84 - 13:103(3)


The sidewalk is stumbling down you one particularly drunk evening when a pair of head lights wink at you and tell you, in the key of F minor, that you’re pretty and they like your style.

The disembodied torso and head of a young man that the car ate earlier leans out the window and throws a strange, white, elongated plastic comb at you. You deftly catch it with your forehead, then use your powerful psychic powers to direct the fork straight down onto the pavement below.

The young man that is being slowly digested by the car screams at you as the car passes. “Fork you!” he word-farts from his mouth-butt. The car continues and the tail lights of the car tell you they only like you for your body and you probably shouldn’t come around anymore.

You turn the conveyor-belt sidewalk back on and continue on your way home which is on a giant rock spinning through space like that pretty girl at the bar told you. You remember, the one with the nice moustache who got all upset when you told her how nice her moustache was (it was fucking amazing).

After much fighting with the magnets under the earth that are trying to steal the metal plate in your head, you find your wood castle.

As you melt over the fence a small child with four legs and the worst case of hypertrichosis you’ve ever seen runs up to you and licks your face. “No!” you shout at the child. “I not falling for you, Chris Hanson! Why you don’t have a seat on my ass!?” The FBI pedophile honeypot dog runs away and you declare victory by throwing up into your own shirt and passing out on the lawn.