PTERODACTYL IN MY BACK YARD
I think that I have a pterodactyl living in my back yard.
I didn't think this was possible what with pterodactyls being all prehistoric and stuff, but then Christy told me that she's got one in her neighborhood, way over there on the west side of town. She knows this because she find the evidence of him all over her car each morning!
That would explain the reason I find bird-like excrement all over my truck, my front door, my patio ... the list is endless, but folks, it's usually the size of a mutant bear paw!
That would also explain why, every Sunday morning, sometime around 5 and 7 a.m., I hear a half-human, half-crazed animal sound that falls somewhere in between sheer terror and maniacal pleasure and that the pierces the early morning air, and my otherwise sound beauty sleep.
It's either a pterodactyl, or some crazed lunatic escapee from an unsavory assylum that only urban legends are made of. Perhaps, because it's Sunday, he's come out from under his over-grown hide-away and is suddenly filled with the spirit and has no other recourse but to shout at the top of his lungs!
That or he's been spending an exorbitant amount of time down the road at the Jim Beam plant, licking up the left-overs from the sour mash vats.
I didn't think this was possible what with pterodactyls being all prehistoric and stuff, but then Christy told me that she's got one in her neighborhood, way over there on the west side of town. She knows this because she find the evidence of him all over her car each morning!
That would explain the reason I find bird-like excrement all over my truck, my front door, my patio ... the list is endless, but folks, it's usually the size of a mutant bear paw!
That would also explain why, every Sunday morning, sometime around 5 and 7 a.m., I hear a half-human, half-crazed animal sound that falls somewhere in between sheer terror and maniacal pleasure and that the pierces the early morning air, and my otherwise sound beauty sleep.
It's either a pterodactyl, or some crazed lunatic escapee from an unsavory assylum that only urban legends are made of. Perhaps, because it's Sunday, he's come out from under his over-grown hide-away and is suddenly filled with the spirit and has no other recourse but to shout at the top of his lungs!
That or he's been spending an exorbitant amount of time down the road at the Jim Beam plant, licking up the left-overs from the sour mash vats.
Comments
regarding your comment (surely i'm breaking some sort of blog etiquette rules to comment between blog media like this): PLEASE hang out with daniel and me!! i'll come up with something more specific than that and get back to you :)