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( video ) nonsensical post? never
Sep. 22nd, 2012 07:03 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
baguettes[ Another ordinary day in Discedo. The moon(s) went down, the sun came up, the weird monsters in the forest made disturbing noises (that’s what she said). Life carried on as par usual.
What may also be in the realm of normality is the comm turning on to see France in the midst of some over emotional theatrics. Which really wasn’t all that strange really, nor was it to see a frantic America pinching (read: trying to pinch with his not-chainsaw hand) at his stomach. You get those two together and their collective stupidity is amplified. (This is why they are no longer allowed to sit next to each other at meetings. The sexual harassment suits increase and their gossiping proves a distraction no matter what the topic.)
Except it isn’t a normal day. It isn’t France’s usual histrionic temper tantrums, nor is it America’s typical bouts of self-consciousness. It’s the time space continuum/God/Loki/Andrew Hussie/the Devil (also Andrew Hussie)/the Illuminati/the Scientists/who even knows what playing a horrible, horrible joke upon the idiotic duo.
Oh, yeah, and there’s talking too. Whining, actually, and a lot of it. There’s a nasal American twang attempting to wrap itself around uniquely French words, and a horrible, croaking dialect trying to utilise hippie-bro speak. ]
--yeah? See how you like this! Ahem! [ France’s (read: America in France’s body) voice rises to be as obnoxiously shrill and as melodramatic as possible. The French accent impedes words that were obviously meant to have a Southern twang to it, so really he sounds like a drunk who just got jaw surgery. ] Ohonhonhon, bonjour Discedo! I’m France, of course you all know me as the resident harassment lawsuit waiting to happen and bear impersonator--and how easy they are to impersonate! Look at my hairy chest! The unshaven fuzz around lips that don’t know when vowels are supposed to end and new words begin! If you look closely, maybe you can see a little bit of omelette in it, or the baguette I’ve stashed inside it for later.
Arrêtes! Maintenant, [ “Ah-ret”, “Man-teh-nant”, ] Stop it! This is horrible, this is the worst thing that has happened yet! I thought that this would be a nice break from l’Angleterre, except now I have to deal with you! [ Two can play at this game, Americance. Crossed arms fall to his sides and the ‘heroic!!!’ nation strikes a pose, arms akimbo, chin up, hands on his hips with a look of victory written across his features. And for the one and only time in his life, Framerica can do a proper imitation of a terrible Texan accent: ] My name is America and I’m the hero!!! ☆☆☆☆ I like to take credit for things that I have not done and meddle in everyone else’s business! Also I think I look like a sexy man like Johnny Depp but in all actuality, I resemble the back end of a pig! Oh and my food, my food is the worst part about me! I like to eat lard out of buckets with a spoon!
[ Americance’s retort is to pull a rose out of his pants. I presume France’s body already had pants on them (or if they didn’t America had to put some on so he would stop staring at France’s dick, and you just know this argument is going to end in a literal dick measuring contest). He brings it up to under his nose, tries to strike a pose only seen in the streets of Paris and in animes, but he falters and makes a face. ]
Discedo, I would just like you to know that I am a literal bed of roses, and they all smell like sweaty dick. Which, by the way, doesn’t quite measure up to America’s. Ohonhonshootmenow this fucking laugh. I wish I could stop, I really do.
[ Framerica, at this point, has had just about enough of Americance’s jeers, and he all but jumps at the other nation, knocking him out of his chair. On his way down Americance lets out a yelp. As soon as he hits the floor, he’s making odd noises, somewhere between howling with fury and cackling. The upshot is in their current bodies, France could beat the shit out of America. The downside is, of course, France was gonna feel that pummelling when they fixed this.
Which they were going to do. Because like hell France was gonna be fat forever.
As America is getting his face pounded in, all sorts of squawking noises are coming out of his newly French mouth and, even worse, more insults and mocking. Things along the line of “Careful France! I know you wanna enjoy my hot body but this is bordering on something even incest is gonna shake its head at!” and “Not so rough, I don’t wanna catch something!” and “THIS IS HOW YOU GET PEOPLE PREGNANT! I DON’T KNOW NOTHIN’ ‘BOUT BIRTHIN’ NO BABIES!” as well as the ever classic “Help! Help! I’m being oppressed!” Wait, Holy Grail wasn’t made in the 1960s? Neither were chainsaw hands. Don’t question me.
Let it never be said that America has an outstanding sense of self-preservation. (Either that or he simply likes the idea of France’s face getting marred by his own outrage. It’s a funny thought. That may be why even amongst his grimaces and attempts to fight back, a grin occasionally flickers on his face.)
So after maybe two or three punches, the Frenchman-trapped-in-a-living-fat-suit rolls off of the American-trapped-in-a-twink-suit and falls back on the ground, heaving, angry, frustrated, and disgusted with the other man. Only then does it occur to him that heyyy, this communicator is on! Right now! Recording! ]
Putain! Mon Descartes, c’est quoi putain?!
[ At which point you can hear America muttering in the background: ] Stop using my voice to summon the legions of Hell. I’m not leading a demon army nowhere. You get Sherman back in charge, then we’ll talk.
