by Newamba Flamingo
At around 4AM the poet Yossarian Hunter was about to turn in early for the night. After finishing his 20th can of PBR, he cashed off a bowl of hydroponic pot from his guitar-shaped waterbed that he’s converted into a massive bong and was soon passed out on the floor next to the bed, sleeping soundly dreaming dreams of debauchery in Grateful Dead show parking lots and sexual relations with skinny Irish girls in Mississippi dive bar bathrooms.
Outside his house, a nefarious intruder lurked through the dense forest of marijuana trees lining the abode. This intruder was no man; rather, it was a deranged baboon named Melvin that’d been unleashed by a diabolical half human, half octopus creature known as “Uncle Frank.”
(Uncle Frank and his henchman nephew named Ivan, a malicious chef who always wears assless chaps, live in a large underground bunker in Wisconsin, where they’ve been breeding an army of murderous baboons in beehive type pods. The baboons’ mission is to hunt down poets on the internet and collect their testicles. The testicles of internet poets are known to contain a serum of immeasurable power, which Uncle Frank plans to use to fuel his strap on dildo-like device, a weapon he is developing for global domination of midget porn websites. Yossarian Hunter’s testicles are of particular interest to Uncle Frank, as they are rumored to be the largest testicles known to man. [These testicles must be especially powerful, because Yossarian is said to have a 15 inch penis, and due to this horse-sized penis, Yossarian must often engage in sexual intercourse with farm animals, not just because he’s from Mississippi, but because most of the strippers and prostitutes he pulls out his gigantic unit to are so petrified by it that they scream and run away- sometimes even jumping out a window at the mere sight of the enormous organ.])
Upon discovering all the doors and windows of the house locked, Melvin unhooked the latches of Yossarian’s septic tank, strapped on a scuba mask and dove in, swam through the sewage pipes, and soon erupted from the toilet in the bathroom adjacent to Yossarian’s bedroom.
Melvin then ran like a cheetah at such supersonic speed that he literally burst through the door of Yossarian’s bedroom. (Leaving a baboon-silhouetted hole in the door itself)
The second Melvin entered the room, he made a beeline for the unconscious Yossarian, ripped the tie-dye sheets off him, and plunged face-first at the poet’s crotch.
Yossarian Hunter suddenly awoke, shrieking hysterically, trying in vain to beat the baboon away with a Jerry Garcia autographed bong, but it was to no avail, as Melvin shouted “Nah-Nu Nah-Nu, motherfucker!” and ripped Yossarian’s softball-sized testicles clean off his body.
Melvin held the testicles in the air, said something in Korean, and stuffed them in his fanny pack along with a first edition Kurt Vonnegut book he’d picked up with his tail off Yossarian’s bookshelf during the course of the testicle theft.
Then the purple-assed prowler let out a high-pitched cackle and took off running towards the toilet.
The instant Yossarian noticed Melvin had also stolen his first edition Vonnegut, he flew into a rage, grabbed a shotgun, and chased after Melvin, firing wantonly, yelling something about “ya fuckin’ thievin’ baboon sumbitch!”
However, Melvin was too fast for Yossarian, and dove Olympic style into the toilet, swam away through the pipes, and escaped out of the septic tank, disappearing into the night…
Newamba Flamingo was abducted by aliens prior to his existence as a writer. He has transvestite sex with male and female poetry editors, and then takes pictures of these encounters and uses them to blackmail the editors into publishing his work. Nowadays he’s mostly online at myspace.com/newamba, Facebook, and Scribd. And sometimes he’ll go into public bathrooms just to punch or kick people.The strangest place he ever masturbated was in his grandma’s house while watching Golden Girls, and the thing he’s most proud of doing this week is cutting his toenails, because they were getting kinda long.
This is so heartbreakingly poignant. Mr. Y. Hunter the poet has my deepest condolences. For tragedies such as this there ought to be some sort of support group.
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