Gilligans Revenge – Otter
The lagoon water was cool and Gilligan splashed clumsily around in it trying to put up a new pole for the solar antennae that the professor had constructed. Another invention and another attempt to get off the island. Gilligan gave up, walked toward the shore and sat down to rest. “We’ll never get off of this island,” he chuckled. “And if we’ll never get off of this island there’s no use continuing this charade.”
It was the Skipper.
“Gilligan! I thought I told you to put up that pole for the solar antennae that the professor invented,” the Skipper yelled.
Watch Hot & Sexy Female Head Shave Videos At Shavepage.com
Gilligan ignored the Skipper and thought about his past. It had been his idea to disguise himself as an idiotic boat helper after the last contract killing had gone sour. With the FBI and the Mafia closing in he figured it was time to leave Chicago for sunnier climes. It was only by fantastic fortune that a storm had swept the SS Minnow out to sea and had stranded them on a desert island. No FBI.. no Mafia. He’d made it. But it wasn’t easy. The rest of the castaways, The Skipper, the Millionaire and his wife, the movie star, the professor and Mary Anne. here on what he called “Gilligan’s Isle” were all determined to get off the island. It was only by pretending to be a complete moron that he could intentionally fuck up every plan that they came up with.
Suprisingly though, for a desert island, they had an amazing amount of traffic: wrong-way pilots, Russian cosmonauts, Japanese sailors, washed-up movie ape-men and no-talent pop bands. It was amazing how he managed to deal with it, but today he’d had it. No more Mr. Nice Guy.
“Gilligan!” the Skipper screamed in his ear.
Gilligan turned around. “You say one more word to me fuckface and I’ll stuff that antennae pole up your fat ass and throw you into the lagoon.”
The Skipper was stunned
“And if you even think of hitting me on the head with your stupid captain’s hat Ill break your kneecaps. I’m taking a break fat-boy, now YOU can get to work.”
“Gilligan. What’s gotten into you?”
BAM! a stinging uppercut to the Skipper’s chin sent him sprawling to the sand.
“You’d better stay down tubby,” Gilligan said as he turned his back and strode into the jungle toward his hut.. HIS hut. He was sick of sharing that hut with that overbearing, overweight, snoring, fish-stick box reject.
As he approached the clearing he could see Mary Anne digging in her vegetable garden. “Hi Gilligan!” she said
“Hi toots… have I ever told you how nice your ass looks when you bend over like that?” Gilligan leered.
“Err… Gilligan? Are you OK?”
“Better than you know, sweet-tits,” he grinned and walked on.
Gilligan walked into the clearing and saw Mr. Howell sunning himself whilst drinking a ludicrous-looking drink with a little umbrella in it, out of a bamboo cup. “Ahhh, Gilligan, my boy…” he started
“Shut up. You know, it’s amazing that you have the gall to sit there like a wart on a frog’s ass and actually talk to me. I’ve put up with your rich shit for long enough. I’ve thrown richer men than you into concrete mixers and if you don’t start pulling your weight around here you are gonna be the sorriest son-of-a-bitch in the South Pacific. Bank on it money-man.” Gilligan glared at Mr. Howell
“How dare you talk to me like that. I’m a Howell!”
“Sleep lightly Howell,” Gilligan said and marched on.
Gilligan stretched out in his hammock after throwing all of the Skipper’s stuff into the jungle and had appropriated the radio for a little relaxation. What a radio! If he ever got off the island he would write the manufacturer. That thing was built like a Sherman tank. It had been through more shit and it still worked. Amazing. He adjusted the volume knob and lay back to some soothing music. Hopefully there wouldn’t be that annoying voice that said, “We interrupt this program…”
He had just drifted into a light nap when the professor came in.
“Gilligan, why aren’t you helping the Skipper put up the pole?”
“Cause I’m through with your cockamamie experiments, science-boy. Put it up yourself,” Gilligan mumbled.
“Gilligan, your behavior is very irrational. You know I read in one of my books that the bite of the twanga-twanga fly can cause drastic personality swings and irrational behavior….”
