Tuesday, January 10, 2012

Poop Monster at YOUR School? No...

Not in the mood for imagery? Deal with it. I, slowly consuming an unhiemal ice cream sundae, sit on the couch in front of a ping pong table in the dark. An obese tabby rests at my side, safely sedated by a heaping serving of boiled mushrooms. What? She likes those. Unlike some people. The only light in the dark cave is the backlit surface of a lone iPad. I am clothed tastefully in PJ bottoms hitched well above the average ostrich, penguin, (abnormal mammal here) waistline, let alone the normal human's. Barely visible beneath my pants is a SCHRUTE FARMS BEETS T-shirt, belted at the waist and covered with the button-up top that matches my bottoms. An ensemble worthy of th most sophisticated abnormal mammal.

This state is my creative fertilizer. Now, with aformentioned image in mind, I begin your story. The story of a celestial friendship between Wooden Backscratcher (WB) and Him (PM).

One day, three vertically-challenged friendsies (Eoz, Seabass, and D) were shopping at AutoZone for bow-ties, taxidermied wedding-cake hats, and paper plates, all of which were going to furnish the trio's annual M.I.S.S.S.U.Z.I.E, or, Maybe Identifiable Sleezy Supper Shindig Under Zombie Influence Entertainer. This yearly bash reenacts every. Little. Thing. That ever happened to the three friends' mother group, The Elite Eighth, or simply The Eighth Grade. This faction of friendly families is forever free from froof, formalities, and formerly fusty floundering feet. (Even I will admit... Not my best alliteration ever.) Moreover, these nine uniquelings (Eoz, Sebass, D, Larkinator, Super Stephen, Meredith Browns, Jake the Player [Ms. Boyles, Miss Suzie?], Skylark, and AAM97) hold said party to inhale the warm, fuzzy, nostalgic memories of Gee, I Wish There Was A Perfect World In Which We Would Not Be Separated By Metaphorical Walls Of Society. With a zombie theme.

Back to the three friendsies. They were at AutoZone shoppi-- Wait... I somehow strayed from the Wooden Backscratcher Road. Allow me to imbibe in a personal moment lasting approximately 24 hours. In this moment, my thoughts shall reconvene into an entertaining tale of truth and triumph in the tough town of Terror. Also, a sickly alliteration.

No comments:

Post a Comment