be gentle; first time





March 19, 2003       |       Today's Terrorist Threat Level: ORANGE!       |       Happy Birthday, Bruce Willis!

do not cross the streams

A L T E R N A T I V E   U S E S
I N S T A N T   P A P E R   P U L P


"Listen Mr. Humperdink, computers are making this stuff obsolete! You make a mistake, you type the change and print it out again -- simple as pie."


"But Mr. Humperdink..."

"I said shut yer pie-hole, you mullet-promoting twit! Not another word from you. How many times have I told you I hate pie?"

"Daily, sir."

"Now let me have a look at this."

Gildenkrantz was an ambitious soul in the R & D department of Instant Paper Pulp, Inc., a company rapidly becoming obsolete. Not only had Instant Paper Pulp's sales been dwarfed by more reputable correction fluid products, the company had failed to innovate. In fact, when Humperdink had hired Gildenkrantz at the DeVry Institute's graduation continental breakfast, his staff then increased in number to three. He had originally gone for the free croissants and jam but was taken aback by the young lad's proclivity for alternative uses for everyday products. When Humperdink had met him, Gildenkrantz was in the midst of repairing his broken shoelace with a worm he found in the strudel. Amazed by the ingenuity and care he displayed in the feat of tying his own shoe without any help, Humperdink offered him a job at pennies per day with the opportunity to do whatever the hell he wanted with an unlimited supply of Instant Paper Pulp at his disposal.

The job's first four months proved incredibly tedious as Gildenkrantz scurried to get up to speed on the latest advances in correction fluid. There were none. After he woke up one morning with a cat's tail in his mouth (Olivia Newton, the feline, was the aforementioned third employee), Gildenkrantz stubbed his little toe on a transfixilator, punctured a lung on the corner of a boobiesimulatron and had a 50-pound anvil drop on his head from out of nowhere. It was the stubbing that gave him his breakthrough. His epiphany was this: As the Assistant Director of Alternative Uses for Instant Paper Pulp, it was up to him to come up with some alternatives.

He worked day and night, testing various applications of the stuff. When he couldn't think of any more, he would paint Olivia Newton whiskers-to-tail with Instant Paper Pulp and sniff her until he was higher than the Hindenburg in its better days. The cat sniffing enraged his allergies, though, and made his hands and eyes so swollen he couldn't do anything for days, not even eat. When the swelling went down, he would grab a quick bite, then start the cycle all over again.

Now he was in Humperdink's office, watching his note-scribbled napkins, being pored over by the fattest, most wheezingest boss alive. Humperdink was allergic to cats as well but insisted on keeping Olivia Newton around because it was O.N. that had spilled pickle glue on his paper all those years ago, giving birth to Instant Paper Pulp.

Humperdink read the following:

  1. Cat paint
  2. Halucinagenic
  3. Tooth whitener
  4. Computer-screen ruiner
  5. Refreshing beverage
  6. Pop-star face bleacher
  7. Explosive
  8. Quick-freezing ice-cream topping
  9. An alternative to shock therapy
  10. Protein shake
  11. Idiot's Rubik's Cube solution

After Humperdink finished reading, he leaned back in his chair, which would have broken had Humperdink's ass cheeks been not already touching the floor, keeping his body up much like a flotation device.

"So, whaddaya think?" Gildenkrantz asked through puffy eyes.

Humperdink reached into the top drawer of his desk, pulled out a .357 and blew a hole the size and shape of Texas in Gildenkrantz's chest. He then signed the forms selling his company over to 3M and ate a ham sandwich topped with a smidgeon of tasty Instant Paper Pulp for good measure.

He leaned over his desk and stared at the holey body of Gildekrantz and chuckled. He thought to himself, "Heh. Not even Instant Paper Pulp can fix that."


This is no longer fun. Now it is scary.

ABOUT Y.P.R.    |    STAFF    |    CONTACT    |    HELP    |    SUPPORT Y.P.R.



© 2003, Yankee Pot Roast