Fauxhasset Paroder, 0th Edition: How I Met My Mother

By Thamanda Crompson
Fauxhasset Paroder Staff Reporter

Sunday, August 27: a day that was like a birthday to me.

I, who had never had a birthday (that I could remember); I, who had never known my parents (or at least had not seen, heard, or received money from them in the memorable past); I, who had lived my entire life (all 10 months of it that I could recall) without any origin or backstory: I was finally to learn where I had come from, where it all began.

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Aw, Mom; you didn’t have to get me a cake! Photo credit

Two months ago, I covered the Futuristical Society’s silent auction. It was a fundraiser for their project to convert the historic Peachhood Congregational Church, which shuttered when Christianity went out of business in the 1990s, into a space center.

The top prize of having the future space center named in one’s honor went to our town’s wealthiest resident, Ben Bentley, for a cool $40 million. The structure shall be called the Benjamin Buckminster Bentley III Center for Space Observation and Exploration.

At the other end of the spectrum, the least desirable prize – a trip back in time to witness one’s own first moments on this earth – went for $2.07. Not $2.07 million. Just two dollars and seven cents. It was all I had left after stopping at Mooncheddar Coffee on my way to the event. I thought I’d be outbid. Instead, I was the only bidder in the category.

Thus it was that I found myself lying on my back in the Peachhood Church bell tower last Sunday, surrounded by strange, white chalk symbols, a couple of friends for moral support (shout-out to Rookie Ranger Devan Branch, Part-Time Everything, and New Kid On The Block Monica Moniker), and Futuristical Society Director Zed Harbinger, who would be operating the “time machine.”

Harbinger said some strange words and rang the bell backwards so that it pealed loudly moments before he struck it. He was supposed to ring it 28 times, one for each year I was traveling backward, but I only heard the first clang before the world around me blurred and my memories of the past 10 months began streaming by in reverse.

At first I could pick out individual memories: Branch and me trapped in Fauxsutawney Fil’s woodland prison, the black hole, Fame Island graffiti, President Jimmy Garoppolo – but soon the memories were coming too fast and all I could do was grit my teeth and wait for it to—

It stopped.

Actually, it hadn’t been so bad, or so long. Had I really traveled 28 years into the past? I could tell right off the bat that I hadn’t. I was somewhere familiar, and though it had, perhaps, slightly fewer cracks and crevices then, there was no doubt I was on Achey Cedars Way. And it was not that long ago.

It was, in fact, last October. Yellow leaves collected in the deep potholes. Jack o’ lanterns dotted the doorsteps. Political signage on nearby lawns pitted Hillary Clinton against Donald Trump for president, with a solitary “Tom Brady for Prez” sign in the mix. It must have been around 9:00 in the morning – early and chill, with a bit of mist still hanging around, but late enough that everyone had gone to work or school. Even the dogs were quiet.

Harbinger had botched it, or so I thought. But then, a roaring helicopter appeared overhead and slowly descended on the vacant street. I felt that I should back away, but I didn’t really have a body to do so and could therefore only watch. The vibrations got inside the cracks and sent crumbs of the street jittering away until at last the pilot cut the motor.

Two men descended from the craft. No, not those Two Men. Two anonymous men, who I recognized at once. Police have asked me not to name names since the investigation is ongoing. Suffice it to say that you know these two men. The anonymous men approached a particular pothole – the one that, a few weeks later, would swallow five-year-old Shorty Lembas – and scowled into its depths.

“Looks OK to me,” said one of them. “I say we go for it. Some of us took a hell of a gamble on this, and we don’t all get to live forever, you know. I have three businesses riding on this. I’ll be bankrupt.”

“Not yet,” said the other. And that was all. They boarded the helicopter and left.

It seemed the pothole agreed with the impatient one. As bits of the street came loose and danced beneath the aircraft’s vibrations, something must have fallen into place, because the pothole began to glow, and moments later it opened up.

Or, no – that wasn’t right. It inverted itself, became a hill. And at the top was a person. A woman. Tall, pink-haired, riding a one-wheeled electric skateboard. She brushed some dirt and blood off her knees and palms, looked around in bewilderment, and finally took off on the skateboard, riding toward Fivest Ave.

That was it. My “first moments on this earth.”

I was born out of a pothole at age 27.

It finally makes sense why paranormal investigator Buster De Gost could never figure out what (or who) came out of that pothole when Shorty Lembas went in. What had caused it to reassert the universal balance by swallowing the next person to come along? The answer, it seems, was me.

That’s it for this report. I have an apology to make to a certain Dooey Lembas, and a helping hand to extend – for what it’s worth.

