Buster is gone. And the selfish bastard left me with nothing to sell on ebay.
I thought he was going to jump off my finger like one of those delightful animated birds in Song of the South, and then I thought he was going to alight upon my desk and sing “Zippity Doo Dah” while tap dancing across my keyboard. And then maybe I would make a little matchbox bed for him to sleep in and keep it on my nightstand, and before I fell asleep I could say things like, “Hey Buster?” and he’s say, “Yeah, pal?” and I’d say, “Why doesn’t anybody like me at school?” and he’d say, “Probably because you’re no good at sports, little buddy.” And I’d get all kinds of wisdom like that and be a better person. And when I got older I’d have someone I could go to bars with and not have to worry about looking like a psychopath, sitting at the bar all by myself. I could just sit down and open my little matchbox wart bed and if anybody came up and said, “Excuse me, but is someone sitting here?” I could point at the box and say, “Uh, I don’t know. Why don’t you ask him?” And then I’d have two friends, and then the friendship snowball would just keep growing and growing.
But noooo. Instead, he disintegrates into a million warty chunks and sloughs off into a Kleenex. Not a real crowd-pleasing finish, Buster. You know, that kind of selfish behavior is EXACTLY why people hate warts.
On the bright side, I have always LOVED the word “slough” and I finally got a chance to use it. And here, on the Double Fine Action News, the most widely-read news page on the internet, pretty much. Slough!
On the bad side: all that sewing for nothing! Unless maybe this mole on my neck gets a little bigger and practices her singing.