“Shut the fuck up Poindexter! You tell me what’s more irrational, taking a nap or running around in the jungle in the midday tropical heat in a long sleeve shirt, working for some jackass trying to put up an antennae for a guy who is batting exactly 0% in the brilliant idea department? Huh?”
The professor could only manage a stammer.
“Make yourself useful and invent us some new clothes, asshole. Fuckin’ Howells and the girls have clothes all over the place and we run around in the same shit all the time. Get outta here and don’t come back without some new threads,” he said and rolled over to continue his nap. But before he could sleep he was struck with a brilliant idea! He leapt from his hammock and went to the sea chest where he kept his things and tore open the lining to reveal his Walther PPK 7.62mm pistol. He slapped a full magazine in the grip, cocked the slide and jamming it into his belt he walked out into the clearing.
All of the castaways were seated around a bamboo table and they got strangely quiet as he walked out of the hut.
“YOU talkin’ about me?” he yelled. “You talkin’ about ME? You TALKIN’ about me? Well don’ lemme me stop ya. Please continue,” he allowed, sarcasm dripping from his voice.
“It’s just that…” the Skipper began.
“It’s just that what? I’m different? I’m not putting up with your shit anymore? That I’m not your fucking executive stress toy anymore? Is it that you just can’t hit me and get away with it anymore? What is it?” Gilligan yelled.
“Gilligan…” Mary Anne began.
“Button it sweet-tits, I’m talkin’ to fatso here.”
“We just think you need a rest little buddy…” the Skipper whined in that hand-wringy phony worry voice that he used.
“Hahahahahahahaha! A rest huh? I think you’re absolutely right. I think I need a rest from you lugs. Now get up,” Gilligan said producing the pistol.
A shocked gasp went up from all of the castaways yet they all rose as ordered.
“Ok girls, get into the hut over there,” Gilligan ordered.
The girls did as they were told and Gilligan, with a wary eye on the men, barricaded the door from the outside with Mr. Howell’s stupid bar. They were blocked in.
“OK gents, time to take a walk,” Gilligan said
“Where are you taking us? I protest! This is barbaric!” Mr. Howell exclaimed.
Blam! Gilligan fired his pistol and Mr. Howell’s idiotic Panama hat flew off of his head and into the bush.
“One more peep outta you Warbucks and Ill use you for shark bait.”
The group marched silently toward the lagoon.
“You guys are always hell-bent on getting off of this island, well today’s your lucky day. I have a raft stashed here in the jungle with provisions and if you jerks hadn’t been so busy making my life difficult you probably would have found it. It even has provisions for a week.” Gilligan lifted up a pile of brush that revealed a life raft and a tin box with provisions.
“All of you drag that raft to the water, get in and start paddling. Within five minutes I want 3 fewer swinging dicks on this island. You hear me sailor boy? Time to hit the high seas,” he sneered pointing his gun at the Skipper.
Gilligan actually whistled on his way back from the beach. Those numbnuts were almost over the horizon before he decided to return. It only took a little persuasion to convince them that their chances of survival were far better in that raft than they were on the island with him. His suggestion that if they ran short of provisions that Mr. Howell would, in his unworked and pampered condition, make a tasty and tender cannibalistic treat, made a most amusing scene. He’d treasure that moment.
He approached the hut that the women were in and after removing the barricade, knocked on the door. “Ohh ladies?” he inquired. “May I come in?” Gilligan opened the door to reveal them all sitting there.
“Gilligan. I want to talk to you,” cooed Ginger
“Well then, let’s go talk,” Gilligan said and motioned her out the door.
Ginger had put on that hot little glittery number, the one with the SS Minnow band around it, like a beauty pageant queen. She followed him into the hut and put her arms around him. “Gilligan, what does such a sweet man with such big strong arms need with a dirty old gun?”
Gilligan put on his stupid look and backed up toward the center pole of the hut. Right before he was there he grabbed Ginger by the hair and gave her a long hard kiss. Shocked, she tried to struggle to get away but to no avail. “You thought I was going to smack my head on that pole didn’t you?” he laughed.
