Sandpaper Backrub
It occured to me recently that this masterpeice of a story is not on my blog! It is on my super crappy, and now super defunct, website, but it's a masterpiece and needs a wider audience. For what it's worth, I stole the title from this cartoon.
Anyway, without further ado I present: Sandpaper Backrub!
Vic MacClellen was a clever old gent. He was the type of guy who would swipe your morning paper and use it to line a birdcage. His coffee-making skills were less than adequate. His breath smelled of boiled pork chops wrapped in old sweat socks. He had only one thing going for him in life: his solid-gold rocket car.
Vic would merrily cruise through the streets in his sleepy New England neighbourhood, honking at passers-by as if he knew them personally. Sometimes he would run traffic lights in reverse, forcing other more responsible drivers off the road. These people would mostly curse Vic's name under their breath or gesture obscenely as he roared past. By and large, the townspeople despised old Vic and his solid-gold car.
Occasionally, Vic would go to 7-11 and try to purchase a loaf of bread with a solid-gold spark plug. Sometimes he would try to trade a hubcap for admission to the theatre. No one would take him up on any of his outlandish offers, though, because if there was one thing everyone could agree on, it was that no one could come up with an equitable rate of exchange using the fluctuating value of gold on the world market.
Eventually Vic tired of his rocket car and the financial stranglehold that he lorded over the townspeople. He sold his car to Liberace in exchange for a romantic candlelight recital for him and a poster of Jenna Elfman.
Later that same year, Vic was up to his old tricks again with a pewter skateboard he picked up at a yard sale in Albuquerque. But by this time the townspeople had decided that enough was enough, and they encased him in a transparent polymer while he slept.
Vic would merrily cruise through the streets in his sleepy New England neighbourhood, honking at passers-by as if he knew them personally. Sometimes he would run traffic lights in reverse, forcing other more responsible drivers off the road. These people would mostly curse Vic's name under their breath or gesture obscenely as he roared past. By and large, the townspeople despised old Vic and his solid-gold car.
Occasionally, Vic would go to 7-11 and try to purchase a loaf of bread with a solid-gold spark plug. Sometimes he would try to trade a hubcap for admission to the theatre. No one would take him up on any of his outlandish offers, though, because if there was one thing everyone could agree on, it was that no one could come up with an equitable rate of exchange using the fluctuating value of gold on the world market.
Eventually Vic tired of his rocket car and the financial stranglehold that he lorded over the townspeople. He sold his car to Liberace in exchange for a romantic candlelight recital for him and a poster of Jenna Elfman.
Later that same year, Vic was up to his old tricks again with a pewter skateboard he picked up at a yard sale in Albuquerque. But by this time the townspeople had decided that enough was enough, and they encased him in a transparent polymer while he slept.
The End
2 comments:
PURE. GOLD.
tee-hee
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