Back into the mud from whence
Douched on June 30, 2024.
“Nozzle top!” I toasted and chugged it down.
What was it, you ask? Was it a glass of blue mass sold by a gray goose? A bottle of Mugwump Specific purchased from a mallard? A glass of buttwash, groinrinse, or even Lysol? Was it a tube of Bengay, a cup of Tono-Bungay, or a snifter of some other kind of duckly quackery? And why did I buy it from a bird? Hadn’t I had enough dealings with duck brokers to know not to broker a deal with a duck? Or a goose? Or even a moose?
(Wait, who brought a moose into this picture?)
I put the douche bag down and went back to contemplating the enfliveritude of yet another dreaded, dreadful fifth Sunday. Hadn’t the Universe thrown enough fifth Sundays at me for one lifetime?
I slowly sank back into the mud from whence I came.
Madder than a wet hen, madder than a dry duck, madder than all the gas cars in Madagascar—that’s what I was. It was more outrageous than when Daffy Duck had confused Vietnam with Vermont and ended up on Venus—but less so than that Darkwing Duck Playboy spread that still haunts my nightmares (when I do sleep at all).
Becasue was still mad at me for drinking her Lysol. But I was even madder that I was all out of groinrinse and buttwash. Then pheasants came flying out of the interstitial spaces between the atoms in my groin—my unrinsed groin—and I was at a loss to explain the phenomenon. Becasue was still mad at me.
I slurped down another delicious bottle of Mugwump Specific, followed by the last bottle of blue mass they ever manufactured. It was hydragyratious! Then I got madder than a hatter. A hatter from Madagascar. My own gyrations landed me in a prison cell, at least that’s what I thought at first, but I was really just writhing about in a cardboard box in an alley on Zubenelgenubi Street. Then someone dumped a box of bent paperclips on my head. So many boxes. Boxes of things. Rusty, paperclippy things. Becasue wouldn’t share her corn with me now. Butter. Bummer.
I slowly sank back into the mud from whence I came.
Someone accused me of screwing a pheasant again—one of those pheasants that emerged from the p-branes earlier this week so it could mock and deride my lack of proper groin grooming. Someone else accused me of abusing an A.I. But I assure you, my own lumpy brain is responsible for this meandering lumpery—and those feathers all over my pants have a perfectly innocent explanation.
Everything was topsy-turvy this week. My groin was on my head—not an asshat, but my gonads. My strife-ridden gonads. Pheasants kept flying around, ridden by gnutes in saddles. But none of this was really happening. Pope Francis had even added Superman to the Sistine Chapel. (That did happen.)
I slowly sank back into the mud from whence I came.