How I spent my Christmas, by Jon the Intergalactic Gladiator

As you may recall, there was a certain gauntlet thrown down by Dr. Smith for a little Christmas Eve competition. My wife Patricia and I made it there and I was ready to go.

I hefted Del my lucky ball into the air and the crowd oohed and ahhed. People parted left and right as I made my way up to the lane and set myself.

Strike. The ball arced smoothly across the polished wood and knocked down all ten pins.

Strike. The crowd cheered as ten more pins crashed and bounced.

Strike. I was on a roll. The crowd was really getting into it.

Pin after pin fell without fail. Everyone in the joint cheered wildly at my endeavor as I made it to the tenth frame. Something then crossed my mind, where was everyone else? I didn’t see any of the other competitors there.

“Excuse me, where are the other candidates?” I asked a fellow wearing a sash that said judge on it. I figure he’s the judge.

“Candidates?” he asked.

“You know, for the competition,” I said.

“Oh, they’re all here,” he answered. “There’s Jake, Clem, Joe Bob, Skinner, Jake Bob. Everyone’s here for the bowl-a-thon.”

“What about Dr. Smith or Dr. Zaius?” I asked.

“Who?”

“You know, that creepy older gentleman and the hyper intelligent monkey from the future,” I replied. “Isn’t this Big Lucy’s All Nite BBQ Grill and Bait Shop?”

“What? No, this is Big Lou’s All Nite Bowling Alley and Bait Shop. Big Lucy’s right across the street.”

“Uh, Just Big Lucy or her restaurant as well?” I asked.

“What?”

“OK, everybody!” I called out. “This was fun but I have to go.”

“You’re on the tenth frame and just three strikes away from a perfect game,” the judge protested.

“Yeah, but bowling’s really not my thing, you know,” I shrugged. I then grabbed Patricia and we raced out the door and across the street.

We threw ourselves through the doors and saw everyone dancing already. We quickly ran onto the dance floor and began shaking our own groove things. Or “thang” as the kids call it these days.

Things seemed to be getting a little out of hand. People were not behaving in a manner consistent with what I would expect the clientele of this bistro to behave. I don’t remember exactly what happened next, but I remember the Police showing up.

They started their set, but they only played Synchronicity 2 before they began fighting over what type of cake goes with a dance off (German chocolate, of course), next thing I know it, Stewart Copeland is on top of Andy Summers, who is on top of Sting and biting his ankle.

The men in blue quickly arrived on the scene, but they too made their way to the dance floor and began to boogey down.

They were followed by another policeman, the sheriff, his faithful Indian companion, the shore patrol, and for some reason a construction worker and a biker. This group didn’t last long before joining the fracas themselves. Something about pineapple upside down cake versus devil’s food cake as far as I could tell.

The whole place was starting to break down into some kind of riot, it was terrifying – not for me, of course, I’m an Intergalactic Gladiator. My wife, however, rarely finds herself in the middle of bar fights in redneck eateries.

“Let’s go,” I said as I grabbed Patricia by the wrist.

“You got it.” She kicked someone away (In the mayhem, couldn’t tell who) and we made our way to the door where we immediately found ourselves face to face with Homeland Security.

“Freeze!” the lead agent commanded. “Put your hands up.”

“The fight’s that way,” I threw my thumb back towards the bar and the melee therein.

“I’ve got orders to take everyone in,” the agent growled. “And I don’t have time for your games, I’ve got to defuse the nuclear bomb, find the stolen nerve gas, uncover the mole in CTU headquarters, take down the Yugoslavian mob, save my daughter from a mountain lion, and find the president’s dognapped dog. And I’ve got less than 24 hours to do it.”

“Wow,” my wife said. “Good luck with that.”

“Yeah.” I rubbed the back of my head. “That’s a lot to do.”

“I know it,” he growled again. “And time is running out. Tell me where the bomb is!”

I looked at my wife and she shrugged. I shrugged back at her and we looked at the agent.

“We don’t know anything about the bomb,” I shrugged again.

“Take these two in,” he growled in his trademarked growl. The other agents snapped to it and grabbed my wife and me by our arms. “I have to go stop a plane from taking off, detour the president’s motorcade, and bake a casserole.”

“OK, I didn’t want to do this, but I guess I’m going to have to.” I pulled my badge out and showed it to the agent.

“Damn,” the lead agent growled again. “Alright guys, turn them loose. Let’s get going, as soon as we stop this bar brawl, we have to keep that cyanide-laced cocaine from hitting the streets.”

“You sure are busy,” my wife said. “And all on Christmas Eve, too.”

“I know it,” the agent growled back. “After that I still have to defuse a time bomb on the bridge, take down a cell of terrorists, pick up my niece at the airport, stop a runaway train, and still find the perfect gift for my boss. Let’s go men!”

The agents shouldered past us as they raided the bar. My wife and I walked off hand in hand into the crisp, Christmas Eve night.

“Merry Christmas, Jon the Intergalactic Gladiator,” my wife said with a slight giggle and she planted a kiss on my cheek.

“Merry Christmas,” I answered. “Baby, you’re the greatest.”