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    #310
    The tour vehicles in JP didn't actually drive themselves, crew members were crouched under the dashboards controlling them. (From: stak640)
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    Alan Grant and Ellie Sattler: The Love is Gone (Repost)
    By Darth Rancor

    In the dimly lit apartment, the flickering television set cast dancing shadows on the walls. Dr. Alan Grant, world renowned paleontologist, lounged on the stained sofa in his boxers and wife-beater shirt. His old brown felt hat sat on his head like a dazed turtle that had been run though a machine that compresses turtles into hat shapes. Flipping the channel, he took another swig of his cheap beer and belched thunderously.
    In the kitchen, Ellie Sattler, world renowned (but not quite renowned as Grant) paleobotanist (who for some reason worked on digs in sediments that would never ever yield plant fossils) was doing the dishes because she was a woman and a woman's place is the kitchen. As she hummed a little ditty from the forties, she wiped her hands on her red polka-dotted white apron and and went out into the living room.
    "Alan, hon," she said sweetly, "Did you fix that squeaky hinge in the bathroom we'd talked about?"
    "Shut up woman," Grant blurted out, "Jeff Corwin's on!"
    "But you promised to do it over a week ago," she pouted, starting to get all hormonal and stuff because that's what broads do. "And it's really annoying!"
    "YOU'RE annoying," Grant spewed. "Ooh, lookit the size of that snake!"
    Then Ellie lost it because women are so emotional and shit. "YOU DON'T LOVE ME ANYMORE!" she shrieked, like a baby squirrel caught in a bike chain.
    Grant totally blew his stack, heaving his beer can across the room and lurching to his feet. "Stop that racket, you stupid baby factory!" he bellowed. Ellie couldn't answer, because she was bawling too hard. "I'M GONNA PUNCH YOU IN THE FACE!" Grant started toward her with his fists raised, one in front of the other like an Irish boxer from the 1920s. Then he tripped on an allosaur femur he'd brought home and fell flat on his face. Their pomeranian, who didn't like him because he kicked it every chance he got, raced in like a furry bullet and latched onto his face. He writhed around on the floor, screaming obscenities and racial epithets at the dog and spraying blood everywhere.
    Suddenly the door burst open and the cops charged in, called by the neighbors. They stood laughing for a few minutes, before beating Grant savagely with their batons and shotgun butts before dragging him off to the clink.

    NEXT EPISODE: ALCOHOLICS ANONYMOUS!

    3/17/2004 3:33:30 AM

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