Every now and then, my friend GM, tells me to write a brief story based on something simple. This story was based upon the name “Michael Fists.” Enjoy.

“Remove your dry snout from my wet loins, Sir Butterface,” exclaimed the boisterous brute known as Michael Fists to his trusty Llama companion. The herculean punching hero was vacationing in Muddy Hallows and clearly drunk on Coconut Rum.

“I’ll never find a busty woman with your anchovy breath seeped deeply in my man area! Be gone, foul beast!” Fists banished the Llama with his proclamation and added a jab to the nose for good measure. Sir Butterface begrudgingly slumped toward Muddy Forest and disappeared into the night.

It was a night that quickly grew cold for Michael Fists without the warm fur of his Llama. Fists passed the wee hours at the Dirty Hamper Saloon by challenging locals to punching contests that ranged from wooden board smash-a-thons to large melon explode-y games.

Hoping to secure a pair of large melons to call his pillow for the night – Fists propositioned tavern waitress, Mary McGallon. “Permit me to rest my noggin’ upon your bosom or I’ll punch your hair off,” Fists threatened and grabbed the busty woman.

“Remove your drunk paws from my hallowed chest, Mr. Fists,” McGallon demanded. Fists was taken aback at the familiarity of her request yet couldn’t pinpoint its origin. Unperturbed, Fists continued his pursuit when McGallon pushed him away and cried, “Be gone, foul beast!”

With that, Fists crumbled to the floor in an enormous heap of man flesh. The realization that his trusty Llama, Sir Butterface, was gone of his own drunken temper was too much to bear and the furious punch rampage of Michael Fists began.

Buildings? Punched. Trees? Punched. Fruit? Punched.

Despite the tornado of punching, there was one four-legged punching bag that remained unpunched and that was Sir Butterface – the Llama. Weeks of punching went by and MIchael’s fists swelled to an unimaginable size (estimates range from two centimeters to twenty gablillion meters).

His infamous hands slowly formed into the shape of lobster claws and became forever crippled. The talents of Michael Fists were punched away until he was left a shell of his former self.

In desperate need of a new career, he turned to the only available avenue for large men with lobster claws – the circus. It just so happened that Boris Wackingsly’s Wild World of Weirdos was passing through town and recently lost Carl The Amazing Crab Man in a bizarre water park accident.

Fists, whose name would soon change to Claws at the demand of Wackingsly – was hired on the spot.

Circus life was what you’d expect – bean-eating contests every morning, beard-growing competitions every night. There was one aspect, however, Claws did not expect.

“Swing the rings around your freak-neck or get back in the cage!” barked Burpo – the surly animal trainer. But no threat from Burpo could cheer up the sad animal he was hired to train. Burpo tied him up to a nearby post and stormed into Wackingsly’s trailer as Claws was trying to fill out paperwork but kept snapping pencils in half.

“I can’t work with that unreasonable creature! It’s me or him, Wackingsly!” Burpo dropped his ultimatum on the boss.

“Fine, fine – cut him loose,” Wackingsly casually replied. When Claws failed to move a massive muscle, Wackingsly turned and shouted, “You! Claws! Put those freak hands to use and cut the creature loose!”

Accepting his new role as a freakshow lackey, Claws left to do the bidding of his boss. When he reached the animal, however, Claws froze in place.

“Sir…Sir Butterface? You are the unreasonable creature that man spoke of?” Claws asked.

Sir Butterface, the beloved Llama of Michael Fists immediately noticed the deformed hands of his former owner and rubbed his sad, dry snout on his claws.

“I punched mountains in half when I lost you – and my hands have paid that price. Let’s leave this circus and start life anew.” Claws snipped the chain that locked his beloved Llama and rode him out of the circus.

They spent their remaining years without contests, punchings, or taking orders from circus freaks. All the mighty duo needed was companionship and the occasional piece of fruit that Claws snipped off the trees of Muddy Hallows.

THE END

Every now and then, my friend GM, tells me to write a brief story based on something simple. This story was based upon the name “Yu Clev R. Duck ”

Enjoy. ~Bloop

Yu Clev R. Duck is here with a fist full of sushi and a pantload of soup. I live in the woodshed behind Jerry Johnson’s dolphin farm and I’m writing to you today about my experience with the electric blanket.

