I, Alvin Stomack, conqueror and challenger, strike metaphorical gold.
November 6th, 2006 (Monday)
"Well, you see," I said, "exercise rouses the adipose termite that lives inside our collective thoraces, and that is what makes weight loss possible."
"My goodness gracious!" Maribeth said, pumping the pedals of the six-seater tandem bicycle (a fine riding machine, though I surely miss my penny farthing that I keep in the old shed on my back 40) with increasing force as she, Alain, all of the Christmas Island Fantastic Trees, and I, Alvin Stomack, expert biker and limitless raconteur, piloted the metal conveyance (with much difficulty, but not so much difficulty as was involved in wrenching it up from the underwater tunnel into Franklin Goy's politeness room and then slipping it through the living room without the fastidious Mrs. Goy noticing) toward the outskirts of Jinjaba, where my beloved and currently hostage-held and vandalized wicker home stands proud though currently defeated.
"So what're we goan do?" Eolitriol Meddissin asked from beneath Maribeth Toilet's boots.
"We," I said, in patient mentor/coach mode, "are going to fight the suitors and win back my home."
"And how're we goan do that?" she asked, finishing up the coloring of the last page of her Pillsbury Doughboy Funpad™.
"We will fight them with tactics we have raised from their incipient states to full fruition as marvelous skills. We will fight Miles Burger and his goons... with jai alai."
Everyone gasped. I knew what they were thinking: either I was a genius... or I was crazy. I wasn't sure which, but one thing I was sure of was that I had forgotten to wear my girdle. I felt that gitchy feeling in my head. "Stop here," I commanded.
The bicycle belt skidded to a stop on the path that led up to my humble (and impressive) abode. I could see it's vandalized wicker expanse through the openings in the trees to the north, and the path curved around a grove of poplars, past my bee-caretaking headquarters, along the river and my now-savagely-depre(d/c)ated kelp forest, up to the old tree, my hammock, and my back deck where several of the suitors were lounging, their- I mean my tuxes looking resplendent in the afternoon sun. I gripped my pickax resolutely and walked several yard-meters down the path. I looked back to my team of friends. "Is everybody ready?" I said, my voice literally dripping with inten(t/sity).
They nodded in unison. "What you gonna do?" 'Bacteria Pit' Ruiz said interrogatively.
Not bothering to answer-time was of the essentia!-I raised the pickax high above my head, and with enough force to shake the very flat plane of the Earth out of its path in the great quilt of strobing Mindsoul Creation, I struck the soil of the path in the exact spot where my latent dream intuition told me I had to strike. The pick punctured the path. A puff of steam emerged... A low rumbling... increasing in volume very slowly, but becoming deafeningly loud quite quickly. The suited toughs on my back deck had heard the fracas and were pointing, shouting, and cursing. I cautiously backed away, just in time for the ground of the path to literally EXPLODE with angry, feisty, and determined chinchilli. The small lagomorphs flowed as a furry wave from their underground prison of the earth that I had so kindly emancipated them from, thanks to the telepsychic hypnogogic transmissions they had been sending me in my dreamy sleep for the past few days (as chinchilli in distress are naturally wont to do); and the whole murder of them zoomed in the general direction of my home and the flagitious suitors.
"Onward!" I shouted. "Onward and upward, like a rocket to Planet Awesome!" And my threstle of friends and I charged forth, jai alai balls and Nerf bats at ready, our jaws steeled for combat or tasty cereal should it enter the equation.
"Well, you see," I said, "exercise rouses the adipose termite that lives inside our collective thoraces, and that is what makes weight loss possible."
"My goodness gracious!" Maribeth said, pumping the pedals of the six-seater tandem bicycle (a fine riding machine, though I surely miss my penny farthing that I keep in the old shed on my back 40) with increasing force as she, Alain, all of the Christmas Island Fantastic Trees, and I, Alvin Stomack, expert biker and limitless raconteur, piloted the metal conveyance (with much difficulty, but not so much difficulty as was involved in wrenching it up from the underwater tunnel into Franklin Goy's politeness room and then slipping it through the living room without the fastidious Mrs. Goy noticing) toward the outskirts of Jinjaba, where my beloved and currently hostage-held and vandalized wicker home stands proud though currently defeated.
"So what're we goan do?" Eolitriol Meddissin asked from beneath Maribeth Toilet's boots.
"We," I said, in patient mentor/coach mode, "are going to fight the suitors and win back my home."
"And how're we goan do that?" she asked, finishing up the coloring of the last page of her Pillsbury Doughboy Funpad™.
"We will fight them with tactics we have raised from their incipient states to full fruition as marvelous skills. We will fight Miles Burger and his goons... with jai alai."
Everyone gasped. I knew what they were thinking: either I was a genius... or I was crazy. I wasn't sure which, but one thing I was sure of was that I had forgotten to wear my girdle. I felt that gitchy feeling in my head. "Stop here," I commanded.
The bicycle belt skidded to a stop on the path that led up to my humble (and impressive) abode. I could see it's vandalized wicker expanse through the openings in the trees to the north, and the path curved around a grove of poplars, past my bee-caretaking headquarters, along the river and my now-savagely-depre(d/c)ated kelp forest, up to the old tree, my hammock, and my back deck where several of the suitors were lounging, their- I mean my tuxes looking resplendent in the afternoon sun. I gripped my pickax resolutely and walked several yard-meters down the path. I looked back to my team of friends. "Is everybody ready?" I said, my voice literally dripping with inten(t/sity).
They nodded in unison. "What you gonna do?" 'Bacteria Pit' Ruiz said interrogatively.
Not bothering to answer-time was of the essentia!-I raised the pickax high above my head, and with enough force to shake the very flat plane of the Earth out of its path in the great quilt of strobing Mindsoul Creation, I struck the soil of the path in the exact spot where my latent dream intuition told me I had to strike. The pick punctured the path. A puff of steam emerged... A low rumbling... increasing in volume very slowly, but becoming deafeningly loud quite quickly. The suited toughs on my back deck had heard the fracas and were pointing, shouting, and cursing. I cautiously backed away, just in time for the ground of the path to literally EXPLODE with angry, feisty, and determined chinchilli. The small lagomorphs flowed as a furry wave from their underground prison of the earth that I had so kindly emancipated them from, thanks to the telepsychic hypnogogic transmissions they had been sending me in my dreamy sleep for the past few days (as chinchilli in distress are naturally wont to do); and the whole murder of them zoomed in the general direction of my home and the flagitious suitors.
"Onward!" I shouted. "Onward and upward, like a rocket to Planet Awesome!" And my threstle of friends and I charged forth, jai alai balls and Nerf bats at ready, our jaws steeled for combat or tasty cereal should it enter the equation.