Fauxhasset Paroder, 72nd Edition: They Came from Outer Space

By Thamanda Crompson
Fauxhasset Paroder Staff Reporter

Christmas presents weren’t the only thing that was opened in Fauxhasset this morning. There’s also a brand new space-time portal above Castle Girdlehausen that opened while Fauxhasset slept.

Residents awoke to a snowy Christmas morning, but not in quite the way they might have hoped: instead of falling out of the sky, the thick white flakes were falling upwards into the sky, all seemingly streaming toward a single point directly above the new Castle Girdlehausen in the Mecca Mile wetlands.

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“We made it!” exclaimed this unidentified alien in a Snapchat story sent to his home planet, JELAMENA-8. Photo credit

It was difficult to get very close, as the castle was heavily guarded by an army of cyborgs that hotelier Ord Girdlehyde had been generously hosting at the hotel until Town officials could figure out how to either employ them or get rid of them. There was also a very large exodus of very small, red-nosed reindeer underfoot that the gathering crowd was afraid to step on, thus keeping most onlookers at bay.

However, a close-up view was not needed, and may have been ill-advised anyway. The rift was clearly visible from afar, and when the Paroder arrived on the scene, a very strange procession indeed was emerging from the hole in space.

Aliens, readers. Tall ones, short ones, skinny ones, fat ones, green ones, purple ones, and (perhaps most upsetting of all) ones that looked just like us. Fauxhasset is no stranger to aliens, but this many all in one place and all at once – well, residents were rightfully concerned.

“Our tax dollars are supposed to protect us from this sort of thing,” boomed Larry Lembas, a former resident of Achey Cedars Way, which has been mostly abandoned since strange symbols were discovered on the street in July.

Lembas’s former neighbor Charles LeRouge swirled his red wine, sniffed, and agreed.

Paranormal investigator Buster DeGost had rushed to the scene in his bathrobe and was scribbling furiously on a map, which depicted the locations of every supernatural incident that had occurred around town for the past year.

DeGost calculated that the coordinates of the rift fell in the precise center of the Fauxhasset Triangle, a perfect equilateral triangle formed by three sites where strange markings painted in red were discovered earlier this year: the Achey Cedars Way cul de sac, the now-vacant property at 8 Lame Jane, and a cave on Fame Island where Punxsutawney Phil had been held prisoner last spring.

“Ah,” was all DeGost said as his pencil slowed and understanding dawned. “I should have known it would be here.”

By mid-morning, the police had arrived in helicopters, as well as a few private citizens whose helicopters were also stalling up in the airspace to watch the drama unfold. Ord Girdlehyde was taken into custody, along with the Local Animal Whisperer (LAW) who was apparently in cahoots with him the whole time.

A velociraptor, which the LAW claims to be his “service animal,” is also being held at the police station while the investigation is ongoing.

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Fauxhasset Paroder, 71st Edition: Unemployed Androids

By Thamanda Crompson
Fauxhasset Paroder Staff Reporter

After several weeks of negotiations, the robot army problem has been solved. Ish. At least, the thousands of cyborgs are no longer standing in the harbor. But they’re not gone, either. Out of sight. Not out of mind.

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These robots are getting ENTIRELY too comfortable in Fauxhasset. Ugh, no techy PDA, please! | Photo credit

The robots, which marched out of the black hole in the harbor four days after Thanksgiving on a day which shall henceforth be known as “Cyborg Monday,” at first resisted all attempts to bargain. Or perhaps “resisted” is the wrong word. They simply did not respond at all.

They watched, unmoving, with those gently pulsing blue eyes as Town Manager Mown Tanager and his wife Mrs. Tanager presented them with 500 home-baked casseroles. When Alien ϨΔиϮα offered to shuttle them home in his spaceship, they looked on with those benign alabaster faces showing neither consideration of the offer nor any degree of gratitude.

The police department’s offer to guide the cyborgs through the naturalization process was met with more blank, pulsing blue stares. A generous offer by Mevin Kirk, Chair Chosen of the Assembly of Chosen, to connect each robot with gainful employment in the community caused not the slightest stir among them.

It was once again Ord Girdlehyde, owner of the Mad Elephant Hotel and the new Castle Girdlehausen (and the town’s most hated part-time resident), who came to Fauxhasset’s rescue – just like when he found Punxsutawney Phil and saved us all from the Thousand Foot Snow last April.

We should probably all stop hating him so much.

The hotelier approached the robot army with a simple offer of shelter and hospitality. The Mad Elephant Hotel was full, as usual, with a mishmash of displaced Fauxhasset residents and Girdlehyde’s ever-growing cast of riffraff and oddballs, but the nearly-completed Castle Girdlehausen had lots of space.

Additionally, there were several abandoned full-size homes on Achey Cedars Way, which residents vacated in July when strange symbols were discovered during roadway reconstruction. A number of the robots have taken up temporary residence there.

Still others are glamping on other vacant properties in town, including the former site of the 8 Lame Jane townhomes, which burned down earlier this fall, and Fame Island, which Alien ϨΔиϮα finally abandoned when he found the town unwilling to issue him any building permits.

Town Manager Mown Tanager made it very clear that these accommodations are temporary and that a permanent solution must be found within 90 days, or the Town will have to remove the cyborgs by force.

“Residents are concerned, and they have every right to be,” Tanager said. “They were promised that Castle Girdlehausen would not become another transient lodging house like the Mad Elephant Hotel, and already it’s being managed the same way as everyone’s least favorite establishment.”

“This hotel has poisoned our groundwater with glitter and pitched Mecca Mile into a frenzy of construction,” said Tanager. “And now, Ord is taking on more freeloaders. These robots need jobs. They need to contribute to our community. Or they need to be gone. It isn’t fair to our residents.”

“The local bylaws require that inns and restaurants keep regular operating hours during which they are open to the public,” added Chair Chosen Kirk. “We’re permitting this for now because it benefits the public to get the cyborgs out of the harbor, but Ord is going to have to address this sooner rather than later.”

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.