Fauxhasset Paroder, 94th Edition: Rabble-Housers

By Thamanda Crompson
Fauxhasset Paroder Staff Reporter

Construction teams have completed the re-re-development of the Affordable Luxury Homes at 8 Lame Jane’s. Residents started moving in on Sunday. Thus was averted the 788th apocalypse detailed in the late Father Mumblehill’s “Book of Apocalypses.”


100% not cursed or your money back* | Photo credit

“To be clear, it is in no way certain that this property has been purged of all lingering curses,” said Ezekiel Henderson, an apostle of Mumblehill’s who is carrying on the good Father’s work to prevent a total of 792 potential apocalypses before they happen.

“But,” said Henderson, “that’s the rabble’s problem now. We’ve got 787 other apocalypses to deal with.”

Compared to the destruction of life, the universe, and everything, what’s a flickering light here, a cold spot there, a demonic apparition every Tuesday at 9:00 p.m.? Small price to pay. Every home has its quirks, after all. [Disclosure: Your reporter was approved for a unit at the 8 Lame Jane development.]

According to Henderson, the unique properties of the homes at 8 Lame Jane’s should be the least of everyone’s concerns.

Consider, said the apostle, the sky that was recently torn down over the harbor; the trees that have been missing since January; the eternal summertime; the Christmas that refuses to end, sliding its digital claws into our bank accounts and Apple Pays day after day; the thousands of cats swarming the town; and the fact that the glitter spilled during construction at Castle Girdlehausen still hasn’t worked its way out of the local water cycle.

“These are all apocalypses waiting to happen,” Henderson said. “With God’s help, the other apostles and I are doing our best to stop them, but it may be His Will to smite Fauxhasset. He’s certainly come up with enough creative ways to do it. Brothers and sisters in the Lord, pray! Fast! The Cataclysm may be upon us.”

When asked for comment, the Panic Brigade urged residents to pray if they want, fast if they must, but please – please! – leave the panicking to the professionals.

Instead, between hyperventilated gasps for air, officials recommended visiting the local Gnaws or Cop & GOP to stock up on shelf-stable goods for your family bunkers. Families that do not have apocalypse bunkers should contact the Panic Brigade at once for an Armageddon Survival Starter Kit.

* No refunds will be issued to the deceased, so do try to stay on the demonic apparition’s good side. 


Fauxhasset Paroder, 55th Edition: Punxsutawney Punk’d, Part 7

By Thamanda Crompson
Fauxhasset Paroder Staff Reporter

[Read the Punxsutawney Punk’d saga from the beginning]

[Catch up on the latest installment]

Fauxsutawney Fil is finally gone, and his prisoners – your reporter and Rookie Ranger Devan Branch, Part-Time Jedi, Part-Time Pirate, Part-Time Wandering Minstrel – freed.


Fauxsutawney Fil with two of the deacons of his church, the Temple of RALPH – caught on flip phone camera by Orion Vanta. Photo credit

The Punxsutawney Phil impostor, claiming to be the reincarnation of the original groundhog RALPH, had set up a church of sorts within a dimensional rift at the heart of the Womp, which is now known to be the source of the strange womping sounds that can be heard in and around the state park at night.

Within the rift, woodland creatures became capable of human speech and were using their gift of tongues to sing praises to the omnipotent raccoon. But now the Temple of RALPH has fallen, and the false god sent back from whence he came (or at least to go be someone else’s problem for a while).

Your reporter and the full-time part-timer spent six days in Fil’s prison, eating scraps of food brought to us by the Womp’s friendly pig-bear and its cub. We feared that my last article had not reached the outside world and despaired of ever being saved.

But this morning, a rescue party came. Our heroes included Police Chief Stephen Quill, Two Men (looking for Their Dog), Fauxhasset newcomers Monica Moniker and Orion Vanta, ϨΔиϮα, Dooey Lembas, the Panic Brigade, and my colleague, Crime Correspondent Sobby Raint-John.

This motley crew charged into the moonlit clearing. Yes, it was moonlit in the morning. It was always moonlit, even when the sun was out. I shudder just to remember the cold, colorless light, the high, discordant keening of the stars, and always, the womp-womp-womp coming from we knew not where.


The moon is not right in this place. Photo credit

The rescue squad fought their way through RALPH’s worshippers, each brandishing an indestructible porcupine that police had apparently confiscated from the Clandestine Auto Regulators (CAR) earlier in the week. The congregation scattered, and Fil fled down a scurry hole at the sight of the porcupines.

For their part, the porcupines gave a metallic gleam and a mechanical roar and pursued him, their quills spinning like tiny mammalian buzz saws. None emerged from the Accursed Burrow, though it took some time for the rescue squad to work out the strange locking mechanism of our prison.

Police and the Panic Brigade were unable to locate the LAW, who had been carried away by RALPH’s followers our first night in the rift, but Two Men were successfully reunited with Their Dog, who claimed he had been coaxed into the rift by the smell of frying bacon.

The Town is now working with Radiation State Park officials and paranormal consultants to determine how the rift may be closed or neutralized. The Womp will be closed to the public until further notice.