A MAN AND HIS DREAM

(to be read in an English accent)

One late night, after the light had gone into the dreary depths of dark, Blaspher Ziggurat felt his stomach rolling around like a large Dargon Booth from the live plastic era of Rock and Roll. As he made his way down the stairs, the pains increased greatly. He quickly dashed for the Refrigerator. His stomach churning, he grabbed the nearest can of French Chinese food leftover from the day before. Slowly, while he opened the can with the swiss army knife he thought was extremely neat, the pains in his stomach were slowly dying away.

"Shit" he said while he put the can of Chinese food away.

He returned up the stairs and climbed in his bed.

The next morning, Blaspher awoke to find himself lying in his bed. In the exact same position he was in when he fell asleep the night before. He got up and went to the bathroom. While he was brushing his teeth, he noticed something was different, extremely different. His hair was parted on the wrong side. He picked up his comb and quickly corrected this tiny error.

Outside, in his front lawn next to his garden a large chiuaua sat wagging his. He seemed sort of hungry. Blaspher remembered the chinese food he almost ate the night before. He returned inside to fetch the food for the dog.

Outside once again he fed the dog the French chinese food. The dog immediately turned over and died. But the dog had not bitten into the food yet.

Although Blaspher did not know this, the dog was part of a rare breed that turns over and dies instantly whenever it sees a man with correctly parted hair set a can of french chinese food.

He also did not know why his swiss army knife was so damn neat.

He leaned over to see of the dog had any tags to identify it. The tag simply said this:

"Floor"

Not knowing how the word floor on a dog tag could possibly relate to anything in this measly little town, he looked on the back of the dog tag. It had a phone number:

"1-800-ceilling"

He returned inside the house and dialed the number.

"Hello Martin ceiling repair?"

He suddenly asked himself how he would ask the question: What the hell does the word floor on a dog tag mean. Then it dawned on him.

"What the hell does the word floor on a dog tag mean?" Blaspher asked.

"Oh! Today is your lucky day. If the dog you found that tag on is dead, you are now a proud owner of a brand new floor tile."

"Floor Tile!? What the hell am I going to do with a floor tile."

"Why you can do whatever people with brand new floor tiles who killed a chiuaua with a can of french chinese and hair parted on the correct side do with floor tiles."

This response overwhelmed Blaspher because he had no idea that any human being could spend that much time of the day thinking of a response that incredibly clever but at the same time so incredibly stupid.

So overwhelmed he hung up. I bet you are thinking that he hung up the phone. Well he didn’t, it was the dog he hung up, yes the dog, on the wall. Why? I don’t know, and neither do you. Maybe we’ll find out, maybe we won’t, we just don’t know do we?

"So when do I get to get my tile?"

"What tile?"

"My free tile."

"Who is this, what are you talking about?"

"My free tile that I get for killing my dog?"

"Ohh, I see."

Suddenly after Blaspher said the word ‘get’ the operator realized exactly what he was saying, and came out of his naxodiol trance. The operator confessed that he too had a dog killing fetish and maybe they should get together some time. Blaspher agreed and got his phone number which he already had, but we will learn the significance of the second getting of the phone number later if you are lucky and well behaved.

After putting the phone back where he got it from (not hanging it up mind you, that is for dogs that are dead) and then decided to sit down in front of his computer ready to partake in a rousing game of Phantasmagoria. After playing for around 2 minutes he felt himself going slowly insane. He then stopped playing the game.

"This is blasphemy! Can anyone make such an incredibly retarded game and get away with it? Why I don’t know if someone could do that, I should go find out."

And so Blaspher set out for a morning stroll, through what he thought was a fairly normal part of town as far as towns go these days. Sure there was a few seagulls inhabiting a four bedroom rambler on the east side, and a man who wasn’t black but not exactly white either lived six doors down, but these oddities were overlooked by mostly everyone. So down the street walked Blaspher, whistling and looking about this way and that. He noticed that the Everred Trees were looking a little pale, and the wind was blowing down and not up.

