My brother, the whoopee cushion
The welcome advent of Spring brings with it troubling revelations — and as usual, when the hand of trouble pokes its sinister finger into this corner of the world, it pokes first at the gelatinous underbelly of the blob that is my brother.
The warmth and light of this season are great allies, for they not only bring foliage and cover back to my field of operation, but also rouse succulent miniature vermin from their foxholes, making my whole kingdom a glorious skittering pupu platter.
This time of year also brings the traditional vernal defoliative moulting cycle, which I call the sleeking, though the Woman calls it the shedding. The damgross shedding, to be precise. For some reason, she blames this natural annual cycle on some mysterious character named Herr Effre-Weir. I have not met this Herr Effre-Weir, but it's obvious he would be well-served to steer clear of the Woman — she sounds downright murderous whenever she utters his name.
But to the point. This year's sleeking has revealed what was previously concealed by the lushness of our winter fatigues — namely, the insidious effects of the Uncanny Meat Project on my poor idiot brother.
Fabio looks positively deflated. His loose belly hangs from him like a marsupial's pouch. It drags on the floor when he walks, sweeping up little piles of loose hair that cling pathetically to his feet like tumbleweeds. When he sits, gravity pulls the loosened flab down to his buttocks such that he resembles an emaciated bobcat sitting in a large bowl of sleeping ferrets. When he lies down, his pelt spreads out and pools about him like a enormous melting pat of furry butter.
What sinister purpose lurks behind this twisted experiment remains unrevealed. And as to the involvement of the nefarious Dr. Fingerer, well, right now, everyone is a suspect. Even the Rodent, who stands vigil at the bathroom door each day when Fabio is locked up with the mystery slurry.
As for myself, I can happily report that I remain vital, solid, and strong — clearly unaffected by any secondary exposure to the canned sludge of pseudoscience. But I calculate that if my brother continues to diminish at his current rate, by mid-summer he will be a fur pancake with a diameter approximating the dimensions of a queen-size bed. The question is, for whose bed?
The warmth and light of this season are great allies, for they not only bring foliage and cover back to my field of operation, but also rouse succulent miniature vermin from their foxholes, making my whole kingdom a glorious skittering pupu platter.
This time of year also brings the traditional vernal defoliative moulting cycle, which I call the sleeking, though the Woman calls it the shedding. The damgross shedding, to be precise. For some reason, she blames this natural annual cycle on some mysterious character named Herr Effre-Weir. I have not met this Herr Effre-Weir, but it's obvious he would be well-served to steer clear of the Woman — she sounds downright murderous whenever she utters his name.
But to the point. This year's sleeking has revealed what was previously concealed by the lushness of our winter fatigues — namely, the insidious effects of the Uncanny Meat Project on my poor idiot brother.
Fabio looks positively deflated. His loose belly hangs from him like a marsupial's pouch. It drags on the floor when he walks, sweeping up little piles of loose hair that cling pathetically to his feet like tumbleweeds. When he sits, gravity pulls the loosened flab down to his buttocks such that he resembles an emaciated bobcat sitting in a large bowl of sleeping ferrets. When he lies down, his pelt spreads out and pools about him like a enormous melting pat of furry butter.
What sinister purpose lurks behind this twisted experiment remains unrevealed. And as to the involvement of the nefarious Dr. Fingerer, well, right now, everyone is a suspect. Even the Rodent, who stands vigil at the bathroom door each day when Fabio is locked up with the mystery slurry.
As for myself, I can happily report that I remain vital, solid, and strong — clearly unaffected by any secondary exposure to the canned sludge of pseudoscience. But I calculate that if my brother continues to diminish at his current rate, by mid-summer he will be a fur pancake with a diameter approximating the dimensions of a queen-size bed. The question is, for whose bed?
so sayeth Shmool on Thursday, April 27, 2006
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