Cornered

Curse you Mr. Green Jeans!

It started out like any other normal day . . . wake up . . . shower . . . shave . . . stomp on some weasels . . . you know . . . typical Saturday morning. Then suddenly something totally irregular happened . . . I ate pancakes instead of All-Bran. That’s the last thing I remember. Well . . . I mean . . . not the last thing. Obviously I remember writing this which happened after the aforementioned “last thing.” But you know what I mean . . . I was using metaphor and stuff.

Anyway, sometime after said “last thing” I have a faint and hazy memory of the smell of green paint. How do I know it was green? Because I was lying next to a puddle of it when I awakened. Then, of course, I realized that it wasn’t a puddle . . . it was a room that had the floor painted green. But that wasn’t good enough. The paint was still wet, and here I am standing at the back of the room in a corner with no paint.  I was Cornered. It would appear that I painted myself into said corner. But as I’ve already mentioned, I can’t remember.

I think it was those darn rebels from Bicycle Village with their green hair . . . it’s all about rebellion with those kids. It’s never about the classics. It’s all about appearance; “who cares what’s in side,” they say. Well I care . . . and green ain’t all that . . . ask that smarmy Pig-Frog. Now leave me alone.