Q Report; Limbaugh Vs. Franken
To: Interested Parties.
From: Agent Q
Regarding: Limbaugh Bests Franken in Third Round.
Location: Undisclosed Subterranean Compound.
For Immediate Release
Bemidji 03-07-09
I have just returned from another Political Bloodfight and Limbaugh took it in the third. I’ve survived the ordeal with no help at all from several subversive elements who went berserk at the end. When the bell didn’t stop anyone from trying to kill anyone else I took my leave. I have seen soccer riots and bulls gore men in white outfits in Pamplona but never until this night have I witnessed such a horrifying display of human depravity.
The world of Underground Political Houses goes farther back than Wikipedia can tell me. Wikipedia stopped taking me down the rabbit hole with a series of stubs designed to throw me off the trail. To find the truth I had to do some really unwholesome things. Including, but not limited to, stockpiling vast reserves of firearms (cached in various GPS coordinates in the lower 48), purchasing a pleasure boat chock full of SAM missiles set to perpetually troll the waters of our Western Seaboard, and subscribe to yet another Netflix account. The purchase of these items were bartered against fraudulent bonds hastily printed out late one night at Kinkos. The night manager there maintains a copy of this report in the event I am captured.
Well… that is to say captured again. The men came for me in a limo and not a van, and I knew that the gig was on. The fools took a step past the threshold and I had them.
“Is there a Quaddle here?” he spoke with a Wisconsin accent and I could tell that he was in business.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Have a seat.” I offered.
The pitch was simple. I had credible information that Franken had thrown a copy of his book at Limbaugh one night in a flagrant display of his superior throwing arm. Limbaugh had taken it personally. When you print a book calling someone out as a big fat idiot you’ve got something to prove. An Agent of the Guild had penetrated the Campaign fairly early in 07. The Agent had digitally captured a continual correspondence between Franken and Limbaugh. Handwritten letters that were read then cursed over in front of the fire for several hours. Screaming proclamations of vengeance into the night while getting savagely hammered. At the end the letters were cast into the flames. What was strange is that they both did the same things.
A Counter Agent from the Limbaugh camp had been injected several years ago, posing as an intern. The Agent has been eating vast quantities of sedatives to maintain their calm appearance while an intense and binding Level 4 Hate Code was held, in warrant, against an ass kicking as yet unrendered. Both Agents had swallowed their personal feelings for this deep insertion mission. It had fallen to me to get the go ahead to deliver terms, and assess, and blood types.
The suits were from the AP and demanded money if I didn’t want to see my granny beaten. You can’t show fear or compassion for these thugs however, and once you show them you’re the larger dog they generally come to terms with the inevitability of it all. Coffee and smoking helps the process. It lets people be people while maintaining a civil tone. The liaison I would be working with was a war correspondent named Spencer. I have no truck with war people myself. The entire concept being like watching the human zoo eat itself with passive journalistic integrity. But the terms were quite clear and I had to brook a liaison if I was to get my cut off of the words.
The fight was to go down at midnight and the location was to be held by The Guild until 11. Both parties were maintained at a local hotel. Franken had been to Bemidji before. It’s a town someone can get used to. It has a natural beauty that is accepted (as written) to its eclectic north woods inhabitants. In addition it has a simmering and broken sociopolitical system insular to renegadism, nihilism, and most forms of atheism.
I spent most of the previous day napping, and then it was midnight, and there I am the following morning. Sweet Gods their quantities of blood. But first let me tell you about the arena. A portion of lake had been cleared of snow and the ice buffed by industrial sanders just hours before the fight. By the time the two vehicles arrived on the scene there it was; a perfect square in the center of it all, created using a length of string and a blowtorch.
Both combatants were removed from their respective trunks. Limbaugh was belligerent which was to be expected. There was ample trunk space, but he is an ample man. Franken had room to spare. It appeared that he had been either napping or praying. In any case he popped out of the trunk like a jack rabbit and started shaking hands with men in black ski masks. Limbaugh had kept a number of 8 by 10s and handed them out to the guard. The weapons were arrayed on a blanket on the ground as a rudimentary witness/press galley was herded to the front. Ski masks were the fashion (the black balaclava), but a few faces stuck out.
Swashbuckler’s Rules were declared on the parameters: Unlimited Rounds Gentlemen’s Duel. Points scored only by ring-out, disarm, or knockdown. Ice fighting makes the prospect ring-outs likely. Depending on the weapon choice of course. A coin flip gave Limbaugh his choice first and he immediately choose the bokken. It was a well balanced choice and there was general applause from the crowd (Underground Press Associates mostly). Some members of congress that will obviously remain nameless. Bono of course. Bono’s been at every fight I’ve been to.
