The Gravy Goblin Published in Thought Nog #1 Once upon a time, shortly after I began puberty, I had the strangest experience. I woke up one morning to find my underwear totally saturated with wetness. I automatically assumed that I had wet the bed, though I had not done that in weeks. Usually my pee is a thin yellow liquid; not a viscous, milky white fluid like it was on this occasion. I thought something was wrong with me. When my mother came in to my room to tell me breakfast was ready, I told her what had happened. She reassured me that everything was okay, that nothing was wrong with me, and that I had only been visited by the Gravy Goblin. My mother explained to me that the Gravy Goblin is the distant cousin of the Tooth Fairy. The only difference between the two is that the Tooth Fairy collects teeth, whereas the Gravy Goblin collects pubic hair. Since the Gravy Goblin is in a lower income bracket than the Tooth Fairy, he cannot afford to leave money behind in return for what he takes, so the Gravy Goblin carries a canteen full of gravy with him on his nocturnal missions. Once the Gravy Goblin has collected any loose pubic hairs from the bed of the unsuspecting boy, he leaves behind a splash of gravy as a token of his gratitude. His motto is, "It’s the thought that counts." Having heard this, and from my mother no less, my fears and anxiety were put to rest. As time went on, I would become one of the Gravy Goblin's most preferred clients. The end. Poodle Mishap Published in Thought Nog #2 One day I saw this poodle in the park that had caught on fire; it was yelping and running in circles. I wanted to help the poor creature, although I could not find any water to douse the fire. Luckily, I found a fire extinguisher nearby. Unfortunately, the fire extinguisher would not work, and I had to beat that poor poodle to death with the fire extinguisher in order to put out the fire. Sad, I know. However, upon closer inspection I realized that it was not a poodle at all, but an oversized bundle of lint that had fallen out of my belly button somehow and got picked up in a minuscule air cyclone. How it burst into flame I am unsure of, yet surmise that it had something to do with the mysterious phenomenon of spontaneous combustion. That ball of lint was like a brother to me, and is irreplaceable. The sadness brought about from my sentimental attachment makes me wish it had really been a poodle. The only thing that comes close to making up for the loss of my belly button lint is the collection of deodorant curds I sift out of my armpit hair, after a hot and sweaty day. I collect these globules of antiperspirant and keep them in an antique mason jar. This is my newest hobby, and is the only thing that helps keep my mind off my terrible loss. The end. Sunbather's Nightmare Published in Thought Nog #3 One day I was in the park, eating watermelon and spitting the seeds onto the naked breasts of a nearby sunbather. She did not seem to mind; the majority of the seeds just bounced off of her chest hair. Now might be a good time to point out that I was naked. Well, virtually naked. The only garment I was wearing was a see-through speedo. As you may surmise, it was uncomfortable whenever I popped a boner, and this was one of those uncomfortable times. I decided to take the speedo off and lay it next to me. I laid there on my back fantasizing about different types of hair when, out of nowhere, a squirrel, a bastard squirrel, executed a swan dive out of the tree next to me. It landed on my groin and immediately sank its teeth and claws into my hairless nutsack. I had shaved my testicles only hours ago, so I guess they must have looked like a pair of walnuts to the squirrel. My gut reaction to the squirrel's attack was to suck my genitals back into my abdomen, much like a turtle tucks its head into its shell when threatened by predators. This only increased the magnitude of unpleasantry. I grabbed the nearest thing next to me, which happened to be a rectal thermometer. Quickly, I plunged it into the squirrel's ass, and my retaliatory act only increased the magnitude of unpleasantry further. I took out the rectal thermometer and read the temperature. Hopefully, this would help me take my mind off of the traumatizing event unfolding in my lap. Eighty-five degrees Fahrenheit; this was at least twenty degrees cooler than the outside air, as it was a hot day in July. There was a slight breeze, but the air was hot. Luckily, someone in a golf cart drove by, and came to my rescue. The squirrel had a death grip on my scrotum, and the only way to get the squirrel to let go of my clean-shaven testicles was to smack it with one of the clubs in the back of the golf cart. I recommended the sand wedge, but the caddy insisted that a putter would pack enough force to get the squirrel off, without harming the creature. While we argued over which golf club should be used to whack the squirrel off of my groin, I realized that it was no longer clawing, but trying to swallow my left testicle. It had unhinged its jaw, not unlike a boa constrictor, and was trying to work one of my nards down its throat. There wasn’t much time. In a decision that would determine life or death, the caddy chose a nine iron and gave the squirrel a solid smack. At least, he thought he had hit the squirrel. What he had hit in reality was my flaccid penis. Ouch. It was a good thing I had my penis removed when I was younger and replaced with a prosthetic one. The caddy was embarassed and excessively apologetic. I reassured him that it was alright; getting my fake penis accidentally whacked 157 yards into a five mph southeast wind was not an uncommon occurrence for me. Incidentally, someone just happened to be staring at an unusual cloud formation in this vicinity, and began to yawn. Before this innocent bystander could close their mouth, my prosthetic appendage flew down the back of their throat, tickled their uvula, and made them vomit. Do not worry; the only damage done to my penis during this whole ordeal was a black scuff from the golf club, and a few patches of discoloration due to the high acidity of the person's regurgitated stomach acid. However, I cannot say the same for my severely tattered scrotum. There was nothing left to salvage except for a few seminiferous tubules. The squirrel scurried off with both of my testicles, and I never got to kiss them goodbye. It is astonishing to think that such a small animal could be capable of consuming such large genitals, and is evidence that God works in mysterious ways. Who would of thought that my beautiful testicles would have ended up as a mass of squirrel shit? I didn't see that coming, not at all. So that is the story of why I have completely artificial genitalia , and no longer take my see-through speedo off while tanning at the river. The end.

back to main page