Friday, July 31, 2009

Shiny, happy people.

So, a long time ago I traveled to the nation’s most dangerous and dusty frontier town to gamble. There I met a rather bubbly drunk named Puggy Pearson who took me for a large sum. I vowed to return one day to exact my revenge. One evening, I convinced my drunken handler to aid me in my quest.

That fucking asshole died. This is what I had to deal with. His name was Joe. Not exactly Puggy, mind you, but a world more sociable and surrounded by a far more entertaining lot. Regardless, my handler seemed a bit apprehensive about meeting this particular group… Something about him being inferior in both a logical and social manner—very uncharacteristic, if I do say. Having heretofore never heard such inhibitions, I found myself a little bit intimidated and, thus, bided my time in the corner of the booth of the smoking lounge:

I imagine that it was merely because my mind had been worn from the ride, but my nerves eventually settled and, once I saw the menu, my spirits traveled back in time to the Fourth of July. This was as near to independence as a wealthy toad could manage!

After making my selection, I believe the intention of my associates was to mock me by placing me in a rather humorous location. Being where I was, I expected dollar bills to fly around my incapable limbs. Pleasantly, I was merely greeted by the scent of fine tobacco. For once, I must tip my nonexistent cap to those around me, who both respected my stature and aroused what can only be said is one of my most deeply-held interests:

Regretfully, I only enjoy the contact high of nicotine these days. It was not difficult to avoid the temptation though, because, as the lights dimmed, I was treated to a far more alluring temptation:

I will spare you the details, my friends, but let it be said that no expense was made for the pleasure seen above. Out of respect for my companions, I will also refrain from describing any further intimacies—I will let your imagination run with this one.

To pause for a moment, I must declare that I am not some sort of Romerotic Playtoad who seeks out sexually incompatible females for warmth and compassion. I like to imagine myself as the sort of amphibian who arouses both genders of homo sapiens in an equally asexual manner.

I get the party going.

Sometimes this proves to be rather difficult, and a large part of this I like to blame on my appearance:

Can you sense the horror?

I could not. I do not let it get to me. I am the ever-impervious fecal toad; say what you will—-the insults are compliments. You will warm to me, even if I have to convince your significant other to twist your arm. (I am a devious fellow.)

I don’t even need to make a joke. It just works!

Do you need further proof? Fine…

If the mixture of incomprehension, explanation, and mock understanding was not evident before you read this sentence, it, assumedly, now is.

My bombastic presence is further contemplated.

And in the end, everyone understands.

In fact, everyone genuflects to the sheer amount of knowledge that I possess when they realize they will never obtain such a profound level of intellectual contentment. I hate to be bombastic, but sometimes I let it out upon the written page. I am not normally bombastic…

..I am smug!

Smug men enjoy their meals.

I enjoyed mine.

Posted by Pooptoad on 07/31 at 11:17 PM
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