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[[Originally written in 2012]]

Once along the clocktower, Martha Joan Klittell and her boyfriend Deke Portland were making love and figured out a new position that requires one partner, preferably the one with the longest fingers, stretches the fabric of time to allow for said partner to completely control everything in our universe. It’s called the Budgie Over-Crockett.

Grandpa closed the book. He was done reading. The boy looked up at his 400 pound grandpa and sneezed. “Thank you, grandpa,” the boy whispered. “Thank you for teaching me how to make glass beads.”

“No problem, it’s all in the elbows.” Then gramps waddles out of the room. Oh yeah, they are whales. I forgot to mention that, but it’s pretty much the most important fact about them.

Above the water, Michael Cera and Jesse Eisenberg were on the street walking when a director approached both and proposed to them a deal in which they are merged together into one person and billed as a new star. They feel with both talents combined, a super-awkward, mumbling teen charmer would be born. An actor of such caliber that he will continue to play awkward teenagers well into his 30s! The director was Shreven Shrielberg, and his latest film, MEOW MIX THE MOIVE was in need of someone of their nature. He played eeny meeny miney mo and picked Cera and carried him away to the movie building. Jesse Eisenberg said, “Stairs to my awakening, how doth this treaded path quobe the bargough laird,” which is German-French for Hey, can’t a guy get some work around here?

Michael Cera was the next Devito. The next Gina Davis. The next Howard Hughes. Hell, even the next Abraham Lincoln. He was the next everything, and the director was going to make him bigger than Frank “Statue of Liberty” Labbermoke. He had a talk with Jesse Eisenberg and offered him a deal on his next movie, a film adaption of the Dictionary. Jesse Eisenberg agreed. Kermit The Frog peed.

The movie was made, and that was oh...fifty years ago. The green boy reviewed it and said it was the best claymation porno he’d ever tasted. Honkey Dorse, the head writer at the DAILY BUGLE DAILY, interviewed Shreven Shrielberg and asked him what his motives were for killing all those people.

“Well, it was because when I was their age, we didn’t have films like this. This is a new genre altogether,” he said. “My next film will be based on a washing machine tag on a suit I bought.”

“Fascinating stuff,” Honkey said, and then disappeared. Wayne Knight used to be fat but then he got thin.

Rozz Williams was a tiny man with a gorgeous face who sang for my favorite band Christian Death and was also small and gay. He had a really hot goth wife at one point who was also in the band. But the guy was a fucking gothic genius. He invented Tim Burton before that was even cool. Rozz Williams created the look. Brian Hugh Warner, a lonely high school geek who looked like Nicholas Cage but even gawkier, saw Rozz at a show and stoled a piece of Rozz’s hair so he could absorb some of his DNA. It worked, sort of, and we got Marilyn Manson, a rogue warrior for Jesus fucking Satan. He took Rozz’s soul and Rozz ended up killing himself shortly after seeing Manson ripping him off on live TV.

Marilyn would often wander the streets looking for David Letterman so he could rip the guy’s fucking throat out for making fools of not only him, but Courtney Love, Harmony Korine, and Crispin Glover. David Letterman was getting his tooth gap brushed when Marilyn found him.

“Letterman, I may have seemed well back then, but the rage has been growing inside me and now...” as he spoke, he pulled a giant saw out of hammerspace and got into an attack position. “You will die!”

Letterman stood up. “Not so!”

Marilyn Manson sliced and slashed and Letterman dashed and ran out of the room, injured.

I have to go now, so I’ll leave you all with that. Whoever read this, I cherish your friendship and thank you for reading.


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