I will write a new chapter every once in a while. You get to vote on what happens next! You control every twist and turn of the story! If the story comes out goofy, it's all your fault!

"Waah!" cried Spot, "All those big human people who voted at the end of the last story said I shouldn't be in this story!" He ran away and hid inside a box of fireworks kept directly under the bug-zapper that was hanging from the flimsiest limb Charlie Brown's Christmas tree. Most of him was never heard from again.

"Waah!" cried Kibo, "The readers of the last story also voted that I not be in this one! And I wasn't even in the last one!" Kibo was so mad that he wrote a sentence about the readers of the last story climbing into the box of explosives with Spot just before it blew up. Then it blew up again, in slow motion. Kibo was writing another sentence, about his readers suffering the tortures of the damned, when his doorbell rang. "Hooray!" yelled Kibo. "It's BIFF showing up so we can start this story!"

Kibo opened the door and Albert Einstein was standing there, with a flesh-colored Band-Aid covering his mustache. "Ja, Kibo, ich bin BIFF," said the good-natured professor, pointing to his T-shirt which had "BIFF's Shirt" written on it in crayon.

Kibo, always alert for such trickery, wasn't fooled. "Albert Einstein, you bozo, everyone knows that BIFF is a thirteen-year-old kid who would be of average intelligence if he didn't spend all day posting to the Internet in ALL CAPITALS, not a respected theoretical physicist with stuff stuck to his mustache!" With that, Kibo ripped off Einstein's Band-Aid to reveal --

-- that Einstein's mustache wasn't attached to his face as much as the Band-Aid was attached to the mustache. His mustache was fake, held on with toupee tape! And where it used to be was a small tattoo that said "KRAFTWERK RULES!" Einstein gasped and fled with his hands over his upper lip, embarassed that his shameful tattoo had been revealed. Now the scientific community would never again take his theories seriously!

Kibo made a mental note to have the "NO MAD SCIENTISTS" sign on his front door translated into German, and closed the door and locked it securely. He sat down in a big puffy distorted-looking easy chair, sort of like the one on "Blue's Clues" only not surrounded by stuff that makes toddlers smarter, and used his gigantic, manly remote control to turn on his TV so he could watch his second most favorite TV show of all time, NBC's "seaQuest DSV".

"You're watching NBC!" yelled the television, "NBC! The network that used to show 'seaQuest DSV'! Before we cancelled it! Five years ago!"

Kibo bellowed with rage and threw the remote control at the TV set. The remote control bounced off, and Kibo's ninety-six inch (diagonal) TV was unharmed, although it began wobbling back and forth on its little pedestal. Then it fell over, crushing Kibo's priceless collection of antique potato chips shaped like the cast of "Dawson's Creek." "Oh no! Now my great-great-great grandparents saved all those rancid potato chips shaped like the future James Van Der Beek for nothing!"

The doorbell rang again. "WHOEVER YOU ARE, YOU BETTER BE BIFF SO WE CAN GET THIS STUPID STORY STARTED BECAUSE I'M MAD!!!" Kibo yelled as he stomped over to the door. He opened it and saw --

BIFF!

BIFF was, indeed, thirteen years old. Zits showed through his greasy crew cut. His T-shirt was definitely too small, although on someone built like BIFF it could hardly have been otherwise. He was shaped like a pear. A sideways pear. Neither one of his sneakers was tied, probably because the ends of the laces had been cut off after his parents "fixed it" when he accidentally tied his own shoes together and then soaked the knot in nacho cheese. There were a number of odd stains evenly distributed over BIFF's clothes, most of which (the stains, not the clothes) appeared to be either Taco Bell products or plastic model cement. In fact, part of an Apollo lunar lander was stuck to his butt.

"Oh... it is you... BIFF," said Kibo, "do come in. And sit down. Over there, on the TV set that's already broken."

BIFF happily flung himself onto the jagged shards of the picture tube. "H1GH K1BØ !!!11" yelled BIFF, "ITS SØ GRATE 2 BE HEAR IN YØU"RE SUPPER-KØØL BATCHELØR PADD !!!!!!!!11"

Kibo handed BIFF a half-full can of beer, which he had saved from the last time BIFF had visited. (He never gave BIFF a whole can any more, not since BIFF threw up on Kibo's Electric Football game.) "So, BIFF, I see that my readers have voted you to have a robotic sock which marries The California Raisins."

"DUH ?////" said BIFF.

"Yes, I agree, it's 'duh'," said Kibo, "but according to the Constitution you gotta do it. I mean, your robotic sock has to do it. And then you have to wet your pants in an elaborate scheme involving Peter Graves, Martin Landau, Barbara Bain, and a nonexistent Communist Bloc country where there are signs that say 'DÄNGER ÊNTRY FÖRBYDDÈN' everywhere."

"HUH ????/ DUH ,,,,," said BIFF.

"Yes, and, you still owe me the cost of sending my Electric Football game to the cleaners."

"DAWRRRR ,,,, UH-HEY ?!?!?!" said BIFF.