“Get in that chair,” he demanded and threw Ginger toward a chair in the middle of the hut.
Gilligan cut down a hammock and used the rope to tie her up with. “Well Miss Movie Star. you have teased me for years and now it’s my turn to have some fun.” Gilligan looked at Ginger. Her beautiful red hair had grown long since they were first on the island. It was now well past her shoulders and she wore it in a flip when she didn’t have it in an elaborate up-do. “I’m going to punish you but I’m not going to hurt you,” snickered Gilligan
“What are you going to do to me?”
Gilligan just smiled and walked over to a counter and picked up a pair of scissors. It was amazing what all they had on that boat.
He went over to Ginger and walked behind her. She tried to follow him with her head but he grabbed it and held it steady. “Oh please don’t do that! Don’t cut my hair!” she yelled.
Gilligan lifted up a thick red strand and moved the scissors down its length until he reached the scalp. Snnnnnip Off it came.
“No! Not my hair. Please!”
Snnnnip. Off came another piece.
Gilligan then grabbed a handful and hacked at it wildly. Beautiful long red tresses littered her dress and the floor.
“Oh god NO!” Ginger struggled to no avail.
He hacked with wild abandon. Ginger’s lovely long hair was hacked at the back and on the top to within an inch of her head. All uneven it looked horrible. On the sides it still hung down to her shoulders. Not for long. Gilligan grabbed the hair taut and put the scissors close to her ear. Cruunnnch, she could hear it well. Ginger sobbed as he snipped off he right side. Pressing the scissors close to her head he cropped it almost to the scalp. He moved in front of her and did the same thing with the left side of her head. When he was through he stood back and surveyed his work. Uneven.. horrible. Ginger’s beautiful hair lay in a pile in her lap and on the floor. It would be years before it grew back.
“Well, no wonder I never became a hairdresser,” Gilligan said. “That looks like shit.”
Ginger sobbed silently.
“Look on the bright side. If they decide to make a movie called ‘Attack of the Shitty Haircut’ you’ll be a shoe-in for the starring role,” Gilligan smirked.
“Ooooohhhh Gilligan!” Ginger cried
With that he went back to the girls hut and stuck his head in. “Mary Anne?”
“Yes?” she said shyly
“It’s a surprise.” Gilligan smiled and motioned Mary Anne out the door.
Gilligan placed Mary Anne in a chair in the clearing and blindfolded her.
“What are you doing Gilligan?”
“Just play along will you?”
“OK…” Mary Anne said nervously
Before she knew it her hands were pulled behind the chair and bound tight.
“Gilligan stop it. You’re scaring me!” Mary Anne said.
“Am I? Good,” Gilligan laughed.
Gilligan produced his shears and went behind Mary Anne. Mary Anne had her hair in two pigtails, as usual. Deftly, Gilligan lifted up one of her pigtails and placed the shears at its base. Snnn snnn snnn snnnnnnip. Off it came.
“Gilligan! What are you doing?”
Crunch crunch crunch. Off came the second pigtail.
Gilligan walked slowly over to the table and picked up a coconut cream pie that Mary Anne had baked.
“Do you have any idea how sick I am of this shit?” Gilligan asked. “I don’t like coconut, I don’t like papaya and I don’t like bananas. I don’t even like fruit. I have been choking down this garbage for the last 4 years and pretending that I liked it. Well today… you eat it!” and with that Gilligan slapped the pie into Mary Anne’s face.
Mary Anne sobbed humiliated tears and sat dejectedly with her dishevelled hair splashed with coconut cream. Gilligan threw her ponytails in her lap and, strolling away, said, “Something tells me you’re not in Kansas anymore.”
With a smile Gilligan walked back toward the hut. He was gonna settle a score with Mrs. Howell and he laughed as he pictured that dingbat broad with her curls clipped off, digging up her hubby’s buried cash.
It was a brand new island and Gilligan was The Big Kahuna.