Monday, August 31, 2009

The Mysterious Note

One day the three Mills children

All woke up with a yawn

They called out, “Mother! We’re awake!”

But Mrs. Mills was gone


They went into the kitchen

To find she’d left her coat

And there upon the counter

She’d also left a note


It didn’t say where she had gone

Or when she would return

It simply said: ten carrots bike

Red socks stuffed parrot fern


The children scratched their heads

And wondered why it had no verbs

Just what on earth could this note mean?

The children looked to Herb


Herb said, “I know! Ten carrots

Have kidnapped her on their bike

And she needs for us to save her

Using red socks and the like.”


Patricia sighed, “Oh, really, Herb.

When will you ever learn?

How could we save our mother

With red socks, a toy and ferns?”


“I’m sure it means for breakfast

We should each eat lots of carrots

Then ride our bikes, put red socks on

Plant ferns and play with parrots.”


“Hey guys, I think I’ve got it!”

Cried the littlest brother, Todd

“I’m pretty sure it’s a metaphor

For the human invention of God.”


“The words are really just random

But you’ll see that what we’ve done

Is postulate purpose and meaning

When really there is none.”


Well, Herb was still insistent

That veggies had stolen his mother

He didn’t believe his sister

And certainly not his brother


So he grabbed the items mentioned

And headed out the gate

Determined to save his mother

Before it was too late


Well, Patricia knew that she was right

So she stuffed her face with carrots.

Then rode her bike and put on socks

And went to find some parrots.


But Todd did as he always did

Ate breakfast, went to school,

Fed the dog, and did his homework

And went swimming in the pool


That night Mrs. Mills walked in the door

And gave little Todd a kiss

She saw the note on the counter

And said, “A-ha! My shopping list.”


“Now, Todd, where are the other kids?

Watching movies? Being lazy?”

And when he told her where they’d gone

She sighed, “Those kids are crazy.”

Beware What You Believe In

There once was a boy in Miss Frillton’s class

Whose name was Horace Pies

And every day he’d daydream

About flying through the skies


He imagined that among the clouds

Lived many lovely things

Like jolly little leprechauns

And unicorns with wings


He imagined that each rainbow stripe

Tasted like a lollipop

With grape flavor on the bottom

And cherry on the top


He also thought that fluffy clouds

Were made of cotton candy

He dreamed of living in the skies

Where life was fun and dandy


Now, also in Miss Frillton’s class

Was a little boy named Ned

For him, the thought of flying

Filled him to the brim with dread


He imagined that among the clouds

Lived a horrid monstrous troll

Who would torture you with lightning bolts

And vacuum out your soul


One day Miss Frillton advertised

“Our field trip day is soon!

Each girl and boy will get to ride

In a big hot air balloon!”


Horace yelled “Hurray! Whopee!”

And grinned from ear to ear

While on the other hand, poor Ned

Was paralyzed with fear


“Mom! Dad! Don’t make me go!”

Cried Ned, as soon as school was done

“Oh, don’t be silly, Ned!” they said

“You’ll have a lot of fun!”


Then field trip day arrived

It was the seventeenth of June

And Miss Frillton’s class showed up

At the field of air balloons


“We’re going to be in this one,”

Horace heard Miss Frillton state

“So please don’t go off looking

For a different one to take.”


But Horace thought his own balloon

Would be a lot more fun

So he ditched the class balloon

And snuck into a different one


Then quietly he cut the rope

That held it to the ground

And as the balloon rose in the air

Well, guess what Horace found?


“Ned?!” asked Horace with a gulp

“Why are you in that heap?”

And Ned woke up and cried

“Oh dear! I guess I fell asleep!”


“I crawled in this balloon

And hoped Miss Frillton wouldn’t know.

I thought she’d leave without me

And I wouldn’t have to go.”


But Horace wasn’t listening

For he saw a unicorn!

It winked at him as it flew by!

It let him stroke its horn!


“What are you doing?” Neddy asked

“Why did you stroke the air?”

“A unicorn!” cried Horace

“You mean you didn’t see it there?”


But at this point Ned froze

And felt a shiver in his soul

For standing right in front of him

Was the horrid monstrous troll!


The troll was throwing lightning bolts

Ned tried to dodge, in vain

Three bolts pierced him in the chest

He writhed and squirmed in pain


The troll cried, “Ha! I got you good!”

