One Hour Compo - Round 22 (OHC022)
Feb 12, 2009 TristEndo
Feb 13, 2009 JH Sounds
That's the running joke in my garden overrun with gnome-homes. It's a garden of fun and mirth. Though no one wants to admit it, laughter and glee are the rule of the day in this little patch of niceness in a cruel and indifferent world.
Wee Missus Tinkletoes comes out every morning to tickle the cabbages. "Hee hee hee," they shriek with delight as Aspic the God of Whimsy comes dancing across the fields on his shiny hooves. Every morning except this morning, that is. This morning was different. This was the morning I would be allowed onto the Mother Ship and finally allowed to perform anal probes.
It was my magnum opus, the culmination of years of chitin, fleem and glondark. A hush fell over the Mother Ship's auditorium as I prepared to perform. Well, it wasn't really a "hush", it was more like an "squa-dowork", but anyway, I cracked my knuckles and began to play. The aliens were rapt with anticipation.
Some of them were wrapped with Clingfilm. Within minutes, I had transformed the auditorium into a sea of gently swaying stalks, tentacles and pseudopodia. It helped that the audience consisted mainly of cephalopods and microbes. So I had somewhat of a head start.
I was able to win the hopscotch competition and was still in the lead when I started the Multi-Galaxy Marathon. Unfortunately, after drinking all that scotch, I was half in the bag for the sack races. While everyone else got to jump rope, I had to walk the white line. The cops out here suck.
To piss him off I sniffed the white line and had a whole other experience.
* * *
My college roommate laughed when I traded my gold brick for 5 pounds of pencil shavings. Too bad he didn't know about the looming pencil-shaving crisis. It was in all the financial papers. I was just preparing for the worst. When others had to resort to decorating their clothes with peasant finery like crayon shavings, I would be the belle of the ball in fine grade #2 pencil shavings. This was hypothetical, of course. It would depend on whether I could find enough people with pencils that needed sharpening.
I finally found them in an old Quonset hut off Plymouth Boulevard. They had been standing in the dark with blunt pencils for several years. Far from being pleased to see me, they began to prod me with their pencils, claiming that I had ruined their epic work of performance art, "Long time no see."
Only later, as I got the graphite out of my wounds with pliers, did I realize that without exception they had Tarzan's gripped their eyes shut. Using the salvaged graphite I made a giant "Jane" statue and used her to write a letter of appreciation to the monsters who had gripped their eyes shut. The monsters roared their approval of my courteous message. This simple act of politesse heralded a new era in me-to-monster communication, my prestige thereby increased.
I was heralded as a king and carried aloft on the shoulders of many a monster that night. Now I am soaking in a wonderful hot tub enjoying many of the tasty native monster vegetables floating in the bubbling broth of my own shed skin.
Try the whole new line of Cannibal King Soups! They're 100% organic. But they give me the winds like nobody's business.
* * *
Wet shine flowed across the lacquered head of the supplicant king. Everybody knew the king was just a puppet leader, but he was such a polished, poised fellow that they really didn't mind. In fact, the people enjoyed his puppet shows, especially His Royal Majesty's Marionette Show.
Their favorite puppet was Mister Denehee who was made out of swollen fingers covered with furry purple eyelashes. They all liked that puppet, since they couldn't think for themselves and followed whatever everyone else liked. Soon, they all were dressing up like Mister Denehee, using old painted bicycle tires as swollen fingers and caterpillars as the eyelashes.
The ophthalmologists had a field day as these simple innocents traipsed through the town, wailing about their inflamed eyes, waving their grotesque fake fingers helplessly. With hypoallergenic saline solution, they cured the children of the fashion victim conjunctivitis. When their vision cleared, the children were appalled to see what they had been wearing all this time.
The convalescent youngsters peeled off their hideous apparel and ran free and naked through the nearest tulip fields until they stopped by an enormous sign protruding from the tulips. It read "Ikea s�l� th�s w�y".
�Put-it-together-yourself furniture?� One spoke. �Well, that's more fun than a hot poker in the eye!�
I'll be the judge of that.