The events in this story are true to a certain extent. Sure most of them are a complete fabrication and never actually happened, but then again what autobiography is really 100% true? I can’t think of a single one, and I’ve always been something of a thinking man’s thinker. Trust me, that last part will make sense later.
I guess this crazy life started about ten years ago when I noticed a pair of pointed green shoes sticking out from under a garbage dumpster in the back lot of a grocery store in Iowa. Iowa is not as glamorous as it sounds. One would think that it is plentiful with waving fields of gorgeous corn, corn as far as the eye can see. Well you know what I saw in Iowa? It sure wasn’t Kevin Costner I can tell you that much. If I had seen Kevin Costner instead of the pointed green shoes then maybe my make believe daughter, who only exists because of the green shoes, wouldn’t have lost her foot in a horrifying bizarre turn of events where my make believe wife reminded me that I had always been deathly afraid of the dark.
I could have passed the green shoes by, pretended like I had never seen them, but there was something about the way they wiggled that reminded me of a can of spam my mother had given me for my third birthday. In the early days of my life I liked to collect cans of things. For example, on my bedroom shelf I proudly displayed a can of tennis balls, a can of whale meat that my dad had caught when he had been stationed on a raft in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean for three years and seventeen days, a can of chili (because everyone likes chili) and the piece de resistance, my brand new can of spam. It was glorious. I still remember the way the moonlight glinted off of it as if to reflect the glowing smile of a million horny angels.
Whoops, I got a bit sidetracked there; I won’t let it happen again. If for some reason I do I want you to hose me down with a garden hose and smack me in the leg with a box of corn dog sticks. It’s okay, I trust you to use discretion when deciding if I have gotten sidetracked again.
Anyway, so I saw the pointy green shoes wiggling under the garbage dumpster like the starlight glinting off of a can of spam as if to reflect the silvery threaded drool dripping from the mouths of a million angry demons and I just had to investigate.
I approached slowly but knew if I was to surprise the shoes I would have to crawl to them. So here I was crawling through an alley filled with discarded fish guts, telephone wire, and autographed Blossom photos when the beautiful green shoes stopped wiggling. I stopped in my tracks, which just happened to be, unfortunately, the final resting place of a purple headed squarget. I always did have such bad luck in matters such as these. I could feel the squarget beneath my knees and resisted the urge to upchuck, but this was a feat of strength that in the end I was unable to control.
You know how sometimes when you’re crawling through large piles of trash and you don’t dare look down for fear of seeing exactly what it is you are crawling through? Well so do I, and let me tell you when I finally got a good look at what I was crawling through I was horrified to find that someone had thoughtlessly puked directly under where my head was. Disgusted I added to the pile which caused the green shoes to jerk violently. Knowing that I had lost that all too critical element of surprise I rose quickly to my feet and dashed for them. Alas they seemed to have been attached to a very small human-ish looking thing, which I later learned was a leprechaun.
I’ll never forget the moment I first laid eyes on this leprechaun, which I later learned was a very small human-ish looking thing. He looked me in the eye and I looked straight back at him, willing the little leprechaun-ish looking thing to make the first move. He stood about as tall as I did when I was the age that had produced the length of the humechaun-ish thing that was standing before me. We stayed that way for a moment before I was finally able to speak.
“How about them football team?”
“Ha,” the gopher-ish leprehuman said to me in a tiny voice, “football team has had a terrible year. I wouldn’t be surprised if their mothers were fluffy tailed squargets!”
I can’t remember ever being so angry in my entire life. What right did this, thing I guess you’d call it, have to insult football team? He had no idea what they had gone through in their long climb to the top of football franchise. I had seen them go through ups and downs that even that guy that loved Britney Spears so much that he posted a video and cried about how mean they were being to her wouldn’t even being to post videos about, and yet here was this human-leprechaun-gopher-ish thing was insulting them.
“As if you could show them how your shoes glimmered in the sunlight like the baking whales beached somewhere in the Andes and all would be easier,” I yelled at it.
I knew immediately that I had gone way too far with this. To compare something that another being has on their person to a beached whale in the Andes is, and always will be, the worse insult you could hurdle at a being, but I felt it was totally justified. Just like the time my house was burning and I hurdled whale milk at it. I sure do like whales, they have a cool hole on top of them that will squirt every so often. I’ve always wondered what it’d be like to ride that thing. But I guess that is a tale for another day. For now my only true reason for loving whales is their fantastic taste. The trick with cooking up a delicious batch of whale meat is to make sure you don’t overcook it. I’ve found that baking five pounds at 215 degrees for about two hours is the best way to cook a whale.
