Monday, March 20, 2006

To Booze or Not to Booze...

Ok, so it's ten o'clock and I'm sitting in my apartment debating whether or not, I should get some work done (as I'm currently working for a publishing company) or if I should just hit the bottle. Choices, choices everywhere, but not the time to think. Let us not kid ourselves. Or rather, let me not kid you. I'm probably gonna tie one on. But before I do, my recusant readers, Uncle A-funk will tell you a bed-time story. Let us begin.

So, like most tales, we begin ours with, on the horizon, the prospect of booze. And thus it was, in days of old; when knights errant gallivanted across the country-side in search of dames and dafty looking dorsals. Yes, they sought out the mysterious and illusive Mountain Orcas. A migratory species, they found shelter, for nine-twelfths of the year, in the Caucus Mountains. And being beings of much leisure, these once proud Orcas found much time in the world to frolic and sing happy songs on the plains of neighboring lands. But their love of merriment would be their undoing. For lo, did the mighty Orcas love their draught. And it was so, that when a great preponderance of belligerence was accumulated, that the knights errant would be called into service by the evil and wicked neighboring countrymen. And then a great wave of fear would shudder through every Mountain Orca, especially the younglings. For if they, by some unhappy chance, were to have a run in with a knight, they would surely be seized on the spot and given an MIP. No sway of desire over this prospect was held with any Orca. And so the eldest of the Orcas gathered together and held a great council from night ‘til morn and morn ‘til eve. For eighty-seven and one-half days they deliberated and squabbled and boomed upon high with mighty voices, just what should be done about their unhappy neighbors and the unpleasant knights which they held in pocket. Finally, with a great sigh of relief, the Orcas’ Shaman, Berulselad, who had been sitting uncomfortably near a wall of their yurt… totally ripped ass. And the other elders sat in silent suffering as if nothing had happened. But they all knew it was Berulselad. And when enough suffering was had, Berulselad spake unto them, “Fellow brethren, great wisdom is held within thine walls. But for what has thus been done by our neighboring-landsmen, we do toil so.” He began again, “And so it was after only great deliberation, that I did rip ass. For the good of the Land, I felt it was necessary. It is necessary that we reflect upon this stench, as the wise should, so that we’ll not deal to swiftly, the punishment our enemy so rightly has earned.” Another elder, Craggulinus: leader of the 3rd company widgets and special forces sack-race team leader, spake unto Beruselad, “Yo dawg, you bess ‘splain da dizzle ‘cause I’m ‘bout ta git da crunk posse an’ caps be flyin’ like white women ta JC Penny on tax free weekend. So jus’ whatcha gonna do… bad boy?” Berulselad spake back, “Calm yourself brother Craggulinus. I propose that we construct a great war-machine, with the finest popsicle sticks and Elmer’s glue to be had. It shall invoke every morsel of flatulence that our great forefathers once expelled. Yes, it shall be a wind maker. And it shall be called “Farty McGee.” And it will unleash poots so foul that even the mightiest and olfactorally challenged of our neighbors will cower and run to the farthest reaches of this world in disgust and fear. And thus, will they be punished for their presumptuousness. “Here, Here!” the other elders chimed. And so it was that the noble Orcan race built the titan known as Farty McGee. And he did “wreak” havoc on the lands of any that opposed the nocturnal activities of the Orcas. But some creatures, who loathed the Orcas more than their own miserable lives, did linger in spite of the stench. And so the youngling, Phraleron, did construct a shirt of matches to adorn the trees of the land. He instructed the lingering creatures that if they did not leave, he would ignite the trees in which they lived. This persuaded the creatures. And for a time, it seemed a good thing. The Orcas did prance and make merriment and foster promiscuity in the public restrooms of the Land. But for one fateful day, the Orcas did loathe. For on this day, they would meet their bane. A volcano, that had lain dormant for a thousand years, erupted on the far side of the earth. It sent a cloud of Sulfurous gas into the atmosphere. The gas choked flocks of woolly-geese flying north for the winter. The woolly-geese fell from the sky knocking down the shirted trees. The strike-anywhere match-heads of the shirted trees did ignite and flame. The mixture of methane and oxygen, made possible by Farty McGee, did catch fire and the earth was ripped asunder, eradicating the noble Mountain Orcan race from the Earth.

In later years, descendants of the Mountain Orcas, the Canadians, did learn of their great heritage and the bane of their ancestors: volcanoes. But Canadian scientists realized that it was not the volcano alone, that killed their ancestors… it was the oxygen. Without it, no fire could have started and the Orcas would still be frolicking and fornicating with dolphins today. And so it is that all Canadians, both large and small, hate oxygen and would rather die than disgrace their lungs with its putrid presence.

Berulselad be praised.

End Transmission.

2 comments:

Nicole said...

So are you sure that you were not already hitting the bottle when you wrote the story? That was intense.

Rhonda said...

Why did Phraleron have to make a shirt of matches? Why couldn't he just put the matches in the trees? Was he practicing for his Project Runway audition?