Citizens, there was once a brave young soldier determined to serve his country well. He volunteered the day after the first clone bomb went off and filled Cincinnati with thousands of Adam Sandlers. Like the rest of us, he’d cried in helpless horror as the pride of Ohio fell victim to that terrible scourge. And then he swore he’d do everything he could to make sure that would never happen again.
He fought the Taliban in Hyderabad, the Neo-Guelphs in Belgium, and the Kiwanis in Modesto. He served with bravery, distinction, and a gusto none of his elders could match. He won medals and commedations for his baking and bayoneting.
But one day, while he was clearing a street in Bakersfield with his platoon, he met someone. A very sweet, special, sexy someone. She wore a cute little Teflon combat apron with Hello Kitty logos all over it, and her name was Jackie. She was a professional mime degrader, trained in the art of pelting street performers with rotten fruit. (She specialized in mango, pineapple, and durian.)
Jackie and Barfolomew fell in love. The romance of Bakersfield, the quivering of her bosom, the trembling of his stubbly earlobes – it was too much for their young, passionate hearts. They tumbled into each others’ arms and made sweaty, smelly love amid the submachine guns. After a prolonged courtship, they were married under a banyan tree with only the moon and stars as witness.
She took a job as a hula dancer. He took a job as a cottage cheese voyeur, and a second job pricing free samples. But life was hard for our young heroes. They could barely make ends meet, even their own. They lived in a greenhouse on top of a grain silo next to a photography studio. They bought groceries in a secondhand store and clothes from a video-game dealer. They even recycled coconuts for her work uniform.
Foreclosure came as a shock to them. They rented the greenhouse. They owned little more than the clothes on his back. They borrowed their friends’ stolen cars and ran them on wishes and corn oil. So when the bank’s officials evicted them and took everything they didn’t own, they were sad. Sad as Dutchmen without their third-hand wig collections. Sad as Saracens.
But they were in love, citizens. So they didn’t need any noodle pudding or pumpkin tarts to writhe in with erotic abandon. They moved into a complex of discarded oatmeal cannisters and scissor handles, where they lived happily ever after until they both succumbed to mouth cancer after a long battle and many shiny shoes.
