The Alphaville Herald

The Horror, The Horror: Prim-Baby Graveyard!!!

by Alphaville Herald on 25/01/10 at 6:50 am

SLebrity Children Found – Satanic Plot Possible

by Pappy Enoch, Investigative Reporter

Baby Philip?

Now ya’ll thought—well, hoped—I might be dead, but I ain’t. I was just saving my strength and doing me some Woodward-and-Bumstead-style undercover reports on a terrible, awful thing. 

We all knows that Second Life’s fake world am full to the brim with floozy women, looser than outhouse doors after a hurricane, and lots of them is men in real life.  That explains to me why so many “gals” dumps fake babies as soon as some rascal knocks them up and their talkin’ tummies spits out the love-children.

Well, I been calculating where them poor babies goes to. I found out…and the truth (I never lie) ain’t pretty one damn bit. Don’t read no more if’n you got a weak stomach (talkin’ or otherwise) or likes them Lindens.

First, I started snoopin’ around some, and soon I come across a boy—looked like a real slick “player” to this-here ace reporter—who put me on the right track.

It were a dark and stormy night (cause I set the fake-world controls to “midnight”) that I come up on a scary bone-yard, and guess what!

Devil-worshipping folks runs the place. I bumped right into old Billzbub  himself, who done showed up as a talking skull!

Skull: Who are you, mortal?

Pappy: Fearless reporter, Ol’ Scratch! I works for the Herald!
Skull: Then you are already damned to hell.
Pappy: So I cain’t sell you my soul for information on the prim-baby graveyard?
Skull: Muahhaha, NO! What else can you trade?

Pappy: Ummmm…M. Linden’s soul?
Skull: TOO LATE!
Pappy: Prokof…oh, never mind! How’s about 1,000 Linden Dollars!
Skull: 10K and throw in a date with a Post 6 Grrrrrl…

Pappy: 5K and a two gals!
Skull: DEAL!

After we sealed the deal (in Sion Chikkin blood) I done what Ol’ Devil told me to do. First I walked catawampus on my hands while singing “Free Bird,” then built a statue of Cory Ondrejka out of pasta, tossed it in the air, and yelled “all hail to Bobby Henderson!” Next I swore an oath on a stack of empty Domino’s Pizza Boxes to only play Led Zeppelin records backwards and never to eat no angelfood cake again.

Suddenly, flash bang! The profane and horrible spot were revealed unto me: I found a HEAP of them fake SL babies that the gals done dumped.

Nothin’ really dies dead in SL, so these lil’ wigglers was all alive and kickin’ (and more—the smell was worse’n me after I slops my hogs). They was ailing, too, having filled their fake diapers and not had no fake teats to suck on in God knows how long. It were a downright hootenanny of crying, sorta like one of my favorite events, that-there Annual Hollering Contest down in Spivy’s Corner, NC, but full of babies with a load in their panty-loons.

I aint’ no good at changing diapers, and worse still at givin’ milk, so I got me a pile of gunny sacks and a barrow, then filled ‘em with them poor orphaned tykes.  It were hard work (well, all work am hard for me) but I must have toted 100 babies in my first run.  Then, near the bottom of the pile, I found… these here lil’ shavers:

Little Philly, Proky, Hammy, and eMmy — secret Linden love-children?

So I commenced to digging through that-there baby-pile a hell of a lot faster.  Soon I was finding babies with lots of fake-famous parentage all over ‘em: Lindens, once-was-Lindens, wanna-be-Lindens, and royal pains in the fake butt. 


No babies that looked like me, though. God am merciful. The Herald will keep a list o’ names secret in our deepest file-drawer, right under the office bottle, to keep them Lindens at bay when they comes after us for beatin’ up on their pole-cat, sneaky, fake JLU superheroes.

But we am humanitarians, too. We is a-tryin’ to find homes for them babies. I plans to keep one myself.

I got me a two-fer! He gots twice the brains! Hoo whee!

With heads like that, my boy, Ulysses-Diomedes Enoch, am a-goin’ to the Ivory League. If ol’ George W. Bush can git into Yale, I reckon Uli-Dio can go to Princetown!