Because he loved to gloat

And then he grabbed his vacuum

And stuck it down Ned’s throat


Ned’s eyeballs bulged, his insides twitched

He felt dizzy and sick in the head

And the vacuum sucked his soul out

Which left poor Neddy dead


Meanwhile Horace licked a rainbow

And ate clouds by the bellyfull

He would have been tortured and soul-sucked too

But he didn’t believe in trolls.

Friday, August 28, 2009

The Smelling Museum

Have you ever been to a smelling museum?

I went just last week with my Great Uncle Liam

There’s not much to see, but there’s plenty to sniff

Just open each box for an artistic whiff

There’s a cinnamon-beef jerky-grandma’s house scent

And the smell of a badger stuck inside a tent

There’s the smell of the floss that was used by a bat

And the smell of five pill bugs inside of a hat

There’s the smell of a whiskery old man drinking gin

And the smell of a shark that is missing a fin

You can smell a rhinoceros scratching his ears

Or the smell of a bicycle shifting its gears

Take a sniff of old mayonnaise that’s crusted in hair

Or inhale the scent of a bee on a bear

Or smell what it’s like to be stuck in a cave

With a monkey, a crumb, and your coworker Dave

Or discover the odor of butterfly sweat

Or the smell of a gambler who’s just lost a bet

Try the fragrance of blackberries boiled in snot

Or the scent of a dolphin mistakenly caught

Or try the perfume of fresh tears mixed with pepper

Or the stink of the feet of a line-dancing leper

Yes, smelling museums host the art of today

All those visual knick-knacks are trés passé

And although you won’t like every single aroma

Do you like everything that they put in the MOMA?

The Great Pumpkin

“Come sit next to me, my dear boy, for a story
I can’t promise it won’t be too bloody or gory.
It’s one that I won’t even tell my own wife.
It’s about the Great Pumpkin, who once saved my life.”
“Who is the Great Pumpkin?” you ask me at first
And I say, “Have you heard of Sir Pork Chop the Worst?”
And you say, “Who’s Sir Pork Chp?”, forgetting a vowel
And I say, “Of all pig meats, he was the most foul.
Just note how his name includes ‘Chop,’ little one
See, he liked chopping heads off of boys just for fun
And he liked to throw girls off of cliffs for no reason
And was guilty of crimes such as thieving and treason
He once threw an orphan into a French-fryer
And one day, he lit my own village on fire.”
“Oh no!” you exclaim. “But then who saved the day?”
“The Great Pumpkin, of course!” I indignantly say
“My dear boy, what it is that you ought to inquire
Is just how The Great Pumpkin put out that big fire.”
“Oh, that’s what I meant,” you respond with a grin
And I say, “Very well, then. Now I shall begin.
The nasty old Pork Chop, so vile and mean
Was coating our village with pink gasoline…”
“But grandpa, just why was the gasoline pink?”
“It burns longer, you numbskull, just what did you think?
Now where was I?...Ah yes, so the pink gasoline
Was spread over everything I’d ever seen
From bathtubs to sneakers to pillows to cups
And Sir Pork Chop was yelling, “I’ll burn you all up!
I’ll fry you to snizzles and roast you to frazzles!
I’ll sny you to frizzles and froast you to razzles!”
And we covered our eyes with our raggedy sleeves
And we huddled together, all shaking like leaves
So frightened that none of us knew what to do
We crossed ourselves once, and uncrossed ourselves too
Then Sir Pork Chop yelled, “Time for you all to get toasty!
I like eating kids when they’re crispy and roasty.”
Then I whimpered in fear, for the outlook was dire
As Sir Chop struck a match and lit up the fire
It roared and it flamed and it leapt and it sizzled
And I thought to myself, “I shall soon be a frizzle.”
But just then, The Great Pumpkin, with hummingbird speed
Came rolling on in, to help with our need
He came rolling straight from his Great Pumpkin Patch
Just as soon as he’d heard Sir Chop’s strike of the match
He yelled, “Out of here, Pork Chop! You leave them alone!
Or I’ll ruthlessly tear off the meat from your bone!”
And I barely believed what on earth I was seeing
The villainous pork chop was actually fleeing!
And then, The Great Pumpkin, to salvage our huts
Released gobs and gobs of his Great Pumpkin Guts!
His bright orange juices were flowing and flowing
And we clapped and hurrahed and our faces were glowing
For although our dear town was a pumpkinesque mire
The Great Pumpkin had saved all us kids from the fire!
“Oh thank you Great Pumpkin!” we joyously said
And we gave him a wreath for his big pumpkin head
But he just rolled away, with a quick wave goodbye
Yessir, that big squash was one hell of a guy.”
Then you say, “I’ve not heard of another thing bolder!
Can I be a Great Pumpkin one day when I’m older?”
And I smile at you softly and quietly say
“My dear boy, you can be a Great Pumpkin today.
Just do little things and they all add together
Like lending your bumbershoot out in bad weather
Or letting your sister sometimes be the winner
Or not picking nose-boogers while eating dinner
Or stopping to help a small duck cross the street
Or smiling at every new person you meet
Or remembering it’s less fun to get than to give
Then you’ll be a pumpkin as long as you live.”