[ Framerica scrambles to grab the communicator, and shuts it off.
Then hurls it at Americance. But no one else gets to see that. ]
What may also be in the realm of normality is the comm turning on to see France in the midst of some over emotional theatrics. Which really wasn’t all that strange really, nor was it to see a frantic America pinching (read: trying to pinch with his not-chainsaw hand) at his stomach. You get those two together and their collective stupidity is amplified. (This is why they are no longer allowed to sit next to each other at meetings. The sexual harassment suits increase and their gossiping proves a distraction no matter what the topic.)
Except it isn’t a normal day. It isn’t France’s usual histrionic temper tantrums, nor is it America’s typical bouts of self-consciousness. It’s the time space continuum/God/Loki/Andrew Hussie/the Devil (also Andrew Hussie)/the Illuminati/the Scientists/who even knows what playing a horrible, horrible joke upon the idiotic duo.
Oh, yeah, and there’s talking too. Whining, actually, and a lot of it. There’s a nasal American twang attempting to wrap itself around uniquely French words, and a horrible, croaking dialect trying to utilise hippie-bro speak. ]
--yeah? See how you like this! Ahem! [ France’s (read: America in France’s body) voice rises to be as obnoxiously shrill and as melodramatic as possible. The French accent impedes words that were obviously meant to have a Southern twang to it, so really he sounds like a drunk who just got jaw surgery. ] Ohonhonhon, bonjour Discedo! I’m France, of course you all know me as the resident harassment lawsuit waiting to happen and bear impersonator--and how easy they are to impersonate! Look at my hairy chest! The unshaven fuzz around lips that don’t know when vowels are supposed to end and new words begin! If you look closely, maybe you can see a little bit of omelette in it, or the baguette I’ve stashed inside it for later.
Arrêtes! Maintenant, [ “Ah-ret”, “Man-teh-nant”, ] Stop it! This is horrible, this is the worst thing that has happened yet! I thought that this would be a nice break from l’Angleterre, except now I have to deal with you! [ Two can play at this game, Americance. Crossed arms fall to his sides and the ‘heroic!!!’ nation strikes a pose, arms akimbo, chin up, hands on his hips with a look of victory written across his features. And for the one and only time in his life, Framerica can do a proper imitation of a terrible Texan accent: ] My name is America and I’m the hero!!! ☆☆☆☆ I like to take credit for things that I have not done and meddle in everyone else’s business! Also I think I look like a sexy man like Johnny Depp but in all actuality, I resemble the back end of a pig! Oh and my food, my food is the worst part about me! I like to eat lard out of buckets with a spoon!
[ Americance’s retort is to pull a rose out of his pants. I presume France’s body already had pants on them (or if they didn’t America had to put some on so he would stop staring at France’s dick, and you just know this argument is going to end in a literal dick measuring contest). He brings it up to under his nose, tries to strike a pose only seen in the streets of Paris and in animes, but he falters and makes a face. ]
Discedo, I would just like you to know that I am a literal bed of roses, and they all smell like sweaty dick. Which, by the way, doesn’t quite measure up to America’s. Ohonhonshootmenow this fucking laugh. I wish I could stop, I really do.
[ Framerica, at this point, has had just about enough of Americance’s jeers, and he all but jumps at the other nation, knocking him out of his chair. On his way down Americance lets out a yelp. As soon as he hits the floor, he’s making odd noises, somewhere between howling with fury and cackling. The upshot is in their current bodies, France could beat the shit out of America. The downside is, of course, France was gonna feel that pummelling when they fixed this.
Which they were going to do. Because like hell France was gonna be fat forever.
As America is getting his face pounded in, all sorts of squawking noises are coming out of his newly French mouth and, even worse, more insults and mocking. Things along the line of “Careful France! I know you wanna enjoy my hot body but this is bordering on something even incest is gonna shake its head at!” and “Not so rough, I don’t wanna catch something!” and “THIS IS HOW YOU GET PEOPLE PREGNANT! I DON’T KNOW NOTHIN’ ‘BOUT BIRTHIN’ NO BABIES!” as well as the ever classic “Help! Help! I’m being oppressed!” Wait, Holy Grail wasn’t made in the 1960s? Neither were chainsaw hands. Don’t question me.
Let it never be said that America has an outstanding sense of self-preservation. (Either that or he simply likes the idea of France’s face getting marred by his own outrage. It’s a funny thought. That may be why even amongst his grimaces and attempts to fight back, a grin occasionally flickers on his face.)
So after maybe two or three punches, the Frenchman-trapped-in-a-living-fat-suit rolls off of the American-trapped-in-a-twink-suit and falls back on the ground, heaving, angry, frustrated, and disgusted with the other man. Only then does it occur to him that heyyy, this communicator is on! Right now! Recording! ]
Putain! Mon Descartes, c’est quoi putain?!
[ At which point you can hear America muttering in the background: ] Stop using my voice to summon the legions of Hell. I’m not leading a demon army nowhere. You get Sherman back in charge, then we’ll talk.
[ Framerica scrambles to grab the communicator, and shuts it off.
Then hurls it at Americance. But no one else gets to see that. ]
