Odd Times of Days Gone By

I used to belong to this private site–invitation only–and we did monthly contests for fun. One of my favorites was called Versus. The way it worked is the admins of the site would pick two famous people and they would battle it out in a fight to the PAIN. Now before you conjure up images of The Princess Bride, that’s not what they meant. Needless to say, I had my way with it at times.

Being the writer I am, I saved some of them. I never claimed that I kept these clean or proper. They’re wrong on so many levels.

I dare you not to laugh.

Lindsay Lohan vs Mel Gibson
Cupping a glass of vodka lovingly, Mel Gibson peered blearily around the bleak room. Off in a far corner, a huddled mass was passed out on the floor. Her hair plastered to her head from a night of binge drinking and a fresh pile of vomit staining her little black dress, Lindsay Lohan posed no threat to Gibson’s fresh stash of alcohol he’d found conveniently lined up along the far wall. He paused briefly, hearing a moan come from the semi-comatose woman. Positioning himself between the lush and the booze, Gibson finished his vodka.

“Ewww.” Lohan said, begrudgingly sitting up. “Someone like totally barfed on my dress and stuff. It’s a Versace!” She gasped suddenly, tugging her dress down. “I know I had pantyhose when I left that club…” She turned toward Gibson, spying the man with scrutiny. The man seemed to be missing his pants but as she saw the sheen on his legs, she knew who had absconded with her missing hose. She shot up and promptly stumbled forward.


Gibson, seeing the potential booze thief staggering in his direction, plucked up a couple of the bottles and retreated from her. His deft hands worked the screw top off a bottle wine and he let the thick rich velvety red elixir trickle down his throat. This had been his favorite drink thus far, having gone through six bottles already.

“Give me back my pantyhose, you washed up has been!” Lohan screeched.

“I don’t think so.” Mel answered, the wine staining his chin as he took another swallow. “They look far sexier on me than you.”

Angrily, Lohan reached down and snatched an empty bottle off the ground. She flung it toward the retreating Gibson and he ducked. Satisfied, Mel smiled lazily as he chugged another bottle. Feeling in the right frame of mind, Gibson poured the liqueur over his face causing a mass of blue streaks to stain it. His fingers fumbled along the wall and he yanked one of the broad swords off it.

“Freedom!” He bellowed. “From sharing my booze!”

As Mel approached Lindsay, his great broad sword angled for a killing strike, she quickly poured the grain alcohol in a pattern on the floor. She sobbed uncontrollably at having to waste such a sweet liquid this way but she had to keep that crazed loon away from her. Fumbling for a match in the clutch purse that matched her dress, she tried in vain to strike it against the stone walls but the tip of sulfur broke free. As she stumbled back, she lost her balance as she tried to fish another match out. Lindsay had no choice. She had to use her secret weapon. Spreading her legs apart, she screamed a mighty war cry in response to Gibson’s own and a gout of fire poured out from her nether regions. Upon touching the grain alcohol, it erupted in a patterned design.

Mel’s eyes widened and he cringed in fear. A flamed Star of David blinded the would-be-assailant and Lindsay snatched a pair of microphones joined together by insulated wire. Swinging them like nunchuks, she fiercely attacked Gibson and pummeled him smartly. Gibson abandoned his sword and called upon his vast knowledge of acting, switching roles yet again. Spinning around, his leg came up and smacked Lohan across the chest. She staggered in a drunken dance and Mel stepped in, giving her a solid head butt. Her eyes rolled to the back of her head and she crumpled to the floor. Giving out a maniacal laugh, Mel Gibson found the floor rising up to met him.

Mel Gibson lay prone by the unconscious Lohan, driblets of blueberry schnapps still cascading down his face. Slowly the door opened and Polaris stepped into the fighting room with a grin on his face.

“Congratulations! You win!” He proclaimed to the cup sodden Mel Gibson. Suddenly, without any warning, Polaris reached inside his robes and pulled out the most peculiar of weapons. Impaled on a short rod was a petrified hamster, whether by fright or age was anyone’s guess, and Polaris mightily swung the makeshift hammer down upon Gibson’s head. “And that’s for drinking my Lambrusco!”

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