Denoument... a denoument
At last, a bit browbeaten and short of lung-air, we arrived at the ladder that purportedly lead up to Christmas Island, my faithful island of islands, my dreamtown, my bodhisattva of cities. With a resolute hand I gripped the oily rung of the ladder, my faithful Janitor Island companions prepared to follow me into the heart of the beast should it prove necessary, when suddenly... I sensed something was wrong.
The blood in my circulatory system reversed directions for the second time this month, and that could only mean one thing...: somebody was in need of some classic A.S.S. ---- i.e. Alvin Stomack Sympathy. I turned around and said, "All right. Who needs a hug?"
Tears burgling forth from his eyespheres, streaking down his rosy cheeks, Samuel Smiles sobbed superabundantly, sorrowful salty tearspots staining and soaking his sparkling salmon shirt.
"There there," I said as my faithful fatty friend Mr. Smiles blubbered lugubriously, and I kissed him soundly on his shiny forehead, which only seemed to amplify the deluge of alligator (opposite of crocodile) tears (tears?).
Mr. Smiles proceeded to explain that he could not come with me to Christmas Island, even though he wanted to assist me in regaining my home and metal-fingered paramour; he expounded the reasons of his hesitation, which required a total of 269 minutes and can ultimately be summed up to this: ever since he had been abandoned by Stucky's on Janitor Island twenty-six years ago, he had come to regard the island as his home, and he was a proud patriot, so much to the point that he refused to set foot on the dusky motherland of any other sovereign nation: for that, in his mind of genius minds, would constitute an act of bloody treason, punishable by self-inflicted suicide (or seppuku as it is known in Michigan).
Fighting back my own flashflood of philosopher wailing cries, I patted my priceless pal on his broad shoulder and told him that I understood, and that I would miss him.
Particles of emotions running through our veins and arterioles, creating a state of high osmolarity that threatened to make my hair turn blue, Samuel Smiles handed me his recently-completed Seinfeld erotic fan-fiction short story, wished me success towards regaining my wicker home of homes and deposing Secretia's new suitor and his gang of toughs from my property; and then he turned and walked away, forlorn, and it was difficult for me to remove my eyevision from his heavy frame and its glorious shadow, stretch across the asphalt of the underwater highway and looking for all purposes and intents like a fortunate toothache. I wanted to call him back, to revel in his tales of heroism and competence, to enjoy the basking light of my philosopher-phriend's mind's eye, to read more of his expert-crafted television sitcom fan fiction...
But I had work to do, and I climbed that ladder. All the way to the top.
The blood in my circulatory system reversed directions for the second time this month, and that could only mean one thing...: somebody was in need of some classic A.S.S. ---- i.e. Alvin Stomack Sympathy. I turned around and said, "All right. Who needs a hug?"
Tears burgling forth from his eyespheres, streaking down his rosy cheeks, Samuel Smiles sobbed superabundantly, sorrowful salty tearspots staining and soaking his sparkling salmon shirt.
"There there," I said as my faithful fatty friend Mr. Smiles blubbered lugubriously, and I kissed him soundly on his shiny forehead, which only seemed to amplify the deluge of alligator (opposite of crocodile) tears (tears?).
Mr. Smiles proceeded to explain that he could not come with me to Christmas Island, even though he wanted to assist me in regaining my home and metal-fingered paramour; he expounded the reasons of his hesitation, which required a total of 269 minutes and can ultimately be summed up to this: ever since he had been abandoned by Stucky's on Janitor Island twenty-six years ago, he had come to regard the island as his home, and he was a proud patriot, so much to the point that he refused to set foot on the dusky motherland of any other sovereign nation: for that, in his mind of genius minds, would constitute an act of bloody treason, punishable by self-inflicted suicide (or seppuku as it is known in Michigan).
Fighting back my own flashflood of philosopher wailing cries, I patted my priceless pal on his broad shoulder and told him that I understood, and that I would miss him.
Particles of emotions running through our veins and arterioles, creating a state of high osmolarity that threatened to make my hair turn blue, Samuel Smiles handed me his recently-completed Seinfeld erotic fan-fiction short story, wished me success towards regaining my wicker home of homes and deposing Secretia's new suitor and his gang of toughs from my property; and then he turned and walked away, forlorn, and it was difficult for me to remove my eyevision from his heavy frame and its glorious shadow, stretch across the asphalt of the underwater highway and looking for all purposes and intents like a fortunate toothache. I wanted to call him back, to revel in his tales of heroism and competence, to enjoy the basking light of my philosopher-phriend's mind's eye, to read more of his expert-crafted television sitcom fan fiction...
But I had work to do, and I climbed that ladder. All the way to the top.