Here’s the story of how I died and came back to life.
So basically, I was walking down to my favorite churro stand to get myself some gosh dang churros when I noticed some ne’er-do-wells barreling down the street pursued by the men and women of the law. Well, I had some churros to get to, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t step in and stop the hoodlums. So that’s what I did, I stepped in front of the hoodlums mode of transportation. If you think that that’s what killed me, you have a lot to learn. I stopped the vehicle by expertly drop-kicking it in the grille, the vehicle cut into two neat halves down the middle. The criminals stepped out confused and were quickly apprehended by police. I went on my way to get some gosh-dang churros. I acquired my churros but, sadly, a grand piano fell on my head.
I woke up in pure darkness and tried to determine where I was. I concluded that I was dead and arrived in the afterlife. “Nu-uh” Said I, this man had some churros to eat, I sprung into action and sprinted towards the exit. My sixth sense is always making a quick exit when in situations that I don’t feel comfortable with. And let me tell you, I was not comfortable with my churro lying on the ground for some hobo to come and eat. But alas, freaking robots showed up. Yeah. There are robots in purgatory. My seventh sense is knowing exactly where robots are in the universe at all times. I dispatched of the robots using solely head-butts. Robots make my hands dirty. I arrived at the exit, I was back in the land of the living but two months had passed. I quickly realised that I must have been blinded by robot killing rage for two whole months. My seventh sense told me there were no more robots in existence, and before my death there were some odd three quintillion robots in the universe. You’re welcome.
I remembered my churro, how I longed to eat my churro. I bolted up and searched for my churro. I was somehow still in the same spot I was two months ago. And my churro was stolen. Who the freak steals a churro from a dead body? That’s just cold.
My eighth sense began working. My eighth sense being the ability to know where my churros have gone. Mostly the toilet. I felt my churro in the hands of another man, two months and the scumlord hadn’t even eaten it. Such a waste. My churro had somehow ended up all the way in Florida. I hijacked the nearest car and sped off to my beloved Mexican fried-dough pastry. On my way down to Miami, I met a man in a chicken suit, an insane woman who thought she was a tennis all-star and a dog that could bark the Star Spangled Banner. But they’re unimportant and serve no relevance to my tale. My rag-tag group of misfits had finally arrived in the desired city. They wanted to do stupid stuff like take of their chicken suit and play tennis and bark. But I am not so weak willed. I abandoned my newly made friends on the side of the road near some very nice men wearing matching colours on the side of the road who clearly did not know how to properly wield a firearm who claimed they would escort my friends to their desired activities. I threw some money at them and drove to the Neanderthal who still hadn’t eaten my freaking churro.
I finally found him, he had his back turned to me, I could see he was a properly dressed tall man with beautiful hair, I could still see the churro in his hand. I was about to confront him when he turned around, that’s when I saw. He had good beard. I was torn, here was a man that took my churro and didn’t even have the decency to maybe call the police to report a dead body gripping a churro. But here was also a man with good beard.
I weighed my options.
1. I could buy another churro in Miami. But that churro wasn’t any regular churro. It was a Crazy Dan Special. The churro was filled with bacon and drizzled with chocolate and also tasted good dipped in gravy. I came all the way down to Miami from Crazy Dan’s Churro Stand in Winnipeg to eat this churro. No churro stand in Florida contains such a delicious treat as this.
2. I could reason with him. Men with beards are usually very reasonable… or they’re lumberjacks and would sooner chop your head off with their wood axes than participate in a conversation about churros. I should know, my father is a lumberjack and any time I try to talk about churros he tries to kill me.
3. I could punch out the man and take back the churro. But he had good beard, so that’s a no go. You never hit a man with good beard. Never. Ever.
4. I could shave his beard and then punch him in the face. That wouldn’t work. How am I supposed to shave him? Ask him nicely? Do it by force? If I’m going to get close enough to shave him I may as well grab the churro.
I decided to pull off the dumbest move in my career as a… guy that does… stuff. I walked away. It was not an easy decision, believe you me. I was leaving the greatest fried-dough pastry in the known universe (ninth sense, knowing which churro is the best) behind in the hands of some barbarian king. I began walking down the street in the opposite direction, I turned back and saw the man taking a bite of the churro, a single tear rolled down my cheek. Nothing could have wounded me more, physical nor emotional than seeing my churro being grinded up by another man’s molars. I put my head down and continued my walk of shame. Before turning the corner I looked back. The man was writhing in pain and vomiting. I quickly walked away and whistled like I had nothing to do with it.
It wouldn’t take a genius to figure out why the man became a human fire hydrant. He ate a two month old churro that he had no doubt carried with him everywhere. After two months a churro goes bad, after two months of not leaving a sweaty palm and being covered in filth and rot a churro goes putrid.
I read his obituary in the paper today. His name was Paul Hanson, he was thirty two years old. Paul had a wife and two kids. Three and eight. I felt a twinge of remorse that I didn’t knock that stupid churro out of his hands that day. But it was no longer my problem. I had escaped death and I had more Crazy Dan Specials to eat.
And what of the man, woman and dog? I’ve heard tales that they became extremely successful bank robbers. Makes sense, who would suspect a six foot tall chicken, tennis pro and dog that can perform a perfect rendition of the American national anthem?