Chapter 11 – War Is Coming

The ground was seconds away and I braced for impact. Whatever happened next would not be pretty, of this I was sure of. Throwing my hands over my eyes I waited to hear the inevitable bone snapping sounds echoing throughout my body. Instead, I felt my feet hit the ground without pain, surprising me enough to cause me to tumble forward, and then completely down a grassy embankment. Fifteen minutes later I came to a halt flat on my back at the bottom of a dank grassy ravine. Somehow, someway, lady luck had reached out and saved me from certain demise. Or maybe it had everything to do with the window being on the first floor. Regardless, I was alive, filthy and in need of a plan.
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Chapter 10 – My Pussycat

The events following the death of Phil are somewhat a blur. I know that as soon as the voice spoke, there was a loud click and the blinding light disappeared. Of course I still couldn’t see anything because my field of vision was impaired by the massive helmet covering not only my face but half my body. Next, I heard the door open and a torrent of foot steps come flooding into the room. I felt random hands lift off my polar bear blanket, and I could feel other hands scoop up my limp frame and carry me off to God knows where. From there everything went black.
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Chapter 9 – The One Involving Phil

Seeing how this is the without question truthful account of my life, I cannot lie to you – nay, will not lie to you. The last thing I need are historians in the year 2540 forming a committee to determine which events are true and which are sprinkled with the fine seasoning called embellishment. It’s not fair to anyone involved. So it’s important to me to accurately portray my true thoughts and emotions upon being told that Ma Pritchett was dead and I was going to marry the hottest girl in the history of human creation.
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Chapter 8 – The Fine Art of Tonguing Down

Queen Briana was used to getting her way. From the moment her little nine year old feet slowly walked down the aisle to meet her husband, the now King Harold, her life had been a storybook. The world was there for her to use, to command, to obtain and right now what she wanted more than anything else was to meet the little boy talking with the delightful black woman on the screen. Queen Briana hollered for her royal assistant, Fred and told him to set up a meeting at once.
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The next post probably won’t be up till this weekend

But if you’re new here and want to see what the hype is all about scroll to the bottom and work your way up.

Someday I’ll figure out how to set up proper links…

till then enjoy my REAL life


Chapter 7 – Beatnik doesn’t mean “great lawyer” in French

My fifteen minutes of fame had begun. All three major channels used me as their lead story night after night. Walter Kronkite said my story affected him more than Vietnam. Tom Brokaw tried to form a bond with me based on our shared name. Since my last name is Starita, not Brokaw, I rejected his advances. Peter Jennings offered to fly me to Winnipeg, Canada in coach if I gave him an exclusive. USA Today ran a poll in their paper showing that 63% of Americans would use me as a grandfather clock, 38% as a bear skin rug and only 13% as an ashtray. Eleven years before the O.J. trial, and fifty something years since the Lindbergh baby trial, my life as an ottoman had captivated the nation.
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Chapter 6 – Dead Men Don’t Wink

Seven months…

For seven months I anxiously awaited the day I would hear “Eso Beso” blaring from the speakers of The Beatniks – Gloria and Solomon. The days would pass as they would dance their little Beatnik dances to such luminous tracks as “It’s Time To Cry” and “Summer’s Gone.” After two months had passed we had reached track 15 – “Love Me Warm And Tender” and I was confident “Eso Beso” would be just around the corner. This thought helped me get through the nights where I was the bearskin rug. Such dreams enabled me to block out the pain of being an ashtray. And most importantly, it helped to ease my tears when The Beatniks – Gloria and Solomon had found the dead body of Mr. Beard under the couch and casually put him out with the trash. I was a surreal version of Andy Dufresne, acting out my own personal “Shawshank Redemption.” Except I didn’t have a Red to get me a poster of Rita Hayworth. Instead I had Dusty, the dust ball in the corner of the room, and the only thing he ever gave me was a mild form of asthma.
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