Kibo handed BIFF a packet containing his mission briefing (One. Get a robotic sock. Two. Make it marry The California Raisins. Three. Wet pants.) and push BIFF out the window so he could get started.

"UH,,, M I SPØZED 2 B FALLING ????/" asked BIFF shortly before he landed horizontally across the top of an open garbage can. The edges of which had been sharpened for no reason.

"ØWWWWWW ,,,,,,,,!" said BIFF.

Leaving BIFF to his vitally important mission, Kibo got his three-inch-diagonal spare TV out of the attic and plugged it in so he could watch his very most favorite TV show of all time while BIFF was out having his exciting adventure.

"HELLØ ????/" yelled BIFF, "MY HEADS STUCK IN A RANSID CANTALØØP !!!!!!1 ALSØ DID SØME 1 REELY MEEN 2 THRØW AWAY ALL THESE USED DISPØSIBAL DIPERS ???????///

Kibo, of course, was paying no attention to BIFF. Because from this point on, Kibo was out of the story, as he was busy watching his very mostest speciallest favoritest TV show ever ever ever, namely:

"Pee-Wee's Playhouse: Bachelor Party of the Naughty Underwear Gals". That had been Kibo's favorite show ever since 381 people voted to make it so. (The big loser in the vote was "The Flintstones: Tomb of the Whoopie Sticker Dunderheads", which didn't sound like as exciting a show. So Kibo had to watch the more entertaining show against his will, because the people had spoken.

While Kibo watched the slightly naughtier-than-usual episode of "Pee-Wee's Playhouse", BIFF continued on his mission, namely, to get a robotic sock and then make it marry the California Raisins. While wetting his pants in a ridiculously elaborate scheme involving Peter Graves. BIFF, of course, had never heard of Peter Graves, because BIFF was only thirteen years old, and nobody who is thirteen years old has ever heard of anyone over the age of 80.

BIFF wandered aimlessly in the streets of his home town, which just happened to be in the exact geographic center of Pennsylvania. BIFF had no idea how or where to get a robotic sock, and he certainly had no clue how to make it marry the California Raisins. In fact, BIFF didn't even have a clue how to wet his pants. BIFF was abnormally clueless for his age.

He walked into a pet store. "HELLØ ????/ R THEIR N E RØTØBIK SØX IN HEAR ????///,,," he shouted, just before a cute little kitten bit his leg. BIFF screamed and ran away from the cute kitten that had outsmarted him.

BIFF looked for robotic socks in a Chinese restaurant, a deconsecrated church, a Boy Scout troop's campground, and a nudist camp. But he didn't find any robotic socks anywhere, not even at the nudist camp. (He looked really hard.) "DAM IT !!!!!1" yelled BIFF to himself, "I WANT MY RØBØTØBIK SØK ,,,"

Just then, BIFF had a clever idea! Of course, it floated harmlessly through his brain and escaped into the atmosphere because he couldn't possibly comprehend anything that clever. Then he had a less-clever idea that he did understand: Instead of looking for the robotic sock, BIFF would first look for some wet pants!

He went into the nearest store. "DØ U HAV N E WETT PANTTS ???¿??//" howled BIFF. The clerk said the word "no" verrrry slowwwwly for BIFF's benefit and BIFF left the robotic sock store without any wet pants.

Just as BIFF was concluding that he would never see any wet pants, much less a robotic sock married to the California Raisins, he turned the corner and bumped into an elderly man with an all-white Moe Howard haircut.

"Hello, BIFF," said the stranger in a smoothly ominous voice, "I'm... PETER GRAVES."

"WHØ R U ?????????//"

"I said, I'm... PETER GRAVES."

"O ........ WHØSE THAT ?????????//"

"PETER GRAVES... star of 'Mission: Wet Pants'. I am the man who is here to help you wet your pants."

"EWWWWWW !!!!!!11122 THA"TS GRØSE ????/ WHØ CAME UP WITH THIS IDAEA, N E WAY ?????//"

Peter Graves pulled a tiny computer (CIA-designed) out of one of the many hidden pockets in his neutral gray trenchcoat and showed BIFF a Web page where people could vote on what happened to BIFF. He explained that people had determined that BIFF was to have an adventure titled "BIFF's Robotic Sock Marries the California Raisins in 'Mission: Wet Pants'" and that Kibo would not be in the story and that Kibo's favorite TV show was "Pee-Wee's Playhouse: Bachelor Party of the Naughty Underwear Gals." Peter Graves patiently explained to BIFF that because America was a democracy, if he didn't do what people said he'd have to go to jail, because every vote counts.

"DUH,, GAWRSH !!!!!!!!!!11" duhhed BIFF.

"Yes, BIFF, 'gawrsh' indeed. And furthermore, the people on this disinformation-filled, propagandistic, perverted Web site are at this very moment voting on another important issue. While my team of secret agents (Barbara Bain, Peter Lupus, Greg Morris, Martin Landau, and Potsie) are attempting to subvert this vote to return the rightful rule from the people to the other people, we must nevertheless prepare ourselves for the possibility that Communist agitators could rig this vote so that the next thing that happens to you is:"