Thursday, August 27, 2009

Ode to the Olympic Marmot (dedicated to the Marmot King, whom I had the pleasure to meet upon Hurricane Ridge)


Oh marmot on your rocky rock

What have you got that I have not?

To start, you’ve got some thickish fur

And if I may continue, sir

You’ve also got a lovely view

And every day, an hour or two

To just enjoy it, as you plop

Upon your marmot rocky rock.

You’ve also got some blackish paws

And clicky sounding toothy jaws

And then a burrow, not too far

Where you can get some R&R

You spend the day upon the rocks

You’ve made yourself a litter box

You’ve also got a snazzy nose

To smell where yummy grubbums grow

And when you’re tired of doing that

You simply take another nap

(And then to celebrate your nap

You clap, and take another nap.)

If by an enemy you’re found

You bound and bound and bound and bound

And though you’ll suffer quite a fright

You’ll very soon be out of sight

But as you know, I am your friend

Your pal until the very end

I’ll be with you through wind and rain

And even through a hurricane

I’ll help protect your rocky rocks

I’ll whack trespassers with my socks

I’ll stroke your nose and scratch your head

And even feed you bits of bread

Then you and I will rent a plane

And fly together, off to Spain

We’ll travel Europe all year long

And sing a lot of silly songs

Like “Rock Around the Marmot Clock”

And “Twinkle Twinkle Marmot Rock”

And I just know that we’ll be fine

As long as your paw rests in mine.

Tuesday, August 25, 2009

A Nippity Vruku Discovered a Vreet

A nippity vruku discovered a vreet

The vreet was unvrooking a mile from Crete

The nippity vruku was fildabbing moko

When he spotted a vreet just beneath the yondoko!

The nippity vruku was filbously zagged

He shomped up and down and sudruckled a klag

He gnarbled the vreet from beneath the yondoko

And gnorbilded the vreet with his poky fonzoko

But the vreet was galeesty and snackled a quat

He smormled the vruku with kibbledome guat

The vruku manuzled, gantucky hibbay

And zyped as the vreet ganooblobled away

“Ig moondom spakini!” cried out the vruku

“Ty babut! Skag narmit! Feen guppo baduku!”

And the vreet in reply said, “Van noople gloop snoo.

Izblat wuntifatacus snorp pleck phai-floo.”

Which made Mr. Vruku funjuckle with rage

He wanted that vreet pockled up in a cage!

So he yimpered and jimpered and frockled his bambits

And hired some thugs to filluple the snambits

But the vreet was mandoopledump hipyopper whappy

And snickled the vruku from bappy to xappy

And that's what the vreet tells all his galoko

While sipping gognobble beneath the yondoko

Wall-Walker

There once was a man who spent many years

Just walking along a wall

He never stopped, or turned around

And never had a fall

He walked past plastic playgrounds

And thirty racks of beer

He walked past Buddhist temples

And homeless puppeteers

He walked past sushi restaurants

And goats in petting zoos

He walked past tuna casseroles

And clowns with long red shoes

He walked past rocking cradles

And a textbook factory

He walked past cluttered gutters

And an old man sipping tea

He walked past honking taxis

And women in high heels

He walked past banks and brothels

And hamsters in hamster wheels

But the man couldn’t walk forever

The wall ended abruptly indeed

He was left in a field with wide blue skies

Which was all he’d ever need

The Sand-Dwelling Nommer

Everyone loves to visit the shore
With its kelp and seashells and lobsters galore
But if you have a trip to the beach all planned
You should know what lies beneath the sand
The Sand-Dwelling Nommer is the name of the beast
And he’s rather rude, to say the least
For if you meet him, just by chance
He’ll gobble up your shirt and pants
Then gobble up your armpit hair
And gobble up your underwear
And then he’ll gobble you up too
(But he’ll always spit out both your shoes)
And he makes a very peculiar noise
While gobbling up little girls and boys
It sounds a bit like, “Nom nom nom!”
Or at least, that’s what we heard just before we lost Tom
So beware of the Nommer while you’re at the shore
He’s always hungry for one more
And if he’s got a new victim, you’ll know the clues:
An echo of “nom” and two sandy shoes

The Lonely Mushroom

There once was a mushroom who sighed,

“Oh dear, I’m so dreadfully shy.