"Hmm, this is an odd occurrence" he thought loudly inside his head. "The wind seems to be blowing incorrectly, I’ll bet its those damn Flendersons on 47^th street. Always fooking around with the weather, pompous bastards. I’ll just have to go and give them a piece of my thigh."

And with this Blaspher quickened his pace from a sloth-like crawl to a sloth-like jog, which, to an untrained eye, is no faster than a sloth-like squabble, but too a sloth it is like comparing wood to bread. Unfortunately Blaspher was not a sloth and quickly realized that at his present pace he would reach the Flendersons in 59 days, 7 hours and 26 minutes. So he again quickened his pace to a sloth-like doublesquabblerish-crawlingjog. This cut his arrival time by a few days, 59 days, 7 hours and 25 and ½ minutes to be exact, because you see at the time of Blaspher’s revelation about those fooking Flendersons that always fooked around with the weather, he was already half way up their driveway to borrow back his leaf-blower he had loaned them 34 days ago so he could set out on his quest to kill the people who make retarded video games.

"Ello, are you in there you self-righteous freaks?!"

"No, go the hell away."

"Oh damn, can I come back later?"

"No, you’re a freakin’ sloth, get off my porch now!"

"I am not no freakin’ sloth, not that there’s anything wrong with that though."

"The hell you ain’t no sloth, you were sloth-like crawling up our bloody driveway 45 seconds ago."

"Well if you noticed that then you are also a bloody dirty sloth, because only the sloth can tell the difference between the sloth-like crawl and the fookin’ sloth like jog you uptight bastard."

Blaspher was getting rather tired of arguing with the Flenderson’s door, and decided to try and knock to get Mrs. Janwithy Flenderson’s attention.

Knock Knock.

"Don’t touch me you freakin’ sloth!"

"Ohh fuck you, you hypocrite."

"Why am I a hypocrite?" the door sounded offended.

"Cause you’re a damn sloth too, you stupid daisy."

"You are a stupid man Blaspher, I am a wooden door, not a fookin’ sloth."

"Ohh, damn I guess you have a point there."

Blaspher was still rather tired off arguing with the door, and now increasingly annoyed because it proved it was smarter than himself, and in the Sub-Rathuluean realm of the Sub-Rathuluean Realm if a door proves to be smarter than you it is required that you throw yourself to the old, grumpy, and cranky Doleyblabble beast, which is possibly the most boring creature known to all Sub-Rathulueaninnies (as the inhabitants of this realm prefer to be called) considering the didn’t have Phantasmagoria just yet. This requirement brought up some rather large complaints from a various amount of lifeforms, the most valid of which was actually from doors themselves. A large lot of the, shall we say, mentally undevelopable doors were wondering if they had to throw theirself to the Doleyblabble if they were not as smart as some of the other doors. The requirement board looked into this for 17 years before running across another requirement which stated that no doors were allowed to talk because they often times prevented wanted visitors from visiting by being too offensive, and let unwanted visitors visit by being too offensive. It was also discovered that the penalty to talking doors was to be thrown to the Doleyblabble beast. Ironically this complaint by a mentally undevelopable door trying to keep itself amused led to the extinction of all doors, leaving people cold and wet inside their homes. In the Non-Sub-Rathuluean realm a similar thing happened, but this time ended with the requirement board deciding that yes even if you happened to be a door you were required to throw yourself to the Doleyblabble. This led to many doors committing suicide right off the bat, which left only a few doors that never talked to each other which in turn led to all remaining doors being tired and depressed for their entire lives. Some of the more spiteful doors wouldn’t let their owners into their homes because they thought that they had some prior dealings with the mentally undevelopable doors. This in turn left their owners cold and wet outside of their homes.

Fortunately Blaspher did not live near the Sub or Non-Sub-Rathuluean realms, nor did he even know they existed, if he had, this story would end now and you would be disappointed and want your money back, which would lead to me being hungry and poor. See how a few stupid people can screw it up for everyone that matters?