October 31, 1998, Castle Rock, Maine - The streets of this normally-bustling town are fairly quiet this afternoon, as the cloudy skies begin to drizzle rain. Children's laughter bounces off the houses as they hurry home on their bicycles, trying to avoid the rain. In the distance, a man carrying a satchel makes his way up the street.
"Stupid good-for-nothing Postmaster General! Doesn't know his elbow from a damn hole in the ground," he mutters to himself, as he frenetically paces up and down the pathways leading to the brightly colored homes. "Supervisors always think they're such big shots. Gonna show them! Tell me to shut up, will they?"
"Hey Mister," the kids yell from their bikes. "That movie about you with Kevin Costner - IT SUCKED!" The sound of their taunting laughter as they ride away beats savagely within the postal worker's skull as he grimaces in pain. "You little BASTARDS! Don't you EVER talk about Kevin Costner like that again!" He reaches into his mail bag and the gleam of steel shimmers from out of the darkness. His body stiffens, the voices in his head scream out to him: "DO IT! DO IT!"
"No," he says to himself. "Can't do it here," as he loosens his grip on the gun. "If I kill here, all is lost." He draws a deep breath, "Must wait until I get back to the office." He repeats his mantra, "Must... keep... control," as he struggles with every stitch of what is left of his sanity. He must remain focused, on this, what is sure to be his last day on the job. As he swings open the massive wooden gate leading to the old house, his thoughts are concentrated on his "mission" and he fails to notice the gashes in the wood and the dried smears of blood.
Thunder resonates; sheets of rain drench the postal worker from head to toe. The ominous sound of the heavy wooden gate thudding closed behind him snaps the last remaining straw of forbearance within him. His head fills with screams. The only thought that can get through the thick molasses of his madness is this: someone must pay.
The mailman's crazed eyes survey the landscape. A low rumbling noise draws his attention towards a massive St. Bernard, foaming at the mouth. Crouched not twenty feet away, the dog's haunches are tensed and it's clear that an attack is imminent.
A gruesome smile slowly forms on the postal worker's face. As he reaches into his mailbag, he asks his adversary, "You feelin' lucky? Bring it on, bitch!"
So John, choose the champion in this canine-courier conflagration!
JOHN: This ultimate dog-mailman matchup has been a long time in coming, and frankly, HotBranch, I'm going to have to go with the dog. After all, mailmen are much filthier and sweatier than dogs, and can't be taught as many tricks. Also, the dogs have a score to settle - these mailmen are always invading their piss-demarcated territory - time to set things right.
In fact, let's check out the violence track record of insane postal workers. Quite an extensive list, I'll admit, but the thing you quickly start to realize is that deranged mail carriers are only good at picking off other mail carriers. And it's not like that's such a challenge in the first place. Who wouldn't run up a huge killboard if all they were chasing was in the post office? My grandmother would notch up more kills, and she's dead! If this postman possessed any real killing skills, he wouldn't be a postman, he'd have a job like Marine, or mercenary, or Buffalo Sabre.
Let's do the Tale of the Tape: Cujo is a two-hundred pound rabid St. Bernard, possessed with the spirit of a serial killer. The prototypical postal worker is Cliff Clavin, or possibly Taylor Negron, most likely possessed with the spirit of peach schnapps. Good God, HotBranch, this is about as mismatched a fight as you get. Indeed, Cujo would have snacked on some postal worker skull earlier than this, except that in Cujo's eponymously-titled novel, the postman was too damn lazy to finish his route! (BTW, where is the horror book entitled "The rabid crazy postal worker who killed a shitload of people and whose name became synonymous with terror"?)
Ten seconds after he claws the postal worker's neck into the next county, Cujo lifts his hind leg over the engorged body of his adversary, sprays the corpse with steaming hot urine, cocks his head slightly to the left, and says "ˇYo Quiero Taco Bell!".
HOTBRANCH: Personal hygiene aside (including yours Johnny-boy), it's time for a reality check, and this one clearly indicates that the dog is going to be put to sleep. If there's a score to settle, it's our less-than-gruntled postal worker who is going to take care of it. Scienticians have known for quite a while that dogs communicate via "pee-mail". It's not bad enough that e-mail is taking away jobs from the posties, now dogs are making matters worse. For that alone, Cujo should be eating hollow-point kibble.
The violence track record for USPS employees is unimpeachable. Dogs, on the other hand, St. Bernards in particular, have nothing to brag about. Most dog-related attacks are A) the work of Rottweilers or Pitbulls and B) against children that were poking said dogs in the eyes or the 'nads. You'd probably maul a child too, if it poked you in the balls. What recent claim to fame do St. Bernards have? Um, well, er... There's Beethoven. Oh, and Beethoven's 2nd. Whoop-de-frickin-do! If a St. Bernard can't even get out of a gig that involves Charles Grodin, do you really expect it to get out of the way of speeding bullet? (Granted, Grodin is a bomb, but he can only bore you to death, not turn you into swiss cheese.)
As for your Tale of the Tape, do you honestly think that a postal worker who is a few sandwiches short of a picnic is best represented by Cliff Clavin or Taylor Negron? No, my ill-informed friend. The man you seek is Newman! He is the living embodiment of madness in a postal uniform. Not only does Newman outweigh his canine competitor, he has previous experience in "doggie disposal". Finally, you should consider the time it will take for Cujo to cover the distance that separates canis-familiaris from homo-sapiens. Donovan Bailey, the world's fastest man, ran the 100 meters in 9.84 seconds. Assuming Cujo has Olympic-calibre sprinting ability (and that's one big ASSumption), it will take over half a second to travel the 20 feet. Your typical 9mm bullet travels around 1000 feet per second. Twenty feet will take a piddling 0.02 seconds, roughly 25 times faster. The hollow tips will quickly ventilate the pooch and begin a killing spree that will end up in a tangled mess of bodies and melted mozzarella at the local Chuck-e-Cheese.
