I’ve been watching a lot of Netflix lately while in recovery mode. Either nothing is truly funny or my sense of humor is WAY out there. This post will be about what my humorless existence has brought me to.
Armed with truth serum, Fiona Bemoana stepped out into the world and fell flat on her acetonic begonias. This would have been alright were they not positioned right beside a squawking gander wandering out of his normal realm to artistically contribute to the finesse of goo.
Fiona Bemoana felt the goose’s goose through every deliberate piece of clothing fashioned for just such an occasion, should such an occasion occur. This, of course, sent her into a tailspin (or would it be rump-spin, not to be confused with Rumplestiltskin), which only further endangered her acetonic begonias and their fleeting carnivorous colors.
Finally, with a great lift–aided much by a sound of a gaseous nature and the gander’s returning onslaught–Fiona Bemoana stood up and brushed herself off. Luckily, the truth serum remained intact, despite its tactless polyester blended carrying case of quilting scraps tacked together. She attacked the sidewalk with tactical maneuvers and soon was on her way toward the center of town where she was held up by a line of horse jockeys carrying tack across the intersection one piece at a time. Obviously new tactics were desperately needed. Two tried to tackle her when they learned of her precious cargo.
Fiona Bemoana, our heroine in distress, crossed the street in a bovine zone and soon outwitted even the cleverest of villians, CHAROLAIS DEVON, a well RED DANISH, who claimed he was HERE-FOR-D LIMOUSIN’s. (Cow talk for you non-boviners). Ah, but in the midst of crossing, Fiona encountered a passing troupe of circus cows playing the blues upon their LONGHORNS and SHORTHORNS, and that’s the long and short of it. With great DEXTER-ity, she managed to scramble out of the way in time, making sure to yell, “MOOOve over for others.” Her remark was not received well. It’s udder-ly impossible to describe its implications on the cow clowns who milked every comment they herd for what it was worth, despite cheesy implications. They did however chew her out with cudding.
Time–and space in my blog–was running out. Desperate to reach the absolutely, positively, most important person in town (and I mean, THE. ABSOLUTELY. POSITIVELY. MOST. IMPORTANT. PERSON. IN. TOWN.), Fiona Bemoana strapped up her big girl pants, they were dragging the ground but they fit over four outfits, and ran. Well, really it was more of a cantering sauntering sometimes somersaulting movement type of thing. We’ll call it a dance. Maybe she picked it up from “Dancing With the Stars.”
With fifty seconds–and fifty words–to spare, Fiona Bemoana arrived at her destination. She pulled out the truth serum and handed it to the people who desperately needed it: test audiences for sitcoms and movies of a comedic nature. All this so they could indeed speak the truth to the execs and producers and tell the world that the productions they had watched were indeed, “not funny.”