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Fauxhasset Paroder, 57th Edition: Food for Thought

The grocery war has reached a whole new level this summer as, in addition to Gnaw’s and Cop & GOP with their age-old rivalry, the farmer’s market has become a real contender in the competition. The organic marketplace was recently purchased by eCommerce giant Serengeti.com for $13.70.

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The latest by Beff Jezus, now for sale at the Serengeti Farmer’s Market: these smartfruits have a night mode so you won’t hurt your eyes while eating at night. Photo credit

After the parties inked the deal, fresh produce prices immediately took a nosedive. Avocados, for instance, are now selling for just 29 cents apiece. Maybe now all those avocado toast hipsters will be able to afford a house.

At the same time, Serengeti started restocking empty produce shelves with products of its own, including deeply-discounted Reverb smart home speakers featuring the company’s proprietary voice assistant, Axela.

Fauxhasset shoppers are loving it. Who wouldn’t? Nothing pairs with a fancy cup of Messpresso in the morning quite like a fresh Reverb speaker. And that’s something everybody can agree on, even if tensions between former customers of Gnaw’s and Cop & GOP have occasionally reached a head as the parties have come into contact for the first time in decades.

The best part is, the less actual food that’s available at the farmer’s market, the less people are eating. Everyone’s finally getting those bikini bodies they’ve been talking about since January. Gnaw’s and Cop & GOP can’t stem the tide of customers converting from their stores to buy groceries instead at the open-air market on the Common.

“We’ve marked down prices, given food away for free, and even paid our once-loyal customers to take it off our hands before it spoils,” a Gnaw’s spokesperson told the Paroder. “So far, we just keep seeing the same guy come back to take another load away in his iHaul truck.”

That guy, Town Glutton Nom Chompsky, has allegedly been storing these mass quantities of food at the divided lower elementary school, one side of which has been an ice castle ever since last fall when it was transformed by the girls of Princess Elsa’s School For Turning Superheroes Into Snowflakes.

Chompsky claims he’s making preparations for an “alien invasion,” but we know he’s just a pig, and that’s okay with us. We love you, Nom Chompsky. You do you.

Community Classifieds

HELP WANTED: Looking to hire an entrepreneurial youth to pick up my trash. I eat, like, pretty much constantly, and GREG is always on my case about the stupid Mooncheddar coffee cups I leave in my wake. I’ll give you all the free coffee you want if you can get those guys off my back.

Get something weird out of the black hole? Need cash quick? We buy alien artifacts, arcane anomalies, devilish dojiggers, galactic gizmos, mysterious machines, otherworldly objects, and all manner of exotic tchotchkes. Call Ace Teev at 555-555-7226.

ISO notebook paper; #2 pencils; highlighters in yellow, pink, and blue; 54 copies of “The Stranger” by Albert Camus; pirated copies of the AP exams (for our prestigious juniors and seniors looking ahead to college in the coming years); and 714 Choco Tacos to keep up the spirits of the hardworking and selfless citizens of the Fenclave.

Fauxhasset Paroder, 56th Edition: CAR Troubles

By Sobby Raint-John
Crime Correspondent

Several safety violations were issued  towards The Clandestine Auto Regulators (CAR) earlier this month when they caused tire damage to no less than three automobiles as they made their morning commutes down Fivest Ave. The drivers were not harmed, fortunately, nor were the dozen or so porcupines the group used to puncture the tires.

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The cars, on the other hand, were damaged irreparably. After being pierced through by the indestructible quills, the vehicles gained sentience and lumbered off into the Womp. Photo credit

Police were swift on the scene and quick to realize CAR was the culprit, as speed reduction slogans covered the ground in chalk – a signature move of these local traffic vigilantes. One chalk messaged taunted drivers suggesting they would not have punctured their tires if they had been driving slower.

At first, police were baffled how porcupines could cause such damages and remain unscathed but it was Police Chief Steven Quill who put the pieces together.

“I’m sure by now many of you have heard of the ‘Dark Web,'” said Quill. “People are illicitly trading undeclared items given to them by the Black Hole. Those indestructible porcupines came through the Black Hole and into possession of CAR through the Dark Web. Tracing them to any source will take time and be difficult.”

“While items from the Black Hole have so far been harmless,” said Quill, “we can’t let objects, possibly not of our universe, spread through the town without some accountability. It’s just irresponsible. ”

While violations were written, none as of yet have been served. The members of CAR have always kept to the shadows and without a name or even indication as to how many violations should be written, it is impossible to move forward. For now, police will be placing a detail, Officer Sam Rushmore, on night patrol to watch the Black Hole.

“It’s too bad,” Chief Quill said as his final comment. “CAR’s message is a good one, but their actions have shown us we can’t trust a shadowy and unknowable group with the safety of our town.”