JOHN: After reading your opening arguments, HotBranch, I have just one question for you: How does a little boy like you get a hold of big boy smut like this?
And NEWMAN! You bring up the Spectre of NEWMAN??? By my count, the man lost once to the Dilophosaurs on Isla Nublar, and once to Cliff Claven. If Newman is your benchmark, the impeachability of Postal Worker violence reaches near-Clinton levels.
Your physics, on the other hand, would be at least somewhat accurate if you assume away that a) the postal worker has already drawn his weapon, and b) much more seriously, that the postal worker is clean and sober. I think we can agree that your second assumption is taken strictly from the realm of fiction. Let's give the letter carrier the benefit of the doubt and assume that Cujo takes a five-minute nap before strolling over to where the postman is. Here's how I see this time breaking down:
0:00-1:00 Postal worker searches for gun amid Reeses' wrappers and frito-lay bags.
1:00-3:00 Unable to find gun, Postal worker sits down on grass and weeps in frustration. Cujo now in deep fifth-tier REM sleep.
3:00-3:30 Postal worker consumes appropriate amount of amphetamines and amaretto to achieve USPS standards of intoxication.
3:30-4:00 Postal worker notices he has been holding weapon all along.
4:00-4:30 Further weeping.
4:30-5:00 Postal worker looses several shots in general direction of dog-shaped blur. Random slug catches neighbouring postal worker in thigh. Second postal worker returns fire.
5:01 Cujo dismembers Postal worker like Nebraska football vs. Temple
And as for your nad-poking, eye-gouging arguments, let's look at recent pro wrestling history, shall we? Karl "The Mailman" Malone (clearly disgruntled from losing to the Bulls for the millionth time), lost a match with Hulk Hogan, who then went on to lose to Jay Freaking Leno. Using transitive logic we can therefore deduce that:
QED, The postman only rings once.
HOTBRANCH: Truly, John, you are too polite. You graciously open doors for me to walk through that I can then SLAM IN YOUR FACE!
It's amazing that you, of all people, would bring up the subject of intoxication. (Actually, not so amazing; rather another of your predictable drunken mistakes.) St. Bernards are almost always seen with kegs around their necks. Now I know that makes this the ideal dog for you, but you have to figure that Cujo has been taking a few nips from his necklace ornament and is probably drunker than the letter carrier. Even if our gun-totin' USPS worker is drunk and hasn't drawn his weapon, Cujo still gets up close and personal with a barrage of Black Talons, because the satchel will gladly cede the way to the bullets.
If you do not accept Newman as the ultimate in disgruntled postal worker, I then counter with David Berkowitz. Checkmate! The "Son of Sam" not only was a postal worker, he was one of the most feared serial killers in New York city, a place that don't scare so easy. Before embarking on his killing spree, Berkowitz killed his neighbor's dogs for barking too much; you think Cujo will be spared the same fate? No chance! Face it, John, USPS employees are much scarier than anything Stephen King could ever dredge up from the darkest recesses of his mind, and they are real, as opposed to King's Fiction-by-the-Pound books. Our disgruntled postal worker will reduce Cujo to roadkill (without the road) in less than 3 seconds.
"BAD DOG! When I say sit, YOU SIT! THEN YOU DIE AND YOU GO TO HELL!"
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Well, let's face it. This is not going to be much of a fight, but I'll run some stat checks and a play-by-play to show everyone playing at home how this match turns out.
First, lets check the intelligence of the two combattants:
St. Bernard - dumber than dirt
Postal worker - dumber than stupid dirt
Now lets check the weapon systems:
Angry dog- Sharp teeth and probably a few diseases....
Postal worker- Nice rifle (all postal workers are NRA members) and a few diseases
Finally let's check undeniable urges:
Angry Dog - overwhelming urge to kill, pee, and hump anything in sight.
Postal worker - read above.
That little analysis just lets me show that these two contestants are on fairly equal ground. Now, let's check the play-by-play.
I say that the postal worker, sober or not, takes a minute or two before he realizes what a dog is and what the gun must do to it. Then he takes another, say thirty seconds, to figure out which end of the gun to point at the dog. Finally, the poor guy realizes that bullets are needed, which takes another minute or two. Unfortunately by this time, Cujo has killed 8 children, marked over 6 square miles of "territory", and has done the "Good and Plenty(tm)" with his leg 3 times. By the time the two have figured out whats going on, they are too tired and confused to fight, so they just curl up into a little ball and snooze for a while. Meanwhile, as you remember, this is Halloween night. I'll leave it up to your imagination what will happen when a bunch of teenagers up to no good find a sleeping dog and a postman with firearms..... Bottom line, even Soccer Hooligans are talking about what happened on "The Night of 1000 Howls".
The mailman's eyes gleemed pure hysteria. The big dog kept its gaze on him, the foam from its mouth slathering the pavement below. Any minute now it would jump. Any minute now...
The mailman's grip tightened on double-barrel. He was scared. Not scared enough to piss his pants, but A-one-f*ckin' close. Slowly he pulled out...
