A Damn Good Case Of The Brownie Bonkers

Pleakley Pow Pow,
Times Staff

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My best good lad Brat Kock (indeed her legitimate birth name) and I were sitting on our tooshes and sifting through the tantalizing continuum of possible nightly adventures. With zealous force was I struck with the memory of a once glorious brownie, bestowed upon me at the pinnacle of its prime and which I subjected to the dusty recesses of a cupboard almost immediately. Alas, the duration of time between my receiving of said brownie and my remembrance of it was indeed great. Let’s just say this here baked good took some advice from the finest of wines and augmented its strength with age.

After the quickest of rendezvousing gazes, myself and dear Kock knew with insurmountable surety the immediate course of action to be taken and the precise catalyst to our nocturnal escapades.

This brownie’s majesty came not intrinsically but from careful concoction. You can probably guess what lay dormant, potent, and patient within it. The essential component bears phonetic resemblance to one of my most beloved and frequently employed commands: “Can it bitch!” If you’re still flummoxed as to the integral ingredient, just settle on the assertion it was probably a derivative of hobgoblin piss.

Well then ya see, trusty Kock and I proceeded to exhume said brick, I mean brownie, from its stony, abandoned limbo, chucked it clean into the nearest microwave, and downed it as if Miss Antoinette had given us the iconic directive herself.

Before I knew it, miniature zebras were traversing the window sills. The tips of my toes were at once growing puffs of Craspedia and fine tufts of something akin to mouse hair. The couch I’ve been sitting on could’ve been turning into gelatin and either I’d weed myself and those hydrated droplets were disrespecting gravity and traversing upwards over my skin or I was upside down with a garden gnome kindly watering me.

What the ass.

With a turn of the neck that felt as though decades had eroded before I achieved 47 degrees let alone a solid 180, it appeared as though Kock had entered a similar realm of fuckery.

I’d really love to receive suggestions on ideas for the next twilight trip.

For more articles by Pleakley Pow Pow, click here. To get in touch with this writer, email powpow@surrealtimes.net.

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