Hey, stop me if you think I'm spammin' (Read 210 times)

[chudz]

But sometimes I like to write, and this was a piece I did years ago. Thought it might be appropriate for here though. . .


Hey, Supah Freak! Kiss the Dandelion King, but watch out fo’ his mane. Then groove on through a liquid sky. Careful tho’, you don’t wanna leave yo’ boots stuck in the clouds. Know what I mean, Silver Screen?

I wake up blinking in the darkness of my bedroom. Heart racing. Good thing the dim shapes of my dresser and desk are there, reassuring me. If they could speak, they’d tell me it was just a dream; everything is back to normal. Then the light clicks on and my dresser laughs, sounding for all the world like it’s been possessed by Pee-Wee Herman.

“I wouldn’t sell my bike for all the money in the world. Not for a hundred million, trillion, billion dollars!” my Pee-Wee Dresser says.

Realizing I’m still dreaming—actually, hoping and praying that I’m still dreaming—I decide to humor my dresser. “Then you’re crazy!”

“I know you are but what am I?” it replies, like clockwork.

“You’re a nerd!” I shoot back, starting to get into it.

“I know you are but . . . someone is going to knock on the door.”

“Wait! That’s not the next line, you stupid piece of—“ There’s a heavy knocking at the bedroom door.

“Have a nice day,” my dresser quips, then goes silent.

I hop out of bed and realize that my dream-bedroom has really plush carpeting. In fact, it has neon-green plush carpeting. It’s so soft—compared to the fake wooden floor of my real bedroom—that I can almost lose myself in it. And I would have too, but there’s that knocking again.

For God’s sake, it sounds like Andre the Giant is pounding on my door with a rocket-powered sledgehammer. So I rush over there and throw it open with an angry flair. My jaw drops, bouncing off the formerly mentioned carpeting. I can't decide if my dream-time caller is Jabba the Hutt in drag, or his fat sister that didn’t make it into any of the movies. And before I can make up my mind, he/she grabs me and pulls me closer for a big, sweaty smooch.

Surprise, surprise, I wake up blinking in the darkness of my bedroom again. This time though, I’m pretty sure that I’m really awake, since the room is spinning like a hyperactive Tilt-A-Whirl, and my dresser remains mum. I roll out of bed and stumble my way toward the bathroom, since it is overly apparent that I’m going to be really sick in the very near future. The fake wooden floor is cold under my feet, and I manage to stub my toe on the desk as I go by. Ouch! Finally, I position myself before the porcelain god and swear that I will never, ever drink that much tequila again.

[thewookster]

Write what you like were not bothered.

I will read your piece later on when I get a spare 5 mins.