The writer came to a halt. How was he going to get the mailman out of this fix? He was already on probation from the Postmaster General after his last bout of carnage. Suddenly, an idea came to light. He continued typing:
...of his mailbag a bulk delivery of taco sauce. Without a second thought he threw the sauce at Cujo. Hitting the ground, it burst and doused the maniacal mutt with eye-blinding irritation. Before the massive dog was able to come to, he was viciously set upon and cut to pieces by a Rottweiler's weight in chihuahuas which had been attracted to the taco sauce. Cujo was no more.
"Well," Stephen King said to himself, "it lacks the suspense of a Stand or Misery, but I gotta fill my quota for this month." He then proceeded to crank out the next three novels he had to complete before dinner.
(hey, this is Castle Rock, Maine, after all)
- Chris 'Jedi' Knight Postal workers should be disgruntled if they have to wear shorts like that
Postal Worker: product of real life ("truth is stranger than fiction" rule is in effect), stress and insanity (adrenaline levels high, increasing reflexes, balance, and strength), and public services (the most maddening jobs of all, including police, bank tellers, and the most feared, the taxi drivers *shudder*.
Cujo(literally): product of Steven King, one of the most bestselling authors, ever, and owner of the most sick, twisted imagination this side of Hell.
Cujo(fictionally): a big, foaming dog. Oh. Wow.
I mean, jeez, if you're the spirit of a serial killer, pick something a little more tough to kill! The problem with all these evil spirits is that they take the stupidestforms!
Child's Play 1,2,3,and now 4: Judas Priest! A foot-tall doll is going to take out our ankles! RUUUUUUNNNN!
Demonic Toys:AAAAAAACCCKKKKKKK!!!!!!!!! A shameless rehash of Child's Play! NNNNNNNOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!
And so on and so forth. I did hear of one movie that was about possessed trees. Trees! Honestly, one would think the dead would have more sense! Get with it, you damned souls!
- Tracer "critic in training" Malone
That said, I will quote:
"Ten seconds after he claws the postal worker's neck into the next
county, Cujo lifts his hind leg over the engorged body of his adversary,
sprays the corpse with steaming hot urine, cocks his head slightly to
the left, and says "ˇYo Quiero Taco Bell!". "
Kinda insulting to the Chihuahuas there John.
Not to mention, if I may quote further:
"Dogs, on the other hand, St. Bernards in particular, have nothing to
brag about. Most dog-related attacks are A) the work of Rottweilers..."
I think this blantant taunting cannot go unanswered any longer. Consider also that Cujo will be covered in gobbets of DPW, which is somewhat similar to Salsa, at least the kind they make in New York City...
If I may quote one more time:
"It is a little known fact that the chihuahas many moons ago, back in
the time of the Incas, were highly feared. They were basically LAND
PIRAHNAS, roving the country side in gigantic packs that would raise up
a tremendous amount of dust, often obscuring the sun. Chihuahas still
remember those glory days of yesteryear, and that is why they are
collectively pissed. Memories, misty water-colored memories of the way
they were, drive those furry little balls of attitude to shred that
Rottweiler in 2.2 seconds. End of story. "
Thus, we can determine that the victors are the Chihuahuas, in 12.2 seconds.
Disgruntled Postal Worker: Obsessed with revenge.
This couldn't be more one-sided if the Disgruntled Postal Worker had a wooden leg.
- Call me Michael Leung.
- Jan B.
Let's look a little closer at the quote John made in his opening argument:
"If this postman possessed any real killing skills, he wouldn't be a postman, he'd have a job like Marine, or mercenary, or Buffalo Sabre."
No Buffalo Sabre has the guts to go up against Cujo! Need I remind you that Cujo was Edmonton's best player, until he went East in search of more money and a team who needed a good goalie even more than the Oilers (the Maple Leafs)?
Curtis Joseph is da man! He went to high school in Wilcox, Saskatchewan, facing the cold, white Arctic tundra that is Southern Prairie Canada. No American mailman can face the American stereotype that is Canada's below-zero temperatures!
He single-handedly brought a mediocre team such as the Oilers past the first round of the Stanley Cup two years running!
Give me good ol' Canuck-style hockey over the other made-in-Beaverland sport known as basketball any day!
- Vlad, Oiler fan of Wonder
As far as I could tell, your description of the setting implied a large amount of rain. I'm guessing that our disgruntled friend will pull the action on his automatic and find the water has gummed up the works. With 300 pounds of rabid (What is the "possessed by serial killer thing?" He was bitten by a rabid bat) dog barreling into him, our "quick" thinking hero in blue will swing that bad mother of gun in the only workable way, as a club. Unfortunatly, years of not delivering the mail has left our U.S. employee with a Cliff Claven, dare I say, Newmanesque (TM) physique. His slow muscle reactions allow him maybe one swing at the big poochie before the furry embodiment RAGE(tm) uses paws, claws, and jaws to rip your friendly neighborhood postal worker a new mail slot. Cujo gorges himself on Civil Servant Sausege(tm) while the mail man find out what happened to his friends in the I.R.S.
Cujo in 3 seconds, 5 if the mail man gets a swing of the gun in, 1 year if you count the time it takes for him in injest and dijest the embodiment of laziness.
