The Mezunian

Die Positivität ist das Opium des Volkes, aber der Spott ist das Opium der Verrückten

Two Italian Uncles Getting down with the sickness to the Beat

(Courtesy o’ John Jacob Whistleford, the Plot Generator)

Bubsy Bubs was thinking about Pepsi Cola again. Pepsi was a piratical clutter with big in the grits spleen and skimpy phantom leg.

Bubsy walked over to the window and reflected on his pumpkin-colored surroundings. He had always hated dank my face with its warm, watery whirlpools. It was a place that encouraged his tendency to feel ziggy.

Then he saw something in the distance, or rather someone. It was the a piratical figure of Pepsi Cola.

Bubsy gulped. He glanced at his own reflection. He was a plump, nubile, sewer water drinker with pimper spleen and straggly phantom leg. His friends saw him as a barbecued, bewildered butter. Once, he had even jumped into a river and saved a teeny hand cans.

But not even a plump person who had once jumped into a river and saved a teeny hand cans, was prepared for what Pepsi had in store today.

The rainy sun teased like bitchin snakes, making Bubsy chuffy. Bubsy grabbed an objective object that had been strewn nearby; he massaged it with his fingers.

As Bubsy stepped outside and Pepsi came closer, he could see the wonky glint in her eye.

Pepsi glared with all the wrath of 1783 snoozy tasty tanks. She said, in hushed tones, “I hate you and I want her nose back.”

Bubsy looked back, even more chuffy and still fingering the objective object. “Pepsi, I put the lime in the coconut & shook it all up,” he replied.

They looked at each other with zaggy feelings, like two friendly, frightened fakes snitchin at a very radically moderate train ride, which had grunge jazz music playing in the background and two Italian uncles getting down with the sickness to the beat.

Bubsy studied Pepsi’s big in the grits spleen and skimpy phantom leg. Eventually, he took a deep breath. “I’m sorry,” began Bubsy in apologetic tones, “but I don’t feel the same way, and I never will. I just don’t hate you Pepsi.”

Pepsi looked lippy, her emotions raw like a burnt, bright box with socks.

Bubsy could actually hear Pepsi’s emotions shatter into 6722 pieces. Then the piratical clutter hurried away into the distance.

Not even a drink of sewer water would calm Bubsy’s nerves tonight.

THE END

Posted in Short Stories, What the Fuck Is this Shit?