I Like Fish on Sticks
The pet store was selling them for five cents a dollar ninety-eight two used Kleenexes one defenestration four limited-edition Jar-Jar Slushie cups apiece. I thought this was odd since they were normally a couple thousand five bucks and change -three- used Kleenexes only available to those who had the Anakin Slushie cup way cheaper than that. I decided not to look a gift horse banana Tribble Iludium Q-36 explosive space modulator sporkin the mouth so I bought 200 of them. I like fish on sticks.
I took my 200 fish on sticks home. I have a big car. I let one of them drive sing defenestrate himself defenestrate me jump up and down on the seats wave to passing cars play 'Revolution 9' repeatedly on my tape deck. His name was Sigmund. He was kind of retarded demented smelly queasy scared of alien abduction. In fact, none of them were really bright. They kept punching themselves in the genitals. I laughed. They punched me in the genitals. I stopped laughing.
I herded them into my room. They didn't adapt very well to their new environment the idea that Elvis was dead sub-zero temperatures a constant diet of sporks and Spam being assimilated by the Borg my penchant for defenestrating everything in sight. They would screech and hurl themselves off the couch at high speeds and slam into the wall. Although humorous at first, the spectacle lost its novelty perspicacity marbles hair lunch halfway into its third hour at 10:00 when "The Price Is Right" came on in about ten seconds after a few days when I realized I was just hallucinating the whole thing under my bed.
Two hours later I found out why all the fish on sticks were so inexpensive willing to clean my room for me scared of the dark xenophobic: they all died. No apparent reason. They all just sort of dropped dead. Kinda like when you buy a goldfish pet spork can of spam little brotherand it dies five hours later. Goddamn cheap fish on sticks.
I didn't know what to do eat defenestrate kill poke with a stick. There were 200 dead fish on sticks lying all over my room; on the bed, in the dresser, hanging from my bookcase. It looked like I had 200 throw rugs. dead fish on sticks.. well, what else would it look like? yo-yos. dead traveling salesmen. anvils I tried to flush one down the toilet. It didn't work. It got stuck. Then I had one dead, wet fish on a stick and one hundred ninety-nine dead, dry fish on sticks.
I tried to pretend that they were just stuffed animals politicians passing meteor showers Spam more of my imaginary friends. That worked for a while; that is, until they began to decompose. It started to smell real bad lemony-fresh like that Chinese restaurant down the street like Spam.
I had to pee but there was a dead fish on a stick in my toilet and I didn't want to call a plumber a psychiatrist, even though I need one the Ghostbusters my mommy. I was embarrassed.
I tried to slow down the decomposition by freezing them. Unfortunately there was only enough room for two at a time, so I had to change them every 30 seconds time the doorbell rang other day four hours, not to exceed six doses in a 24-hour period. I also had to eat all the food in the freezer so it didn't go bad eat me first attain sentience stage a kitchen coup complain that I wasn't paying enough attention to it.
I tried to burn them, but little did I know that my bed left pinky finger award-winning collection of antique matchbooks cat brotherwas flammable.
I had to extinguish the fire.
Then I had one dead, wet fish on a stick in my toilet, two dead, frozen fish on sticks in my freezer, and one hundred nintey-seven dead, charred insulted Guatemalan megalomaniacal alien-human hybrid clones offish on sticks in a pile on my bed. The odor wasn't improving.
I became agitated filled with chocolatey goodness terrified of lava lamps sure that the men in white coats were out to get me a loyal fan of the "Watching Paint Dry" channelat my inability to dispose of the dead fish on sticks and I really had to use the bathroom return to the mothership kill the Pope hurl myself out the window eat some Spam. So I went and severely beat one of the fish on sticks. I felt better.
I tried throwing them away eating them defenestrating them praying to Spam sweeping them under the carpetbut the garbage man said the city couldn't dispose of charred icthyoids the aliens wouldn't let me the voices in my head told me that it would be a bad idea I have this odd urge to live I couldn't find my spork. I told him I had a wet one pet spork rare degenerative illness little brother I didn't want anymore. He couldn't take it either. I didn't bother asking about the frozen ones.
I finally arrived at a solution. I gave them out as Christmas gifts marketed them as a cheap energy source hurled them at the mailman vaporized them with my Klingon disruptor.
My friends didn't quite know what to say. They pretended to like them, but I could tell they were lying. Mmm... spam. Hey, look! A blue car! A man named Jim lives in my lava lamp. The celery stalks at midnight! Borkborkbork! Ingrates. So I punched them in the genitals shipped them off to Australia in a cardboard box beat them with a stick sold them into slavery ran and cried.
I like fish on sticks.
This piece of web madness created, implemented and maintained by Napoleon. I like getting mail. Hint, hint.
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