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[AugustWest]

They don't give a shit Keith Moon is dead.

[Drygioni]

They don't give a shit Keith Moon is dead.

You say 'dead', but before you know it:

A helicopter comes down in the countryside. Stuffing and the bloody remains of an American curl are the only clues to the mysterious appearance of the chopper. A smashed jar lies on the floor, leaving a puddle of funky-tasting brew. There is one track leading away from the helicopter: an indent in the ground, much like the shape of a human face, lies half-formed in the mud.

A week later...
Lyle Gabriel sat at his desk, carefully adding the final flourish to his latest masterpiece. It had been a good week. Ever since his house-mate Teodor had gone missing, the sudden lack of booze in the house had finally ended Lyle's years of alcoholicism; after one clean night, he had awoken without his customary aching for liquor. He was free. Things Had Changed. His long repressed calligraphy skills finally burst out in all their glory, and before he knew it he had received five hundred job offers in all fields of industry. His talent stood to make him £40,000 a week, and he leaned back in his chair contentedly.

'If only Ma and Pa could see me now', he wondered aloud. A quick glance at the only remaining photo of his long lost parents stirred the inkling of an emotion within him. While before this emotion would have caused him to go on a three day drinking binge, he knew now that he could not hold onto the past. He was even slowly, but surely, beginning to get over Darlene.

The affable Mr Bear called him from the garden, which was currently in a state of immense beauty; Mr Bear was now able to devote his full time to this favourite hobby of his. Whereas before his days consisted of looking after Phillipe and working in various Adult Entertainment industries, the disappearance of Phillipe and Lyle's new income allowed him to fully enjoy his retirement.

Lyle was only all too eager to help plant the new dahlias. Putting the finished project to one side, he strolled out of the room. Looking at his clean new study and the works of art along the walls, he smiled to himself before continuing towards the garden.

Unbeknownst to the departing Lyle, a shape stirred in the corner of the room...

[V-Adore]

Dude, there shall be no fanfiction here!

Even if it's good fanfiction!

Also, full points for "alcoholicism," which I'm pretty sure isn't a word.

[side_show]

I just want to say that even if they had to kill that stupid otter to get to this strip, it would have been totally worth it.  That shit is creepy.

[Mite]

Didn't the Ruskies keep a dog's head alive for a few hours by attaching it to wires and tubes and stuff? I swear I'm not making that up.

[littlefallsmets]

Does anyone else hope that strange Gremlins-esque rules apply to Keith Moon's head?

Never get him wet with non-liquor or he'll multiply, never feed him non-liquor based foods after midnight or he'll turn more evil?

Never take him to a mad scientist's lab, else you get a hyper-intelligent Keith Moon's head, an immune-to-the-effects-of-sunligh Keith Moon's head and a creepy horny girl-version of Keith Moon's head?

[Bimmicus]

Uhmm...


hmm.


well.


I sure as fuck hope tomorrow is chicken.

[Mite]

That's exactly what I was thinking of. Given the quality of russian life sciences at the time, though, I'm inclined to think trickery was involved.

[Drygioni]

Cut to the door opening and one of doctors (looking stern in a white lab coat and all) stepping in and the doggie perks up in the box and trots over for a well deserved head pat.

Wouldn't it be funny if when the scientist patted him his head fell off? Eh? No?

[robot_god]

Keith's head is just bobbing around from the escaping carbon dioxide in its mouth:  Dead men's heads don't live.


Tomorrow, Ray and T slip into a coma from aldehyde poisoning, and Emeril is the poison control operator.  But who is going to call...?

[AlohaDawg]

Wouldn't it be funny if when the scientist patted him his head fell off? Eh? No?

I think they were two different dogs, unless they managed to reattach his head which I don't think anyone can do.

V-, could you verify the head staying alive by connecting the subject to an EEG and then decapitating it? You could time how long the device picks up brain activity.

Defining 'coming back to life' is an interesting question too.

[V-Adore]

V-, could you verify the head staying alive by connecting the subject to an EEG and then decapitating it? You could time how long the device picks up brain activity.

Theoretically. The issue here is more "nobody particularly wants this research to be done," in addition to "you could never ever do this on a person for moral reasons," than the actual difficulty of the experiment. EEGs would probably be better than just motor studies; honestly, a head can retain motor activity for a long time after any layperson would call it dead.

[Roger]

Somebody gotta call Mike Myers and tell him to update the script for his Keith Moon biopic, in order to include this latest development in his life (death?).

[theinevitable]

man
that dog risked it all for the good of the working class.

what they didn't tell you in the video is that as the scientist patted him on the head, he was saying "good work, comrade"
and the dog was all "yeah yeah, whatever dude I just want some beluga"

originally I had a clever joke, and now I forget it.

so you'll have to be satisfied with "haha! comrade! just like communists say!"

[misterqueue]

so you'll have to be satisfied with "haha! comrade! just like communists say!"

Actually, I believe they say tovarish there.



(I have totally stolen this learning, so you know... there you have that)