By Kevin J. Curtis
Fuctor Ramirez Arguayo Johnson was a happy man with no maladjustments—except for his insane, irrational fear of butterflies. The fear developed when Fuctor was a mere child; after his cousin Hector was killed by a rabid butterfly on the fourth of July. It was a gruesome scene. There were ninety-seven butterfly fang marks in Hector’s body when they found him.
Married to his sister’s cousin at the age of seventeen, Fuctor became a father by the time he was sixteen years old. After people had been telling him that he should become a doctor for the last twenty years, at the age of nineteen, Fuctor ran away with the circus to become a chicken tamer.
That was when disaster struck. Fuctor fell into the company of renowned, master chicken wranglers, Kent, David and Tommy. The three were known for their bravery around farm animals; and they abhorred the use of firearms. Egged on by the trio before he was ready to perform, Fuctor was badly gored by a wild chicken before his first circus performance. The dangerous chicken was shot to death with a fifty caliber Browning machine gun. It only took four hundred and sixty-eight rounds to kill it. Feeling dejected, Fuctor returned home with only his chicken scars for his efforts.
To facilitate rehabilitation, Fuctor began an exercise program that included lifting heavy soup cans over his head for sixteen hours each day. This eventually led him to believe, that perhaps he could become a supermarket stock boy. After applying at the local Hooligan’s Supermarket, Fuctor soon showed that he was the best supermarket stocker on the planet—and he actually won several interplanetary contests for stocking shelves. But alas, soon he developed Car-pool tunnel syndrome—not from working with his hands, but from driving in too many carpools in order to get to work on time.
As luck would have it, Fuctor and his wife decided to invest their entire lifesavings into a rat factory. There they produced and sold rats for consumption to third-world countries. Soon, under the label of Rat Bastard Enterprises, Fuctor, his wife and their sixteen children, became wealthy hundredaires. Then they all lived happily ever after.
Fuctor Ramirez Arguayo Johnson was a happy man with no maladjustments—except for his insane, irrational fear of butterflies. The fear developed when Fuctor was a mere child; after his cousin Hector was killed by a rabid butterfly on the fourth of July. It was a gruesome scene. There were ninety-seven butterfly fang marks in Hector’s body when they found him.
Married to his sister’s cousin at the age of seventeen, Fuctor became a father by the time he was sixteen years old. After people had been telling him that he should become a doctor for the last twenty years, at the age of nineteen, Fuctor ran away with the circus to become a chicken tamer.
That was when disaster struck. Fuctor fell into the company of renowned, master chicken wranglers, Kent, David and Tommy. The three were known for their bravery around farm animals; and they abhorred the use of firearms. Egged on by the trio before he was ready to perform, Fuctor was badly gored by a wild chicken before his first circus performance. The dangerous chicken was shot to death with a fifty caliber Browning machine gun. It only took four hundred and sixty-eight rounds to kill it. Feeling dejected, Fuctor returned home with only his chicken scars for his efforts.
To facilitate rehabilitation, Fuctor began an exercise program that included lifting heavy soup cans over his head for sixteen hours each day. This eventually led him to believe, that perhaps he could become a supermarket stock boy. After applying at the local Hooligan’s Supermarket, Fuctor soon showed that he was the best supermarket stocker on the planet—and he actually won several interplanetary contests for stocking shelves. But alas, soon he developed Car-pool tunnel syndrome—not from working with his hands, but from driving in too many carpools in order to get to work on time.
As luck would have it, Fuctor and his wife decided to invest their entire lifesavings into a rat factory. There they produced and sold rats for consumption to third-world countries. Soon, under the label of Rat Bastard Enterprises, Fuctor, his wife and their sixteen children, became wealthy hundredaires. Then they all lived happily ever after.
Comments
That is awesome.
I am still a pennyaire.
I am working on a nickelaire but I don't want to get carried away.