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fat-time strolled lazily down the sidewalk with the lubricating midget rapid fire pellet gun tucked under his rolling, fatigued arm. "gee, what a long day of crime-fighting, eh, fat-time?!" "you said it, little buddy, i can't wait to get home and go to bed!" "me too, fat-time. i'm gonna have some cheese first, though!" fat-time reached around to scratch his shoulder blade. as he did so, the rapid fire pellet gun rolled around so that it was looking into the night sky. "whatta ya suppose the moon's made of fat-time?!" "i dunno lubie..." |
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* * * * back home * * * * fat-time sat down in his recliner and clicked on the small television, with it's tin-foil antennae amplifiers. the rapid fire pellet gun gnawed on a slab of mild cheddar. "hey look, lubie! it's the 'ask tom christiansen show'!" "mhmhmhmhmmmmhmhmhm," grunted the rapid fire pellet gun. "i know lubie!" fat-time grabbed the red phone from its cradle and dialed the phone-number scrolling across the bottom of the television screen. the man on the tv picked up his ringing phone, "hello! you have reached the ask tom christiansen show! what is your question for tom!?" fat-time nervously cleared his throat, "uh, yeah... hi... uh, my rapid fire pellet gun... uh, lubie... and i were... uh... wondering if, uh, you knew what the... uh... moon is made of?" "well of course! i know everything! the moon is made of cheese, my dear subject!" the rapid fire pellet gun's ears perked up, "hot dang fat-time!" |
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Stories
