T H E   M c S W E E N E Y' S
A L L E G O R Y   C O N T E S T

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Some weeks ago, we announced a contest calling for allegories. Entrants, encouraged by some samples we had received, were to submit an allegory about, well, the interesting pickle everyone seems to think we have gotten ourselves into.

Yes, we will admit, the entries didn't fly through the door, or port, or however it is that things get into this computer of ours. That doesn't mean, however, that that we don't appreciate the fine, fine entries we did receive.

The McSweeney's contest-manager-persons have toiled through the weekend to select a winner, presented below, courtesy of Harry J. Tipple. As promised, he will receive a photo montage of a scene of a Woody Allen film of his choice, as interpreted by the McSweeney's Players. Thank you all for participating, and we look forward to your participation in future contests.


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BY HARRY J. TIPPLE

Recently I ran into the colossal ballerina hip-hop artist known as MC Chuckle-Face in the parking garage behind Royal Chaw. Her career had taken a nosedive so sheíd accepted the role of spokeswoman for the out-of-favor company. Recent magazines featured a new ad: an enormous MC Chuckle-Face covered in glitter, pirouetting in nothing but a large tobacco leaf, spitting Royal Chaw juice into an ornate cuspidor. Unfortunately I was daydreaming when I ran into her.

What happened was something like a BB chunked at a beach ball. The beach ball was there first—building a sand fortress near the incoming tide with little sticks in the moat for spikes—when someone waltzed out of the shadows of the boardwalk dragging a closed pool umbrella, an air rifle hidden inside. This person opened the umbrella as rain suddenly fell from the clear blue sky, but guess what? The rifle was clogged. So a single BB was tossed instead, the person still thinking that maybe the beach ball would roll into the ebbing tide and give up the sand fortress. This person hoping to transform it into an alligator sculpture with wooden stick fangs, one that was also, at the same time, still a sand fortress. In other words, I simply didnít see the huge body of MC Chuckle-Face trundling in my direction. It probably doesnít help that I was blindfolded.

When I awoke on the concrete sometime later, Chuckle-Face had multiplied. Now there were three of her, each massive mouth sticking out a big wet tongue to lick my face. That large body was kneeling all around, humming different parts of a hip-hop song. Somewhat blurred in the distance were the ballerina slippers of yet a fourth Chuckle-Face, busting the rap portion of the rhyme, conjuring up memories of the days when I too aspired to be a hip-hop star. I wanted to rap along but instead I just laughed, clapped my hands and feet, and watched. Could I have been somehow responsible for this wonderful spontaneous quadruple cloning of a major pop star?

"Hey Chuckle-Face, you must be that performer I heard about," I said. "Thanks for hanging around. You have given me a very special free show. I used to smoke 83 cigarettes a day until I quit 3 to 12 years ago."

Chuckle-Face reached into her leather fannypack and brought out a tin of Royal Chaw. "You ready to bust a little hop?" she said. This was the original one speaking, I think. She was making me an offer to bust some freestyle. I was not ready and shook my head to indicate no.

"How about some dip?" said one of the Chuckle-Face clones. They were passing the tin around. "This shitíll get you hummin." I shook my head more vehemently. It did not look appealing the way the Chuckle-Faces were packing their cheeks and communally spitting into the sliver can. Then we made small talk for a while. The Chuckle-Faces and me. And finally I was okay to leave. I wanted to pick Chuckle-Faceís brain to discover what made her tick—perhaps Iíd discover a small clock in there—but now I didnít know which was which. Also, it was time to find my car and return home for dinner. My wife was preparing a meatloaf.



OTHER McSWEENEY'S STORIES
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A Note on the Type by Benjamin S. White
The 'I Love You' Virus by James H. Twinbein
Seven Habits of Highly Effective Sinners by Gabriel Swan
McSweeney's Has Taken McSweeney's Away from You



 



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