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Portrait of the Artist
“Let’s see, I need a funny name to start off,” thought Ewan Snow.
Cheezeplate Fairchortle licked his bloody, toothless gums with anticipation.
Ewan Snow was satisfied he had laid a solid foundation on which to build a classic short short.
“Now what should I put next?” he thought. “Maybe I should describe his bad breath, that’s always funny. Yes, and I’ll make his underwear dirty.”
A cloud of green stench wafted from his puckered lips and precipitated into corrosive droplets that fell onto his shoes, burning little black holes that allowed the coincidentally green stench of his feet to escape. Deep within his under-things lurked a flaky crust of poop past, his brown badge of courage.
“What command of the King’s English! This is gonna rock! Okay, now what should happen. Maybe something 19th century-like, something with an antechamber. No, too hackneyed. How about he’s all decked out in 80’s gear? No, again, overplayed. Something about gay sex? Something more about poop? No, no. Futuristic/Sci-Fi? Noir? I know…”
His man-servant robot pulled up his poopy pants, tucked in his pink Izod T-shirt and left. A tall blonde walked into his office. She had it in all the right places.
“Alaister Chalkbottom has soiled my antechamber,” the tall blond declared.
“What’s it to me?”
“You’re a private dick, aren’t you?”
“Only when I’m zipped up.”
“I’m a genius,” thought Ewan.
Date Written: August 24, 2003
Author: Ewan Snow
Average Vote: 4.25