by Prince Mu-Chao, a long time ago
As I sit here chillin’ with my Otter Pop in an expensive hotel room that my boss is paying for wondering what to do with myself, I can’t help but think on the lofty creative goals I set for myself time and time again… and then fail to live up to.
It used to be that a day could not go by when I did not reach for my notebook with delight as an idea came crashing down upon me. Now that I have a laptop with me wherever I go, I can’t write on a blank piece of paper… and I can’t seem to write all that much on the laptop either.
The thing is, I don’t know where I lost it, and every time I think on it my brain goes fuzzy and I meander aimlessly on the web instead of writing a Passible American Short Story. So I turn to my otters.
Louie-Bloo Raspberry smells his flower daintily and tells me that he knows what I mean. Life is tough sometimes and we have to weather storms and blah blah blah… I never liked Louie-Bloo much anyway.
Alexander the Grape stares back like a genetic clone of Charles Manson gone awry. With toga slowly slipping off his shoulder and sword raised high, he reminds me a bit too much of Gee-Dubbaya to be of any help in this endeavor.
Poncho Punch taps his foot on his drum and fingers his guitar lewdly, implying much but saying little in the way of guidence for my dismembered Creativity. Certainly, he tastes pretty good… but I’m afraid he’s no more useful then Antonio Bandaras.
Little Orphan Orange weeps quietly in the corner for me as I suck the last bits of juice out of her trembling tube and though I appreciate the sentiment, I can’t say that getting overly emotional about the whole thing will help anyone.
Sir Issac Lime is stoned out of his gourd, clutching his telescope bong as if he was jerking off the Hulk in a leather bar. His mustasche only adds to the effect. Though this amuses me, I’m afraid it brings no enlightenment and, anyway, lime Otter Pops are about as tasty as… well… the Hulk’s cock.
So finally, in a desperation that can be borne only out of an inate stupidity, I turn finally to my favorite otter, Strawberry Short Kook. And lo! The ditsy bitch stands there on a box with no shirt on and covers her nubs with a deranged smile on her face and eyes open wide, staring at me with a kind of dumb acceptance that I have only seen in one place before… Catholic Mass.
Which brings us to the end of our requiem. As the last note fades into the silence, the person in the next room turns on their water with a BANG! and I drop my head in disgust – though I hoped that like a phoenix, my muse would be instilled back into my cockles through elemental otter pop administration, I know now that such things only happen in cheap movies and cheaper books.