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Do Do Wap is Strong in Here

Tuesday, June 28, 2005

A Poodle Skirt for Delilah 

don't call it a comeback, i been here for years...

it's like this, yawl - see i had went to the store, right, to pick up a jar of marshmallow cream and eat the entire thing with a plastic spoon, when this person, a little dutch looking person, with the liederhosen and clogs and what have you - what i would have assumed was a child except for the stubble - stepped in front of me and said "ay, you ever seen a wood sprite? like a fuckin real one? check this out, i got a four inch tall wood sprite frozen inside a mason jar back at my house, but you gotta come now, elsewise i'm leavin town, and i'm takin tinkerbell with me" he already had me by my pants pocket before he finished his little story, and while he was plenty creepy, he seemed harmless and even a little sad. i needed to cut down on the marshmallow cream, anyway, to get under the weight limit for hang gliding.

so the dutch midget pulled me by the crotch for about three blocks until we were standing in the dingy shadow of an abandoned church. he flapped a rubbery limb in the direction of a tarp covering the splintered door to the cellar, grunted and whined and dragged me inside. once we were past the entrance, all i could make out was the silver curve of a heating duct running a few inches below the ceiling and curving off somewhere upstairs, and the shadows of an angular mound of furniture stacked against the far wall. i could hear the dwarf shuffling around in an agitated circle behind me, kicking over metal sounding objects and swearing quietly. then, after a brief silence, i heard a long, high-pitched squeal and, concurrent with the moment of blackout, a wet slap like a cue ball thrown into a bucket of wheat paste.

i awoke nude and reeking of fish in the center of a crudely etched chalk circle on a landing close to the top of the belfry. my fingers were covered in something like tar, black and sticky. i propped myself against the wall of the stairwell, taking in deep, dusty gulps of air, and slowly regained a tenuous focus. i saw that my pants were draped over a railing just out of reach, and that something was pinned to them. wobbling closer, i swiped the object off my pants and stared at it for awhile until i could discern the shape of a goblet, fashioned out of notebook paper. upon unravelling the goblet, i could read the phrase "don't stop believin'" written in droopy cursive with a charcoal pencil. the i's were topped with little smiley faces. after slumping over and having a good long healthy weeping session, i yanked my pants on, and shirtless, man-tatters jouncing furiously, jogged without ceasing until i reached my back porch. shame has prevented me from speaking of the ordeal for these last few weeks, but now, in its wake, i flounder in abject apathy and no longer care if the world knows a dutch midget buggered me... with a fish... in an abandoned church.

so thats where i've been, sally jesse, and if there's one thing i've learned from this - well maybe not learned so much as qualified through experience - it's never trust a fucking midget.



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