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Paul Mucker was finalizing the paperwork on the Lovejoy Account in his office, when, quite unexpectedly, he found himself completely covered in a writhing pile of worms. Mr. Mucker, an active member in his community and concerned parent of two, was unaccustomed to being consumed by a dense thicket of squiggling worms. But there he was, head to toe, inundated with worms. “Hmm. How embarrassing,” Mr. Mucker thought. "No time for worms today."
Mr. Mucker pressed his intercom and what he thought he said was: “Denise, would you please come in here for a second, please.”
But what he really said was: “glrawll gurugle blobblle.”
For what happened every time Mr. Mucker tried to speak is that his whitened mouth filled with a pail full of worms that he reduced to a mash with his teeth. Mr. Mucker did not want to attend the afternoon meeting in this unseemly condition. But he understood the significance of the account. Something needed to be done.
So Mr. Mucker began pulling off the worms in clumps, trying to shed this second skin that had suddenly sloughed from some unknown place and happened to slather on to him. But all that did was create a pile of worms on his office floor. Out of breath, he seemed to be covered just as much as he was before. Mr. Mucker did not want to cause a stir, so he sat there at his desk, crossed his legs and brainstormed some ideas on how to handle this whole “worm” situation.
Eventually, Mr. Mucker disappeared beneath that pile of worms. He (it?) just became worms all the way down. In his chair there sat a lump of worms -- a dreamlike orgy of simple-celled single-minded squirming. Denise came in, sidled past the worms and retrieved the Lovejoy Account.
Fortunately, the meeting was a success. Lovejoy was in the fucking can.
Date Written: November 10, 2004
Author: scoop's brain
Average Vote: 3.5