Bad Book Reports – The Old Man and the Sea
Old Santiago hasn’t caught anything except tilapia in eighty-four days. Eighty-four days of tasteless, mushy fish that no customer will buy. On day eighty-five, Santiago rows into the Gulf of America and hooks another, damn tilapia. Little does he know that a Soviet Typhoon-class submarine, powered by two 190 megawatt OK-650 nuclear reactors, lurks beneath the waves.
In order to deliver Russia’s most advanced submarine to America, Captain, Boris Zardoz, beats the political officer into a stupor with a dozen kicks to the face, stashes the rat bastard Commie in one-of-two bathrooms, and keeps the crew of one-hundred-sixty away with an out-of-order sign.
The El Segundo, a Los Angeles class submarine, commanded by Commander Michael Clayton Hammer, is tracking the Typhoon. Aware of the Soviet boomer’s location, Admiral Earl Vader sends a Blackhawk helicopter to retrieve Adjunct Professor Clancy Donaghy from Dinsdale Community College. Since Donaghy wrote his thesis on the Flying Karamazov Brothers, he knows more about Russia than those damn government bureaucrats at the CIA. Even though the professor needs to grade forty-two book reports by Tuesday, he heeds his nation’s call. In Washington, he argues that Zardoz is trying to defect because why else would a vessel, containing twenty R-39 Submarine-Launched Ballistic Missiles each with 10 Multiple Independently Targeted Reentry Vehicles containing two-hundred kiloton thermonuclear warheads, cozy up to Cuba?
A helicopter shuttles Donaghy to the El Segundo. On board the Typhoon, Zardoz learns he’s being followed, so he plays Bruce Springsteen’s “Born in the USA” over the PA system. Donaghy and Hammer realize that anyone playing The Boss must believe in freedom, burgers, and hotdogs without catsup. “He’s on our side!” Hammer exclaims. Zardoz puts Ex-Lax in the borscht to force the crew to abandon ship in search of working toilets. Donaghy then boards the Typhoon because an American with an English degree can totally replace one-hundred-sixty Russians sailors.
Just when they think it’s safe, a Russian Akula attack submarine emerges from the inky shadows and fires a Type 53 torpedo at the Typhoon. As if by a miracle, old Santiago hooks the torpedo. Accelerated to forty knots by the torpedo’s explosive fuel of kerosene and hydrogen peroxide, his skiff hydroplanes like a jet ski, cuts S curves to avoid luxury yachts, and splashes the bikini-clad spectators onboard. After Santiago turns one-hundred-eighty degrees, the torpedo collides with the Akula. Its six-hundred-seventy-eight-pound warhead blows a hole the size of Tony Stark’s ego in the Russian sub and sends it to the bottom. The detonation sends red snapper, amberjack, redfish, flounder, and mahi-mahi floating to the surface. Now safe, the Typhoon sets course for Disney World while Santiago rows to shore with enough seafood to make pescado en salso for the entire city of Havana. He invests his profits in hand-grenades and becomes the richest fisherman in Cuba.
Supermarket
“I’d like a dozen henchmen, please.”
“Sorry, Sir. We’re out of henchmen.”
“Got any assassins?”
“We have a special on Portuguese rogue cops. Just one-ninety-nine a pound.”
“Tempting as that is, my recipe calls for henchmen.”
“Have you considered substituting knockout gas? You can find it next to neurotoxins on aisle fourteen.”
I pointed to the Vulcan bomber labeled, “Reduced price for immediate sale.”
“Does that British jet come with a Blue Steel standoff missile?”
“No, Sir. With the worldwide plutonium shortage, we need to charge market price for those.”
“Thanks.” I pushed my shopping cart toward the frozen-astronaut section. I should have gone to Trader Joe’s.
