A Ward, Please... warm wrap around the shoulderforefinger of enthusiasmunclench the teeth#onlyaweird# ... for vanity's sake

“OfGloveAndShootEm!” Enchantra exclaims hurling her bulk over the corral fence to her mighty companion, Figglemusk the Hetarded, an elongating bead of drool fountained from the steeply drooping half of a lower Downes lip who’s holding a (may I apologize now to all of my endlessly, endearing dull-abled fanatics, who no doubt hang on my every word their whole sense of self-esteem [queer that we don’t have a word for the actual relationship to the self that might be favorable, instead relying on estimation we would give or make to another?] and measure of comparative intelligence, this passage is bound, if not intended, to have a disconcerting effect—Trigger warning indeed! Say not ye were warned [and damned] herein! –disclaimer for the incorrigible in both deed of word and spelling therein–) mango plastic water pistol outsquirted, a dribble of aftershot matching his falling mouthdew. A ?huh? look stapled about his bulbous, ruddy puss, bright cinnamon snapdragon cowboy hat with brims as wide as Nile baskets, the pure white sewing-seams crudely and inartfully dashing the trim, with … hold on a moment…

Artist! Draw! I can’t see what sort of clothing he’s wearing—you wouldn’t have him parading around naked, would you?!

… nothing but a smooth paste of cartoonish skin around a puffed rice belly beneath which wiggles urgently a tiny balloon-Snoopy … oh no. Very funny.

Artist! Draw! Where is he from?

… before a hay bale, a pair of  dungaree overalls (they are definitively, by admission of even their defenders, not covering ‘all’, nor are they a ‘pair’ unless purchased with a companion at a 2-for-1 sale, and even then, no one would sensibly wear both simultaneously_ with a sandpaper-colored t-shirt emblazoned with the phrase “I’m With…” and an arrow pointing straight downward. [Print it! Sell it! It’ll make me millions! Why haven’t we thought of this before!]—[perhaps it was because you weren’t thinking far enough ahead in the chain]—[?huh?]—[meaning that what if you had started with the ‘I’m with Stupid” idea only to strategically come to this aim at the end of the roadhouse] His aim was untrue, especially bereft of victim, the only expectation were failure. But not only his failings, but those also of Sheriff Enchantra, for what woman, posed of power, would employ only such a trifling of a man, such a petti-booted larcen that groveled at the feet of worms?! How be found guilty of such atrocity, I ask you… I implore you! For all the works that wont and font for her success, to finally astride the tiger of commerce, trampling unlightly the souls of Mensch, who once lent euro a dollar for a pound. “You won’t get me that easy, Dirty Dunkin’! Not so easy at all.” No, she wouldn’t have let him mind the shop while she was out outfighting outcrime outfitting. So Draw!

Faster! Paint in the villain! Who is it? Who’s the villain?! I think I see him there, crawling like a pestilent black stain on the farmland, leaking his slick oily blood to the roots of the cornstalk, isn’t it…

Oh no, it’s just a spill of ink? Got it. We’ll just ignore that.

But wait! But First!

Trigger emerges from through the sunset. Literally. S/he bounds in, tearing the rice paper a new perineum, a lip through which her leap arcs, the real hero of this beastly tale. We’d nearly forgotten about him [of course it was a him, at least in the script. Even if played by a mare (Who would ever abide a mammoth horse dick interfering with (or detracting from?) the audience’s enjoyment of a wholesome G-Rated adventure promoting American values?), we’re to perceive the notion of Trigger as masculine. I mean, the horse’s real given name wasn’t Trigger, so already we’re fabricating the stuff of novels…! But I don’t know much about horses, so let me tell you instead about Looey the Llamakin, who was the first intrepid Norseman to… But tell you?

But why and who am I telling it to? I’ve gotten so wrapped up in the “it” that I’ve forgotten all about you, the audience there. Am I speaking to you, reader, the artist who paints in their right mind’s eye this parade of characters? Did you bring them forth as a gift to me, or did I, punished, go to great lengths to gratuitously perform this before you? Who’s the real hero here?! And can you imagine reading this to yourself? In time, the doctor will give you the all-fine. But they’ll still stop you at the door of the asylum, and direct you, willing back in.

Right this way, sir.

Step right up.