Once upon a time, somewhere far, far away, farther than the nearest Wendy’s Restaurant, there lived a hermit named Frederick Jefferson, but the voices within his head called him: Sam. Sam was a shabby old man; he had cheek wrinkles that sagged...
Once upon a time, somewhere far, far away, farther than the nearest Wendy’s Restaurant, there lived a hermit named Frederick Jefferson, but the voices within his head called him: Sam.
Sam was a shabby old man; he had cheek wrinkles that sagged above his shoulders, and a complexion that was more suitable for a torched pig than a rotten old geezer. His skin was peculiarly scaly, his teeth were so rotted down that it attracted more flies than his unwashed, dinosaur-like feet. His crunchy grey mullet lay unsuitably atop his oily head and served as more of a garbage disposal consisting of flies than anything else. Sam was shabby, and just by looking at his sickly appearance, you could actually absorb some of his radiating globs of filth, and fall dreadfully ill.
Judging from what you have heard of Sam, one would not have to assume,but know, why he had become a hermit. His only friends were the imaginary creatures he created in his mind, which by the end of the 462 years they lived with him, morphed into ale-drinking leprechauns with their very own, custom-made personality disorders.
We now enter our story during a dispute over the existence of a heavenly being compared to a Spork.
“Ah! Those bloody, ingrates don’t know what they’re talkin’ about! A heavenly being is exactly like a spork, and if you dare disagree with me one more time, Nigel, I’ll slap you so hard your heavenly being will feel it!” Susan was in one of those moods again. Usually she was an earth-loving-nature-freak, but on the occasion that she lost her blanket, or she had broken her perfectly polished, pinkie nail, she turned into an eye-gouging psycho.
“Not a fate worse than death, but thus my dear sister I might add, that you can certainly eat your noodles with one end of a spork, then sip the broth with the other? Can you, I ask, do that with a heavenly being?” Nigel was a snooty snoot-faced-loser-thing. Nobody liked him except Sam, but Sam cherished every one of his deranged hallucinations.
The following minutes were filled with organ diseasing-screams, shrieks of profanity, total chaos, and colossal masses of floor-staining blood. The contagious madness seemed to have spread from one side of the infested mud hut to the other. Soon enough, all of the drunken leprechauns were arguing and bashing each other with insults and club sodas. The fury seemed endless.
“What in Spork’s name is going on here?” Sam had just realized that his thoughts were acting up again. It was often an unsettling task to straighten them back up.
“Yeah, what in Spork’s name is going on here?” in every group there’s a stuck up suck up, and Luanda is one of them.
“Shut up, Lu Lu, you don’t belong here!” Susan was in a headlock, and Luanda felt that this was the time to take advantage of the situation.
“Well I suppose you’re not exactly in the position to be arguing with me, hmm?”
The two quarrelled for about the next 20 minutes, and through the arguing, Sam realized that the leprechauns were fighting about the existence of a holy divinity being compared to a Spork. After a few drinks, they were all settled down.
After pondering for the next 2 days, Sam decided that he had better settle the disagreement between the leprechauns before one of them would actually get hurt. Although the leprechauns were imaginary, Frederick loved them with all his heart, and would rather be thrown into a bath than risk having any of them die. Sam figured, in his incapable mind, that if someone had found a Spork that everything would be all right.
“Me? I beg your pardon?”
“Yes, Nigel, I mean you. You have to find the Spork and end this nonsense!”
“It’s anything but nonsense, Sam! But if it means so much to your silly, little head, then I suppose I could search for a Spork.”
“I know I have one in the trash pile somewhere,” Sam replied, scratching his mullet, driving the flies insane.
“Frederick, you do realize that you’ve never taken out your trash in the 652 years you’ve lived alone? How in the love of Milk and Cookies do you think I’ll be able to find a Spork?”
“Easily,” Sam said—he was going into his Jedi Warrior phase again. With a pretentious groan from the Mighty Nigel and hearty applauses from the audience, the cumbersome leprechaun fluttered away with about as much enthusiasm as a soggy jelly sandwich.
Days had gone by and Nigel had not returned. The leprechaun’s were beginning to miss the unrelenting stupidity that Nigel had radiated with every word he had spoken. Sam had taken it the worse, and when he heard the news, he was about ready to drive himself, along with his hallucinogenic buddies, off of a Spork forsaken cliff.
“It’s true Mr. Sam,” Luanda had said, bringing to her master a shredded t-shirt, “Nigel had fallen into a pile of plastic, and was strangled by a...” she stopped, sobbed, then blew her nose on the ripped up piece of cloth, “a... pop ring! We found his feeble, unwashed body yesterday when Sarah went for an ale-run. She said his eyes were hanging from their sockets and his entire head had swollen to the size of a cucumber!”
Gasps were heard throughout the crowd, a slight cry from behind, “See, Frederick! Nigel was just on a noble quest, and because of your laziness, and your lack of order, he’s dead! See, Sam, you should have recycled when I had told you to!” The voice belonged to Sue. Sam was devastated. His heart felt like it was being shredded by a merciless garbage disposal.
The night was sullen, and the next morning, all of the little leprechauns were gone—along with the ale. It just goes to show you that every time you recycle, you’re helping all the creatures of the community, may they be ducks or leprechauns, sustain a friendly, squeaky-clean environment.