a Sesame Street tale

Jon paced nervously back and forth, side to side. His brow damp with perspiration, his turtleneck uncomfortably tight with elastic. This was by far the most emotionally-taxing audition he had ever been a part of. It was ironic that the letter of the day was ‘S’, because Jon wassss sssstresssssed.

He had dressed the part, there was no doubt about that. The vibrant red turtleneck, the goofy hair. The velcro shoes (not pictured). Now he just had to audition for the part. When he got off the Sesame St. trolley stop he had been surprised to see Big Bird smoking a cigarette on the street corner. Jon would have absolutely killed for a drag of that cigarette right about now.

If he could crack the cast of Sesame Street, his lifelong goal would be complete. If he got shafted, well, he’d probably throw a molotov cocktail though Mr. Hooper’s store. He hoped it wouldn’t come to that.

Down the hallway he heard Elmo laughing hysterically. Shit, Jon thought to himself selfishly, that actor who just went in there is absolutely killing it!

Jon felt himself beginning to hyperventilate. He walked outside to grab a quick breath of fresh air. Across the street he saw Bert and Ernie sharing a cup of frozen yogurt. Two muppets, one cup. They were still in their matching PJs, and appeared to be in the midst of a loud and heated argument. Jon watched in disbelief as Bert stood up and smashed the fro yo on Ernie's head and stormed off. 

Around the corner Jon heard the rustling of cans. He peeked his turtled neck around the corner and saw a homeless muppet aimlessly pushing a cart full of empty soda cans. It was Roosevelt Franklin! Sesame Street's long forgotten Muppet homie. Jon knew his muppet facts- he knew that Roosevelt Franklin had been off the show for years. Evidently, Roosevelt Franklin had fallen on hard times. Poor guy, Jon thought to himself. He took a crumpled dollar bill out of his pocket and handed it to the muppet. Roosevelt Franklin reeked of cat piss, liquor, and garbage. Probably what Oscar the Grouch smells like, Jon though to himself. He shuddered and went back inside the studio.

Sitting on the couch, Jon picked up a copy of the Sesame Street Gazette. He soon wished that he hadn't. The top story informed him that Cookie Monster's type 2 diabetes had gotten so bad that the cookie addict had to have his left leg amputated. In other news, Miss Piggy had apparently sold out and had joined the cast of the Jersey Shore. To add insult to injury, Kermit had also recently been busted with an ounce of marijuana on his person. It's not easy, slingin' green. 

Jon tugged at his constraining turtleneck. He looked at the clock. Elmo's obnoxious laugh broke the silence once again, echoing up the hallway. But it was no longer the laugh that Jon had grew up with. This laugh was diabolical, nefarious. 

Jon stirred uncomfortably in his slacks. He got up and walked to the door of the studio as calmly as he could. Sesame Street has changed, he though to himself. His childhood dream had morphed into a adulthood nightmare. Jon opened the door and began to walk quickly back to the Sesame St. trolley stop. Somewhere behind him he heard the Count counting down backwards, 3...2...1... then the sound of automatic rifle gunshots peppered the air. Jon broke into a terrified sprint as he rounded the corner and fled towards the trolley station only to discover that it had been completely engulfed in flames!

"CAN ANYONE TELL ME HOW TO GET, HOW TO GET THE HELL OUT OF SESAME STREET?" Jon screamed at the top of his lungs. 

Suddenly out of nowhere, Grover pulled up on a motorcycle, screeching to a halt next to the terrified actor. "Hop on!" the muppet exclaimed. "Let's blow this mother fucking popsicle stand."

Colt 44

Logan swirled the amber contents of the chalice around three times, then gently dipped her nose below the rim to analyze the beerquet. 

Her nostrils were immediately met by a malty aroma that exuded the most curious of sulphuric fragrances. The tip of her nose dented the beer's pillowed head as she inhaled the bursting bubbles of carbonation. The smell of hops was ubiquitous. She took a slow sip.

Logan coyly flashed a smile as she looked up from the glass, crinkling her nose. With her right hand she reached up and playfully removed her glasses. "I just had a completely unique experience," she stated seductively.

"Cut, cut, let's try that again," the cameraman said as he poked his head out from up above his camera. "You have foam all over your nose. Here, take this towel, clean off your schnoz, and let's try it again."

Four hours later, not much progress had been made. "Cutttttt" the director groaned dismally. They had already been through 43 takes and the young actress was clearly beginning to feel the woozying effects of all the cheap malt beverage sips.

"Ok we're going to try this ONE LAST TIME," the cameraman started. "Put some emotion into it, and try not to slur. I want you to experience the beer. Communicate telepathically with the beer. Connect with the beer. You two are soul mates. Give me some feeling, c'mon, you got this." The cameraman repositioned himself behind the camera. "Ready? Alright. Take 44. Aaaaaaand action." 

Logan swirled the cup around once more. Daintily, delicately. She closed her eyes and gently inhaled the beer mist that hovered closely above the frothy head. She took a teensy sip of the frosty brew. She savored it. She swallowed it. She opened her eyes and did that Colbie Caillat thing with her nose. She slipped off her glasses, turned her body to the left and looked over her right shoulder, straight into the camera. Her eyes conveyed a riveting display of desire and intensity.

"I just haved [hiccup] a completelyyy enuch, sexperience," she slurred. "And I haves to break the seal and feeds my cat," she stated sternly, drunkenly, "like, now." Logan reached into her purse and took out a cat clutching a loaded Colt .45 revolver, "So don't you even try and think about trying to think about trying to stop us." The cat fired a warning shot to show that it wasn't a pussy.

The cameraman ducked behind his camera and smiled. It wasn't Logan's best take by far, but it was probably going to go viral once somebody invented the internet and created Youtube. It was rumored that Youtube was going to love cat videos. 

socks to be you

Sock badger felt for the perforation on the corner of the cardboard box then used his trembling sock badger paw to rip open the tab. He shoved his sock badger face in the opening and took a long deep drag with his damp sock badger nose. His eyes rolled to the back of his head and his whole body relaxed.

It was like cat nip for cats. Nips for an alcoholic. An alcoholic for AA. 

A sock badger would get a rigid hard-on simply thinking about rimming a fresh box of GOLD CUP SOCKS with its nose. Sock badger tenses. Sock badger craves. Sock badger want. Sock badger sell personal belongings for fresh sock.

You see, sock badgers love fresh socks. The texture of them. The smell of them. The taste of the different cotton dyes intricately woven together by an asian-operated piece of mechanical machinery. Also, when you smoke a sock your brain releases an incredible amount of dopamine. I think it's the bleach.

Sock badger pulled his nose out of the cardboard container and leaned back against the side of the back alley and closed his bloodshot sock badger eyes. He sat there for a few moments then reached into his sock badger pocket and grabbed his sock pipe.

Fuck, Sock Badger realized that he didn't have a light.