Written by Zac Chastain
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.
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.
While Conor sunk deeper into his X chromosone, Zac was steadying his nerves. He slapped his friend. “Get a hold of yourself. Take your head out of it and let your instincts kick in.” Zac closed his eyes and his nostrils flared as he seemed to savor the stench of battle. Then, in Wachowski Brother slow motion, he wheeled about Giovannia’s starboard side, caught a cucumber-melon grenade bare handed, and tossed it back into the unsuspecting face of its previous owner– a particularly gruesome Fuggle dressed in lime green sweat pants that said “pink” on the ass and a powder blue hoodie. The trick worked. She reeled back, clutching her eyes.
His confidence fortified, Zac unleashed a righteous and wrathful storm of uppercuts and charlie horses upon the mutant forces, teleporting all of them back to their hellish dimension– all but one. Zac rose up panting, a triumphant fist in the air, when out of nowhere the Queen Fuggle, Cathy Lee Gifford, struck him to the ground. Her fake tan made her entirely camouflaged against the hard clay of south Texas. Zac never saw her coming.
“You fool. You dare resist comfort?” She put a Fugged foot against his face and pressed hard.
“I can’t believe Regis tapped that…” Zac moaned from beneath the Fugg.
“QUIET! You dare stand against the tide of comfy footwear that also looks super cute?” She bent over, her orange face inches from his own. “They’re warm. Don’t you understand that? They’re warm.”
With upturned, glinting eyes, she sunk back and began to howl with laughter. “You can’t stop it. You will never stop it. NEVER! DO YOU HEAR ME!” Her laughter was like telling a baby sheep it was going to get an icecream cone if it came with you, and then bringing that baby sheep to a slaugtherhouse instead. It was that cruel.
And it began to stir something inside of Conor. Perhaps it was the fact that he was effectively lactose intolerant but in a fit of passion had ordered a three-cheese omelet with chocolate milk at Denny’s that morning. Perhaps it was the memory of that scene in “The Patriot” where Mel Gibson brutally hatchets to death a dozen British dandies. More likely it was the fact that his uncle Kevin had gotten drunk and dressed up as an Oompa Loompa for Halloween when Conor was a boy, barging into his room and giving him nightmares for months. Ever since then, he had hated Oompa Loompas. And nothing looked more like an Oompa Loompa to him now than this fake-tanned Fuggle before him.
He wheeled about Giovannia, surprised Cathy Lee Fuggle, and grabbed it by the throat.
“I need you to listen to me.” His voice was quiet. Distilled down into a clear, liquid hate.
“Do you like stories? Don’t answer that. I love stories, and I am going to end you. Then I am going to get on a plane and I am going to fly to Australia. I am going to walk, barefoot, up that cold, cold mountain, and I am going to bury every last memory of you and your kind. I’m going to bury you where you belong: with beanie babies, Tomagotchis, and even the Tickle-Me-till-it-bleeds-Elmo. Remember Pogs? Sure I do. Remember Uggs? No. No I don’t think I do.”
With that Conor took a step back and delivered an epic kick to the creature’s tummy, teleporting it back to its Power-Ranger-Bad-Guys-with-Flailing-Arms dimension.
Renewed by the glory, Zac stood up and began applauding, but Conor put a hushed finger to his own lips.
“Enough.” Conor said. “We’ve got a plane to catch.”