Yesterday, Hanz and Chubby got into a ruckus for the first time. Living with an aggressive, criminally insane ferret and a politicized, obese Dachshund is going to have it’s troubles as all ferret, gorilla, and Dachshund owners know. The altercation was incited because Chubby playfully decided to tease Hanz about his stylish new Beret (which was recommended to him by one of Abercrombie & Fitch model buddies) and in response Hanz told Chubby to quote, “Shut the hell up you fat bastard,” unquote. Even with years of political understanding under the wise tutelage of Anthony Weiner Chubby’s rebuttal was expeditiously choked off like Vader finishing off an Admiral. In his frustration Chubby rashly charged Hanz knocking him to his still shaved buttocks from his foray at the Renaissance Festival; this of course escalated and resulted in a shaved and dyed Dachshund, a razed sofa, a strapped for cash Batman, and an emboldened ferret (like Hanz needs to be emboldened anyhow).
Chubby may sway like a cake shovelin’ Sumo wrestler, but what he did not know is that Hanz studied the art of Teppenyaki for six weeks in New Jersey one summer along with Barney Stinson (the two met in college and are longtime wingmen). The fight was briefly glorious, however; it was like watching a fat kid run in Forrest Gumps’ leg braces towards a closed down IHOP. No one wants to tell the kid it’s futile, but we all know once he hits the shuttered doors it’s going to be sad. Chubby was obviously brave to face a bi-polar, knife wielding ferret, but his finesse was sorely lacking. I watched, dumbfounded, as Hanz embarrassed Chubby even further by trimming his shaggy hair like Edward Scissorhands finishing off a shrub and then repeatedly dunking him various dyes. After Hanz was done with Chubby he looked like a reverse Panda Express logo…just sad. Also, my sofa was destroyed by a frenzied ferret.
It took hours to calm Chubby down after the incident. And, like all quandaries Chubby opted to do what we all would do in the same situation…he called Batman. Weirdly enough we have a bat signal on our roof. We waited and waited, and Batman nor Robin showed. I am assuming Batman was preoccupied elsewhere and had bigger fish to fry that evening. Regardless, I still have a seriously perturbed Dachshund who just keeps holding mock debates, straw polls, and conventions for his stuffed pig Fredrick. Hopefully Fredrick can talk some sense into him.
Also, Malicious the Gorilla still lives in Brad’s closet.
Ever chase that rabbit down the hole? I did once and I ended up in snow covered field holding wilted roses asking for a slut that couldn’t give a shit. Who lusts for a half-way houser? One who cracks a crooked smile like a vulture defining “muffin top” to an Oxford scholar. I more respect for a fucking clergymen with paddle. You bet his robes glisten with that off white hue that Ozzies out, “molester!,” because how else could he trick himself into being religious? Like a doppelganger named Alice looking through the glass just pondering, waiting to mug that one sap that grabs the pamphlet from that tie-wearin’, bicycle ridin’ conversion machine. Grouped, only to be bussed in n’ out of the residential. With a chip on their shoulder, and a mission from God they eat up the ignorance like it were salsa. But, just like a rotten watermelon the salsa’s fake and chunky like the cheese all in a sad, subversive effort to warn the normals that there is something a foot.
Full circle, I wore that white rabbit’s foot like a talisman to ward off evil. Only Bruce Cambell and Stephen King could write in that chainsaw wieldin’ bastard and make it reach the pop culture warehouse. Brian better be scribin’ because Peter’s escaped his Warehouse and needs his partner in crime. Only the Greeks would beat that Griffin till he bleeds. Fucked and drunk they fondle themselves just reach the present with a legen-wait for it-dary status inscribed upon their medallions and our history books. Barney would tighten his tie turn around slap the nearest conversion machine, sucker punch the purple creeper who calls himself a dinosaur, and ask Ted to just get married already because his story’s getting’ old…quick. Bob Sagat better find his career because who’s going to remember a Fullhouse when all of the twin’s poker chips are wrapped up in diet pills and Coke?
Mario’s the only doctor I get my pills from and even his door slide, reads, “plumber.” No wonder Princess Peach wears that chastity belt…what woman wouldn’t? He’s a mustachioed plumber with a deep tie to the Catholic church and even his hands are covered in more blood than Bowser’s. Deep soaked in crimson, he’s pierced the hide of the lizard named Luigi. Only R.A. Salvatore could write that dragon tale and have it be forgotten in a catalogue of realms. Once again I’ll strike back like the Empire, and say fuck the hardships, fuck the supposed truths, fuck their way of life. I’ll fix the corruption, we’ll fix the corruption because I am damn tired of corporations and politicians getting’ their personal fix from my wallet. They fuckin’ grab for my idea again I’ll let a miscellaneous three letter acronym and their committee sitttin’, foot tappin’ proverts have it like Vader’s wrath on Endor and a force choke to the throat of corruption. It’s damn hard to spew hate when you can’t breath.