Deep in the steaming jungles of Antarctica, you find yourself face to face with a saber tooth polar snake, its venomous underbelly lying in wait. With only your cunning and some Popsicles for protection, keep your wits about you.
"How did I even get here?" you say to your trusty six-shooter, which also might protect you.
Guns don't talk, people do, genius. Get a hold of yourself.
The polar snake uses his giant purple wings and convenient sense of telekinesis to levitate 85 feet above the ground, where it is joined by 71 of its closest friends.
You face certain doom.
Suddenly, time stands still, and the spirit of former President James A. Garfield appears to you, wispy and handlebar-mustached.
"I was assassinated in 1881, and no one cares," he said, before dissipating into the air.
"That was useful," you said. "Think, you idiot. What would Larry Bird do? He'd probably launch a three from the top of the arc, or look for Robert Parish down low. Damn, that doesn't help me. Not at all."
At once, the polar snakes converge into some sort of Optimus Prime-like conglomerate, rearing their colorful, pungent underbellies and announcing via the covenient LCD screen on their hindquarters that venom is coming in 15 seconds.
To USE YOUR "OFF" POLAR SNAKE REPELLANT see Page [page number]
To CALL LARRY BIRD see Page [page number]
To BRING YOUR SICKEST MOSH TO THE PIT see Page [page number]
Wait, what are you thinking? You have polar snake repellant!
With the ease of a drunk date with Paris Hilton and the street-wise rhymes of N.W.A., you spray that spray all over yourself. At that point you also remember advice from Long Island.
"Don't forget to use extra foundation."
Not very useful as usual, but it reminds you of something. Saggy butts in sweatpants and headbands. Quickly, you yell out as many letters in the Greek alphabet as you can think of. Bamboozled, the polar snakes become even more furious, until Lou Bega shows up. With lasers.
"Get ready to mambo number seven, polar bitches," he says.
Afterwards, Lou and you sit down for a nice cup of Ramen noodle soup.
It tastes better than anything that's ever touched your tongue.
You telephone Larry Legend in Indianapolis, and immediately he appears, corned beef sandwich, green beer and two lava-throwers in tow.
"I'm from French Lick, Ind.," he says.
"Alright," you say, "let's dust off some polar snakes."
The South Pole is a firestorm of white-hot liquid magma. You ever try melting dirt? Yeah, hot.
Polar snakes are dropping by the dozen, which means they only have to drop five or six times to be all gone. Midway through the carnage, Bird calls employee Ron Artest to go into the crowd and punch people.
"You think Magic Johnson rolls with lava-throwers," Bird says.
"You know how I do," you say.
"What does that mean?" Bird replies.
Your opponents vanquished, Bird, Artest and yourself sit down for some Cinnamon Toast Crunch.
It tastes better than anything that's ever touched your tongue.
You have not chosen wisely. Moshing, no matter how quasi-ninja it gets, wouldn't even work in regular hand-to-hand combat, let alone when fighting 72 giant flying polar snakes.
You end up the next meal for a herd of insatiable super-predators, who feast on your tender entrails and still-thrashing limbs.
They fly off magnificently to find off their nearby next prey. Moshers travel in packs, too.
Photo: Courtesy of Matthew Messina, from the RMBERS' Instagram page
