Bloopity Dooper Doop

So, sometimes in life things happen to you that are exciting and interesting and are easy to turn into a story. 

You're just walking around in the tall grass like the Pokemon sprite character that you've always secretly wished you could become...

And suddenly that BLANANADDADALDALNALDNALNDANANAANAAAAAA!!!! music starts playing and everything goes all strobe-y and you're like, "OH MY GOD! REAL LIFE IS HAPPENING TO ME RIGHT NOW!"

But in the game it's like, "WILD CLEFAIRY APPEARS!"

And you're like, "What?! What is this?! What is this...marshmallow-y...pink...dinosaur?...cream-puff...thi--I'M GONNA CAPTURE IT!"



And then you can totally share that story and it's interesting and everyone is all "YOU TEACH ME AND I'LL TEACH YOU!"

Right? Right? Right.

But that's only some of the times. Other times, you're just walking around in the tall grass, or maybe you're not even in the tall grass. Maybe you've decided you don't want to deal with the tall grass today but you still want the day to amount to something.

And earlier today I was freaking out like, "Oh my gosh Andy. You have to write something but nothing has happened to you today. Or yesterday. Or the day before that."

But then I realized that that's okay. Because I can just make stuff up.

My imagination is like a bucket of paint on the blank white canvas of my day. And then I take that bucket, turn away from the canvas and throw it into outer space because my canvas is on the Moon now!

Don't you see, you bearded and snaggle-toothed children of the world? Imagination is like a butt that controls the weather! Everyone has one, you're just using it all wrong!

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So I woke up with a denim jacket in my mouth, I'm chewing on it softly. I don't own any denim jackets and the name 'Kelly' is stitched on the inside left pocket.

So as I best I can tell, some dude named Kelly was riding in around in his Corolla late last night and his sandwich senses started spazzing all-out to the max. This led him to my house where he undoubtedly sensed my bed-time comfort hoagie that I use because I can't find the time to get enough red-meat inside me during the day.

So he must have broken in through my window using a series of progressively larger trained- baby lambs. It's simple really. First he sends the tiniest lamb through, and that lamb makes a tiny hole. Then a bigger lamb, and a bigger lamb, and a bigger lamb, until he has discretely made a hole just large enough for him to enter through.

After that he just had to replace my hoagie with his jacket, Indiana-Jones style, and sneak out back through the window. Then of course he must have fought off my harem of super-model bodyguards and made sure he signed the guestbook book by the mailbox. The models probably weren't very hard to defeat. I don't feed them very much and during the summer they get all dry and yellow when they're out in the sun all the time. I hope he didn't use a fake name on the guestbook. I question both the doctorate and existence of Professor Cheese-Pecs McRanchy-Thighs...(sounds like a weird new exercise creation from a rogue Arby's..)

Anyway, after solving that magical mystery machine I decided the best thing to do would be to eat about five blueberry pancakes and learn how to talk to fish.

Unfortunately, I couldn't concentrate on the fish because I kept hearing this loud banging sound coming from inside the closet. There were also some muffled feminine yells. It was probably just one of Kelly's sheep that got stuck in there.

Sheep. They are such little rascals.

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Wow, in that story, I ended up implying that I trapped someone in a closet. DIDN'T SEE THAT COMING!

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Prologue: Girl-Kelly gets out of the closet and admits to trying to steal my night-time hoagie but was trapped in the closet by the eleven year old with no eyebrows who occasionally drops by to steal quarters from my change bowl for his underground gambling ring.

No harm, no foul, Kelly!
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You see? 96% of that story didn't happen at all! And yet, its themes of redemption and moral-conflict, and sandwiches can still resonate inside of you as if they were true events that had been forced down your gullet.

And that's the power of imagination!