There’s a lot goin’ for me

But women ignore me

I guess I’m just not a fungi.”

Friday, August 7, 2009

Le Dragon et le Carniche

There once was a girl whose name was Kate

She took French lessons every day

She learned grammar and pronunciation

From a tutor named Madame Lafay

But while at lessons, she noticed a whisper

That repeated whatever she said

It wasn’t from inside the house

And it wasn’t from inside her head

So she went out to investigate

As to who this eavesdropper could be

And just under the window in the tulip bed

She found a dragon the height of her knee!

Kate was so startled she turned perfectly white

And had to sit down on the bench

She stuttered, “Y-you mean it’s a d-dragon

Who’s been eavesdropping on my French?”

Pardon moi, little girl!” the dragon replied

“I know what I did was a sin.

But I wanted to brush up a bit on my French

So I thought that I’d just listen in.”

“You sneaky thing!” said Kate with reproach

“Why didn’t you hire your own teacher?

And why on earth do you want to learn French?

After all, you’re a mythical creature!”

“Well, I’ve recently fallen in love,” he replied

“With a woman who’s not from this nation.

And as she’s a francophone mademoiselle

I’m improving my French pronunciation.”

“I haven’t been able to ask her out yet

Though I’m certainly hoping to try

But she’s so very pretty, and my French is so poor

And frankly, well, I’m a bit shy.”

“Who is she?” asked Kate in a curious tone

And the dragon pointed straight down the block

Where a little old lady wearing plenty of rouge

Was taking her dog for a walk

“Don’t tell me you love Ms. Pimkins?!” Kate asked

In a tone of complete disbelief

“But of course not, my dear!” the dragon replied

“I’m in love with the lass on the leash.”

“That’s Cosette, her poodle,” Kate pointed out

“I guess she’s not a bad-looking dame.”

“I love her,” said the dragon, with wistful eyes

“But she doesn’t even know my name.”

“I could help you with French,” said Kate after a pause

“If you don’t mind me being pedantic.

It would help me improve if I taught someone else…

And besides, this is all so romantic.”

“Oh, merci!” said the dragon, embracing Kate’s legs

“Not a problem,” said Kate with a grin

“Just come tap on my window tomorrow at noon

And your cours de francais will begin.”

They studied together each day for a week

And the dragon was doing just great

So he decided that very same Friday

He would ask out Cosette on a date

Kate helped the dragon get all spruced up

She gave him a file for his nails

And a fire extinguisher for his breath

And some oil to shine up his scales

Then she dropped him off at Cosette’s house

And was almost was as nervous as he

But she never saw him again after that

And wondered if Cosette had said, “Oui”

Soon after, Ms. Pimkins was babbling

That Cosette had escaped from her leash

And no one believed her, but she swore un dragon

Had eloped with her precious carniche

Wednesday, August 5, 2009

My Pet Bunny

There are lots of pets in this big wide world

And some aren’t quite right in the head

There are cats that insist they’re not cats at all

But friendly dogs instead


And then they are dogs who think they’re cats

They’d rather purr than bark

But I’ve got the weirdest pet of all

A bunny that thinks she’s a shark


She’s really quite demented

And she ought to be on meds

She’s fond of swimming in the bath

And tearing rubber ducks to shreds


She’s horrible to visitors

Like my sister’s boyfriend, Brendan

She stalked him for a while

Then sunk her teeth in his Achilles tendon


She sharpens her bunny teeth with a file

To perfect her frightening grin

And she’s tied a banana to her back

(She considers it her fin)


She slides along the carpet

Like she’s gliding through the sea

And she’s keen on blood, so she shows up

Whenever someone skins a knee


Yes, she thinks she's a shark, and we’re not really sure

Where on earth she got the notion

But at this point we think it might be best

To release her in the ocean

Rose Revises Shakespeare

There once was a woman named Rose McDocks

Who smelled as sweet as a daisy

But Rose wasn’t fond of the name she had

She wanted to be called Maisy


So she told her friends, “I’m no longer Rose.

From now on I’m Maisy McDocks.”

