The Mfufin Man and I'm Not Fat

As the very first resident of the city of owls might say, "Swallow a drop of gravel and blacktop, 'cause the road tastes like wintergreen." In other words, good afternoon, my little chew toys! I want to fancy a crime, then do a little jig, but the Polish won't accept my invitations. Despite this minor setback, I intend to fully and completely eat this here catalog, in one sitting. You might want to fasten your waistbands for this one, folks.

Speaking of birds, I was watching COPS last night, and my mom said "Hologram! No one thinks very quickly anymore."

Anyway, every time I claim shotgun in our family car, the seat senses my weight and makes the put-on-your-seatbelt light flash. I take that as an offensive remark about my weight. I am not fat, thank you very much, and I would be more inclined to listen to you, Mr. Car, if you would refrain from insulting my bodily appearance so much. Know what? I'm not gonna put on my seatbelt until the day my car stops calling me fat. . . So basically, one day in the distant future, the car will be broken beyond repair. And I will be sitting in it. With my seatbelt on.

That's what winners do.

Oh my! My ear-related faculties have detected movement above my head. I must be in my parents' basement while my siblings hold some sort of log-throwing competition upstairs in the den! HOLD ON, GALILEO! I SHAN'T FORGET YOUR EXPLOITS!

...I was wrong...There were no siblings. Just footsteps. Very rude footsteps, too...Now I'm all depressed. What kind of person doesn't come home from school with a human-sized tree trunk? That's what I want to know. I also want to know the Muffin Man. Everyone keeps asking me and asking me and freaking asking me if I know him, and I'm too embarrassed to admit that I've never met this gentleman in my life! Why would I know this man, anyhoo?

And I'm fairly certain that this Muffin Man doesn't much appreciate people going around, giving his address to total strangers. I know I wouldn't. Last time that happened, my flying buttresses collapsed under the weight of thousands of screaming fangirls. I'm sure the Muffin Man doesn't get that sort of fanfare, but then again of course he wouldn't; he's not me. He's the Mfufin Man...Wait...I'm sorry. I erred in spelling. I made a typo. I clogged the subwoofing giggle-maker! Oh, this is a tragedy indeed...But then...perhaps it isn't.

I think I shall call him the Mfufin Man from now on.

I've decided. I shall go, and I shall meet this Mfufin Man. I don't know where Drury Lane is, but it can't be far. By the way, in case you were wondering what I've been doing all day, it's chasing the post office with a stick. I caught that building pretty fast. But now I need a new weapon. You wouldn't happen to have a mfufin, would you?

All politicians do is sit around all day and make people angry. I wish I could have that job. Nevermind, no I don't. I would rather not the entire population of America want to murder me in my slumber. But I would like to have a slumber party. With politicians. Can you just imagine the epic pillow fight between Newt Gingrich and Ron Paul? ...Ron Paul's still alive, right?

I'm delicious.