Growing up in a kiddie pool filled with goldfish (the cracker, not the fish), I’ve always had trouble staying warm.

A damp crotch is a sad crotch, great Aunt Murgatroy always said.

Luckily, I was given a television box for my eleventeenth birthday that only had one channel – Shopping Channel USA. I soon learned the joys of dialing telephone numbers, entering credit card numbers and waiting for numbers of packages.

To say it was a hobby is an understatement the size of a whale’s belly button. It was my life.

Gladys Grady quickly became my favorite host on Shopping Channel USA and my dearest love. Her collection of smelly candles, in particular, filled my nostrils with stink for years. Yet my crotch remained soggy.

During an impromptu sales pitch sparked by technical difficulties on Shopping Channel USA’s Super Spoon Collection Show – Gladys revealed the singular item that would change my life and warm my loins for good – the electric blanket.

At first, I was skeptical. How could a blanket be made out of lightning? And how could Gladys Grady have a glass eye yet continue to display the necessary depth perception to hawk knick knacks on the boob tube?

I had to know, first hand, the answer to all of my questions. So I dusted off my old copy of The Official Glass Eye Encyclopedia and simultaneously ordered the electric blanket.

By the time I finished reading about glass eyes, the package had arrived and I was ready for my rebirth. I plugged the electric blanket into the octopus-like tendrils of the power strip in my woodshed and waited for the magic to begin.

The globs of mushy goldfish slowly came to a boil and reformed to their original fishy shape.

I leapt out of my kiddie pool with such fury that my head hit the ceiling of my woodshed and knocked me unconscious. When I finally came to – the electric blanket had heated to unfathomable proportions, steaming the soup in my pants and creating a sauna inside my shed.

I lost 400lbs during my slumber and now I’m the most famous super model of all time.

THE END.

Every now and then, my friend GM, tells me to write a brief story based on something simple. This story was based upon the name “Old Rumpsford.” Enjoy.

Nary a stranger in Man Village would balk at the chance to speak of Old Rumpsford. The slyest fella to wear a newspaper hat since Really Old Farnsworth. And although some tales were tall and others even taller – one normal-sized tale remains of Old Rumpsford…

The Tale of Greystone Nickle Penny.

It wasn’t easy getting work in Man Village – most of the tasks were completed by the women, oddly enough. But Greystone Nickle Penny was the location of a job too daring for most folk – even Old Snaky Pete – the whistle salesmen.

Down on his luck and with two bent corners on his newspaper hat, Old Rumpsford decided to hike up his rubber pants and wade in the Greystone Nickle Penny wishing well. What happened next would change the underwear of all of Man Town.

No one knew there were talking fish in the Greystone Nickle Penny wishing well – just like no one knew those same fish wore razor-sharp dentures. Old Rumpford found out soon enough – or should I say – his legs did.

“Somethin’ be chompin’ at me legs!” Old Rumpsford cried to the villagers. But his wacky yelps fell on deaf ears – literally – the whole population of Man Town was hard of hearing.

Thinking quick, on what remained of his feet, Old Rumpford snatched a stockpile of Poligrip denture adhesive from the fish house at the far end of the wishing well.

“Our tooth glue!” the talking fish blubbed in unison.

With the leg-thirsty fish distracted, Old Rumpsford saw his chance at immortality. He sloshed clumsily through the shallow water toward a mountain of coins in the belly of the wishing well. He removed his signature newspaper hat and began filling it with nickles and pennies.

Unfortunately, the water from the wet coins quickly soaked through the newspaper and the coins spilled back into the well. By this time, the fish had gone to the store and bought a fresh stockpile of poligrip. No one is sure how they accomplished this – but it totally happened.

Anyway, Old Rumspford frantically tried to hold his over-saturated newspaper hat together and gather the coins but it was too late. The pointy dentures of the talking fish from Greystone Nickle Penny wishing well had sunk their false teeth into Old Rumpsford. He fell to his watery grave that day and the newspaper hat dissolved amongst the coins and poligrip.

To the day, the hearing-impaired townspeople of Man Town still speak of Old Rumpsford. Unfortunately, they can’t hear each other. So no one really knows the true story. But somewhere out there – a New Rumpsford is on the way. Because Old Rumpsford had sex with one of the fish.

