Esteemed fiction writer Jawn Steighmeaus returns this week with a chilling, metaphor-soaked account of the harsh realities of post-modern life. As the reader, you might be taken aback by some of the crude-seeming language Jawn employs. But are his words really what is crude or is it in fact you who is indeed crude? At The Kreation Korner, we believe the latter. Imbibe:
That was the day. The day my balls dropped. My soccer ball and football both. Dropped right into a deep, dark pit they did. My puck fell in too, but it's not a ball so much.
"What about the games, Charlie? The games?" Heathcliff asked, tears welling in his fluorescent space-orb eyes.
"There won't be no more games, old friend," I responded, holding back some optical moisture myself. "The days of hockey and champagne are over."
Life on the farm was never the same after that. Heathcliff got a job as a successful butler, and I got back my old position at the sweater plant. Everyday I trudge through the cable knit jungle knowing those balls are still out there festering under Father Time's gnarled thumb only to be discovered someday by an unsuspecting archeologist or possibly an oil prospector.