But then for no logical reason at all

She started to smell like old socks


She showered and scrubbed the whole day through

She shampooed and conditioned her hair

But she still smelled of socks, and she blamed her new name

So she changed it from Maisy to Claire


As Claire her stench was even worse

For although she wore clean clothes

She smelled exactly like the fungus

That grows between athletes’ toes


So she gave up trying to change her name

And sure enough, smelled fresh and sweet

And that’s 'cause a Rose by any other name

Would smell as feet

An Insect's Punishment for Piety

There once was a church infested with bugs

Where a priest was giving a sermon

He didn’t use the Bible much

Except to smash the vermin

When a bug landed on the pulpit

He’d whack it and not blink an eye

Then he’d continue with his sermon

About how God was a merciful guy

But he later glanced at what he killed

And he found it rather odd

That he’d smashed a praying mantis

On his hard-back Word of God

Monday, August 3, 2009

The Song of the Cactus

Sometimes a cactus is friendly

And sometimes a cactus is crass

Sometimes a cactus will sing you a song

But you won’t know until you ask


Just head out for the desert

And ask the first cactus you find

Be polite and say, “Mr. Cactus…

I’d love you to sing, would you mind?”


The cactus will clear his poky throat

(For it gets bit dry, you know)

And then he’ll start his singing

In a voice that’s rough and low


“Oh a cactus in the desert

Is the wisest plant there is

He knows what makes the rivers flow

And what makes soda fizz


He knows why elves have pointy ears

And he knows how wildfires start

But the one thing that he doesn’t know

Is the way to a woman’s heart


Oh, the very first of the cacti

Was a plant so moist and green

And it had the biggest flowers

That two eyes have ever seen


But this plant, he loved a woman

And her name was Isabel

He said, “Izzie, would you marry me?”

And she said, “Go to hell”


So the cactus cried his tears of dew

Until he could cry no more

And pretty soon he was all dried up

Just like the desert floor


And his heart was sad and bitter

And he had long and lonely nights

So he kept women far away from him

By growin’ a thousand spikes.”


Now you know why the cactus has his spikes

And why he’s so hard and dry

But as for the elves and their pointy ears

You’ll have to keep wonderin’ why


P.S. I actually wrote a tune for the cactus's song, so ask me and I'll sing it for you sometime.

Sunday, August 2, 2009

Writer's Block #3

A crocodile was resting on a rock in Africa.

“She has big, sharp teeth,” said the turtle

“She has nutritious blood,” said the skin parasite

“She has tasty skin parasites,” said the bird

“She has a warm, soft belly,” said the rock

“She’s a vicious man-eater,” said the man

“She loves me and wants me to be happy,” said the crocodile’s baby

“Don't break my heart, my achy breaky heart,” crooned the crocodile, who had a penchant for country music.

Why is it that walking down the street with your arms by your side you look normal, but when you hold them up in front of you with your fingers curved like bear claws people give you funny looks?

“Noooo, Larry, noooo!!!” she screamed. But it was too late. Larry had voted Republican. He later blamed the Imperius Curse.

Dirk: He’s got tentacles.

Acorn: Ah, but that’s not terribly unexpected.

Dirk: For a house cat? Acorn, you’re bloody mad. I suppose you think badgers have fins?

Acorn: Naturally, Dirk, how else would it swim? Besides, the dandelions have been marvelously talkative this year, which proves my point.

Dirk: We’re talking about my house cat. He didn’t have tentacles yesterday but he’s got them today. The vet really doesn’t know what to make of it.

Acorn: That’s because he only knows how to shoot people

Dirk: The vetrinarian

Acorn: Are you wearing ladies’ underwear?

Dirk: Am I what?

Acorn: I said, did you feed him a grape popsicle?

Dirk: No, Acorn, I don't feed my cat popsicles. But I do let him outside sometimes, and come to think of it, his lips were tinged a bit purple when I found him…He could have gotten one from a litter bin I suppose.

Acorn: A child could have fed him one. He is quite a cute little beastie.

Dirk: Well now he’s a tentacled little beastie with purple-stained lips and I haven’t the faintest idea what to do about it.

Acorn: Does he seem uncomfortable?

Dirk: No, not exactly. He’s having a bit of fun using his tentacles to tease the shrews before he eats them.

Acorn: Then there’s nothing to be done, is there? Accept him, Dirk, tentacles, purple lips and all.