THE END.

Every now and then, my friend GM, tells me to write a brief story based on something simple. This story was simply based upon the name “Harry Jomba.” Enjoy.

Harry Jomba loved his juices. Cranberry, Boisenberry and Banana – being his favorites. One night, while he blended a mysterious new concoction of fruits – the lights went out in his Parisian Castle.

“Who’s there?” questioned Harry.

When he failed to receive an answer to his call in the dark, he decided to forgo the juicing and investigate. He lit a pineapple on fire and jammed a celery stalk inside of it as a makeshift torch. The illuminations of the tropical spiky fruit showed nothing but shadows and empty boxes of produce.

Assuming his mind was playing tricks on him, Harry returned to his experimental blendings. “Avocadooooo”, a voice spoke out in the dark. This time Harry knew he was not alone.

“Avocado? Who is there?” Harry replied, clutching his juicer.

“Add avocado,” the voice cried out once again.

Unfortunately for Harry, the local market had been out of avocado for weeks due to a major drought in California. He would have to think quick to subdue the voice.

Harry grabbed a handful of green play doh and threatened to drop it in the blender. This outraged the mysterious voice.

“Avacado, not play doh!” the voice yelled. Harry was startled by its insistence.

“I have none! The shortage claimed the crop and I’m left without green goopy fruit for my juice experiment!” Harry returned fire on the voice.

“Oh, well why didn’t you ask?” and the voice dropped a pallet of avocados on Harry’s head – crushing him to death.

THE END.

The Garbage Man

Ext. Morning – Suburban Dead End Street. Black and White World.

Trashcan located on the curb. Perspective of its handle looking down the street. A figure steps in from behind the can and grabs its handle, which breaks off in his hand, and trash spills onto the road.

He tosses the broken handle into the garbage, as it is now trash. As he’s bent over, cleaning up garbage he discovers an old wedding ring amongst the trash. Without hesitation he decides to keep the ring. He pulls out a necklace that he wears beneath his coverall and it’s adorned with various trinkets collected over the years.

Removing the necklace he adds the wedding ring to the collection that includes an antique fork, thimble, pocket watch, dice, and buttons.

Happy with his discovery, he returns to picking up the trash when several couples walk by from different directions, arm-in-arm and in love. The Garbage Man stares longingly at their love – failing to notice the shard of glass he presently clasps in his hand.

He cuts his hand and his blood bleeds red through the over-utilized, torn gloves.

Emotionally overwhelmed and in physical pain, The Garbage Man retrieves his hand from the ruined gloves, unaware that a young girl toting a peculiar one-armed doll has snuck up on him and is tugging on his trouser leg. Blood drips from his hand as he pulls a handkerchief from a soiled pocket and wraps the wound.

The Garbage Man looks down to find a cute young girl literally grabbing at his attention, meanwhile a young boy is waiting patiently in the background with a gift-wrapped box. The two children are wearing similar outfits reminiscent of Sunday school dress circa 1960s.

The boy holds up a gift and the garbage man is surprised to realize that it’s a present for him. In his excitement, the garbage man tears open the package, flinging wrapping paper and ribbon wildly in the air.

He opens the box to reveal a brand new pair of garbage man gloves – glowing, in full color.

He drops the box onto the ground, tosses his old gloves on the lawn and adorns his new ones. His eyes locked admiring the new gloves; the young girl once again tugs on his trouser leg. The Garbage Man snaps out of his daze and finds the two children clearly upset at him.

The children, in unison, point angrily at the pile of wrapping paper, gift box and old gloves that the Garbage Man haphazardly left on their lawn. Upset at the disregard for his given duties as garbage man – the boy demands the gloves back.

The Garbage Man is shocked to see the color in the gloves return to black and white before his eyes. He peels the gloves off and grimaces as if it’s physically painful to remove them.

He hands the gloves over to the boy who is motioning the garbage man to throw away the trash he left on their lawn.

Accepting his fate, he picks up the trash and walks over to the nearest garbage can. Before he can throw away the trash, however, the boy blocks his path to the can and points to another can in the distance. Without putting up a fight the Garbage Man follows the boy’s demand and moves along to the far trashcan.

