Tuesday, October 07, 2003
Right. And I bet the rotten eggs just got up and threw themselves at my squad car, didn't they?
Ha ha. Goldfish with Afro hair. Now that would be funny.
Let me tell you a story. It's a story about a little boy and his dreams, and how those dreams nearly destroyed the entire known universe. But then all of a sudden they didn't. Obviously. (You know, because it's still here, and... yeah. You figured that out already.) Now the story.
Puking Todd was a troubled young boy of 5, whose every move was closely monitored by robots and genetically altered skunks who sprayed Lysol instead of gaseous raunch. After every meal he'd sit around in a puddle of unstrategically placed vomit, dreaming of things to come. And one day, things came. Not "things" so much as "a magical talking eggplant," but you get the picture.
So the thing (which, as you'll remember from the last paragraph, was a magical talking eggplant) said to Puking Todd, "Barfing Billy, I'm here to fulfuill your every wish and dream." Of course, Eggplant Roger had the wrong house. Barfing Billy was in the house across the street, leading a very sad existence as a fortysomething stockbroker. But since Puking Todd had neither the ability to talk nor the ambition to send such a magical, benevolent vegetable away, he didn't say anything about it. His previous dreams about "things to come" began to come true, in a very literal way. Things came. Lots of things. Refrigerators. Maple trees. Crumpled copies of the New Yorker. A banana. Slabs of limestone. Entire swing bands. That sort of thing. Puking Todd's room was on the verge of becoming a black hole that would swallow everything, when his mom called out from the other room: "Toddward Upcharles von Püken! Stop that racket right now!" Well, you can guess what happened then. Eggplant Roger wasn't amused in the least. He undid all his wish-granting, hopped on his motorized lava-lamp, and drove away in search of Barfing Billiam. And they all lived sloppily ever after.
The end.
Ha ha. Goldfish with Afro hair. Now that would be funny.
Let me tell you a story. It's a story about a little boy and his dreams, and how those dreams nearly destroyed the entire known universe. But then all of a sudden they didn't. Obviously. (You know, because it's still here, and... yeah. You figured that out already.) Now the story.
Puking Todd was a troubled young boy of 5, whose every move was closely monitored by robots and genetically altered skunks who sprayed Lysol instead of gaseous raunch. After every meal he'd sit around in a puddle of unstrategically placed vomit, dreaming of things to come. And one day, things came. Not "things" so much as "a magical talking eggplant," but you get the picture.
So the thing (which, as you'll remember from the last paragraph, was a magical talking eggplant) said to Puking Todd, "Barfing Billy, I'm here to fulfuill your every wish and dream." Of course, Eggplant Roger had the wrong house. Barfing Billy was in the house across the street, leading a very sad existence as a fortysomething stockbroker. But since Puking Todd had neither the ability to talk nor the ambition to send such a magical, benevolent vegetable away, he didn't say anything about it. His previous dreams about "things to come" began to come true, in a very literal way. Things came. Lots of things. Refrigerators. Maple trees. Crumpled copies of the New Yorker. A banana. Slabs of limestone. Entire swing bands. That sort of thing. Puking Todd's room was on the verge of becoming a black hole that would swallow everything, when his mom called out from the other room: "Toddward Upcharles von Püken! Stop that racket right now!" Well, you can guess what happened then. Eggplant Roger wasn't amused in the least. He undid all his wish-granting, hopped on his motorized lava-lamp, and drove away in search of Barfing Billiam. And they all lived sloppily ever after.
The end.
