“Missed me” said Fiorello, “Now you must die. But first, let me tell you a story, about 1947, the year I ‘died’, and not coincidentally, the year Israel/Palestine was partitioned, and particularly not coincidentally, the year when I like most others first heard of a little town called Roswell… this will take a while, let me get you a Dasani.”
As LaGuardia lie dying, his elfified heart pierced with several near-perfect examples of hollow-pointed wonder, he watched the scarecrow run screaming into the white-cloaked winter wonderland. “All the sonofabich had to do was use the fire extinguisher…all he had to do was use…”. The ‘thunk’ of his head caused his gold chain to quiver, announcing the departure of the 3rd-greatest Mayor of New York City.
Everyone was hosed. The thread waited for a sign of life…a diseased reindeer, an animate scarecrow, a Taliban elf, a maniacal fat man in a red suit…and waited.
And as the delicate, veriform snowflakes fell to the ground in dense waves of silky ice-crystal, a single vegetative hand reached over the threshold into the quiet house. To the home at large, the Scarecrow was heard by no-one to decliam…“I’m back, and this time I’ve brought Malachi. Oh, and a pumpkin as well. There may also be cider.”
Although there was apprehension at first, the smell of warm pumpkin pie and the taste of the hard cider quickly made the stranger and the family feel like longtime friends.
Longtime friends, that is, until a family member - the family member one would least suspect was capable of such a thing - committed such a gaffe, such a faux pas, that the ensuing turmoil in that room made the Vandals’ sack of Rome seem like a game of badminton at the Ladies’ Club by comparison, for sheer chaos and depravity. It all started when…
Amy realized that despite having had lesbian lovers all through high school and college, she had been living a lie – she was strictly autosexual.
The Elf Maiden discovered a wart in her pubic area. “Christ,” she muttered. If Rudolph gave me another dose, we’ll be eating reindeer jerk at the North Pole!"
Yes, autosexual. And, having admitted that to herself, she was forced to admit something else: there was only one auto for her. How could any other vehicle pleasure her like Otto, the '68 Buick Skylark that had been her ride all through high school? The Skylark whose peculiar engine thrumming and protruding seat springs had, in the flower of her young womanhood, taught her what it was to die the little death? Otto - the very name was ecstasy on her lips!
That’s not a big deal, it doesn’t really end up flowing in the end, anyway. That’s a big part of what makes it end up so funny in the end.
I’m planning on putting this together on Sunday or Tuesday (four day weekend, baby! So I’m not sure if I’ll be around a computer at the one-week mark).
Just as Amy was losing herself in her autosexual reverie, the phone rang. Grudgingly, she answered the call. “Is Linus there?”, a young girl asked plaintively – almost tearfully.
No Linus here. However, you can talk to Good Old Charlie Brown
“Never mind,” she said, still sounding as if she was on the verge of tears, “I’ll just call back later.” There was a telltale click, then nothing. At that very moment, the oven timer dinged.
Damn, the brownies! She hoped the English teacher got a particularly large serving when she left them in the teacher’s lounge.
The English teacher, wandering by a few minutes later, picked a brownie up and ate it idly while logging onto the Internet at her computer.
“Oh wow!” Mrs. Puryear mused through the drugs, “My hands are, like, glowing! Far Out!” She began to strike up a lively conversation with the bird at the windowsill while she listened to her finger nails grow, who suggested she go to the web site “Auto Sex dot com.”
Her husband, notably distressed by the sudden intoxication of his wife, was nevertheless intrigued by the new interest she seemed to discover. The bird was irrelevant – the instructions on the website were… Wait. “That’s not for cars, is it?”
She spun around in her desk chair, eyes wild, nostrils flaring. “W-well, what’s wrong with me looking at Camaro listings?” Her voice quavered, but she made up for it with volume. “Maybe I want to feel the thunderous acceleration as I grasp the stick in my hand. It’s more than I’ve been getting around here lately!”
Just then, as luck would have it, a candy-apple red 1985 IROC Z-28 came screaming around the corner. The Camaro’s tires screeched to a stop outside Amy’s window, and the door opened, revealing the driver to be none other than…