"Quickly, quickly!" said Agatha to Yolanda. "We’ve got to eat the pineapple, milk the cow, water the ferns and taunt the midgets who sing in the church choir!" "Hey Agatha, you've got elbow blubber!" a voice yelled. "Hey Yolanda, you've got tuna-breath!" another squeaky voice chimed in. "You're both uglier than wilted kale!" said a third. "It's too late," said Yolanda. "The choir midgets got to us first."

Here it comes! The brigade of French walruses! Oh, aren’t they magnificent? Flags on their tusks, stately whiskers…I don’t know about you, Harold, but I’d lay my life on the line for them.

You either had to hate him, or love him. Or be sort of lukewarm towards him. Or find him quite pleasant at times, and unpleasant at other times. Or understand, that as a complex being, he is never as he seems, and has both dreadful and beautiful desires.

Oscar Wilde wrote that all great art is self-conscious. But he never put a paintbrush in the hands of a disgruntled orangutan.

Francisca had had quite enough of the silverware coming to life when she wasn't home. Returning to the kitchen was like returning to the scene of some horrendous culinary crime. Tomatoes stabbed and bleeding, Frosted Mini-Wheats scattered all over the floor, lemons squeezed dry, chunks of banana stuck to the walls, and sometimes even a creative touch, like a knife-impaled onion with a sticky note on it, with the words “YOU'RE NEXT.”

The adorable little children of the Italian mafia loved spinning the globe and seeing where their fingers landed. If a child's finger landed on Russia, that meant Russia would be the next country their family would move to in order to evade the law or escape murder. If a child's finger landed on the ocean, it meant daddy would soon go to sleep with the fishes.

Pirate Scraggly-Beard and Wilma the Wench knew each other well, as they had spent quite a bit of time together sailing the wild seas on the Scorched Mermaid, but never experienced any romantic attraction. Wilma considered Scraggly-Beard as more of a friend than an object of attraction, and Scraggly-Beard was known to say, “Arrrr, Wilma’s a fine wench, but she don’t excite me more’n if she was a barnacle.” Then one day, after both had imbibed a substantial amount of rum, Wilma and Scraggly-Beard found themselves alone on deck. The night was as black as a pirate flag and as silent as a dead parrot. Wilma, with an uncharacteristic tenderness, stroked Scraggly-Beard’s scarred and weathered cheek, and Scraggly-Beard felt a warmth within that was different from the heat in his bones produced by rum or whiskey. And once Wilma was done tracing the constellations on his face, Scraggly-Beard guided her mouth towards his and kissed her with the soft wetness of a mop and the determined precision of a compass needle. Then Wilma gazed into Scraggly-Beard’s right eye (the patch over the left wasn’t much to gaze at), and noticed for the first time how brilliantly it seemed to reflect the shimmer of the waves at mid-day. But neither Wilma nor Scraggly-Beard ever mentioned that night, as both preferred to pretend it hadn't happened. And so the memory of their kiss sunk to the bottom of their minds like the body of drowned man to the ocean floor.

“How’re you feeling today, Jameson?”

“Miserable. Like every other day of my life.”

“Now, now, that’s not true. Remember the day the Christmas elves came to town? You were ecstatic.”

“I had inadvertently inhaled large quantities of nitrous oxide.”

“Nevertheless, you thought the elves were wonderful. You felt the need to give each of them a hug and a kiss on the nose.”

“I was accused of assault and stabbed repeatedly with candy canes.”

“Ah, but you should’ve seen the grin on your face.”

The three Flemington sisters all attended Queetsley Senior High. Every morning, Linda would curl her hair and skip breakfast, Mandy would eat a grapefruit and a chili pepper (it was part of her most recent fad diet), and Frieda would eat bacon and eggs while reading the comics and using her fingernails to scratch the dandruff off her scalp. As soon as they got to school, Frieda would write obscenities in the bathroom stalls, Mandy would hungrily buy and devour a bagel with cream cheese (not a part of her most recent fad diet), and Linda would meet up with her boyfriend behind the gym and get to second base before the bell rang. Later, the three sisters grew up. As adults, Linda worked as a sales representative for Revlon, Mandy wrote for a celebrity gossip magazine, and Frieda became the president of the United States. She didn’t win re-election, which she blamed on the media’s discovery of her dandruff problem.

People over-simplify most things in life. Like, for instance, if Patricia doesn’t like oatmeal, is it more likely that she simply isn’t fond of its texture, or that oatmeal attacked and killed her baby cousin when she was only four and a half? Most people would say the former, but most people would be wrong.