Well, another boring Sunday has gone by.
I began driving recently, and today I was out for a drive when I was forced to an abrupt stop. I tried to look over the cars in front of me. The road was thick with traffic. Then I saw it. A giant ape was beating on young children in the middle of the upcomming intersection. Peculiar, I thought. Why would a giant ape be beating on young children in LaSalle? That's the sort of thing they do in Verdun.
I got out of my car and walked up to the ape and told him what I was thinking. He looked at me for a second and then punched me in my face. I fell to the ground, shocked and appauled. This PRIMATE had just hit me. I felt the warm blood flow from my nose. I got up, turned around, got back in my car, pulled a U-turn and drove back the way I came, pinching my nose with a kleenex.
Well, another boring Sunday has gone by.
Well, another boring Sunday has gone by...
Once again, I was driving today, practising my amazing skills behind the wheel of my father's 1997 Ford Escort, when I began to smell something. It smelt like rotting garbage, and I noticed flies...er... flying around the front of my vehicle. I parked to inspect. When I opened the hood, I saw a squirrel's tail staring back at me. If tails could stare, that's what he was doing. I immediately called my father to come take it out of the car. The smell was unbearable. I nearly puked my lunch out. MMmmm... Lunch, I thought. Anyways. After hours of scraping and pulling on the dead animal, we managed to take it out. Now we had something to eat for supper.
Well, another boring Sunday has gone by.
I woke up this morning with the appauling taste of goat nipples on my tounge. I found that strange because I hadn't had that much goat nipple for supper the night before. I walked, barefoot, to the bathroom, feeling the cold tiles warm up my feet. I rinced out my mouth with some fresh tasting Listerine. At least that's what my mother told me the hot liquid was called, because I could have sworn the bottle said rat poison. It doesn't really matter, it had a good effect with the goat nipple taste. That's when everything started going bad. The lights went out.
I quickly lit an enormous medieval torch I had hanging around on the washing machine and put it up in front of me. Molepeople, I thought. Thousands of little men and women were scattered around my bathroom floor. I found it strange that I hadn't noticed them when I entered the bathroom. I looked at my feet and noticed in horror that I had stepped on and killed about five of these molepeople. There was only one way to fix this. Kill all of the molepeople.
Maybe it was the goat nipples. Maybe it was the rat poison. Maybe it was my profound hatred for molepeople. Maybe it was the fact that I hadn't cleaned my goldfish's bowl for two weeks. I was all over these molepeople. I threw the enormous medieval torch at the first few who were crushed and killed by the weight of it. The closest ones to the torch were burned alive.
I then pulled out two sawn-off shotguns from my pajama pants. How they fit in there, I had no idea. I began pumping shells into the molepeople, killing them off one by one, sometimes two by two.
By the time my work was done, I realized it was approximately 6:32 in the afternoon. I had spent nearly eight hours killing molepeople, and there were thousands of corpses strewn all over my home. I sat down on an old wooden chair, exhausted. My parents, who had been gone for the weekend, walked in the door at that instant.
"What's for supper?" I asked.
Well, another boring Sunday has gone by.