As he reaches to open the lid of the garbage can he’s surprised to find the lid lifting on its own. A plain-looking woman emerges from the trashcan wearing a garbage man jumpsuit. She is glowing in full color and holds out her hand.

He is startled and reluctant to take her hand – he steps back with hesitation. She ignores his trepidation, grabs the trash in his hands and happily disposes of it in the trashcan she stands inside.

Excited by her willingness to accept his trash, the Garbage Man is just about to help her out of the can when he decides to stop. She looks confused at his continued reluctance. The Garbage Man, however, takes off his trinket necklace and removes the wedding ring he found earlier.

He offers the ring to the Lady who kindly accepts. She wears his ring proudly. He offers his hand to help out of the trash when he realizes it’s filthy with a blood-soaked handkerchief.

Suddenly, the boy tosses the gloves back to the garbage man who catches them and puts them on. Ready to accept her love – he helps her out of the trash. As they lock hands and her toes touch the ground – the black and white world around the Garbage Man fills with color.

The children clap and cheer. The Garbage Man smiles gratefully at the children and kneels down in front of them. He holds out his necklace to them and offers them each a trinket.

The girl chooses the fork, which she immediately jams into the missing arm socket of her peculiar doll and gives it a makeshift arm. The boy chooses a button, which he sticks in his right eye like a monocle and gives everyone a good laugh.

All is well. The Garbage Man and his new lady get into the garbage truck and drive off into the sunset. But not before stopping at the next house to pick up the garbage.

If the world is my oyster – I must be allergic to shellfish. I’m either the loneliest rich guy in the world or the richest lonely guy in the world.

My servants often ask me to smile but staying awake is exhausting enough, Jeeves. Sure, I’ve led a privileged life – my father was a great mother and my mother was a great brother. When they passed away in that horrible yachting accident, I was left with the family fortune and ownership of the fortune cookie factory.

Yet, here I am in megalomaniacal misery. Sitting on my diamond beanbag, petting my stupid pet tiger and waiting for the sun to take its daily space nap.

Nobody needs my help at the factory – the fortunes are written by computers and robots make the cookies. I don’t even sign the paychecks anymore because my third wife took that as part of our settlement. The judge said she has better girl handwriting on account of her organic reproductive organs. I guess my synthetic breasts didn’t come with a handwriting application.

All the kids I’ve sired over the years have either moved away or live in a remote wing of my mansion where I can’t seem to find them. I’m positive my son Xavier created a series of candlestick levers and sliding bookshelves to hide from me and I suspect my daughter Bernice is living in the center of that new hedge maze in the backyard.

Who needs family when you have hobbies, right? Unfortunately, I’ve mastered everything from plate spinning to cross-dressing and I couldn’t be less fulfilled. Even vacationing at this point seems like a needless hassle. Do you know what the Earth looks like from the peak of Mount Everest? A bunch of clouds – it’s pretty dumb.

Thankfully, there are a couple outlets I still enjoy from time to time – one being my three-story bouncy castle stocked with topless babes. I got a great deal on some former Barker Beauties from The Price Is Right and they stay relatively civil if you feed them the occasional can of Emerald Nuts.

Another remaining passion of mine is the smash-y room. Basically, I take things poor people need, like food or cars and I flamethrow them to oblivion. Typically, I’ll run over the remains with a steamroller but sometimes I drop an anvil from a crane and watch everything go BOOM!

I’ve decided to move out of this mansion, though. The servants hound me endlessly and I feel like the contractors I hired are re-modeling rooms as they see fit. I like pillows as much as the next gent but why cover the walls with them?

So I’ll start anew. Donate my savings to one of those underdeveloped countries you hear about on the news when your maid lets you watch TV. There are plenty of options out there for a guy like me. I know I can find my niche as soon as I find the key to this jacket.

*This is a completely un-edited piece of stream of consciousness writing. It’s a writing exercise that took about five minutes.

It is what it is! Enjoy*

It was a combination of cheese whiz and wasabi powder that killed the cook. There’s no telling what type of horrors ensued. Broken windows, missing teeth, widowed orphan babies. One thing is for sure – there will never be another hitter like Smokin’ Joe Mcgillicuty.

Smokin’ Joe loved meat and sex but not necessarily in that order. Sometimes he’d eat the sex and later have the meat. You never knew and you never asked. Smokin’ Joe would kick your teeth in if you used his tupper ware. He was an asshole that way.