- Joe Gottman
Now, why am I a jerk? Well, as is the case with most of my friends, as a youngster I was quite a Hellraiser; my exploits ranged from the usual and expected Shenanigans of eggings, prank phone calls and toilet-paperings to the Advanced Tomfoolery of psychological torment and warfare. In the winter, I would hurl snowballs at the local police dog German Shepherd (never said I was all that bright...); in the summer it was usually rocks (what a JERK! ). One day, I was on my paper route (I forgot to mention I was a loser as well as a jerk), and this dog managed to get loose, and recognizing me for the jerk that I am, ran over and bit me. I've been deathly frightened of this Hellspawn ever since; it's been about 7 years, so that evil beast is probably dead.
I've also designed numerous tortures for my mailman as well. One of my favorites is putting up that flag for no reason (hehe, they hate that shit), but the best is blocking the mailbox with my car. Now, you would expect that a mailman would get particularly steamed about this, but my mailman usually just drives by with nary a word or threat; he just delivers that day's mail later on in the week with a note telling that the box was blocked. Pathetic.
So, I have been bitten by a measely 100 pound German Shepherd (not anything near a 200+ St. Bernard, and no match for the legend that is Cujo), while my mailman was nowhere's near evil enough to even honk at my parked car.
- Adam B.
Though not because he'd maul, rend, and devour the postal worker. Not a chance. Cujo would be discount lunchmeat for an elementary school before he got remotely near killing distance.Why, you may ask? (Of course you would! You have to!) Because of:
Really Obscure References(tm).
Postal Worker: Recieves his divine intervention from none other than the game Postal. Sure, teeth, slobber, a healthy heapin' of The Rage(tm) and that whole physics thing (mass, weight, velocity... well, whatever) go in Cujo's favor, but how is that gonna help you against an arsenal that makes the Predator look wussy?(or that pansy, Boba Loo, too.)
So how is Cujo gonna win this one? Simple.
Remember, some while back, there was an album. On that album was a song. In that song, there was a reference. Went something like "[Something] like Zorro. Crazy like Cujo." That's right, ladies and gentlemen, Cujo's got the support of The Fresh Prince(tm?) in his corner.
Everyone knows that The Fresh Prince later became Will Smith, who later became K(er... J?) from the Men in Black.
The MIBs have already proven their Grudge Match superiority by taking out the only Mentos Level Cool(tm) figure to come out of the 70's, Mork.
This match in the amount of time it takes J(K?) to retrieve K(J?) off the roof (darn noisy crickets!) and plant a tree where their dear, departed Cujo died.
(Side note: Bragging rights go to the Postal Worker, but knowing you're better than a rabid dog don't mean jack after having a hole blown in you that happens to be bigger than you are. Were. Whatever.)
- Mighty Florist
Yo, Flo! Will Smith is the MiB formerly known as J - Eds.
- Joel Mathis
Welllll, seeing as I was a former postal employee, I can tell you a thing or two about a thing or two...
(going back into human mode)
Like I was saying, as a former employee, I have to give it to any USPS worker vs any rabid canine. I've seen how these people drink, for god's sakes, they're animals. Luckily, I was fired due to a lack of keeping myself awake at all hours of the night-so I didn't "go postal." A mailcarrier's life is a much harsher life than I experienced, but I can tell you this, any psychotic person harboring all his demonic temptations is ALWAYS GOING TO DESTROY ANYTHING IN HIS PATH, INCLUDING A DOGGIE. So in ending my statement, god bless america, and god bless our mail carriers, for if it wasn't for them, I wouldn't receive my Playboy(TM) on schedule.
- MAILMAN OVER CUJO IN A SLAUGHTER
Cujo leaps at the postman, mouth open wide to swallow his head. In return the few-tacos-short-of-a-combination-plate postman pulls out the aforementioned AK-47 and adds a few new orifices to the fluffy dog's pelt. Just to be fair, lets say this doesn't kill the presumably supernatural Cujo (They never die easy). Cujo would land a foot or so short of his goal. The terror of suburbia, now in a good mood, would let the b***h have it. Then blow up the leftover pile of quivering dogmeat wit one of his many mail bombs. Free hot dogs for all the surviversOf the subsequent mailman rampage.
PS- "Sex, lies, and videotape"!?! I hear enough about Clinton's hobbies on TV for Chrissakes!
- Gen. Moore
Sorry, Cujo, but you should have stayed on the porch.
- Big Sexy Jared Goodrich
- The Demented Astronomer
On the other, we have Cujo. Man, natural dogs were hunting man down and turning him into kibble before humans were walking erect. Cujo is possessed by the spirit of a psychopathic murderer. One who was GOOD at what he did. He's smaller, he's lethal, and he has no compunctions about going straight for the throat.
Cujo takes this one. By the throat. And wrestles it around a little before settling down to eat.
Am I writing this to you in a postcard? I don't think so.
This postman bombs worse than Costner.
- Dan McD. (firstname.lastname@example.org)
I actually had to THINK as to who would win this one, but I have decided to go with the postal worker. First, you've got the "insane factor," something I am quite an expert on. Now be honest, have you ever heard of anyone or anything going "Cujo" on someone? Now have you heard of anyone going "postal?" I thought so. But I digress.
Secondly, and more importantly, you've got the weaponry factor. Put simply, postal workers have some type of gun. Posessed rabid St. Beranards on a Killing Spree(tm) don't. Any questions? "But what if the postal worker is drunk?" I believe Adam Sandler said it best: "WHOOPITEE-DOO!(tm)" If he's sober, the postal worker will finish it with one clean gunshot to the head. If he's drunk, the postal worker will fire so many shots that he's guaranteed to kill Cujo with one or more of the bullets. Without true insanity or guns, Cujo is toast.
