
pitchers in them comic books cause they ain't exactly written for
the average intellect, you know, but by golly he's mine and Ruby
don't share.
     Anyhow, that's what comes of lyin' even if it is only lyin'
about whether or not your main squeeze has been messing around with
some other honey's honey."
     "SECURITY!!" screamed Limbaugh into the intercom.
     "Yes, Mr. Limbaugh," came a calm response.
     "Can't you see what's going on up here?" Rush demanded.
     The security guard glanced up at the monitor, noted Limbaugh
was not at his seat behind the microphone and wondered what the
problem was. Limbaugh was alone in the room, and dead air meant
drooping soap sales. The sponsor would not be pleased. "Yes sir,"
the guard confirmed.
     "Well?" demanded Rush.
     "Uh, Sir?"
     "WELL, WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO ABOUT IT?" Rush shrieked.
     "Do? Do about what, sir?" asked the guard.
     "About this... this... this thing in here," Lumbaugh answered.
     "Thing, sir?" asked the guard. "What 'thing' might that be?"
     "GET UP HERE! NOW!!" shrieked Rush and slammed down the phone.
                               ***
     "Hey, Lumbog... where's the music?" asked Ruby.
     "We Do Not Play Music!" said Rush.
     "What'cha mean, you don't play music? This is radio, Lumbog.
You freakin' well can't show no videos and I been listenin' to you
and frankly, old buddy, old pal, you're coming off pret-tee weird
these days. I'd advise you to get your hands on some 45s from about
1955 and see if you can perk this thing up cause it's dyin' on the
vine, sweetcheeks. I mean, how long you think you can go on with
stuff about that fellow Peckerwood and how you think he got a raw
deal just cause you think a lie is a lie is a lie? I mean, say you
got caught with your pants around your ankles in some blond's
apartment an' you lied and said she was your aunt or somethin. You
think that's the same thing as gettin' caught with your pants
around your ankles, say, in the dormitory of a boys' school an'
lyin' about it, or what? Come on, Lumbog," jeered Ruby, turning the
microphone in his direction. "America wants to know!"
     "I do not frolic with little boys, you feminazi," answered
Rush, his voice like ice.
     "Hoo-boy, me thinks thou dost protest just a tiny little bit
too much, boy-o," said Ruby. "What do you think, America? Huh? What
about this Rush rushing little boys like Timmy and maybe his dog,
Lassie, too? Speak up, America. Ring those chimes!"
     The switchboard lit up like the proverbial Christmas tree and
Rush was kept busy for the next few minutes denying pedaphillic
tendencies and reassuring his own brand of dittoheads in
McCarthyite phrases while Ruby scrounged around in the control
booth, unearthing the records of the afternoon disk jockey.
     "Voila!" she shouted, holding aloft a dusty single which she
dashed over to place on the turntable.
     "Stop where you are!" commanded Rush.
     Ruby turned and cast a sympathetic eye on the revolver pointed
at her head.
     "At the risk of stealing lines from a famous competitor,
what's that?" she asked, pointing at the revolver.
     "This, madam, is my gun," Rush pontificated.
     "Haw-haw-haw," laughed Ruby. "That's rich. Listen up,
America," she said into the microphone. "This here is your
illustrious leader over here, pointing a piece of blue steel at moi
and calling it his gun. Now don't you feel foolish listening to
this dunderhead all these months? Everybody knows that's not his
gun. Everybody but him, that is."
     "I assure you, woman, that this most certainly is my gun. It
is listed in my name. I have a permit to carry it and I shall most
definitely use it if you do not cease and desist and vacate these
premises at once," said Rush, wondering where the security guards
were.
     "My good man," said Ruby with a smile, "that," she pointed at
the weapon, "may well be your revolver. It could even be your
defense mechanism. It might be your piece, your rod, your assault
weapon. It is NOT your gun. This," she pointed rudely, "is your gun
and I think it probably needs cleaning. How long since you've had
that thing out in the sunshine? Tell you what, show us your gun and
we'll see what we think about it. How about it, America?" she
shouted into the microphone. "Don'cha think Rush oughta' know the
difference between his revolver and his gun? Don'cha think he
oughta show us his gun? Call 666-6666 and vote."
     The switchboard again lit up and Rush was kept busy explaining
that he did indeed know the difference and that he had no intention
of displaying his personal apparatus even if it wasn't television.
Ruby in the meantime was snickering into the microphone and
whispering that Rush probably didn't even have any bullets for his
gun. The FCC, monitoring the whole thing, immediately dispatched
representatives to close down the radio station. The security
guards arrived to find Rush Limbaugh, national radio and television
personality, weilding a loaded weapon in one hand and juggling the
phone lines with the other. They tapped on the glass and Rush, in
his haste to open the door, mistakenly fired his revolver,
shattering the glass of the control booth and barely missing one
of the guards. The police arrived shortly thereafter and escorted
Mr. Limbaugh down to police headquarters, leaving mystified
security guards to sweep up the glass and turn off the "on air"
sign.
     Seconds later, Ruby poked her head up from underneath Rush's
desk. She sauntered over and turned on the transmitter and strolled
back to seat herself behind the desk. She slid the microphone
toward her lips, and began to speak.
     "...See, that's what happens when you get too big for your
britches," she said. "If I was Mr. Peckerwood, I'd be chanting that
old rhyme right about now. Yes sir, I'd be sing-songing 'liar,
liar, pants on fire,' about ol Lumbog if I was Peckerwood. It just
goes to show you can't lay down with dogs. It just goes to show you
can't throw pearls at pigs. It just goes to show only a very few
of us can hoot with the owls and soar with the eagles. And it just
goes to show that only a dolt doesn't know the difference between
his revolver and his gun.
     "And now, just sit back and relax. Ruby's not gonna' talk your
ear off about all that political slop. Ruby's here to have a little
fun and she means to see that you guys have some fun, too.
     "So crank up that volume and let's us party while old Lumbog
explains the the police what he was doin' with them little boys,
huh? Who'd a thunk it, huh? Well, it takes all kinds, don't it? I
can't wait to see the headline on next week's National Enquirer,
can you? But now that we've exposed the big lie and got things
rocking along toward their inevitable legal conclusion, let's let
our hair down. Just listen at this and see if it doesn't lighten
up your heart, loosen up your girdle, and warm the very cockles of
your whatchaname..."
     And from radios across America accustomed to the excited
ramblings of Rush Limbaugh came the strains of an American classic.
     "...Devil with a blue dress, blue dress, blue dress on..."
                               END