rICEDoUTyUGO ~ rtqp also writes some fiction

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rtqp also writes some fiction
i cruised slowly down the suburban streets, at a speed i would consider "unusually polite" in light of my normal habits. the opening bass exporations of amon tobin's "golfer vs. boxer" wafted from my stereo. then, BAM: it hit me. socioeconomic watology. clinical infomatology. the possibilities were simply limitless. this is why you stop and smell the roses. the roses having been smelled, i downshifted to second and pulled my car into a tight curve, narrowly avoiding the curb, but failing to avoid a "children playing" sign some poor sap had mistakenly left in the street. i laid down a patch in its place and headed towards the interstate. i intended to make it to poland by sundown. * * * "Poland?!" the clerk cried. "You can't drive to Poland... you gotta fly there!" "well," i said, "i'd prefer to drive there, if that's alright with you." he stared at me incredulously for a moment, and reached his conclusion. i triumphantly waited for my directions to poland. "GET OUTTA MY GAS STATION!!" he bellowed. "wat" i muttered, startled. he leaned foward to smack me, but having muttered the holy word, i was safe. one fell down from the sky and dashed him to the ground, incapacitating him. i grabbed a Chocoloco (tm) bar and headed towards the door. "payment is in the safe," i said, in case he was still conscious. it wasn't and he wasn't. the safe had dealt him such a buffet on the head that he no-longer was concerned with candy thievery. it was utterly critical that i reach poland by sundown. at this point there ensued a few hours of trials of the soul so foul and odious i would wish them on no man. but at last, i stood at the door of poland. i stepped in. there was a desk, with a clerk at the desk. "is this poland?" i asked. "Why, yes, this is stu's house of poles. What sort of pole are you looking for - barber, fire, stripper... other?" i stared at him blankly. "how many poles are there in poland?" i demanded. "Well," he replied, "we have over 30,000 poles in stock." "and what is your favorite pole?" i queried. "Well..." he began, pausing to think, "I'd have to say catalogue number 34-E10, the platinum ridged dancing pole... some fond memories, you know." i nodded, understanding. then i turned around and left. this was obviously a false poland, designed to mislead me. an ersatz poland existant merely to trick me into following the wrong path - the path of platinum ridged dancing poles. i would get revenge someday on this foul and godless establishment, someday. for now, however, i needed to find poland. say, do you know where poland is?
Posted by Reverend Tedward Q. Porktanker @ 2007-04-18 07:05:00
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