But things changed for the better when Mary Lou the Bible sheep came along. Most sheep just Baa Baa and provide wool but Mary Lou had other plans. She was shedding salvation and could give peace of mind to any non-believer with a wink of her sheep-y eyeball.

Who was I talking about again? Oh yeah, Smokin’ Joe. See, he had a thing for sheep that started when he visited a petting zoo in Tuscaloosa. Fresh out of quarters for the grain pellets, Smokin Joe offered his heart to a sheep and that sheep ate it up.

The World Series was over and Smokin’ Joe decided it was time to return to the farm. Although he had a .300 batting average at the plate – he only hit .170 at home. Which subsequently forced him into the minor leagues of homes.

Baseball, baseball – whose got a match? Someone needs to burn down the past for Smokin’ Joe and unleash his sheep future. I would do it but I’m busy playing crochet with the Smother’s Brothers. I’m losing.

The End.

Those were the final prophetic words left by the one that got away. The one with glorious treats. The one named Marjorie Menopause.

We met at a church bake sale on the outskirts of Turdland. She was selling her famous rice crispy treats and I was just high enough to need one.

“One…uh…no, two rice crispy things please,” I said on the brink of uncontrollable laughter.

“Sure thang, sweetie,” Marjorie spoke with a southern twang and the maternal gentleness of a thousand Mother Gooses.

As I slowly fumbled with the wad of cash I removed from my sock – I noticed a personal stash of treats near Marjorie’s purse that appeared to be a holy trifecta of peanut butter, chocolate and marshmallow.

“What those?” I muttered like a stoned Neanderthal.

“Oh, nevermind those, sugah. They’re not for sale,” Marjorie backpedaled as she covered the treats with a homemade quilt.

Undaunted and overcome with the munchies, I upturned Marjorie’s table and seized the forbidden treats like Gollum grasping the One Ring. During the confectionary chaos that ensued, I found my hand resting comfortably upon Marjorie’s middle-aged thigh.

“Woah! Sorry, lady!” I exclaimed and removed my hand, leaving behind chocolate fingerprints like points of interest along the varicose vein roadmap of her leg.

“Oh, that’s quite alright…” she replied, peeling off her purple cardigan – revealing a mound of saggy breasts that looked like two laundry bags trapped in a blanket.

A bead of sweat formed across her brow. She was clearly having hot flashes while my head spun on a carousel of marijuana, processed sugar and cougar lust.

That’s how it started.

We spent our first afternoon walking through Urethra Franklin Park. To be fair, we mostly sat on benches because Marjorie’s hip kept acting up. I spoke bluntly about my feelings for her, which may or may not have been altered by the blunt I smoked earlier that day.

“You got pretty hair,” I complimented her with the eloquence of a rock.

“Thanks, but most of it ends up in the tub drain these days…” she replied sullenly.

“Eh, who cares? Outer space is way bigger than our little problems, y’know?” I sloppily attempted to reassure her as my sweaty fingers crept up to hers.

We locked hands and she smiled – her dead tooth barely visible. Suddenly, a teardrop emerged from the crow’s feet of her good eye and the mood changed completely.

“I’m sorry – I can’t do this, honey!” Marjorie cried as she hobbled into her turquoise Geo Prism and drove away.

Weeks went by with neither hide nor gray hair of Marjorie Menopause. Until I heard my phone ring above the bubbling of my dragon-shaped bong and it was playing “Hot For Teacher” by Van Halen. Although never technically my teacher, it was the cougariest ringtone my AT&T plan offered.

Marjorie invited me over to her apartment for pot roast so I finished roasting some pot and hopped on my Huffy.

The apartment complex was on the Southside of Turdland in an area called Barfington Heights. It was a quaint place, decorated with wicker baskets of potpourri and mediocre flower paintings.

What struck me most was the amount of cats or “roommates” as Marjorie put it. I swear, some of the cats had their own cats and I think one was wearing a crown – I assume he was the Cat King. I can’t be sure, though – I was pretty high.

Cat Kingdom aside, we enjoyed a lovely dinner. Unfortunately, she used instant mashed potatoes and I’d never heard ketchup referred to as gravy before but a meal’s a meal when you’re unemployed, I guess.

