Jeremiah Foxtrot Welelishly was a bedazzling chap. He lived in a small mauve house with a stray fish and a bellicose miniature Great Dane. His age was unknown. Most guessed he was somewhere between thirty-seven and eighty- wildly ranging and highly dubious guesses, but on the whole likely accurate. He was whisper thin and obnoxiously agile. He was certainly a man of physical fitness. He was a cycling enthusiast and a pioneering figure in the anti-motorized vehicle movement. Every morning he would rise at five thirty-three in the a.m. and drink a warm twelve- ounce glass of expensive vodka and generic prune juice. After drinking his elixir he would scrutinize a British newspaper- most often the Guardian- and finger through a fashion magazine, searching for androgynous models and oatmeal cookie ads. Typically this glorious exercise would devour forty-two minutes. At exactapproximately six twenty-eight he would shuffle his lose fitting bones to the room of bathing and other garmentless activities. Upon arrival he would simultaneously bend both of his wiry legs, placing his exposed ass cheeks on his hand carved balsa wood toilet seat, and brazenly let loose his intestinal breadbasket. While performing this loathsome and putrid assault on the calm and pristine waters below, he would everlastingly whistle a stunning rendition of either Pachelbel’s Canon or an Old Dirty Bastard favorite such as ‘Proteck Ya Neck II the Zoo’. When the deed was done he would quickly rise from his compromising position and replace his emu skin trousers which would be lying in a heap around his emaciated and jagged ankles. Jeremiah or Finklemeekwinsterhoven, as his school chums used to call him, would then eat a head of iceberg lettuce like he were eating an apple. By seven twelve a.m. he would be on his Guru Tantrik road bike with attached wicker basket, riding to work. He rode six thousand six hundred and six meters to toil as a corn-dog-on-a-stick salesman at the boardwalk. He had taken the then part time job on the eleventy-twelth of junvember in two thousand and sixteen when he was a blooming youth beginning his first year of clown school. Now he was an aging Homo Sapien Sapien who had dropped out of clown school within a year and then foolishly squandered ten years earning a PhD. in Philosophy.
Finklemeekwinsterhoven was a hair more cerebrally adroit then almost every human on the pale blue dot. Unfortunately he also suffered from bouts of madness. He was beset with the peculiar suspicion that he was being instructed by menacing extra terrestrial interlopers to shave the hair off of every lemur dwelling in Madagascar. As he was unwilling to travel by motorized vehicle, and as he lived hundreds of kilometers inland he was consumed with distress and fear. He was convinced that his failure to barber even one lemur was certain to lead to retribution from his conjured visitors. He had lived with this conviction for so many years that his anxiety and loathing finally reached an emotional crescendo on a warmly freezing day in the month of Janugust. When, in a spectacular hour, he painted a stick impaled corn-dog to resemble a lemurs ringed tail, and glued it to his lower back. He then shaved himself entirely, appropriated a hot air balloon, and set sail for an island nation on the eastern side of Africa.
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