After more than a year, due to unpopular demand (3 people to be exact), Turtle Buns has returned....
“Oh gosh!” Stanley
covered his ears, what would granny say about this foul- mouthed turtle? “Now,
Mr. Turtle Buns, I’m afraid I can’t invite you inside if you are going to use
swear words like that…”
Turtle Buns took another swig from the inhaler and scratched
his bun. “Jesus Christ… PUFF PUFF, can’t
you see I’m distressed here?!”
“Oh gosh,” Stanley scrambled towards the turtle while wiping
his nose, “I beg your pardon, Mr. Turtle Buns, what’s the matter, sir?”
Turtle Buns threw the inhaler dramatically (he had
exceptional strength for a cute, little turtle) and waved his stubby arms, “I’m
banished! Alone! Done for!” And he let
his body slide into the stinky, sticky depths of Stanley’s pond, all 2 inches
of it.
Stanley whipped a small, Lisa Frank notebook out of his belt
and perched himself on a rock near the pond. “Mr. Turtle Buns, I think you need to talk
about this; my therapist says it’s helpful to just let everything out.” Stanley was ready; his jellyroll pen was
poised above the paper.
Turtle Buns popped his head out of some duckweed, “well,
since you insist….
It all started back at
home, I mean where I’m from, MY planet.
It doesn’t have a name, because we never got around to naming it, but
it’s shaped like a nice, gooey cinnamon bun.
It’s beautiful, truly. It has
this little ring that circles it all made of flying cinnamon sugar, yum. It’s the best.
Anyway, so it was a
normal day at home. All the turtles were
just out laying in the big field recharging their Cinna-Fuel….
What? You don’t know
what Cinna-Fuel is? Did your granny drop
you on your ginger head? …. Fine.
Cinna-fuel is the goo in this swirl I have on
my shell right here. All normal turtles
have cinnamon buns for shells; that’s just how things are on normal planets
without ginger kids. Anyway, so your
Cinna-Fuel needs to get warm and fragrant before you can power your ass
rocket. Obviously the only way to give
it a good charge is to lie still for 4 hours and 52 minutes soaking up solar
power in the big field. I actually
invented solar power just last year.
Shut up pepperoni face, it’s my story and I can invent what
I want.
So as I was saying, we
were charging up in the big field as usual. Now, there are only three rules in
the big field. The first rule is There
Shall Be No Nibbling On Companions’ Shells.
The second rule is Thou Shall Not Shit Where Thou Charges. And the last one is Thou Shall Not Snore
Louder Than 80 Decibels Between The Hours of 1 and 7. They’re all pretty self-explanatory.
But that day, I had a grande
burrito for lunch.
I’m an upstanding citizen, I bake my shell and shine my
rocket, but that burrito wanted out. The
toilet’s right next-door to the field, just over the hedge.
I tried. I really tried. I ran with my big muscular legs, sweat dripping
down my angular and defined body, trying to get to the toilet. My thighs were quivering. I
could do it. I needed to do it. I only had a few more feet, but the burrito
was relentless. Just as my first legs
were climbing the hedge, it happened. It
was awful.
The burrito exploded
out of my rocket and sprayed itself all over the field. Burrito bits landing all over the beautiful
green grass and silhouetting themselves against the blue sky. It was shit, my
shit, all over the field. All the turtles opened their eyes and plugged their
noses. Even the birds stopped chirping. No seriously, they did.
And that was it: I was
exiled because I broke rule two with my number two. A burrito ruined my life.
TO BE CONTINUED
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