As Marjorie loaded the dishwasher I decided to sneak into the bathroom and load my pipe. My dank nugget cherried and I found myself surrounded by an assortment of pills that would put CVS out of business. Cranberry extract, Iron supplements, One-A-Day Women’s and a heavy bottle of Vicotin that was admittedly lighter after I left.

There was one prescription, however, that I had to fill personally for Marjorie.

After lighting some fresh linen-scented Yankee Candles and lowering the blinds, we made love on her Craftmatic adjustable bed. “Making love” however, sounds a lot more romantic than what actually occurred – which was pretty gross when I finally sobered up, three years later.

Immediately following our awkward consummation, Marjorie went into hiding. I searched everywhere – flea markets, the dollar store and every antique place in the tri-county area. I missed Marjorie – partly because her treats were delicious and partly because all of my friends are married and I’m really bored.

Then, one fateful afternoon in July – a mobile mammogram truck drove by like the Marjorie Menopause bat signal. I rushed to check my mail and among the final notice from the electric company and the new issue of Maxim laid a letter from Ms. Menopause.

The letter detailed Marjorie’s struggles with our May/December relationship including a failed attempt at pregnancy and something about pubic lice. I couldn’t make out a lot of it because her handwriting is really small and arthritic but I assumed she really missed me.

Unfortunately for her – I’ve moved on. I’m dating this chick named Heather who is sort of fat or whatever but she likes getting stoned and never really wants to do anything – which is cool.

But every now and then I’ll buy a couple rice crispy treats and a tube of Ben Gay at the Turdland Corner Market and forget all about Heather, my parents and the guy who stole my Huffy. I kick back with a fat spliff and reminisce about the one that got away. The one with the glorious treats. The one named Marjorie Menopause.

You have to name your hobos.

There are a handful of vagabonds in my neighborhood with characteristics so distinct; they’ve practically named themselves. My hobos are as follows: The Lapper, Eskimo Joe and Hookhand.

The Lapper looks like an axe murderer; long, shaggy hair like Eddie Vedder after two sets at Lollapoolooza, gruff beard and a t-shirt three sizes too big. No belt. This causes problems because The Lapper’s favorite activity is mindlessly walking up and down Hawthorne Blvd.

I live on Hawthorne Blvd. – a popular, commercial street that The Lapper uses as a makeshift Olympic track. Holding up his oversized ripped jeans with both hands, he power walks back and forth with such feverish intensity you almost assume he’s training for a gold medal. Made of booze.

Eskimo Joe is a total mystery. Sometimes he’s in a wheelchair; sometimes he walks. Sometimes he’s friendly; sometimes he’ll threaten to piss on you. What is for certain is that Eskimo Joe rolls with a huge posse.

I’ve seen the Eskimo Joe Entourage run as thick as five deep – stumbling down the side streets of my neighborhood like the drunken version of Reservoir Dogs. The remarkable thing is that the group members are always changing.

Clearly Eskimo Joe has an enigmatic personality that attracts hobos from all around like some kind of alcoholic bug zapper. That, or he sells awesome drugs.

The one consistent member of the posse, the Tom Hagen to Eskimo Joe’s Don Corleone is Hookhand. Yes, Eskimo Joe’s right hand man is actually a left hook woman. She’s like a nomadic Captain Hook except she’s not a pirate, has a sparse mustache and might have a Peter Pan tattoo.

Like Captain Hook, she may be afraid of crocodiles but I’d never know. She can’t seem to form complete sentences and settles, instead, for shouting complete nonsense. One classic exchange occurred when I startled her near the 7Eleven dumpster and we proceeded to yell, “Raarrrr!” at each other until we both had a good, albeit disturbing, laugh.

There are plenty of laughs to go around when you treat your neigborhood hobos like the fun-loving creatures they are. So instead of ignoring them like nameless, human husks, shuffling along like stinky apparitions – nickname them, yell nonsense at them and maybe buy them a belt. They need your attention like tinker bell needs claps.

You have to name your hobos.

All I need is my Grandma’s flower dress and some food to barf.

Twenty-five years of torment came to a screeching halt the day grandma died and willed me a single item – not a dime, not an acre, but a pretty yellow sundress. Light, flowing and patterned in flowers, this feminine garment laid snugly over my masculine body from the moment I tried it on at the morgue.