Franken took the foil and there was a general cheer. Both men were told to remove their jackets and the bell was struck. A round goes for 5 minutes, and when you’re standing on a frozen lake at night, the moon and reflected snow your only light, listening to the exchange of uncertain weapons wielded by martial artless foes, those 5 minutes can last a lifetime. Some people had claimed that both men fenced in college. But it seems like every man above 30 in the world took fencing in college. It’s a phenomenon.
Whether they had fenced before was difficult to say. Limbaugh seemed to have a certainty in his stance. Open legged, bokken held firm and straight. His weight was a great boon on those frozen waters. It’s all a question of balance. In a Swashbuckling Ice Fight it’s all a question of striking someone to make them fall over, or force them out of the ring, but this fight was neither of those things. Forsaking the conventions of gentlemanly engagement both men closed distance and began pummeling themselves in the face and shoulders for a solid 4 minutes and 30 seconds. Their goggles offered protection to their eyes, but Franken had sliced open Limbaugh’s brow like a butterball carved by a ruthless electric knife. Limbaugh had given as good as he’d got though, and scored several solid head shots that left Franken incoherent and bloody as their seconds attended.
The Mortician began estimating cost to bury both when above the general din and applause from the gallery came Limbaugh crying to the heavens;
“I’m not done! Superglue my face you bastards! I’m not done with him!!”
The surgeon consulted and agreed that under no circumstances should the fight proceed, but satisfaction was by mutual consent and so it fell to Franken to respond. He looked like a dying fish. Even a foam core bokken can wreak havoc on a man’s senses. It’s like a prefrontal lobotomy performed by Dr. Nerf (Dr. Wham-o assisting). The trauma is singular and fierce, but Franken took it well and before the surgeon was given the ear of the judge Franken leapt to his feet and stormed to his corner.
“LIMBAUGG!! I WILL SEE YOUR PASTY FAT ROLLS BLEED! BLEED I TELL YOU!!!”
Both men set to maniac laughing as the judge rang the bell for round two. Round two was a different sort of beating all together. The goggles kept the blood from popping eyes as Limbaugh hacked into Franken’s midsection like a starving lumberjack after a nest of squirrels. Franken’s foil hissed and sang through the air before cutting into Limbaugh’s meaty torso. Franken worked Limbaugh over with the terrible cadence of a machine administrated whipping. Again the bell ringing stopped the physical ultra violence. The blows scored coming out of round one gave Franken a lead in points, but these points would only work in a draw. Coming into round three it was a matter of time before Limbaugh would lunge or Franken would fail a retreat.
It was a Shlagger bent academic brawl. Both men wanted blood and received it in quantity. Again the surgeon urged the duel be ended, and this time the declaration of satisfaction lay with Franken. At this point the witnesses were chomping at the bit. This was an underground Political Brawl that was a long time in coming. Bono was staying, which was rare. 9 out of 10 times fights are interrupted by the police to indemnify the county against death liability. Bono doesn’t enjoy being arrested. It’s all legal hocus pocus. In reality the cock fights are all hedged bets. A power struggle that has filled a terrible void left by news-less infotainment broadcast 24 hours. Advertising advertising advertising and all that.
Franken was first on his feet again and my Gods the blood. Both men had really wreaked some havoc on one another. Took no quarter. Brooked no retreat.
“A SINGLE BLOW YOU FAT BASTARD!” said Franken.
The bell barely had time to ring before both men were on the ice, charging center ground with fierce howls into the cold night. Watching two masters of the mob Samurai Charge one another on a frozen lake at 11 minutes into a day? Five minutes can last a lifetime when the men in black are really working things out. Letting gentlemen fight like gentlemen. Take it out on the ice with blades and blood.
Obviously Franken was trampled. Once Limbaugh committed all 1,000 pounds of his flaming fat at Franken it was all in the hands of Sir Isaac Newton. Franken was trampled for a while and then crushed. Limbaugh broke his ankle in the process of crushing him, but it did not matter. Franken was first to hit the ground under Limbaugh’s bulk (that terrible yet titular dual crunching of ice and/or bone) and so the match had ended with Limbaugh scoring one knockdown. Franken none.
Both men were remanded to medical professionals and as of press time they are expected to survive. With any hope this will finally quell Limbaugh’s piggish whining and get Franken some respect in St. Paul. Who knows? I guess we’re all just lucky they didn’t choose chainsaws. The night would have been painted with very different strokes. I returned home and, after quelling the screaming voices of insurrection with a horse tranquilizing cocktail equal parts cough medicine and tea, I have thus recounted the evenings events and remand them for your consideration. Continue the dissemination. I’ll see you in the daylight.
