We Should See Other Blogs

Different-Tempered Oscar the Alternate-Accommodation Person peeked over the lid of his recycling bin to see his friend, Size-Challenged Avian-American, strolling down across the park. Oscar couldn’t help remembering the dangerous street he had once lived beside, relief flooding him as he looked over his gentle green park.

“How’s it going, Size-Challenged Avian-American?” asked Oscar.
“Well, thank you, Different-Tempered Oscar,” Size-Challenged Avian-American replied. “Have you seen the Carrot Stick monster around?”
Oscar was shocked. “You know it’s offensive to call him a monster, don’t you?”
“Oh, right,” Size-Challenged Avian-American sighed, obviously embarrassed by his lack of consideration. “Have you seen the Carrot Stick Non-Standard-Body-Type Person?”
“No,” Oscar replied. “Maybe you should ask Count von Unconventional-Liquid-Diet von Count when you see him next.”

Just then an enraged man with a bazooka over his shoulder and an AK-47 in one burst onto the scene. “I’m sick of this idiotic trip you’re feeding my children!” he shouted, shooting Oscar in the head. “You’re Oscar the Grouch! And that’s okay! You live in a garbage can! And that’s okay too!”

He turned to Size-Challenged Avian-American, who stood looking stupidly down the barrel of the AK-47. “You’re a big bird! You’re fat! That’s fine! You’re a bird! There’s nothing wrong with that!” BOOM. Big Bird disappeared in a ball of fire and charred feathers.

Looking down the street, the man spotted the Carrot Stick Non-Standard-Body-Type person. “You’re a monster!” He shouted. “You know why? Because you look like a monster! You eat cookies because cookies taste good and every sane person like cookies!” Cookie Monster slumped against the wall, a hail of bullets perforating his hide. Stuffing began to leak out.

“One, two, three bullets,” the Count said, emerging from behind a tree. “Four, five, six bullets.”
“You know what your unconventional liquid diet is, Count?” the man asked.
“I don’t know, I don’t care,” said the Count. “Why are you shooting people with seven, eight, nine bullets?”
“I’m the repressed man underneath all this pablum and bullshit!”
“That’s a naughty word,” the count said, wagging his finger.
“You drink blood. Did you know that? And that’s the only reason I’m leaving you alive. You haven’t had your fangs removed yet.”
“One, two fangs,” the count said, idiotically. “One, two fangs.”