Each flower pedal perfectly printed as though Monet himself returned from the grave to paint daisies upon a cotton/nylon blended canvas.

The open bottom allowing a level of freedom my nether regions had never known – like a baby bird escaping its prison nest on the wings of flight.

Despite this apparent apparel awakening, my transformation was not complete until the mortician accidentally dropped granny.

Her geriatric body clumped hard against the cracked tile floor as the effects of rigor mortis had stiffened her old lady lumps. Then, as some type of ocular swan song, her glass eye popped out of socket and rolled ominously towards my feet.

It was at this moment that the musky air of the morgue combined with the spin-cycle rumbling of Taco Bell in my belly to produce a waterfall of vomit that covered the front of my new sundress like a bizarro baby bib.

The puke path crusted over and my granny’s glass eye waded in a 7-layer burrito puddle. My life path was set.

The plot was simple. I’d hide in the bushes of a retirement home and wait for an old lady to go for a walk. The moment I got a whiff of moth balls or a glimpse of walker, I barf on my dress and giggle like a fat kid with a cupcake.

Unfortunately, the local police were unsupportive of my golden aged upchuck ambitions and banned me from all of the best spots – bingo night, the church rectory and of course – meetings for Daughters of the American Revolution.

So I took a job with a motorized wheelchair company but to my dismay, the clientele consisted mostly of old dudes. I couldn’t muster up bile to fill my mouth let alone unleash a healthy hurl. Thus, my lovely flower sundress remained unstained.

Until, I met Gertie.

Four foot nine with a crooked spine – cataracts and heart attacks. A tuft of blue hair lay atop her soft scalp like cotton candy on a cantaloupe. A few stray strands of facial hair hung from her chin like Shaggy with the breath of Scooby Doo. A steady diet of gin and cat food left her figure bloated and uneven – with breasts hanging like two condoms filled with cheese wiz. Her varicose veins were a road map to an upset stomach.

It was love at first spew and my dress had the partially digested food trail to prove it. Our relationship blossomed once she mistook me for her grandson and I mistook her pockmarks for vomit targets. I remember our fateful first encounter outside the courthouse as I patiently waited for jury duty volunteers…

“Would you like a Werther’s Original, Ralphie?” Gertie offered like a maternal apparition.

“Hrrrrrruuuuuggggghhhhhhhh,” I yelped as I filled my dress and the nearest potted plant with a thick substance that can only be described as gummy bear salsa.

Our atypical love affair lasted weeks. She regurgitated boring stories about her spoon collection and I tossed cookies on her afghans. Some days I would forget to eat and end up dry heaving during intense crochet sessions but Gertie didn’t mind. She just chugged along, feeding me hard candy and knitting a yarn sick bag.

Then, I received a phone call that changed everything.

“Hello, this is Gertie’s caregiver,” the shaky voice on the other line muttered.

“Oh my God – she’s dead isn’t she?” I gripped my sundress as the words slipped out of my mouth like a sloppy joe river at a Barry Manilow concert.

“No, she’s fine – unlike you…you sick creep! Stay away from Gertie or I’ll call the cops!” the woman demanded shakily. I could hear the tired, wavering sound in her voice and she sounded old – very old.

I reached into my gut and prepared for an epic heave. But it never came. The floodgates were closed, the retch river – dammed. There would be no more senior spit up moments without Gertie. Her caregiver played judge, jury and executioner that day with eternal nausea and a starch-fresh sundress as my life sentence.

The following week consisted of listless wandering with an empty heart and a full belly. Sure, I frolicked through a field or two, holding my dress open like Julie Andrews in the Sound of Music but it couldn’t compare to the ecstasy of old lady barfing.

Finally, the dress was ruined. Repeated baths of stomach acid upon its delicate fibers left my beloved garment in total disrepair.

No more flower sundress. No more puking. It was time to man up.

So I traded the dress in for a pair of my grandpa’s old knickers and flipped on the boob tube to relax. Suddenly, a nature program about Otters filled my mind with wonderment and my pants with pee.

With soaking wet knickers and my life back on track, I was headed for the Zoo. I was going to find an otter and I was going to wet my knickers. Everything finally made sense.

All I need are my Grandpa’s knickers and some water to pee.