A Story About Stuff.
Posted: Sat Dec 19, 2009 4:46 pm
So, I woke up at 1 PM yesterday and I've been wide awake ever since, no thanks to Excedrin Migraine. And I wrote this. I don't own Gregory, he's just in the story, because he's badass and he's Stray Dog.
A Story About Stuff.
By Space Toaster
Once upon a time there was a girl whose head was full of beetles. They were bombardier beetles, so the constant popping noises and toxic chemicals squirting everywhere gave her bad headaches all the time. The girl sighed and scratched her weary head, covering with a mop of unwashed hair.
“Well shucks, my head really hurts.”
It was at this point that her only friend, Klaus the Cat was padding by. He paused to trip the paperboy before sitting on his haunches in front of the girl. By the way, we’ll call her Poodle. It doesn’t really matter, she’s pretty much an avatar of the chick writing this story.
Klaus paused in licking his privates to address his friend. “If your head hurts dear friend, then perhaps you should take some aspirin. And hook me up with some ‘nip, yo.”
Poodle sighed and shook her hurting head at Klaus. “Oh Klaus, you cranky-face stoner.”
The feline bluntly replied. “Shut up and fetch my bong.”
So while Klaus smoked his kitty-joint, Poodle went to get her aspirin. The beetles in her head were exploding especially hard now, and it made her quite irritable. She verbally abused at least three people by the time she reached the apothecary. The apothecary was a man named Gregory Wilson, who kept asking her if she saw his son Joshua.
“For the umpteenth time, NO! I haven’t seen Joshua!” Poodle snapped at him, snatching the bottle of Excedrin: Beetle-Killing Strength from his hand and slapping a five dollar bill onto the counter.
“Are YOU Joshua?” The extremely tall (and British!) man asked hopefully.
“NO! My name is Poodle, I’m a short fat chick from New Jersey with a bad headache. I'm not a enigmatic nine year-old who is really a girl and head of the Aristocrat Club. Good day to you sir!”
She stomped out of the store in her size 8 boots. Gregory decided at that point he was going to strip down to his shorts and massacre an entire orphanage while acting like a dog. Because that’s what all British men do when they take off their clothes.
While Poodle traipsed home to her quaint little two-story shack, she was intercepted by a BS Goblin. You needed boots to listen to him, and luckily Poodle did. They were hella fine boots too.
“Hey, fine-ass fat chick! Looking for a good time?”
Poodle was all too familiar with his kind. “No. Because you are not Robert Downey Jr. or any of the other 31 guys on my “List of Older Men I Would Like to ‘You-Know-What.’” Now be gone before I curb-stomp you.”
Finally home in her shack, Poodle took two Excedrin Beetle-Killing Strength. It took a little while to work, but eventually all the beetles were dead and gone. Unfortunately, Poodle didn’t correctly read the label, (which all good kiddies must do) and now she was all wired on the caffeine in the pills. So she walked up and down the stairs of her quaint little shack all night until 8 in the morning. Afterwards, she walked to an ex-boyfriend’s house. She barfed on his doorstep and rang the doorbell. Then she merrily pranced off to decide which Sylvia Ji painting she was going to get tattooed on her person. But first she stopped to yell at a carful of guidos.
“Go back to the Red Bull can you crawled out of!”
THE END.
A Story About Stuff.
By Space Toaster
Once upon a time there was a girl whose head was full of beetles. They were bombardier beetles, so the constant popping noises and toxic chemicals squirting everywhere gave her bad headaches all the time. The girl sighed and scratched her weary head, covering with a mop of unwashed hair.
“Well shucks, my head really hurts.”
It was at this point that her only friend, Klaus the Cat was padding by. He paused to trip the paperboy before sitting on his haunches in front of the girl. By the way, we’ll call her Poodle. It doesn’t really matter, she’s pretty much an avatar of the chick writing this story.
Klaus paused in licking his privates to address his friend. “If your head hurts dear friend, then perhaps you should take some aspirin. And hook me up with some ‘nip, yo.”
Poodle sighed and shook her hurting head at Klaus. “Oh Klaus, you cranky-face stoner.”
The feline bluntly replied. “Shut up and fetch my bong.”
So while Klaus smoked his kitty-joint, Poodle went to get her aspirin. The beetles in her head were exploding especially hard now, and it made her quite irritable. She verbally abused at least three people by the time she reached the apothecary. The apothecary was a man named Gregory Wilson, who kept asking her if she saw his son Joshua.
“For the umpteenth time, NO! I haven’t seen Joshua!” Poodle snapped at him, snatching the bottle of Excedrin: Beetle-Killing Strength from his hand and slapping a five dollar bill onto the counter.
“Are YOU Joshua?” The extremely tall (and British!) man asked hopefully.
“NO! My name is Poodle, I’m a short fat chick from New Jersey with a bad headache. I'm not a enigmatic nine year-old who is really a girl and head of the Aristocrat Club. Good day to you sir!”
She stomped out of the store in her size 8 boots. Gregory decided at that point he was going to strip down to his shorts and massacre an entire orphanage while acting like a dog. Because that’s what all British men do when they take off their clothes.
While Poodle traipsed home to her quaint little two-story shack, she was intercepted by a BS Goblin. You needed boots to listen to him, and luckily Poodle did. They were hella fine boots too.
“Hey, fine-ass fat chick! Looking for a good time?”
Poodle was all too familiar with his kind. “No. Because you are not Robert Downey Jr. or any of the other 31 guys on my “List of Older Men I Would Like to ‘You-Know-What.’” Now be gone before I curb-stomp you.”
Finally home in her shack, Poodle took two Excedrin Beetle-Killing Strength. It took a little while to work, but eventually all the beetles were dead and gone. Unfortunately, Poodle didn’t correctly read the label, (which all good kiddies must do) and now she was all wired on the caffeine in the pills. So she walked up and down the stairs of her quaint little shack all night until 8 in the morning. Afterwards, she walked to an ex-boyfriend’s house. She barfed on his doorstep and rang the doorbell. Then she merrily pranced off to decide which Sylvia Ji painting she was going to get tattooed on her person. But first she stopped to yell at a carful of guidos.
“Go back to the Red Bull can you crawled out of!”
THE END.
