In the beginning, I was a fish. As you can tell, I have had a very b ad day. In retrospect, I knew that this was an occupational hazard.
What sort of occupation includes being a fish in its list of hazards? Why, you must understand dear, I am an author, a purveyor in children's fiction. In fact, it was in that pursuit that our story begins.
Once upon a time (you must pardon me. I do write children's fiction), I was a young charismatic child, bubbly, vivacious and full of energy. Thank God I got out of that habit. It was absolutely hideous. This of course is all after I was a fish. That was the beginning of course. But I can't start at the beginning.
Instead, let me start sometime next week, about three days from now. I'll swing past my publisher's office and show him my latest project. I happen to illustrate as well as write, so I'm going to be toting a large brown portfolio. Of course, as I step out of the elevator, the new intern, a rather scuzzy looking girl with a nose ring and who, from the lumps beneath her shirt, has nipple rings too, will slam into me, dousing herself with coffee, and causing me to drop the portfolio, and receive a rather nasty scald on my left arm.
I'm annoyed already, and that hasn't even happened yet. Well, it has, but you'd have to talk to Yogi about that one. In fact, I've got Yogi in the studio with me, so why don't we throw him on the air?
Meanwhile, in a recording studio that was hastily erected in the heart of Kansas, the new rock and roll sensation "Prepubescent Lust bottles" congratulated themselves on finishing their second album in their own private studio, built from the ground up in Mr. Jackson's corn field. Not more than a small shack really, but Mr. Jackson didn't know it was there. And as far as Jay "Fartboi" Gherkins cared, sticking it to that old curmudgeon was the best part of the whole thing.
Shortly after I ceased to be a fish (since that was the beginning) Mr. Jackson took a long dump in a paper bag. A short time later that bag had mysteriously caught fire upon the porch of one John Gherkins. This began a great deal of animosity, that and John Gherkins having a brief interlude with Ms. Lacy Connors, soon to be Mrs. Lacy Jackson.
That however has nothing to do with my bad day.
It was about at this point that the Yogi said, "Heeey Boo-boo! Look not upon your goal, lest you trip upon your own feet on the path to the horizon. Do not watch your step as you walk towards your goal, lest you miss it. In other words, you are screwed no matter what you do!"
Jay "Fartboi" Gherkins heard this broadcast while dying of a drug overdose. The broadcast caused his heart to overload when he angrily realized that the Yogi had plagiarized this from his hit song "Wombat Love (Rabid Remix).
But that is on Jay's thirty first birthday, and the really important stuff happens when Jay is only a wee lad.
Anyway, so it came to pass that I was a piranha, with a rather pretty powder blue bow. Very lovely color, making one dream of skies filled with cotton candy clouds.
I was six when I first had cotton candy. It was the town fair, and I had just won a goldfish at the water gun squirting booth. It was bright shiny and gold, and someone, somehow, had managed to tie a lovely powder blue bow about it, and had pierced the dorsal fin with an earring. It was all rather glorious, and I had fifty cents on me, so to celebrate, I chose to do something a little different.
So I bought my first batch of cotton candy, and wolfed it down. Finding it delicious, I decided I wanted more. I found some of my peers and tried to scrounge up some more money. They offered me five dollars if I would eat my fish. I was rather attached to Bluebeard, as I named the fish, but that was ten cotton candies. So I did.