Continued from Part Four.

If you’ve missed out so far, we find our two heroes Zac and Conor on their way to Australia to destroy the evil Ugg Boots once and for all, ridding the world of their horrid visage forever. A further summary can be found on part four (linked above) as well as links to the previous installments.

they're coming for you in your dreams

They were everywhere, the Uggs. Not with people attached to them, but just the horrible formless booties themselves, stomping all over Conor’s abdomen as if they operated by their own, horrifying volition. Suddenly Lady Gaga started playing, but not as if over speakers. It was everywhere, meaningless, inexplicable “Mah mah mah mah’s” resonating through Conor’s very veins. There were screens everywhere showing “Sex and the City,” “Bride Wars,” and every crappy parody by the guys that brought us “Scary Movie.” And then Murphy’s Law was brought to its most terrible apex: Carson Daly stood over him, making out with Jennifer Love Hewitt who, while speaking out of the side of her mouth as she continued to kiss the Skeletor-like fame monger, repeated over and over “I love you, Carson Daly and will never, ever love Conor.” Read the full story

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Part Four, Written by Zac Chastain. This is the newest installment in an Epic years in the making. You can find the earlier parts here:
Part One, Part Two, and Part Three. For those of you unfortunate enough to have missed out on the earlier parts of the story and too damn lazy to read them, a summary: Basically our two cleverly named heroes Zac and Conor thought they had defeated Ugg Boots once and for all, and then them bitches came back from hell to rise again like that time Vanilla Ice made a comeback, except a lot more successful. So Conor has a 17 year old daughter, and they’re hanging out in a park, and Zac rolls in to deliver the bad news that Uggs are back. I think that’s a decent summary. Read the other ones, though. They’re way funnier.

In an instant, they were surrounded.

When attacked by Fuggles, the first thing you notice is the awful sound of their sheep-like “bah”-ing. Legend has it that these young ladies once had souls, and wore footwear that did not harm others. But they had sold their innocence for the promise of sheepskin Uggs and, in a terrible irony their betrayal to the queen Fuggle, Lord Cathy Lee Gifford, rewarded them with nothing but a pair of Fuggs– fake uggs.

minions of the dark ugg

They flailed their arms like power ranger bad guys and threw grenades full of cucumber-melon body lotion. Totally unprepared, Conor and Zac were reduced to a child like state, huddling together and using Giovannia’s ample torso as a shield. Conor whimpered, “I just…forgot. How disgusting their sweatpants look tucked into those fuh, fuh, fuh– ” Conor’s voice trailed off, unable to pronounce that most terrible of “F” words, Fuggs. Read the full story

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Continued from Part Two:

Conor smiled warmly, staring off into the distance as he basked in the triumphant knowledge of a villain, smote. And yet, despite the vivid memories he had of that bloody battle – memories which he relived on a daily basis with a proud half-smile, a head nod, and an imagined fist pound with Jesus and Lady Luck -  inside him an alarm was sounding ominously. Maybe he was ignoring it, or maybe it was being drowned out by the gleeful giggles of his relatively obese daughter as she ascended to dangerous heights on a swingset that could have the structural equivalent of a brain aneurysm at any moment. No matter what the agent, Conor had become deaf to the voice that was wailing inside him like an global warming protester, except less annoying and concerning a threat that was actually real.

“Conor, can you hear me?!” It pleaded desperately.

“Conor! Ugg boots have risen!”

He could hear the voice loud and clear in the back of his mind, almost as if it was behind him. Weird, he thought to himself, My inner monologues never sound that real. Read the full story

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Continued from Part One: Part Two, written by Zac Chastain

But deep in the darkness, the hateful heart beats on. The beast was wounded, but still its veins coursed with ink-black blood. While we sat licking ice cream cones and riding merri-go-rounds through the summer months, fattening ourselves on a deluded sense of safety, the monster regained itself. Pound for pound, it consumed the earth’s waste, gorging itself on Smirnoff Ice, Panera gourmet sandwiches, and crap from horses, in order to ascend once more…

It is November. A cold day, even for Texas. The romantics walking around in light fall jackets must bow to winter now. Their dream of some Indian summer long forgotten. Conor stands proudly beside that swing set he remembers now as if from another lifetime. His hands are in his pockets, he watches his daughter swing.  Read the full story

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