A couple of days ago I decided to sleep at my parent’s house again, mostly because I was in the mood for free things. It is there where I ran into a serious conundrum. My mother was preparing a delicious (free) meal and it was almost ready. I really didn’t feel like setting the table, so I immediately did a quick flop and dove behind my kitchen counter to dodge my mother’s laser eyes. But it was too late. Seconds later I heard her say, “Steven stand up and go get your brother from upstairs.” Not table duty, but it still required overall movement unfortunately.
People have claimed that they are lazy, but I don’t think they understand the extremity of my situation. I’ve once let my foot bleed out after a serious flesh wound I got during a wrestling fight I had with a middle-aged panda. There was a House marathon on T.V and he was in jail. Western medicine mixed in with the violence and questionable sexual orientation of prison hierarchy was too good to miss.
I’ve also let a two thousand dollar couch get stolen from my apartment’s hallway because I really didn’t want to figure out a way to shape shift it through my tricky hallway.
Anyways.
I proceded to go get my brother and on the way I had the best idea. The coffee I drank earlier instilled in me a feeling to cause a little mischief. My plan was to pull off a sneak attack. Because of my experience hunting muskrats in the Mojavian wetlands, I knew I had the necessary skill sets to accomplish Operation Sneaky.
My plan was simple: For my brother to get to the dining room from upstairs, he had to pass the pantry. I was going to call him down using a traditional war cry used in the old Ottoman empire to signify that the javelinas were ready to eat.
I walked over to the bottom of the stairs that lead up to his room and let out my war cry. Shortly after I heard my brother start to come down, so I scurried away and slid into the pantry to await my victim. The pantry was dark, with only the light from the hallway barely shining in. I could hear my brother’s footsteps as his shadow floated towards the pantry entry way. Although my preparedness was not an issue (I had an entire seven minutes of careful strategizing), my mental stability was in a dark place. I began having worried thoughts.
What kind of fucking noise do you make to scare someone?
There are so many choices! One could use the popular Pterodactyl Swooper and use a high-pitched screech, or one could use the classic Dying Bear growl. One could even try the Toucan Sam and caw caw wildly. As I sat in the pantry contemplating my scream tactics, my brother turned the corner and looked at me with a blank stare. “What are you doing?” he asked.
I didn’t respond and quietly walked away with my shoulders down in disappointment.
Should have done the Frog Leaper.
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