By the way, Brendan, I still know what you did on John Wayne vs. Clint Eastwood. Expect a suggestion from me in the coming weeks about my previous challenge.
- Devin The Mental Hospital Escapee
- Big Boy
Furthermore, there's always the Friday-the-13th-Clause(tm). The first killing only LOOKS like it was successful. Aw crap, I gotta change my vote because while the USPS guy is creaming his shorts from "killing" Cujo, the dog gets up and eats the gun, somehow manages to fire it and have the bullets come out his mouth, and reduce the USPS guy to hamburger through the wonder of the expansion of hollowpoint bullets.
Ah hell you guys never print my stuff anymore so why the hell did I bother anyways?
- Squidboy of the Windy City
My dictionary is bridged quite nicely, thankyouverymuch! - HB!
While Cujo is just a dumb rabid dog, the postal worker has reasons to fight: stamps losing to the @ sign. He has got the Rage(TM), man!!
With the anger and might of an unemployed Pony Express Rider he rips apart Cujo and then goes on to destroy Compuserve.
Alright, now that I've got a little attention, someone has to tell me where Cujo is. Damnit people, can we shut up for two seconds so I can get some answers?!
What??!!? I knew this was going to happen...I knew I was gonna be too late. Stupid government, always waiting until the lives of the mostly harmless American public are in danger! And a Postal Worker??? He's working for the government, for Chrissakes! Someone's head is gonna roll, and it ain't gonna be mine.
Who am I? I'm just a lowly Animal Rights Activist, out there slinging the sign over my shoulder and wearing my little button like everyone else. We've been talking a lot about this whole Cujo mess, and we've very proud to finally announce to you, the readers of WWWF, that we have joined forces with the Human Rights Society to fight for the dog that cannot fight for himself: Cujo. Our reasoning is very simple. We know that he's possessed by the spirit of a bloodthirsty serial killer, and therefore can, in theory, carry out human thought functions. So really, he should get "punished" in the legal system just like everyone else.
No more bones, Cujo! I don't have any more! My leg is NOT a bone! No, Cujo, nnnnoooOOOOOOOoooooooooo......
- Fire and Ice
Anyway, no matter who wins, this is going to be the shortest Grudgematch since Death Star vs. Enterprise.
- King of No Media
The gun has flown from his hands in the fall and sits, useless, on the lawn just out of his reach. Cujo leisurely pads towards the postal worker and pins him down with a massive paw. With a victorious snarl on his face, he brings his slavering muzzle towards the mailman's panic-stricken face. But the overconfident Cujo underestimates his opponent and, in a last ditch effort, the mailman lunges up at Cujo's throat. The postman's teeth find the jugular, and he clamps down hard. Cujo tries to yelp, but no sound will come as the postman violently thrashes at the dog's throat. Another moment, and it is all over.
"Neither rain nor snow nor sleet nor hail nor gloom of night shall stay these appointed couriers from opening up a can of Whoop-Ass"
I know, I know, I KNOW dammit, in the movie Dee Wallace ultimately iced Cujo with the gun, but I'm speaking about the book here. In the book, Cujo wasn't merely rabid, he was possesed! In the book, the lady had to beat the dog to death with the bat, and continued beating him until she collapsed. (Is that sensationalism or just good writing?)
Also, in the book, the little kid DIES. But that's Hollywood for ya. Anyway, just because some blubbering asshole who's been pushed far enough to pick up a gun comes knocking on Cujo's door doesn't mean Cujo is a dead doggie. Hell, one look at the blood-and-mud caked dog will probably send this already-fragile postal worker over the edge and cause him to put a bullet into his own skull. We have romanticized disgruntled postal workers to the point where we make them seem much more dangerous than they actually are. Most of them end up being killed by the post office's SECURITY GUARD. Think about that shit. Is Cujo going to drop for a rent-a-cop? Didn't he EAT a cop? Thank you.
Oh, yeah, one more thing: it's Halloween. The monster CAN win.
- Phat Cheops
Kinda similar to comparing a tornado and a hurricane -- you never want to be in either (unless you're drunker than both Cujo and the postman combined), but a tornado just zaps a specific geographic point with one good shot, whereas a hurricane pretty much wipes out a several-hundred-square-mile radius over the course of about several days.
Take this analogy a step further: Cujo jumps the postman, delivers a few bites, and gets pumped full of lead in the process. He staggers off somewhere and dies a miserable death. Suddenly, a chorus of weeping kids is heard in the distance...OH NO, you killed Beethoven!
Mr. Eisner will hear about this!
TOO LATE, BRATS! I SMOKED HIM THREE HOURS AGO WHILE I WAS DELIVERING HIS MAIL! Kinda like this...BANG BANG BANG BANG!!!! Say "hi" to your mutt for me! HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!
Not stopping with that one rampage, he waltzes into the local post office, then makes Swiss cheese out of the boss and a few other employees. Afterwards, he waltzes into the local Whataburger and offs a few dozen folks there. Next, he encounters the local sheriff and Barney Fife-type deputy and delivers a few fatal rounds them-ward.
Finally, the ATF is called in...representatives of the government...the source of the Fury that Dwells within Him. At last, his shot at the ultimate revenge...give the interns all the good government jobs, will they? I'll show them!!!!! He'll die in the bloodbath that ensues, but not before taking a few dozen Feds with him in the process.
The Postman Always Rings Twice...or three...or four...or maybe even a couple hundred dozen times. Too bad pooches don't have Nine Lives.
- The Genius Formerly (and Still) Known as Eddie
POSTMAN: Take this ya damn flea-bitten,$h!t-caked mongrel!
