So, here it is, Thursday morning, and we’ve put off writing to the last minute just like we predicted. We are so predictable. With all the predicting and such. If it helps at all, we got up before our alarm this morning just to write the story before going to work. Does it help? Does it? Help what? Heck, I don’t know. It’s too early to make sense. At least here on the west coast, it is.
Quick public service announcement: The word “oughta” does not rhyme with the word “order.” Sadly, the people who wrote the song that inspired this announcement will most likely never read this blog. But you can learn from their grievous errors. And, if you ever happen to met someone who worked on an album called “A Children’s Treasury of Batman Musical Stories” in the 70s, now you know what to tell them. This is what I get when I put on a shuffle of the 24 days worth of music in my iTunes.
And now we present for your reading pleasure a story about a little blob. Why? Because I think a little blob sounds funny right now.
MICK, THE CUTE LITTLE BLOB
Once there was a little purple blob named Mick Queen. He was a cute little blob and he lived in a cute little fantasy world full of other cute little blobs. But he was cuter. Don’t ask me what made him cuter, I have no idea what makes a blob cute. They all look the same to me.
So, one afternoon, Mick was out gooing to the store when he saw his neighbor, Russell Chuck, gooing home from work.
“Hey, Russell!” he called, even though he didn’t have a mouth.
“Oh, hi, Mick,” Russell responded.
“Hey, why the frown?” Mick asked, because blobs can apparently read each other’s expressions.
“Oh, it’s nothing,” Russell said. Then he burst into tears, which looks really weird when a blob does it. The blob just sort of shakes and leaks. I mean, they don’t have eyes, so where do the tears come from?
“Hey, now, don’t cry,” Mick said. “Whatever it is, it can’t be that bad.”
“It’s my wife, Shawnee,” Russell said. Getting control of himself, he added slowly, “she . . . she told me this morning that she wants to leave.”
“She’s leaving you?” Mick asked, amazed.
“No, she doesn’t want to leave me,” clarified Russell, “she just wants to leave. You know, like, leave town. I don’t know how to tell her that blobs really don’t do well outside of Blob Town. You remember what happened to Steve when he–“
“Don’t remind me,” Russell said, shuddering (it looked like a Jell-o dessert during an earthquake).
“So, what should I tell her?” Russell asked.
“Well, you could tell her this story isn’t very entertaining,” Mick suggested.
“What good would that do?” asked Russell.
“I don’t know,” Mick replied, “maybe she could come up with a more interesting problem than just wanting to leave town. I mean, seriously, Russell, that’s pretty weak. We need something catastrophic, here, not something silly that no one can relate to.”
“Hey, don’t blame me, it wasn’t my idea,” Russell protested.
“Whatever,” Mick said. “Look, if this doesn’t get more interesting soon, I’m just gonna head off to the store and the rest of this story can be about me buying peanut butter. Do you want that?”
“I guess not,” said Russell. “Okay, let me get Shawnee out here and we’ll see what we can do.”
So, Russell went inside and got his wife, Shawnee, and the three of them sat (laid? jiggled? not “stood,” certainly…) around in the middle of the street trying to come with an interesting and/or amusing problem for a bunch of cute little blobs to have. Several suggestions were: troublesome evolution (blobs growing arms and such), Shawnee having an affair with another blob (and the ensuing problem of trying to figure out which one), hopping in a meteorite and going to Earth and eating a bunch of people, some kind of callback using the words “oughta” and “order,” and an allegory about the socio-economic ramifications of the industrial revolution using a layered series of metaphors to comment simultaneously on class divisions and the inherent risks of unchecked progress.
All of these ideas were rejected and they eventually all decided to just go to the store and get some peanut butter. Problem was that, by the time they finished debating, it was very late at night and the store was already closed. So they couldn’t get anything at all, much less the peanut butter they wanted.
Man, it was catastrophic. I’m sure you can relate.
Don’t look at me like that. Please.
See you soon,