When the thing started running towards me I was totally thrown off guard and fell to the ground. Had I not bumped my head on the pavement as hard as I did I might have caught the thing then and there. Part of me wishes that I had, then my daughter would still have the foot that only exists because the thing got away. Yet a bigger part of me knows that occasionally make believe people sometimes need to lose a foot to show them some humility. We can’t all go through life thinking that our feet are going to last forever. Just ask any diabetic that loses a foot and they’ll tell you that two feeted people are jerks. I sometimes wish I could cut of my own foot, then again I would never be able to decide which one to choose. Carl is the cute and funny one, while James has the ability to get a whole audience roaring in approval of what it is doing. Sometimes it’s hard to make decisions, like letting a can of spam go and hoping it comes back and proves that it was meant to be.
I awoke sometime after being knocked out, I assure you that I awoke because if I was still knocked out I wouldn’t be able to tell you that I awoke from being knocked out. Although I think it would be cool if I could write about being awoken from a knock out while still being knocked out. I think I’ll try that someday, because I firmly believe that we have all got to have goals. We can’t go through life thinking that our goals don’t exist because our goals do exist we just have to choose them to let them know that they are actually goals, know what I mean?
It took a few moments for the scene to replay in my head, especially the part where we played Twister because that was a long game and in the end nobody ever wins Twister… what a stupid game that is. By the time I was able to lift my head from the pavement the leprechaun thing-ama-jig had vamanosed and left me wondering if it had all been a dream. And that’s when I saw it, one small green shoe laying on top of my chest, which now that I think of it has been bruised ever since the encounter with a small footprint, though I’m sure the two are totally unrelated, things are always stepping on me for one reason or another. I picked the shoe up with shaking hands and sniffed at it. Sure enough the smell was that of a can of spam, I would know it from anywhere. And I had never been more sure of anything in the 29 years that I’ve been sure of things that it was Bessalee, my beloved can of spam which had met some kind of weird demise at the foot of the leprething.
“I don’t know what you are leprechaun, or the color of your other green shoe, but I vow that I will find you and you will pay for what you have done on some day,” I yelled as loud as a whisper could allow. And with that the journey of a lifetime had begun. And not just any journey of any lifetime, but mine. This is my autobiography and I want you to all come along.
I guess this crazy life started about ten years ago when I noticed a pair of pointed green shoes sticking out from under a garbage dumpster in the back lot of a grocery store in Iowa. Iowa is not as glamorous as it sounds. One would think that it is plentiful with waving fields of gorgeous corn, corn as far as the eye can see. Well you know what I saw in Iowa? It sure wasn’t Kevin Costner I can tell you that much. If I had seen Kevin Costner instead of the pointed green shoes then maybe my make believe daughter, who only exists because of the green shoes, wouldn’t have lost her foot in a horrifying bizarre turn of events where my make believe wife reminded me that I had always been deathly afraid of the dark.
I could have passed the green shoes by, pretended like I had never seen them, but there was something about the way they wiggled that reminded me of a can of spam my mother had given me for my third birthday. In the early days of my life I liked to collect cans of things. For example, on my bedroom shelf I proudly displayed a can of tennis balls, a can of whale meat that my dad had caught when he had been stationed on a raft in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean for three years and seventeen days, a can of chili (because everyone likes chili) and the piece de resistance, my brand new can of spam. It was glorious. I still remember the way the moonlight glinted off of it as if to reflect the glowing smile of a million horny angels.
Whoops, I got a bit sidetracked there; I won’t let it happen again. If for some reason I do I want you to hose me down with a garden hose and smack me in the leg with a box of corn dog sticks. It’s okay, I trust you to use discretion when deciding if I have gotten sidetracked again.
Anyway, so I saw the pointy green shoes wiggling under the garbage dumpster like the starlight glinting off of a can of spam as if to reflect the silvery threaded drool dripping from the mouths of a million angry demons and I just had to investigate.
I approached slowly but knew if I was to surprise the shoes I would have to crawl to them. So here I was crawling through an alley filled with discarded fish guts, telephone wire, and autographed Blossom photos when the beautiful green shoes stopped wiggling. I stopped in my tracks, which just happened to be, unfortunately, the final resting place of a purple headed squarget. I always did have such bad luck in matters such as these. I could feel the squarget beneath my knees and resisted the urge to upchuck, but this was a feat of strength that in the end I was unable to control.
