Eating a lot of Frosted Flakes
Lionized on December 15, 2024.
To a lion, a giraffe is just a giant Slim Jim.
A Ramones–Trashmen mashup was playing on the radio. Chloë Moretz was not—nor were her feet. A wild hare went galloping down Bouillabaisse Boulevard as a wild hair came to a rest up a duck’s butt. It was firmly ensconced. The duck quacked. Off in the distance, a dog barked. It was then that I saw a bow-legged cat meander down the street. My eyebrows furrowed—all of them. My whole scalp would furrow had it been flexible enough. The scene thus set and the mood established, I put down my nose hairbrush and went to work on the week’s machinations, ruminations, and tintinnabulations.
Chloë’s bare feet stayed on my mind. Fortunately, a duck’s butt did not. While blushing my teeth, looking down from my ninth-floor blarthroom window, I came to realize the object of my attention bore a strange resemblance to nothing short of a long, giant phallus. Then I remembered that old Outer Limits episode about My Buddy coming to life and murdering an entire family of chickens and chicken farmers. Then I remembered Chloë playing a barefoot vampire in some movie from the 1980s. Then I forgot about the surreality unfolding below my beady eyes. It was indeed going to be a tintinnabulous day.
Catherine Howard had been caught cavorting around Nonsuch Palace again with Charles VI. Would Henry viii approve? Would I? (Do you?) These are the ruminations that replaced my earlier machinations. Only the horse knew why. But the horse had been replaced by a pale imitation of a zebra.
I had half a mind to invent my own antiphonetic alphabet—a complement to Ben Franklin’s invention of a phonetic one. However, I didn’t get that far: The implications of a letter which bore an uncanny resemblance to an Ŋ scribbled above an Œ and surrounded by exclamation commas filled me with a nameless dread. I hid behind Nurdlebutt’s litter box until Becasue coaxed me out (with her bamboo cane). In the meantime, the other half of my mind had turned to mush from my doomscrolling addiction, so I put the idea of an antiphonetic alphabet aside. Instead, I invented a bunch of squiggles to represent cat noises.
Did Herman’s Hermits eat a lot of Frosted Flakes? What else could be frosted in a similar manner to those sparkling flakes? Was that what made Chloe’s feet so shiny too? Was Tony the Tiger really a lion? All of these ruminations, again replacing my machinations, deserved answers. But a fate worse than death met them all—apathy overtook both halves of my mind. I ambled off to find something shinier and puffier to pursue.
Next year I vow to stop chasing things that are shiny and puffy. But it’s not next year yet! Off I went.
When I returned from my shiny-puffy odyssey a mere 8.660 660 77 seconds later, I saw that dozens of randy ocelots had assembled in my front yard. I had nary a clue how to stop their repeated onslaughts. My big little redheaded huzzey-muffet had been shopping at Ocelots “Я” Us for Christmas gifts this morning but she denied all involvement. And so here I was with 866,066,077 ocelots stinking up my lawn and nowhere to put them.
I gruntled frustratedly. Once again I had gone on a wild dick chase, not unlike Benjamin Franklin did in 1752. Once again I had confused poison ivy with pepperoni. And after my huzzey-muffet found those potatoes in my closet, once again I wouldn’t be sitting down for days.
The ocelots just stared at me, making curious whomping noises. And my tongue itched. Somewhere in this elucitude of mind rot I try threading a tale—a tale of ocelot tails?—but those barking dogs and blonde feet get in the way. I have no desire to continue. So, I stopped. Then I stopped again. Then I started stopping—but I was interrupted (stopped from stopping!) by a clutch of randier horse doofers… who set my nose ablaze! It would be a four-alarm fire. The ocelots stared. My tongue itched.
Life surfs the energy difference between food and shit to go on living. I went surfing on the back of a really big fish once. But then I buried my head in the sand. I’d rather be an ostrich than a beach bum. (And my bum still smarts.)
My nose dumbs. It’s really dumb. A lot dumber. But the dartboard I had shoved up my upper nostril quelled much of my nose’s stupidity, insipidity, and venality. That zebra—even on the reddest, whitest, and bluest of Independence Days—would keep schronking on by. A zebra playing a xylophone is quite the sight—never to be forgotten (at least until supplanted by the next meme post). But having only a horse and being out of black and white spray paint, I had these ocelots to contend with. And contend with them I did. Becasue threatened to whomp me again, so I stopped and went in.
Oh! In six-&-a-½ weeks, my frabjous town plans to hold a competitive gurning competition. Gurning out my best rictus grin at the mere thought of a gurning competition, I knew I would win. Last week, my slabbabjous town had held a much more banal dance competition. No gurning at that one. That one I had lost but my buttocks had survived the twerking. So there was that.
The ocelots, loads blown, slithered into the storm drains and my muddled word salad got even mushier. Becasue consoled me with her soles. I wasn’t sure how to sharpen my words anymore—I had tried hard but all I had accomplished was whittling my dictionaries and thesauruses down to little nubs.
In other cat news, Labor Day sale on cat speculums at PetSmart have finally ended—not a moment too soon! To a lion, a giraffe is just a giant Slim Jim. But to a giraffe, a lion is just a giant dick.