(Cujo falls to the ground, wounded and bleeding as the postman walks away, laughing. As he walks through the town, his eyes pass the window a store,called Needful Things. In the window, there is a >GASP!< ballistic missle! He quickly runs in, where the man running the store, Leland Gaunt, sells it to him after hypnotizing him into walking next to a sewer and sticking his arm down there.)
POSTMAN: Hey...why the hell am I doing this?!
(He sees a clown in the sewer)
CLOWN:They float down here,"Postie"...They FLOAT! And when youre down here, YOULL FLOAT TOO!!!!
As the clown begins ripping his arm off, a bloody girl in a prom dress, a grizzly old man with a rouque mallet, a cult of cleaver wielding children, and about ten thousand animated pet corpses descend on him! Things are looking grim...
For the postman turns out to be none other than MICHAEL CRICHTON, one of King's biggest competitors! King gloats about the greusome events ocurring downtown as the world is spared of yet ANOTHER Jurassic Park sequel!
- Quoshbog the Bullfrog (And Stephen King scholar)
If we can't even find any good opportunities to get in cheap shots on bad movies, then WHAT'S THE GRUDGE MATCH WEBSITE COMING TO, ANYWAY?
PS -- Gun = range. Teeth = no range. Range > no range, therefore Cujo = "Lie Down, Play Dead."
Post men are forced to wade through knee high puddles, no LAKES of Dog piss and bardge asside foltilas of dog Feaces to actually reach the post box, which for some reason. On opening the letters fall into said lake, oh, and some tramp has urinated in the box, mistaking it for a toilet after an all night methalated spirit bindge.
This, over the average career is engough to slowly unhinge the mind of any postal worker. As he walks down the streets he does not percieve the world as we do. He sees the dogs, laughing, yes laughing at him, the hundreds of personal insults, rigned in red on the letters. The voices (Not at this address, NOT AT TEHIS ADDRESS NOT AT THIS ADDRESS!) chanting, chanting.
This added to the coctail of drugs required to keep a human being up and walking down streets 24 hours a day. Soon, the world begins to take on a new quality. The trees and houses begin to turn grey, whilst letters, dogs and postboxes all take on hightend bright colours, other postman pass him by, they are mumbling, how dare they. how DARE they, they think they have it bad??
Also, bare in mind that this is happening in a small town area, the horrible 'cute kids' the white picket fences. As he drives through they tree lined avenues, the sun flickering theough the branches adds to the madness.
Now, cut to the end of the day, urine sodden, mad, high on all sorts of drugs he sees Cujo waiting for him. He snaps. Aiming his gun he fires at the dog, bullets blast into the dogs shoulder, the dog takes it unflinchingly, but the sparks from the gun are enought to ignite the cloud of meths spirits in his bag from the tramps piss. The Postman explodes and burns with a horrible smell.
- Seb Rabit
A postal worker lives to sort, stack, and deliver neverending, monotonous mountains of mail.
A disgrunled postal worker realizes that sorting stacking and delivering neverending monotonous mountains of mail isn't worth it. A disgruntled postal worker is enraged at the pointless futility and high stress levels of his life. A disgruntled postal worker wants one thing only.
The end of the typical rampage is invariably the same: postal worker either kills himself, or commits suicide by cop, going down in a final blaze of glory taking on "Th' MAN" (TM).
Building up to this psychotic break is an immersion of radical right wing ideology...he spends his meagre paycheck on high-powered weapons for "self defense", to be used in dire emergency against armed robbers, communists, Japanese Trick-or-Treaters, or any other Threat to the American Way of Life.
So, our postal worker is disgruntled, and in mid-psychotic break. His rage has dictated that SOMEONE MUST PAY before he succumbs to welcome oblivion. He has an illegally modified full-auto Desert Eagle .50 caliber pistol with an illegal 25 round clip that he bought to defend himself from outlaw bikers and liberals. He now has a target.
He is being threatened. His cause is just. His rage is demanding blood. His soul has resigned itself to an abrupt and painful end.
Cujo expects his prey to want to live, and Cujo expects to live to KILL AGAIN. The postal worker expects nothing of the sort, so he lets Cujo leap and get close enough so nothing is left to chance. As Cujo's jaws clamp around the postal worker's throat, 25 slugs the size of the cap on a "Dry-Erase" (TM) marker rip though his mangy body, turning him into 250lbs of pre-tenderized korean barbecue.
Our disgruntled postal worker, slowly suffocating due to his crushed windpipe, slips contentedly into the Long Night, knowing that HE TOOK THE BASTARD WITH HIM! HAHAHAHAHAHA! HAAAAAAAAAAAAA-HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!
The Disgruntled Postal Worker wins, having not only vanquished his foe, but also obtained from the cur a final release from the dreary drudgery of life in the Postal Service.
- SoupIsGood Food
As it turns out, this dog-vs.-postal-carrier thing was all just one big misunderstanding. Within minutes, Dr. Dolittle has the two sides shaking paws and making up.
"Let's stop this fussin' an' a-feudin'," begs the Postal Worker.
Cujo concurs and soon they are back at the Postal Worker's house watching TV and eating kibble. With his newfound mellowness (and hygiene), the Postal Worker also finds love--in the form of the bus driver lady on South Park. (It seems her personality is all one big misunderstanding, also.) Soon the pitter-patter of little misunderstandings is heard in their household. Proudly, the family members don their Sunday best(TM) as they are photographed for the cover of Time(TM) magazine's family of the year.
