Read by four out five drunken monkeys–written by the fifth.

Archive for the month “May, 2012”

Can We Get Some Love for the Squonk?

The Squonk

At the latest meeting of the legendary creatures.

Golem: Before we get started, has everybody that’s going to be here arrived? Nessie won’t be here today but he sends his regards. He did send us a postcard, it has a bunch of guys playing bagpipes in kilts mooning the camera. Pass it around please. Chupacabra won’t be here either, evidently he has had some trouble at the border. We’re still missing someone…Bigfoot, is your cousin coming?

Bigfoot: Yeah he’s coming, you know how he is: always showing up late.

Golem: I’m aware…wait, here he is now, speak of the devil.

Jersey Devil: What?

Golem: Not you Jersey, I was just commenting that Yeti’s finally here.

Yeti: Sorry I’m late, the traffic was “abominable” on the way over. (He laughs hysterically.)

Golem: That joke gets funnier every time you tell it.

Bigfoot: It really does.

Thunderbird: Caw!

Bigfoot: Thunderbird agrees with me.

Yeti: Fine, I’m done with the joke. So what’s so important that we had to call an emergency meeting?

Golem: Squonk has some issues that he would like to address.

Yeti: When’s he getting here?

Squonk: I’m standing right here you overgrown monkey.

Yeti: Sorry little guy, I didn’t see you there.

Squonk: That’s the problem, nobody ever sees me there. Most people don’t even know of my existence. How am I supposed to be a “legendary creature” if nobody has even heard of me?

Golem: You to admit, your story’s a little bit depressing. You have ill-fitting skin that’s covered with warts and blemishes, you’re constantly weeping, and when you get upset you just dissolve into a puddle of bubbles and tears.

Squonk: That’s my legend!

Bigfoot: Consider yourself lucky that nobody notices you. It’s miserable having these idiots constantly stomping through the forest looking for you. I don’t know how many times I’ve just sat down to a nice dinner, when here comes some guy traipsing through the forest, whacking a stick against a tree because “that’s how the bigfoot communicates.” I have never in my life mindlessly whacked a stick against a tree.

Jersey Devil: Maybe people would leave you alone if you stopped leaving those big oafish footprints all over the woods.

Thunderbird: Caw.

Jersey Devil: Thunderbird agrees with me.

Bigfoot: Hey, I live in the woods and I have big feet.

Yeti: I love those commercials: messin’ with Sasquatch.

Bigfoot: Those commercials are an affront, they make me look like a gullible imbecile.

Yeti: That’s what I’m saying, they’re hysterical.

Bigfoot: Those commercials are an abomination!

Yeti: What? So he can use that joke?

Indistinct gurgling in the background.

Golem: Look at that, Squonk just dissolved into a puddle of bubbles and tears.

Yeti: Well, that is his legend.

I’m glad you’re a vegan, now leave me alone so I can finish my steak.

It turns out that I’m a soulless monster. My children are doomed to be soulless monsters. My children’s children are doomed to be soulless monsters. In fact, all of my descendants have a bleak future ahead of them.

It seems that I’m destined to be the progenitor of race of zombie-like creatures that aimlessly wander the Earth in a soul deprived state. (I don’t actually have any children yet and I’m seriously doubting if I should; who wants a bunch of soulless monsters running around the house?)

I’m also a savage, a butcher and a fiend.

All of this was pointed out to me by a woman who was quite certain that I was pure evil.

What did I do to incur such condemnation and wrath? I ate a cheeseburger. I didn’t eat a cheeseburger while robbing a bank or strangling a puppy. I just ate a cheeseburger.

She found this to be a vile and contemptible act and she let know how she felt.

There’s a point here that I need to make as clearly as possible:

If you’re a vegetarian, I’m fine with it. You can be a vegan, I’m fine with that too. If you eat nothing but pinecones and moss, I don’t care. Your diet can consist solely of gnawing the heads off live herring, a little gross but that’s your choice.

After absorbing a ten minute rant at my expense, I watched in disbelief as this woman got up to leave and put on a leather jacket. I’m not making this up, it was genuine “dead animal hide” leather. Evidently it’s fine to kill an animal if it makes you look like The Fonz.

If you want to wear leather, go right ahead, but please leave me and my cheeseburger alone.

The Mysterious Case of the Vanishing Big Mac.

The subject in question.

The trip was brief.

The controversy has endured.

Four Big Macs were purchased. Four Big Macs were present in the take-out bag. Four Big Macs were removed from the take-out bag. One person claims to have never gotten a Big Mac that night. Three others claim to have eaten only one Big Mac apiece.

Accusations have flown. Accusations still fly.

That fateful night:

(The names have been changed to protect the guilty…also, because it’s fun.)

Paco: Give me my Big Mac.

Rupert: You ate it.

Paco: No I didn’t.

Rupert: Yes you did.

Paco: I think I would remember eating a Big Mac.

Rupert: Evidently you don’t.

Paco: Hey Alicia, you ate my Big Mac didn’t you?

Alicia: No.

John Q. Stud: Well I didn’t eat it.

An hour later, sitting on Rupert’s front porch.

Paco: I can’t believe you guys ate my Big Mac.

Rupert: You ate the Big Mac!

Paco: Look at me, I have no sesame seeds on me. If had eaten a Big Mac, I would have sesame seeds all over me.

John Q. Stud: Maybe the seeds fell off.

Paco: What about the lettuce. What about the secret sauce, there’s not a drop of secret sauce on my face…I can’t believe you guys ate my Big Mac.

Years later:

Paco: Remember that night you guys ate my Big Mac.

Rupert: YOU ate the Big Mac!

Still more years later:

Paco: I really wanted that Big Mac that you guys ate that night.

Rupert: (Says nothing in an act of silent frustration.)


Paco: One of you ate my Big Mac that night.

Rupert via email: There’s no dispute, Paco wolfed it down in two bites.

Paco: That’s not how it went down.

Like Amelia Earhart’s strange disappearance into the Bermuda Triangle; years later there are no answers, only more questions. So on that mysterious stretch of road from Silver Creek, NY to Westfield, NY.  Four Big Macs entered, three were eaten, one was never heard from again.

The Western New York Crooked Line of Mystery.

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