The ketchup was all gone, and it was nearly midnight. Tembothy knew that if he wanted to fully enjoy his hot dogs and his macaroni, he’d probably have to wait until morning.
Then he remembered that there was a twenty-four-hour corner store down the street!
Sadly, it was sold out.
“I posit that the egregious offence committed by the defendant was an act of premeditated hostiliaminity!” shouted the Loopy Lawyer.
“I object!” cried the Batty Barrister. “My client pleads insanity! He thinks he’s a creaky shovel. Look at his fez! This marriage is clearly illegaloramious.”
“Sustained,” said the Jovial Judge.
The title for this story was suggested by ThePhailhaus. I was forced to use the words egregious, creaky, fez, and shovel. Ergo, the silliness of this story is all everyone else’s fault.
It was a Thursday.
On Thursdays, Prysanthemum the Pug went to the baths from two to four o’clock. That made for prime adventuring time for his Doghouse, Dot. Glory, honour, excitement, fortune, and renown lay just over the horizon!
But first, Dot had to overcome one minor obstacle: voluntary movement.
Once upon a time, the beautiful princess journeyed to the Moon.
It was cold there. Not even the Moon Badgers were warm.
Even after the princess skinned three Moon Badgers and made a coat, she was still cold. So she set her spaceship on fire, and everyone was warm together.
A chill wind was in the air, and fell beasts were on the prowl.
Or maybe they were fallen beasts. It can be difficult to distinguish between the two.
One of the beasts fell out of the sky, landing on a beast that had previously fallen.
Ah, who needs this?
“Stand away, American!”
“If my intentions were hostile,” growled the warrior, “your staff would not avail you, Wizard.”
“My kind must be careful,” said Sir McDonald. “In your land, I might wake up a slave.”
Abraham Lincoln gripped his sword. “That is why my country goes to war with itself.”
Historical fantasy is weird. But you should check out the Alvin Maker series by Orson Scott Card if you like that kind of thing.
He had just suffered the most devastating defeat of his entire career, maybe even his entire life.
“That’s it,” he muttered. “I’m quitting. This is no good.”
An ethereal meerkat blinked into existence in front of him. “You can’t quit!” it said. “I’m a meerkat!”
“Why not?” he protested.
“Meeeeerkaaaat!”
This was it.
He knew the odds. They were forty-to-one. But he didn’t care about the odds. This was destiny.
“I don’t care about the odds,” he said aloud. “Screw the odds.”
“You should probably care about the odds,” said the hatchet-faced man holding the bag full of coloured balls.
He won the gold medal with his eyes closed.
He’d never been much good at anything in his life, but the first time he found himself sliding down the icy, open-faced track he knew he’d found his place.
Speed. Freedom. Exhilaration. Bliss.
He was the Naked Sledless Luge Olympic Champion.
“Milk.”
“Milk?”
“The milkiest. From cows.”
“From cows?”
“The cowiest. Fat cows.”
“Fat cows?”
“The fattiest. They eat at McDonald’s.”
“They eat at McDonald’s?”
“The McDonald’siest. But only on weekends.”
“Only on weekends?”
“The weekendiest. They’re the farmer’s days off.”
“The farmer’s days off?”
“His offiest. He usually–”
“Wait… What!?”