Willfully Submitted,
Dr. Q
From: Agent Q
Regarding: Limbaugh Bests Franken in Third Round.
Location: Undisclosed Subterranean Compound.
For Immediate Release
Bemidji 03-07-09
I have just returned from another Political Bloodfight and Limbaugh took it in the third. I’ve survived the ordeal with no help at all from several subversive elements who went berserk at the end. When the bell didn’t stop anyone from trying to kill anyone else I took my leave. I have seen soccer riots and bulls gore men in white outfits in Pamplona but never until this night have I witnessed such a horrifying display of human depravity.
The world of Underground Political Houses goes farther back than Wikipedia can tell me. Wikipedia stopped taking me down the rabbit hole with a series of stubs designed to throw me off the trail. To find the truth I had to do some really unwholesome things. Including, but not limited to, stockpiling vast reserves of firearms (cached in various GPS coordinates in the lower 48), purchasing a pleasure boat chock full of SAM missiles set to perpetually troll the waters of our Western Seaboard, and subscribe to yet another Netflix account. The purchase of these items were bartered against fraudulent bonds hastily printed out late one night at Kinkos. The night manager there maintains a copy of this report in the event I am captured.
Well… that is to say captured again. The men came for me in a limo and not a van, and I knew that the gig was on. The fools took a step past the threshold and I had them.
“Is there a Quaddle here?” he spoke with a Wisconsin accent and I could tell that he was in business.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Have a seat.” I offered.
The pitch was simple. I had credible information that Franken had thrown a copy of his book at Limbaugh one night in a flagrant display of his superior throwing arm. Limbaugh had taken it personally. When you print a book calling someone out as a big fat idiot you’ve got something to prove. An Agent of the Guild had penetrated the Campaign fairly early in 07. The Agent had digitally captured a continual correspondence between Franken and Limbaugh. Handwritten letters that were read then cursed over in front of the fire for several hours. Screaming proclamations of vengeance into the night while getting savagely hammered. At the end the letters were cast into the flames. What was strange is that they both did the same things.
A Counter Agent from the Limbaugh camp had been injected several years ago, posing as an intern. The Agent has been eating vast quantities of sedatives to maintain their calm appearance while an intense and binding Level 4 Hate Code was held, in warrant, against an ass kicking as yet unrendered. Both Agents had swallowed their personal feelings for this deep insertion mission. It had fallen to me to get the go ahead to deliver terms, and assess, and blood types.
The suits were from the AP and demanded money if I didn’t want to see my granny beaten. You can’t show fear or compassion for these thugs however, and once you show them you’re the larger dog they generally come to terms with the inevitability of it all. Coffee and smoking helps the process. It lets people be people while maintaining a civil tone. The liaison I would be working with was a war correspondent named Spencer. I have no truck with war people myself. The entire concept being like watching the human zoo eat itself with passive journalistic integrity. But the terms were quite clear and I had to brook a liaison if I was to get my cut off of the words.
The fight was to go down at midnight and the location was to be held by The Guild until 11. Both parties were maintained at a local hotel. Franken had been to Bemidji before. It’s a town someone can get used to. It has a natural beauty that is accepted (as written) to its eclectic north woods inhabitants. In addition it has a simmering and broken sociopolitical system insular to renegadism, nihilism, and most forms of atheism.
I spent most of the previous day napping, and then it was midnight, and there I am the following morning. Sweet Gods their quantities of blood. But first let me tell you about the arena. A portion of lake had been cleared of snow and the ice buffed by industrial sanders just hours before the fight. By the time the two vehicles arrived on the scene there it was; a perfect square in the center of it all, created using a length of string and a blowtorch.
Both combatants were removed from their respective trunks. Limbaugh was belligerent which was to be expected. There was ample trunk space, but he is an ample man. Franken had room to spare. It appeared that he had been either napping or praying. In any case he popped out of the trunk like a jack rabbit and started shaking hands with men in black ski masks. Limbaugh had kept a number of 8 by 10s and handed them out to the guard. The weapons were arrayed on a blanket on the ground as a rudimentary witness/press galley was herded to the front. Ski masks were the fashion (the black balaclava), but a few faces stuck out.
Swashbuckler’s Rules were declared on the parameters: Unlimited Rounds Gentlemen’s Duel. Points scored only by ring-out, disarm, or knockdown. Ice fighting makes the prospect ring-outs likely. Depending on the weapon choice of course. A coin flip gave Limbaugh his choice first and he immediately choose the bokken. It was a well balanced choice and there was general applause from the crowd (Underground Press Associates mostly). Some members of congress that will obviously remain nameless. Bono of course. Bono’s been at every fight I’ve been to.
