 |
||
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
| More prose. MORE PROSE!!!!!!!!!!!!! by I need a witty Nick. 02/15/2003, 1:04pm PST | ||||
 |
 |
|||
| So he sat there and stared into the distance traffic.
And his thoughts wandered, wandered into he deepr reaches of theological debate. God or dog? Do we envision a monodeistic supremacy on a anarchaic oblivion. Wandered into existentialist despair. Why oh why oh why oh why oh why me. Wandered into the forbidden realms of sexual depravity. That tree looks mighty inviting does it now. Mostly though, it wondered how the hell he had reached such a stage in life and why he was standing on a crate of old books holding a plateful of prawns in the middle of a corn field. It would be easy to classify him as your average, hopeless, lifeless, jobless, futureless, hobo. Yes it would. Then, we would have to describe your average hopeless, blah blah blah, hobo by his standards. We could give him a name, any name should suffice, though he is paticular fond of the moniker, WookaDADA Bumpingworth, wooka for short, asshole to his friends, jerk to his exs. He was born as all babies ae born, screaming and bloodied to a pair of bemused parents who sole crime was to have not enough money for protection that fateful night. Actually, it was to a single parent who sole crime was to have a promicuous lifestyle and a faulty long term memory. Therefore, Wooka grew up with all the accumulated wisdom of trailer trash rejects and eminem music. A recipe for the biggest social leech possible. But he was born and there was nothing that could have be done about it. We could be interested in the rest of Wooka's life, from his ghetto to his goal but i have little time and you have little attention, so we'll skip right to the next major important part of Wooka's life. As a baby, Wooka was exceptionally prodigal, and that's about all that can be really be said. Smart babies tend to be the laziest people in the world. All stories of such magnitude should always involve a girl. A love interest because romance as a narrative is age old, dating far far far far back to Gilgamesh, Enki and Elil. We won't bore you with that becasue in Wooka's case, there was no woman, nor man. NO sexual interest save that gnarly shapely looking plant. This is of course not for the lack of trying but we must come to respect the females population general intelligence and the human instinct to want to survive any possible disaster. So Wooka walks alone. He walks alone one dreary rain soaked day into bar brawl ivolving a one handed chimpanzee and two bald norwegian opera singers. Not a good place to be for people with plans for the future that involves breathing for the next five minutes. Luckily for Wooka, he had no such plans. So after a rather chaotic scuffle and an odd interlude where everyone paired up for a steamy salsa dance, Wooka found himself face to face with the Chimpamzee's owner, face to teary face. "Wah pur moonkay. He be hort he be." cried this equally displaced foreigner. "Hort he be, HORT" THe chimpanzee be downing several bottles of jack daniels while stomping on the unfortunate bartender as his owner bawled his sympathies. Wooka suddenly having a feeling he has rarely had before, decided to go to the toilet to see if it was indigestion, or pure nausea from the smell of Chimapanzee fur and norwegian puke. (It involves lots of fish, those crazy scandinavians) He discovered of course, it was neither. Taking the poor crying mexican?/albanian?/Tatooinian? into his bosom, he let the man cry his heart heart out, right before the chimpanzee collapse of liver failure. Anyway, several hours later, Wooka was suddenly standing in a corn field holding a plateful of prawns contemplating intercourse with an angiosperm. How did he get there? Well, it's better for sane people not to know. |
||||
 |
 |
|||
|
More prose. MORE PROSE!!!!!!!!!!!!! by 02/15/2003, 1:04pm PST  16 words for you by 02/16/2003, 4:25am PST |