- Mark Wentz
How could anyone be voting for Cujo here, when the dog, while mighty, and truly a chihuahua-killing force to be reckoned with, is up against the single most threatening predator in the history of our fragile planet, the postal worker?
Perhaps if this was a mutated Cujo, the poor beast would have a chance. If, for example, Dr. Hammond got a crack at its DNA over at Jurassic Park (TM), and gave it Kevlar skin, steel teeth, infared vision, acid resistance (just 'cause he could) and a little Eye of the Tiger (tm), then Cujo would be able to make a showing for him- or herself.
As things stand right now, the dog hasn't a hope in hell. It may stalk. It may pounce. It may take out a fair number of innocent bystanders (if anyone in Castle Rock can be said to be innocent). It may even get a tantalizing taste of postal worker flesh. But eventually, this will end, as all battles in this century have, with this melodious sound:
*BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM*
It's like bloody poetry.
- Thomas Wilde
A couple years ago (true story), I was on my way to pick up my wife for lunch when I passed some semi-gruntled postal workers picketing outside of their office. Though these folks were armed with nothing more deadly than balsa stakes, I can't begin to describe the sinking feeling I got in the pit of my stomach at the sight of them. I got out of there quick, and my wife and I had lunch on the other side of town.
I've also seen angry dogs, some from alarmingly close range. Yes, it scared me, but that was just an adrenaline reaction. It wasn't the mind-numbing terror that hit me when I saw the potentially-disgruntled postal workers. I know what to do if a dog tries to take me out (although getting jumped by Cujo is no normal dog attack). If a DPW opened fire nearby, I don't think I'd do anything but pray.
Finally, the expression is "to go postal", not "to go Cujo" or "to go Stephen-King". The DPW drills Cujo, exploding him like a blood sausage.
Dog and Postman will immediately recognise in the other an ally, and will together go to the post office. Once there, they will take out all of the civil servants there, and will flood the mail with copies of the Manifesto. These will be received by every man, woman, and child in America, except for one guy named Joe who lives in a tractor-trailer just outside of Omaha. Once the American people read the Manifesto, they will see it as the *one true way*, primarily because they confuse Karl Marx with the ever-popular Marx Brothers. The proletariat will rise up, overthrowing the government, and ridding us once and for all of the snore-inducing Monica Lewinsky scandal (though a small coalition of insomniacs will object to this.) Postman and dog will be put in charge, in a Lenin-Trotsky sort of situation. Unfortunately, just like the aforementioned Lenin and Trotsky, they will be torn apart by infighting, until the government is taken over by a Stalin for the new millenium.
1) The Stephen King movie is what, 10, 15 years old? Cujo is one ancient canine. Probably jumps up and bites someone's ass slower than Kate Winslet on a treadmill.
2) Newman was able to take down the complete computing and security system at Isla Nublar with only the single click of a mouse and crazed with greed. He can most assuredly take down a graying old St. Bernard with the squeeze of a trigger while crazed with the Postal Worker Blues.
- Chris Boyd
You might as well put a red shirt and starfleet badge on the postal worker. The very fact that he a) Doesn't have a name and b) has never been seen before on grudge makes him fit perfectly into the infamous Star-Trek-Beam-Down-To-The-Planet-Cannon-Fodder-Away-Team-Target (STBDTTPCFATT) category. Ensign Generic, meet evil title character who's gonna rip you a new hole.
I don't care how big, how strong, how rabid, or how supernaturally empowered Cujo is, let's see him wield a pistol, let alone a shotgun!
Personally, I've never understood those FOX specials (e.g. When Gophers Attack!); I just don't see the humans in any *real* danger as long as they've got OTP: Opposable Thumb Power (Not currently trademarked, incidentally). Why don't these stupid idiots pick up a rock, ferchrissakes, and bonk the oncoming zebra in the head with it? Even the Disgruntled Postal Worker should have enough sense to grab a weapon when Old Yeller charges. Even if he can't reach his Post-office standard issue sidearm, there's nothing stopping him fom grabbin' an Ugly Stick (TM) and whacking the bejeezus out of the poor mutt.
The end result? The Postal Worker is no longer disgruntled (does that mean he's gruntled?) and Cujo is left to star in Beethoven 3 with Charles Grodin. A fate worse than death!!!
- 1/2 Nelson
Then I read the commentary. Hot Branch's arguments defy logic.
First casting Newman as the prototypical mailman: Newman's devious, but he's still a wuss. Then he tries to paint Cujo as drunk from the little keg that he wears on his collar: First of all Cujo's a rapid dog from Maine, he's got no keg. Even if he did, Hot Branch's argument would still side with Cujo because those St. Bernards that do have the kegs perform Search and Rescue in snowstorms that most postmen would never go out in regardless of their pledge. Finally, Hot Branch invokes the Son of Sam. If he would only follow the HTML link he would see that the Son of Sam took his orders from a dog.
Yes I was thinking of voting for Cujo anyways but the logical geek in me demands that I MUST vote for Cujo just so Hot Branch and his illogical arguments go down to a well-deserved defeat.