Franken took the foil and there was a general cheer. Both men were told to remove their jackets and the bell was struck. A round goes for 5 minutes, and when you’re standing on a frozen lake at night, the moon and reflected snow your only light, listening to the exchange of uncertain weapons wielded by martial artless foes, those 5 minutes can last a lifetime. Some people had claimed that both men fenced in college. But it seems like every man above 30 in the world took fencing in college. It’s a phenomenon.
Whether they had fenced before was difficult to say. Limbaugh seemed to have a certainty in his stance. Open legged, bokken held firm and straight. His weight was a great boon on those frozen waters. It’s all a question of balance. In a Swashbuckling Ice Fight it’s all a question of striking someone to make them fall over, or force them out of the ring, but this fight was neither of those things. Forsaking the conventions of gentlemanly engagement both men closed distance and began pummeling themselves in the face and shoulders for a solid 4 minutes and 30 seconds. Their goggles offered protection to their eyes, but Franken had sliced open Limbaugh’s brow like a butterball carved by a ruthless electric knife. Limbaugh had given as good as he’d got though, and scored several solid head shots that left Franken incoherent and bloody as their seconds attended.
The Mortician began estimating cost to bury both when above the general din and applause from the gallery came Limbaugh crying to the heavens;
“I’m not done! Superglue my face you bastards! I’m not done with him!!”
The surgeon consulted and agreed that under no circumstances should the fight proceed, but satisfaction was by mutual consent and so it fell to Franken to respond. He looked like a dying fish. Even a foam core bokken can wreak havoc on a man’s senses. It’s like a prefrontal lobotomy performed by Dr. Nerf (Dr. Wham-o assisting). The trauma is singular and fierce, but Franken took it well and before the surgeon was given the ear of the judge Franken leapt to his feet and stormed to his corner.
“LIMBAUGG!! I WILL SEE YOUR PASTY FAT ROLLS BLEED! BLEED I TELL YOU!!!”
Both men set to maniac laughing as the judge rang the bell for round two. Round two was a different sort of beating all together. The goggles kept the blood from popping eyes as Limbaugh hacked into Franken’s midsection like a starving lumberjack after a nest of squirrels. Franken’s foil hissed and sang through the air before cutting into Limbaugh’s meaty torso. Franken worked Limbaugh over with the terrible cadence of a machine administrated whipping. Again the bell ringing stopped the physical ultra violence. The blows scored coming out of round one gave Franken a lead in points, but these points would only work in a draw. Coming into round three it was a matter of time before Limbaugh would lunge or Franken would fail a retreat.
It was a Shlagger bent academic brawl. Both men wanted blood and received it in quantity. Again the surgeon urged the duel be ended, and this time the declaration of satisfaction lay with Franken. At this point the witnesses were chomping at the bit. This was an underground Political Brawl that was a long time in coming. Bono was staying, which was rare. 9 out of 10 times fights are interrupted by the police to indemnify the county against death liability. Bono doesn’t enjoy being arrested. It’s all legal hocus pocus. In reality the cock fights are all hedged bets. A power struggle that has filled a terrible void left by news-less infotainment broadcast 24 hours. Advertising advertising advertising and all that.
Franken was first on his feet again and my Gods the blood. Both men had really wreaked some havoc on one another. Took no quarter. Brooked no retreat.
“A SINGLE BLOW YOU FAT BASTARD!” said Franken.
The bell barely had time to ring before both men were on the ice, charging center ground with fierce howls into the cold night. Watching two masters of the mob Samurai Charge one another on a frozen lake at 11 minutes into a day? Five minutes can last a lifetime when the men in black are really working things out. Letting gentlemen fight like gentlemen. Take it out on the ice with blades and blood.
Obviously Franken was trampled. Once Limbaugh committed all 1,000 pounds of his flaming fat at Franken it was all in the hands of Sir Isaac Newton. Franken was trampled for a while and then crushed. Limbaugh broke his ankle in the process of crushing him, but it did not matter. Franken was first to hit the ground under Limbaugh’s bulk (that terrible yet titular dual crunching of ice and/or bone) and so the match had ended with Limbaugh scoring one knockdown. Franken none.
Both men were remanded to medical professionals and as of press time they are expected to survive. With any hope this will finally quell Limbaugh’s piggish whining and get Franken some respect in St. Paul. Who knows? I guess we’re all just lucky they didn’t choose chainsaws. The night would have been painted with very different strokes. I returned home and, after quelling the screaming voices of insurrection with a horse tranquilizing cocktail equal parts cough medicine and tea, I have thus recounted the evenings events and remand them for your consideration. Continue the dissemination. I’ll see you in the daylight.
Willfully Submitted,
Dr. Q
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