Butternut squash never looked better than when it was being flung swiftly in the opposite direction. At least, that’s what Dr. Gil Von D’andersonsdottir used to think. Before the incident. Before Brenda. Before he realized that butternut squash was the only thing that could possibly save him. Or his beloved vintage AOL mailer disc collection.
Oh, what a time it was, before the incident. Von D’andersonsdottir, or ‘Lil’ Dandy’ as lazy writers liked to call him, would dance about in the street like a marionette of yore. The dance typically lasted about 8 minutes before the strings got hopelessly tangled around a lightpost or prostitute. Lil’ Dandy would then skip home without a care in the world.
And what a home it was! None other than Gloria Vanderbilt compared Lil’ Dandy’s posh Manhattan apartment to a “slightly overdecorated Persian whorehouse.” Who could resist such enticements, once the hooch was flowing and the molly kicked in? Lil’ Dandy cut a wide swath through New York society, finding himself linked in the gossip rags with everyone from Lou Reed to former First Lady Pat Nixon.
The parties! The excitement! The whirlwind of exhilarating drug and alcohol abuse, warping Lil’ Dandy’s sensibilities until he no longer could tell good disco from bad. His Donna Summer tattoo began to fade from lack of use. “I don’t even remember liking her music,” he ranted breathlessly into his pillow as he drifted into another delirious haze.
So, you see, when the incident happened, none of us was especially surprised. Bemused, perhaps, that Lil’ Dandy’s fall would turn on such a simple action. After all those years of debauchery and banter, for his fate to be decided by that, of all things! A trifle, really, not even worthy to be mentioned in print or on the Internet of today. Let us avert our gaze like so many bridge-playing Protestants when confronted with an awkward smell. And let us never mention the incident again.
Seriously, don’t mention it.
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