31

 

 

Previously on Jambi...
Hi folks. I really wasn't planning on doing another recap for Jambi, but... well, my scene got cut again in this episode, and I just feel the need to keep my hand in the game, so here I am. Anyway, the last time we saw the president, he was being tortured by Robin Williams in a North Korean prison...
...so I'm telling Whoopi, what do you mean chocolate milk and Southern Comfort? Don't you know that's exactly the mix that killed Janis Joplin. Oh lord, won't you buy me a Mercedes Benz, I'm drunk as a skunk and I'm wearing depends, I try PLOP! Janis Janis, speak to me girlfriend! And Whoopi, whoaaa, she just looks at me blankly like duhhh and says, I don't know man, I think it was the smack and then the crazy bitch smacks me. Chocolate milk is coming out my nose...
I sure wouldn't want to be in the president's shoes, that's for sure! And as for the acting president, well, he's got Jambi under his thumb. Everything is locked up tight and outta sight!
Condi, you're on funeral duty. The vice-chancellor of Yemen recently lost his cousin Vjeklavak. Pack your bags. Turd Blossom, take a couple weeks off. Don, ship Reese and that pesky Peewee off to North Korea - the president will never be able to deliver decent magic without them.
Those two can drive a hard bargain.
Well, I'm sorry Mister Dictator. I guess you'll just have to kill us, if that's how you feel about it. I told you my going rate, and I'm not going to work for one penny less.
Arrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!!!! You have broken my spirit, American dogs. Fifteen mirrion dorrars it is.

Tonight's Episode: Deus ex Machina

...to think there’s any kind of comparison between the behavior of the United States of America and the action of Islamic extremists who kill innocent women and children to achieve an objective. The Supreme Court has, to krove, from tsnow, subj funny genie joke. Remind you of anyone?  This guy walks into a pub one day along with a big blue guy, and he orders two martinis. As the bartender watches, he pulls out a tiny piano and sets in on the bar. Bartender doesn't say a thing, but...

My goodness, what on earth is Jambi talking about? I thought he was supposed to be discussing Islamo-fascism.

Rove!!!

...the tiny guy sits on his tiny piano bench, and he play just beautifully. The bartender is amazed, so he asks the guy...

What the fuck is going on?
Uh... uh... uh...
...well, he's my personal Genie, but between you and me, he's just a little bit incompetent. So the bartender says 'Wow, do you think he could grant me a wish?' The guy scratches his head and...
Uh, Tony emailed me that joke this morning, and I guess it somehow got scanned into the teleprompter notes. Mea culpa, Mister Cheney.
...so the Genie winks, and all of a sudden the place is filled up with a million squawking ducks. They're knocking over drinks, there's duck shit everywhere...
This isn't going to play well in the heartland.
It's Rove's fault for not paying more attention to his work. Jambi is just doing what I told him to do - just read whatever the hell the teleprompter says.
...and the guy says 'I know exactly what you mean. I never wished for a ten inch pianist'.
Just call me Boy Genius!
half a world away...

Okay Mister President, we've been working on this for two weeks now. Are you ready to try for today's wish?
I sure am, Peewee. I've been working real real hard on my concentration. I just know I'm gonna get it right today.
Okay, then, here goes... I wish I had a pepperoni pizza.
Mmm... little chant, okay? Mekka lekka what's to eatza, bring Peewee a slice of pizza... Trying here. Concentrating real hard... Mmmm....
=POOF=
Eww, groady. What is that thing?

Well, it's not a pepperoni pizza, that's for sure.

Hey, give me a break here. That looks kind of like a pizza.
Does not.
Come on, it's got a crust and everything.

Well... technically you're correct, but it's a far-cry from the sort of tantalizing pepperoni pizza enjoyed by millions of Americans each day.

What are we going to do, Peewee. We're going to get sued for breach of contract if the president isn't able to produce pretty soon.
What? You're getting paid to train me? I thought you were trying to get me ready to take on Jambi.
We're definitely here to help you, Mister President, but there's no reason we can't get a decent payday out of it at the same time.
I guess that's perfectly understandable. But do you...
Herro, American dogs. Are you ready yet to do my bidding?
Oh, hi Mister Jong... Lovely day, isn't it?
I think it would be a rovery day for a wish, don't you agree?
I ain't gonna give you an atomic bomb, no matter how hard you wish, ya big creep.
I arready have arr the atomic bombs I need. What I need is a NBA team. I want the Rakers.
We're kind of not ready for that yet, Mister Jong. We're working our way up to the more difficult wishes, and a basketball team is out of our range at the moment.
Would you care for a slice of pizza?
Are you trying to kirr me? That rooks rike crap. I give you 48 more hours to furfirr your obrigations, or erse the horriber torture commences.

Oh no, not the Robin Williams room!

meanwhile in Cuba...

mmpfff... mmpfff...
Hello, Laura. My, you seem to have gotten yourself into quite a pickle. Here, let me get that ball gag for you.
Thank you, Jesus.
Don't mention it. Usually I try not to get too involved in this sort of day to day human affairs, but something big is going down - a Third Awakening. Serious stuff, I'm afraid, and your husband is the only one that can help.
Ha. George W Bush is a real son of a bitch. He went back on the bottle and back on the blow and back to cheating on me and he sent me here to Guantanamo to be tortured!
Listen unto me, Laura, for you know not what is true. In reality, the man who you thought was George W Bush was actually a six thousand year old Genie known as Jambi who took over your husband's body with a Jambi Mind Meld. Now he is in the services of the evil Dick Cheney and Donald Rumsfeld, who arranged for you to be shipped to GITMO so you wouldn't be able to have Jambi whacked.
Oh. Now it all makes perfect sense.


to be continued...
 

©2006, Mark Hoback