You know how sometimes when you’re crawling through large piles of trash and you don’t dare look down for fear of seeing exactly what it is you are crawling through? Well so do I, and let me tell you when I finally got a good look at what I was crawling through I was horrified to find that someone had thoughtlessly puked directly under where my head was. Disgusted I added to the pile which caused the green shoes to jerk violently. Knowing that I had lost that all too critical element of surprise I rose quickly to my feet and dashed for them. Alas they seemed to have been attached to a very small human-ish looking thing, which I later learned was a leprechaun.
I’ll never forget the moment I first laid eyes on this leprechaun, which I later learned was a very small human-ish looking thing. He looked me in the eye and I looked straight back at him, willing the little leprechaun-ish looking thing to make the first move. He stood about as tall as I did when I was the age that had produced the length of the humechaun-ish thing that was standing before me. We stayed that way for a moment before I was finally able to speak.
“How about them football team?”
“Ha,” the gopher-ish leprehuman said to me in a tiny voice, “football team has had a terrible year. I wouldn’t be surprised if their mothers were fluffy tailed squargets!”
I can’t remember ever being so angry in my entire life. What right did this, thing I guess you’d call it, have to insult football team? He had no idea what they had gone through in their long climb to the top of football franchise. I had seen them go through ups and downs that even that guy that loved Britney Spears so much that he posted a video and cried about how mean they were being to her wouldn’t even being to post videos about, and yet here was this human-leprechaun-gopher-ish thing was insulting them.
“As if you could show them how your shoes glimmered in the sunlight like the baking whales beached somewhere in the Andes and all would be easier,” I yelled at it.
I knew immediately that I had gone way too far with this. To compare something that another being has on their person to a beached whale in the Andes is, and always will be, the worse insult you could hurdle at a being, but I felt it was totally justified. Just like the time my house was burning and I hurdled whale milk at it. I sure do like whales, they have a cool hole on top of them that will squirt every so often. I’ve always wondered what it’d be like to ride that thing. But I guess that is a tale for another day. For now my only true reason for loving whales is their fantastic taste. The trick with cooking up a delicious batch of whale meat is to make sure you don’t overcook it. I’ve found that baking five pounds at 215 degrees for about two hours is the best way to cook a whale.
When the thing started running towards me I was totally thrown off guard and fell to the ground. Had I not bumped my head on the pavement as hard as I did I might have caught the thing then and there. Part of me wishes that I had, then my daughter would still have the foot that only exists because the thing got away. Yet a bigger part of me knows that occasionally make believe people sometimes need to lose a foot to show them some humility. We can’t all go through life thinking that our feet are going to last forever. Just ask any diabetic that loses a foot and they’ll tell you that two feeted people are jerks. I sometimes wish I could cut of my own foot, then again I would never be able to decide which one to choose. Carl is the cute and funny one, while James has the ability to get a whole audience roaring in approval of what it is doing. Sometimes it’s hard to make decisions, like letting a can of spam go and hoping it comes back and proves that it was meant to be.
I awoke sometime after being knocked out, I assure you that I awoke because if I was still knocked out I wouldn’t be able to tell you that I awoke from being knocked out. Although I think it would be cool if I could write about being awoken from a knock out while still being knocked out. I think I’ll try that someday, because I firmly believe that we have all got to have goals. We can’t go through life thinking that our goals don’t exist because our goals do exist we just have to choose them to let them know that they are actually goals, know what I mean?
It took a few moments for the scene to replay in my head, especially the part where we played Twister because that was a long game and in the end nobody ever wins Twister… what a stupid game that is. By the time I was able to lift my head from the pavement the leprechaun thing-ama-jig had vamanosed and left me wondering if it had all been a dream. And that’s when I saw it, one small green shoe laying on top of my chest, which now that I think of it has been bruised ever since the encounter with a small footprint, though I’m sure the two are totally unrelated, things are always stepping on me for one reason or another. I picked the shoe up with shaking hands and sniffed at it. Sure enough the smell was that of a can of spam, I would know it from anywhere. And I had never been more sure of anything in the 29 years that I’ve been sure of things that it was Bessalee, my beloved can of spam which had met some kind of weird demise at the foot of the leprething.
“I don’t know what you are leprechaun, or the color of your other green shoe, but I vow that I will find you and you will pay for what you have done on some day,” I yelled as loud as a whisper could allow. And with that the journey of a lifetime had begun. And not just any journey of any lifetime, but mine. This is my autobiography and I want you to all come along.
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