… my boredom has a second name, it’s K-N-I-G-H-T.
Hello, and welcome to BK’s “should-be-studying-for-finals-but-has-unfortunately-gone-quite-quite-mad” Thread! (I’d have named it that, except it’s rather long, and the toaster won’t stop screaming at me.)
You see, I used to be perfectly ordinary. Really. Ok, so I don’t believe that either. At least pretend.
But I did used to be slightly less mad. Yes, that’s right. For instance, I never used to crawl on all fours nipping at my roommates’ ankles, but now, due to stress, I find it invigorating and refreshing.
Indeed, I used to be the quiet type. I suppose I still am, but only because it is rather hard to speak when attempting to swallow one’s own tongue. Or some else’s.
No no, don’t leave yet. (See, I’m am optimist; I think people have actually read this far! Ha!)
So, anyway, I was just sitting at my computer the other day, typing my manifesto on forced sterilization of people named “Leon”, when a magical floating leperchaun (cousin to the more healthy and vigorous leprechaun) shot through my window and landed on my keyboard.
“Dear me!” I said. Well, actually, I said, “Holy shit!”, but I can’t exactly say “Holy shit!” on an Internet message board, now can I? Anyway, after saying (more or less) “Dear me!”, the leperchaun stood up, dusted himself off, and gave me the finger.
No, he didn’t flick me off; I mean he gave me the finger that had just fallen off of him. Now, normally, I’m not one to refuse a gift, but I told him the truth.
“I already have a complete collection of digits. Sorry.”
At this, he doused himself in gasoline, set himself on fire, an began singing the Star Spangled Banner in Hebrew. That’s the last time I ever doubt my horoscope, I thought. I could just hear the astrologer laughing at my earlier doubt of his abilities to divine future events.
Well, all of this had made me extremely thirsty (flaming leperchauns usually do, as you know), so I walked to the fridge and went inside. After closing the door behind me (I’m a polite crazy) I took survey of my chilled environment. To my left was a half-eaten cheese sandwhich, an unopened quart of 2% milk, and an angry buffalo named Phil. I knew this, because he wore a nametag which read, “I am a Buffalo”. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have known what species Phil was.
Anyway, he offered me the cheese sandwhich, but I declined. I long ago gave up eating, and subside on dust, air, and the fact that the universe won’t let me die until it’s done tormenting me for Eternity.
Feeling that I should offer Phil something in return, I reached into my pocket and removed a year old Twinkie.
“WOW!” Exclaimed Phil. “And it’s even in it’s original wrapper! This must be worth a mint!”
Two mints, actually, unless they were the Andes brand, which are really good with oregano and dirt. Unless of course it’s that bad, nasty, Italian dirt. They may know pasta, but when it comes to dirt, I don’t trust them. When it comes to dirt, only American chefs seem to know what they’re doing. Unless you count the Worm People.
Anyway, uh, where was I?
Um.
Er.
Ah! Yes, I remember.
The moral of my story is: Whenever a leperous member of the genus “fairy folk” offers you a part of his body, generously accept it.
Thank you, and good night.
