The Adventures of Little Tummy and Occasionally Uberstlachen in Oufaloufaland

Part SEVEN

Hardly the most opportune time to be sneezing, Burtuwochenochen pressed his palms onto the cushioned inside of his coffin's lid to steady himself. Little Tummy opened it up scowling.

"No, no, no, you absolute moron. The joke only works if you're coughing in your coffin." He remorselessly slid a pickaxe into Burtuwochenochen's skull. Some idiot passing by thought it was the latest fashion craze. The even more idiotic general population hailed him as a genius. In effect, Little Tummy had erased all of the idiots out of the gene pool. He was considered a hero for ever more.

Uberstlachen saw Little Tummy's bacteria-infested rise to fame and was not glad. List of other things he was not at this point in time: succumbing to the effects of video piracy; nervous about performing in the Rojaedubicheb North Primary School's grade two representation of Shrek; the musical; a bleeding rock-melon.

"Will you still love me, tomorrow?" he asked Little Tummy.

"Um, hang on," said Little Tummy, and checked his schedule. "Nope, sorry, can't do tomorrow, I'm going to be interviewed with a reporter by the president on what I think goes nicest in a dill pickle sandwich."

"Ah, yes I will certainly tune in to that," said Uberstlachen, "but you're a scumbag for doing so. I thought we were friends."

"I thought we were friends," said a hexagonal square of cheese that had been stuck to Uberstlachen's foot for the past century or so. He flicked it off with a rigorous shake. Then to top it off he flicked some mustard, a hamburger, some lettuce, and a bun over on top of the cheese. Everyone applauded, except for the kid who ordered it, who pushed it away saying "I want haggis", and Little Tummy, because he had gone off to do his makeup and pull the most atrocious faces in front of a mirror. Unfortunately for him the mirror was a member of the Violence Against Faces Society, and it ran off to tell the chairman of the board. Its framework melted as it ran. The board was busy playing with its chairman, so the mirror had to wait. When the mirror explained the situation, the chairman was unamused.

Uberstlachen went off to pull faces in his own mirror, but the mirror would not co-operate; it kept on creating too much oil in its skin layer even though it was way past adolescence, past it by about a quart of a century.

"You're no fun," he said to the mirror, and went off to find some new friends. But new friends cost too much so he got second hand ones from his cousin who was a girl, so they were pink. The pink friends and Uberstlachen were sitting in a circle on the patchy lawn of Uberstlachen's back yard saying nothing.

"Nothing," said pink friend number one.

"Nothing," said pink friend number two.

"Nothing," said pink friend number three.

"Nothing," said pink friend number seventy-three. Pink friend number seventy-three was no great shakes when it came to orders of numbers.

"To be or not to be, that is the Nesquie," said pink friend number four. The other pink friends, from pink friend number one through to pink friend number five hundred and sixty-eight thousand four hundred and fifty three, all jumped on it for being so different and ripped it appendage from appendage. This was okay, however, because pink friend number four was actually a spare in case the toaster had offspring which were mongoloids. It was not needed because the owners had realized one day that toasters have rabies instead of offspring and should be avoided whenever possible.

"Excuse me," said Uberstlachen, excusing himself.

"Why, did you fart?" Asked pink friend number two thousand, eight hundred and eighty nine. All the pink friends cracked up, except for all pink friends in the three hundred and twenty five thousand to three hundred and twenty six thousand batch, which were built with the delusion that their birth mother died from an explosive fart laced with sextillions of bacteria.