The shirt was
justice was being served.
The butler brought it forth on a silver platter, steaming with delicious aroma.
But to their dismay, it wasn't Justice..
It was a stick of dynamite
-shaped five bean burrito.
With extra sauce.
"Remember, it's always okay to ask for extra sauce." said
the CEO of a fortune 500 sauce-making company, who came prepared with seventeen totally non-biased studies he commisioned showing that extra-sauce is not only okay, but also cures
Moroccan Sims 3.
"In addition, it makes for a splendid floor wax!" bubbled the CEO's wife, who, coincidentally, was
waxing the floor with the regular sauce, rather than the extra sauce.
ZOG
had lost his eye again.
"That's the third time this happens!" ZOG cried bitterly.
The CEO's wife was a CEO of a multinational floor wax corporation.
And ZOG, short for Zogfry Westleburger Frumpypants, was their pet dog, who could talk and still had thirteen eyes to spare.
Like everyone else, ZOG wore a fairly nice shirt.
Courtesy of a multinational nice shirt corporation.
Zrogfy Wrestlebugger Fumpyprants pranced about excitedly, sniffing
cocaine
that was of poor quality and laced with deadly toxins.
ZOG sickened, and eventually perished, leaving behind a legacy of blood and darkness. On his death bed, Zrogfy, or as I like to call it, Zoggy, expressed the following
Roses are red
ZOG is dead
don't trouble your head
And remember the words that Clonepa said:
Agga agga agga agga
Oggy oggy oggy oggy,
Oi oi oi!
Ting tang walla walla bing bang,
And with that recitation completed, Zorgfy Wrasslebugg Fumpyprantser lay down his shaggy head and
died.
A funeral was prepared for him, which was a fairly nice funeral, as such things go.
Anata no kimochi
-- said no one important.
the old woman cried for Zorgfy
"Ha ha ha ha what a crybaby!" said someone in the Teacher's Lounge.
Herodotus a shit!
said an ill-looking hobo who had managed to sneak in.
It was stolen, of course.
Out of the blue, the coffin open. It had nothing in it but a single, well-pressed shirt.
Everyone gasped, as it wasn't just a fairly nice shirt. It was a particularly nice shirt.
Before anyone could properly admire the seafoam shirt, the hobo lunged forward and
uttered some more derogatory phrases about Herodotus in broken English.
"hob"
"BUZZUTH", uttered the Captcha Fairy with some annoyance.
Everyone hated the Captcha Fairy.
Especially the Captcha Fairy's horrible taste in shirts.
The hobo continued to mutter about Herodotus while trying to eat the Captcha Fairy.
a pair of exquisite Italian steel-toed boots.
Unfortunately for the fairy, being armed with boots is not exactly the smartest idea. The hobo began to gnaw on the fairy's bare feet as the heavy boots left the fairy's arms immobile.
With no other choice, the fairy dropped the exquisite Italian steel-toed boots
onto his toes. The irony of this was not lost on the hobo, who, upon seeing the boots hit the toes, commented
that "it takes one to toe one"
At which point someone smacked the hobo for making such an unbearably horrible pun.
That someone was J. Arnold Shirt, the inventor of shirts.
Joanna Shirt's eyes filled with tears as she hit the hobo
because she lives with the constant pain of the knowledge that not all shirts are particularly nice.
The universe promptly exploded in a completely unique way to how it did so in DQN Short novel.
The recoiled from J. Arnold's hit making a sound akin to crepes being overcooked.
"Fortunately, the crepes aren't overcooked," said J. Arnold. "Because this is a nice story. Well, fairly nice."
Everybody got to eat crepes that day.
Well, almost everybody. Creeps did not eat crepes. Because this is a nice story.
Instead, creeps got butchered in games like League of Legends and Dota. Leading to the influential Creeps Rights Movement.
But it was fairly nice shit, as shit goes.
"Is shit still shit if it is fairly nice?" asked
Hans Shitzengruber, the town's only
shirtless German.
At that point Sun Tzu began work on his masterwork "[Mediocre] Pretty average Shirt [Okay I Guess]"
Hans resurrected the Shirt Novel with his shirtless powers.
It was a fairly nice resurrection
but not the nicest I've seen.
The nicest resurrection happened when Randy McNally came back from
the scrotium dioxide mines.
He ran out of the mine entrance screaming excitedly and covered with nut salt, waving an ancient amulet around. He was wearing a fairly nice print shirt with a map of Sheboygan Wisconsin on it.
Randy had supposedly died 10 months prior, due to "fart problems".
However, records that far back are questionable at best, due to the universe's inherent instability at the time.
Legend has it that the Universe's instability was caused, in part, by Randy's fart problems.
"Does pumpernickel mean farting goblin?" wondered
Randy's shirt.
As Randy's shirt pondered the implications of such quandaries, it realized that it was a shirt, a fairly nice shirt, but a shirt nonetheless. Thus began Randy's Shirt's existential crisis. He sought answers, calling out,"
I need answers". He hadn't a way with words, but instead Randy's shirt presented quality craftmanship, with resistant fabric yet delicate to the touch, and sober finishes on its sleeves. As far as nice shirts go, Randy's was clearly among
Meanwhile, the pumpernickel sandwich was
Jolly Bean
I had a nice shirt, instead of this off-the-rack lime green number", he uttered,
while wishing that he had a nice shirt, instead of the
off-the-rack lime green number he currently wore.
What a poor bastard, that Jolly. Anyway, Randy's shit