Okay, I'll be the narrator.  Damn.  I'm always the narrator in these things.  Life has cast me as the random friend.  A supporting character who has no real impact on the plot, and serves no actual purpose except to impart information.  I don't know, I guess I'm just that sort of person.  Average looks, average height, average dress.  I'm two bricks shy of a personality here.

 Oops.  Now I'm telling you about myself.  That's a big no-no.  It's one of those things they teach you in narrator-school (which is, of course, just a glorifying term for the practice of grabbing utterly average individuals on their way out of the bathroom and whispering storytelling rules to them.), never talk about yourself, no one cares.  Oh great, now I'm breaking rule #2 of narrator-school: you do not talk about narrator-school.  Oh wait, that's Fight Club.  Nevermind.

 "Hey, External-Monologue-Boy!  Ya wanna knock it off before you blow our cover?!"

 Oh, sorry. I say.  Great, I think to myself.  I alienated my super-team.  Now I'm the bad guy.  Everyone hates the narrator.

 "God f*cking dammit!"

 So as you probably have surmised by now, The SuperGalacticAvengersAndProtectorsOfPlanetEarth are on a very, very important mission.  We, collectively, are applying for a job.  The occupation in question, Customer Service Rep for E-vil.com.  The Evil started out in 96 as a consortium of supervillains out to dominate the world, but as of spring 98 they altered their business plan towards becoming an internet startup.  What you need for an internet startup, is first and foremost a good name.  With a name like E-vil, the venture capitalists were begging to give them money.

Of course, this left The SuperGalacticAvengersAndProtectorsOfPlanetEarth without an evil consortium to battle.  We tried to go public too, but with a company named www. SuperGalacticAvengersAndProtectorsOfPlanetEarth.com, they just laughed at us.  So we've been doing mall-openings, that sort of thing, but keeping up a super-secret lair of good in orbit around the Earth is not cheap, I can tell you.  And if I have to fucking clean up The Clone Room one more time I swear I'm going to-

 "HEY!  STORY!"

Okay, okay, sheesh.  <why'd they have to make so many copies of that stupid blonde girl anyway?  Great ass, sure, but she can't sing for shit.>  So now we mighty protectors of the universe and parts unknown are applying for a job here at the tastefully decorated offices of E-vil.com.  After a slightly longer than polite stay in the waiting room, our rag tag group of galactic defenders are surveyed by the evil lord himself.

 "So we meet again, Doctor Slaughter."

Says our fearless leader, Intrepidity Man, his sleek athletic muscles bulging visibly under his stylish emerald spandex.

 "Hi guys, great to see you. I'm Jimmy, great to meet you."

Says Dr. James Slaughter, PHD.  CEO of E-vil.com.  The Overlord of The Evil has changed.  This reporter thinks that trading the silver velour cape for a green fleece and khakis was an ill-advised fashion decision.

 "Oh hi, External Monologue Boy.  So guys, I have to say I was kind of surprised by your application.  Do you really think you can answer our phones and help people out with their websites?"

 "Uh, we, uh, have great people skills."

Says Fecundity Lad.

 "Well, yeah, being superheroes and all.  But how would this work?  I mean, there's six of you, who would answer the phone?"

 "I Will Answer Your Phones,"

Calls a voice from the doorway that causes the very air to thicken with lust.  Four Galactic Defenders, including myself, sit down.  Damn Spandex.  It is a voice that should pull dogsleds.  A voice that enters your body through the soles of your feet and exits through the pelvis, without stopping to visit Mr. Brain.  A voice that gives birth to passion, arousal, poetry, and obscene telephone bills.  Jimmy's jaw goes slack and his eyes unfocus for just a moment.  He mops his brow with the sleeve of the offending polarfleece.  He looks towards the door at a rather unattractive, dumpy woman in her mid-
 
"External Monologue Boy, Don't Make Me Hurt You."

Says that voice like sex with a supermodel you don't have to call in the morning.

 "Ahh, um, Oh my.  Ah, Hello, um, Phone Sex Woman."

Stammers a visibly aroused Jimmy Slaughter, who flashes a dirty look at External Monologue Boy, and then continues.

 "Um, yes, well. Quite right.  You're hired."
 
 
 
 

 Huh? Wassit?