Great idea! Here's mine: He removed his scuba regulator, “What a perfectly fine day!” Fleetwood exclaimed, as he looked approvingly around in his undersea club house. Well, actually, from the outside, it was a shipping container, inside a swimming pool. He was already thinking of painting it purple and orange. “Maybe I'll compose a song in here, underwater...” After awhile, he got out, dried off, and then it was time to do some bushwhacking – suiting up, in a t-shirt, jams, and flip flops, he billy goats down the wild side of his property, cuts a cord of oak with the chainsaw, and films three deer, as they pose for him, in the trees. Then he talks to them, explains that Guru Dev is nearby, and they nod, making ear gestures in deer language to each other, indicating this one is a few cans short of a six-pack. Back up to the house, rummaging in the fridge for some lunch – Aha, some chili, mashed potatoes, with champagne and ice cream! That'll do...Then settling in for The Price Is Right, and possibly Family Feud, with Steve Harvey. Everybody wins. Later on, a refreshing one hundred laps in the pool, the last ten done walking ON the water. Then, after a quick shower he readies himself for one of his greatest feats, rappelling down the side of his single story house. Just then the side door opens, “Honey, what are you doing?!?! Anyway, your daughter is on the phone...don't break anything...”
---In FairfieldLife@yahoogroups.com, <awoelflebater@...> wrote : ---In FairfieldLife@yahoogroups.com, <fleetwood_macncheese@...> wrote : <shower running in the background> Barry, humming his fave Bruce Cockburn tune, steps out, notices the floor got all wet - "let the fukin' roomies mop it up..." "Hey good lookin'..." he says to the mirror, imagining him and Bruce, pals, just like him and Curtis...bros, in a rock n' roll world. He tousles his thinning hair, slaps some Stetson after-shave on his sagging jowls, pulls on his Jerry Garcia t-shirt (signed by the Dalai Lama), some jeans, and shuffles, a little hurriedly, towards that favorite bar of his, "Le Petite Chausser". Sure, no one ever says a word to him, but he's got 'em convinced of his popularity on the 'Net -- a sideways glance to no one, a secret chuckle at the screen, a little too loud, perhaps an escape of laughter, as the ever convivial waitress approaches, for Barry's inevitable third drink order, and inevitable over-tip. Reading a little too much into her social nature, Barry tried once, to explain the "cult addicted idiots" on his laptop. She smiled, but he heard her laughing quietly, as she walked away. bitch. Oh well, at least an hour or two out of his room - "...fukin' roomies - fukin' conformist Dutch - fukin' Maharishi - fukin Steve - fukin Judy - fukin Jimbo - fukin Robin, Share, jr, Richard, Jedi, Ann, Em, Rory, Bob Price, and all the rest of those losers...Ah, at last, Fairfieldlife has loaded, I hate those fukers..." As you might expect, I enjoyed this. I'm sure we could all write one about almost everyone here and even about ourselves. I'd like to see everyone write a parody of themselves - it would show what good sports we are. I'm going to start working on mine. -
