Match Game Story: Rabrrrrrr moved Match Game to Sunday, and Dr. Strange got his _____ in a knot.

[Rabrrrrrr]

36. Rabrrrrrr moved Match Game Story to Sunday, and

Dr. Strange got his third shipment of "Swatch of Bee Gee's Sweat-Stained Spandex of the Month" on the same day.

"Coincidence?" thought the mighty, and terrifically sexy, Dr. Strange. "I should think not! There must be a link somewhere." He felt fortunate that even though he was new to the club, he managed to get a piece of sweat-stained spandex from the crotch of one of Maurice's jump pants. He sniffed it. "Lovely - 1978, if I'm not mistaken. Italian concert. Hints of stromboli and the Campari he polluted himself with." Oh, Maurice, you were always the cuter of the twins. And you were a bassist. I know in my heart that your family said you were cremated so that they wouldn't have to show your body, and cover up the fact that you didn't die. But you died a little every day in the spotlight, didn't you? And now, I am sure, you are cloistered in a monastery in Lithuania as was always your dream.

He ran to the phone, called 911, and swore at the operator for several very uncomfortable hours, until he passed out from blood loss from his dry, scratched, abused throat. The operator went home that night and killed herself by swallowing four cats, one cat for each of the years she spent as a 911 operator fielding Strange's nightly profanity-laced tirades. Her suicide note, a teary multi-volume treatise on her hatred of Dr. Strange, was never found. She was as stupid as she was unsavory, thought Strange, to hide those journals in the river where no one would ever find them. What a maroon. How Strange knew that the journals had never been found, let alone where they were hidden, while no one ever knew they had even been written, is one of those mysteries that continue to plague us with non-knowing even these many centuries later.

How did that guy ever get to be Pope, anyway? thought some random idiot five hundred years in the future, right before the Catholic Thought Police blew up him and his house for considering heretical questions.

Strange called 911 the next night. His throat still raw, and still very hoarse, he found the inner peace and strength to file a verbal obscenity-laced stream-of-consciousness complaint that his favorite operator was not there to be abused by him. The transcription of his forty-seven minute long complaint, now a separate wing at the FedEx-OPEC-Mansanto-Smithsonian museum in Washington, DC (District of Corporotocracy, another legacy of Strange), ran to 24,000 pages. 192 pages simply on the "bullshit" of having to use catalytic converters just to "protect the goddamn environment", a whopping 718 pages against nickel-wound guitar strings, and a mere 4 against viruses.

He hung up the phone, and pissed out the window, chuckling to himself about the time he got away with not wearing any underwear that one day in third grade. Goddamn bitch teacher was blind. He chuckled so much that he got far more on his pants than out the window. A trio of teen girls standing on the sidewalk watched him wet himself, and pointed and laughed at him, teasing him in Latin phrases that would have made Cato blush to hear them. Enraged, Strange dropped a grenade precisely at the point equidistant to all three, killing them not instantly, but painfully and slowly as he poured box after box of salt into their wounds and taunted them by reading "Twilight"'s opening chapters from his third story window. "You like wainscotting now, you bitches?" he shouted as he poured, not stopping to consider what a confusing non sequitor that was.

He went to make another phone call, to ask a friend who flies one of the Blue Angels to come destroy the block and therefore all the evidence, but he ended up crumpled in the corner, abusing his swatch, sad that he couldn't use the phone any more because the cord was all in a knot.