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| In the Beginning... - destination "…and that was The Screaming Spleens and their hit song, 'I Love You, I Hate You, Now Buy Me a Taco'. Coming up is the newest release from Satan's Underpants, entitled 'Freedom Is Not a Hobo You Can Punch in the Kidney'..."
Not in any mood to listen to Madagascarian grunge-funk music, you flick off the car radio and stare blankly at the road ahead of you as you careen down the warm afternoon highway.
It’s been a long, hard day. Your boss fired you after he finally caught you stealing #2 pencils from your job at the head offices of Rubber Pants, Inc.; your girlfriend broke up with you after she finally caught you stealing the left sock from every pair she owns; the office janitor beat you in the face with a plunger after he finally caught you stealing all his mop heads; and your landlord evicted you after complaints from your neighbors and a subsequent visit from the Health Department discovered a hazardous level of office supplies, socks and mop heads sitting in your apartment.
The only thing that’s keeping you sane as you cruise down the highway to nowhere in particular is the fact that, after all is said and done, you still have your favorite neighbor-skin tie. Yeap, you’ve still got the best tie in the whole world. In fact, you spend the next three-and-a-half minutes thinking about just how truly exquisite that tie really is, that if it were a woman, you would take it to fancy restaurants like Uncle Jed's Fine Dining / Pigeon Slaughterhouse and whisper sweet nothings in its ear and make love to it nightly, which, despite rumors to the contrary, is not something you already do.
You become so absorbed in the temporary worship of your tie that you almost don’t notice a pickup truck cutting you off. You slam on your brakes, successfully preventing your precious 1974 Chevy Nova from slamming into the vehicle in front of you, with the unfortunate side effect of causing your fresh cup of Uncle Jed’s Only Moderately Awful Coffee to come flying from the dashboard and spill all over your shirt, suit, and worse, your beloved tie.
That’s it. The gloves would be off, had you been wearing any, but since you lost your last pair attempting to steal a Portable Monkey from an unsuspecting hobo, you aren’t.
Do you…
Let your rage swallow you whole like a felon on the run swallows an illegal nugget of Llama Gold?
Or do you do your best to calm yourself down? | | | 5:42 am - email it |
| Moving On... - destination With that one vein in your forehead throbbing like mad, you step on the gas, and as you find yourself alongside the Evil Pickup, you grab the steering wheel with both hands and jerk it as hard as you can towards the offending vehicle. However, since you’re considerably less skilled at driving than you are at stealing office supplies, you miss your mark completely (though you would be happy to learn that he at least looked vaguely distressed and alarmed for a second or two) and slam rather rudely into a telephone pole. Fortunately, the airbag kicks in, thereby saving your appallingly murderous hide; unfortunately, you had figured that you’d never need an airbag and had the standard one replaced with an airbag shaped to look exactly like Richard Nixon.
So there you are, alive but with a faceful of airbag-flavored Nixonian jowl. You wrestle your way out of the enormous inflatable Nixon and flop out of your now-destroyed car, appalled that not only is it useless, but it’s also filled with the colossal face of an ex-president whose ghost once caused you to fail a Physics assignment in highschool. Stupid Nixon; what the hell did he know about Physics, anyway?
At any rate, with your vehicle now smoking, useless, and infested with rubberized Nixon, it doesn’t look as though you’ll be driving yourself anywhere in the near future. And considering your somewhat weakened and shocked state, you’re not exactly able to hijack anyone either, except of course for perhaps an extremely old and frail crossing guard, but the Easily Hijacked Extremely Old and Frail Crossing Guard Convention was last week, so it looks like you’re out of luck.
So, do you:
Leave the highway, and make a break for the suburbanite backyards you see off in the distance?
Or do you stick to the highway, because, like a drifter, you were born to walk alone? | | | 5:41 am - email it |
| Moving On... - destination
With a few grunts and a snort or two, you finally manage to tear the last shred of clothing off your now-liberated body, casting your cloth shackles to the side of the road.
"Yay for nudity!", you loudly proclaim, your various dangly bits swaying slowly in the warm summer wind as Mongolian Fire Ants begin to take a distinct interest in the pile of clothing which has suddenly appeared on top of their home.
"Pants are a tool of the Man to oppress the unenlightened masses!", you cry, pumping your fists into the air. A passing seagull, shocked by your enthusiasm, suffers a sudden aneurysm and keels over in the middle of the road.
As you stand there, your arms stretched to the sky in a fit of glory, a busload of grandmas drives by and slows to a crawl as it passes.
In response, you:
Completely abandon your ideals, whore yourself out to the Man once again, and make a mad dash for your clothing?
Stand proud, displaying your resolute ideals for all to see. Damn the Man and his Cloth Prison! | | | 5:40 am - email it |
| Moving On... - destination
Refusing to compromise your newfound dedication to absolute nudity, you smile proudly and wave joyously to the grannies as they drive slowly by. At least you think you are; it’s difficult to tell through the ravenous cloud of froth and doilies.
Beaming, you can’t help but feel that you’ve served to illuminate their lives, that you’ve enabled them to see the joys of a cloth-free lifestyle. It’s a pride you’ve never known before, a pride that creeps through your every pore and transforms you into a truly enlightened being. With your head held high, a summer breeze caressing your thighs, and bug bites in places you never even knew you had, you march into town and spread the Word of the Nude, illuminating dozens, hundreds, thousands more, showing them all the way to true joy.
Your success is unparalleled as your unique blend of new-age spirituality, donkey worship, and the unrestrained display of dangly bits catches on like wildfire in a Curiously Flammable Mustard factory. You become the leader of the Cult of the Dangly Bit, gain international notoriety, and even produce a bestselling series of Nude Exercise tapes, including Naked Calisthenics: Dangly Bits of Steel and Nude Tae-Bo: Don’t Kick Me There.
At least, that’s what would have happened, had the bus full of grannies not run over that dead seagull, its unfortunately and strangely razor-sharp beak - honed through a lifetime of self-motivation, exercise, and assaulting random joggers -- popped its tire, causing the vehicle to topple over onto your proudly naked and joyfully exposed body. You find yourself horrendously embarrassed, which is only somewhat lessened by the fact that you painfully die shortly thereafter.
THE END. | | | 5:40 am - email it |
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