A 3-Word Never-Ending Story

Beginning with just three words. Just like a box of chocolates, you never know what you’re gonna get. 😁

Once upon a time in the far reaches of Gitchi Goomi’s shores, beyond humanity’s reach, lived three wise men who didn’t give a damn. Or so it seemed at first, until God sent nine apathetic old fools who could skip the rope, assemble flatpack furniture and boil eggs. They felt empty and somewhat underutilized. They decided underwear worn shorter than Mrs. Murphy’s apron would eventually lead to redemption of their sins of eating spaghetti with bare hands. Furthermore, it seemed more and more that the natives dressed in little penguin outfits munching Mentos under a palm leaf isolated the food source and were behaving like little children on adhd medication. The broken down boats by rocks covered in moss, get away vehicles, and nasty little munchkins who chew on coca leaves, giving cooties to any smiling passer-by. Ordinary circumstances dictate that Her Royal highness would change her knickers thrice on Thursdays and once every other day to save anyone the sight of angled leprechauns. Or so the lost pocket watch did say to the lost grandfather who seemed somewhat surprised and perplexed with curtain rods. However, all is left in the fridge for two months of peace and molding spiritual reintegration.  That takes us beyond the reach of porcupine quills melding with glowing iron butterflies and pink flamingo lawn embellishments standing starkly to royal attention.  Daffodils sprayed with smelly cockroach extract lend a putrescent wisdom of woe. The wise men shared their disappointment with much gusto behind the barn, flailing their shillelaghs laughing chillingly at the old fools on the hill. Meanwhile, back at the ranch where men were manly and women were boyish, the cattle wore diapers and teat gloves.  Mrs. Murphy’s chowder gave everyone explosive diarrhea, uncontrollable it seemed as if it were just another Monday in the Catskills, or Tuesday Weld’s boyfriend’s next puppy would be rolling and frolicking in the shit. Thirty days later Wednesday Addams crept into the purple rain and twisty cavern of molten rock from Thursday’s freaky Friday anticipation. Across the field the sun was rising faster than my blood pressure at the sight of that zombie dribbling his Wheaties, whilst Mother Nature and Father Time cavorted atop the mountain, naked to Saturday’s weekly gathering in the glen, as Sunday loomed larger than life on a bicycle.  The circus clown pulled my finger and nothing happened until he rotated his red nose. He began to shell peanuts by somersaulting through the circles of fire, gargling peanut butter and ostrich dreams, then the epiphany began and all day long the captured fallen angel recited bawdy prose. 

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