I am a Franco-American, so I am oppressed. I should therefore side with Cujo, a victim of a heartless society too greedy to spend the money for proper bat control, against this enemy who is not only a whitemale&but a white male with a gun! As everyone who's been near a college in the last 10 years knows, white males with guns are the source of all evil! But wait&I am also a white male. In fact, I am very white (I've been known to tan under a 60 watt bulb) and very male (anything as hairy as me had better be male or on four legs) so I am also an oppressor. As a military-trained marksman and the son of an avid Maine deer hunter, I shouldn't be bothered by the gun issue. As a thinking man I should turn from the Franco-American lobby and other "victims" and look for real injustices to fight. And as a conservative and a student of the Constitution, I should realize that anyone standing up against the Executive branch without the Supreme Court or the Congress on their side will be crushed, so I should back the postal worker out of simple realism. What am I to do? I am a cheese-eating surrender monkey, but I am also the man I must surrender to! I am at war with myself!
But I am also a man of reason, and reason can't get around the cold realities of hot lead. With unearthly speed, the postal worker pulls out his semi-automatic .88 Magnum (It shoots through schools!) and turns Cujo into a particularly well-ventilated lawn ornament in mid-leap. She flops to the ground with a sickening thud-and-whimper combo reminiscent of the sound made by the Republican Party on election night. But the carnage is not over yet by any means. Castle Rock is so small that the deadification of every member of its post office staff could easily be accomplished with a single clip of ammunition, which is all our postal protagonist has with him. Checking his weapon, he finds a single bullet left. Then he does what natural law mandates that every disgruntled postal worker do after running out of ammo: He sits down and splatters his fevered gray matter all over the back fence. Out of decency, his mom waits three days before renting out his room.
- >Mr. Silverback- Went postal, liked it, decided to stay.
Mailman: Bring it on, you smelly beast! I've knocked off Lassie!!
Dog: Raaalff! Bark! *lunges*!
Mailman: *whips out gun, shoots the Dog right between the eyes*...
As you can see, life is crule for poor Cuji, or whatever his name was. Man has guns, Dogs have teeth. Well, I think that about sums it up.
- "better print my message" starnik
Meanwhile, Postal was a game in which you played a posessed postal worker trying to fight back demons from the nether realm. The fact that our Grudgie postal worker hears voices telling him to shoot gives pretty good evidence he's posessed. So if a postal worker can take out FBI agents with gauss rifles, i'm pretty sure he can handle this little doggie.
- Longfellow's wench
you guessed it. jaws. jaws' record isn't all that great, he's 0 for 4 in movies, and 0 and 1 in grudge matches, but now look at the mailman's picture. it seems to me that he is made up of clay in that picture. he vaguely resembles Mr Bill. Mr Bills record is 0 and 100000000000. remember that jaws at least got to snack on a few people before getting shot down. cujo by a mile.
- Bri Rob the Caveman
- Nicholas Eckert, a.k.a. the Vidstudent
As far as head start for the dog forget it. Have you ever looked at a Cujo's eyes? There redder than a socialist. Cujo won't see the gun, and the bullets will hit him before the sound reaches his ears.
Oh, great now I've agreed with Hotbranch. Thanks guys, now I'm going to need therapy to deal with this. Where did I put those bullets?
- Claymore, future Postal Worker
"Good ... bad ... I'm the guy with the gun."
And who's got the gun here?
- Kilgore Trout
- I.C. Sedablineman
More importantly, I'm writing to address the myth that we dogs have a paricular grudge against mailmen. To this I say BARK! and BARK! again. This dangerous stereotype greatly upsets my kind-almost as much as being considered to be a match for a mailman! Ha! All dogs know that as the intellectual superiors, we must triumph!
However, our mailman of mayhem has TWO tasks to juggle. He has to neuter poochy with the business end of an AK-47 to win, WHILE safely delivering that day's cards and catalogues to their appointed rounds, etc. As battle strategies go, it's like putting half your armies on Venezuela, and the other half on Irkutsk.
(Oh, Mr. Bonaparte, how'd that two-border war go? Anything to add, Mr. Hitler?)
A loony tune divided against itself cannot stand (particularly after you chomp off its Achilles tendon). I say that Mr. McFeely gets snuffed while simultaneously reloading with one hand AND trying to see which of the tiny boxes on the yellow redelivery slip was checked off.
The ultimate price of our postal pal's conflicting responsibilities will end up in a little plastic baggy, 36 to 48 hours later. That is, assuming that pooper-scooper laws remain in effect for the aftermath of this gruesome Grudge Match.
- The King of Tonga
Anyone who has agonized through this movie knows what I mean. Yes, it starts out with Cujo on the rampage but it quickly becomes blatantly obvious that the real evil is that hellspawn boy. His stupid monster rules, his incessant whining and his ear-shattering screams that seem to last for hours drove me nuts. Quickly, my motivation for watching this movie changed from seeing Cujo stopped to hoping that the brat would shut the **** up to begging for Cujo to devour the kid and his dysfunctional parents so there could never a sequel. And that even sucked since the snot-nosed kid's weezing death groans were reminiscent of fingernails across the board while listening to Yanni. And he didn't even die!
That child survived and now is grown up and on the loose in this town, perhaps siring additional hellspawn. He has to be stopped. And while I don't know if the Postman will be able to waste the grown-up brat on his rampage, I know Cujo couldn't get the job done. For the good of mankind, GO POSTMAN!
Of course, in the ideal world, that brat would be the Postman. Kill the pathetic dog and then himself. I can dream, can't I?
- Paul G.
Cujo doesn't want to kill the mailman. He just wants to know if the latest issue of "Bitches in Heat" has arrived yet.
If you liked this match, check out these other past
Chucky v. Toy Story
Hannibal Lector v. Jeffrey Dahmer
A Rottweiler v. A Rottweiler's weight in Chuihuahuas
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