Barble's Bungle

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Theodore drew himself upwards, breathing in.

He took in the view with a satisfied air.

Things look so much different up here, he thought, it's so breathtaking!

This... this is where I'm meant to be, this is my haven from the world where I can reflect.

But it's so cold...

"Oi, dick 'ead, what you doin' on my car?"

Theodore looked slightly down, bewildered. He didn't want his achievement shattered by this angry shaven-haired 20-something-year-old man in a cheap sporting t-shirt and tattered, beltless jeans.

"Look prick, normally, with you just bein' a kid 'n'all, I'd just take you down from there and threaten to bend you over a week-old bath. Now, I'm seriously considering it. Piss off, will ya?" It was indeed the seventh time this incident had occurred, and only, in Theodore's opinion, because the man kept taking his glory away from him. He honestly and genuinely could not see why he was not praised and rewarded for his continual overcoming of obstacles in climbing whatever was in front of him.

Little Theodore Bungle had a dream. It wasn't a dream in the conventional sense, and there certainly wasn't going to be any of the fanfare or legendary speech that accompanies most dreams. He didn't know what that dream was, yet, being only 8 years old, but one thing he knew for certain was that it would involve climbing. 'Cos climbing's awesome. He had always been interested in climbing, even as an infant. In fact, he was born climbing. Rather than coming out the way most babies do, he actually climbed up through his mother's body and emerged from her mouth, in what doctors described as a "Miraculous, yet strangely disgusting incident."

"I already told you, are you gonna get off my car, or am I gonna have to call my attack dogs on you?" said Theodore's neighbor.

"Oh, do you have attack dogs?" asked Theodore eagerly, "Maybe I could climb one of them? I've never climbed anything alive before."

"Forget it. Just get off my damn car, I want to have sex in there later tonight and I don't want mud all over it. Yet."

Theodore sadly climbed down from the summit of the car. Alas, was he doomed to be misunderstood like this forever?

As he walked back towards his house, he scratched "car" off his "climbing list," which was a 400 page list he carried with him at all times. The list consisted of nothing but various objects, such as "mailbox" or "cabinet." Every time he successfully climbed an object, he crossed it off the list. He sulked as he wandered back to his house, where his mother was cooking dinner.

"Hi mom." said Theodore. "What's for dinner?"

"Oh, I see, you little TURD," she said, "Just because I'm a WOMAN you assume that I'm going to cook you DINNER?"

"No, I assumed you were going to cook me dinner because you were standing over the oven, cooking dinner, at the beginning of this scene."

"Don't refer to it as a scene, you'll ruin the plausibility of the story. But anyway, it just so happens that I'm not your slave. I'm cooking dinner for Waldo."

Theodore sighed. Waldo was his mother's goldfish. Waldo the goldfish always got preferential treatment. His mother would bake steak for Waldo, then give Theodore the leftovers after Waldo ate his fill. She'd read Waldo bedtime stories every night, leaving Theodore to read hiking brochures by himself. Waldo had his own bedroom, while Theodore was forced to sleep in the microwave (he was very flexible).

Luckily for Theodore, though, this didn't last very long. It just lasted often. Goldfish, with their notoriously short lifespan, completely flew by his mother. Every week or so she'd get a new goldfish (which she always called Waldo), which bided the time for Theodore to go out and do what he wanted.

A few days ago Waldo No. 37 had died suddenly of blood poisoning. This was because Theodore's mother took her Waldos with her wherever she went. It's suffice to say that he was actually poisoned by blood, as mother really was rather careless with regard to tampon disposal.

Anyway, yeah, a few days ago Waldo No. 37 had died suddenly, which hit his mother hard. The period of mourning that ensued was much longer than usual, which really helped Theodore. After a hard day's climbing trashcans and small animals he came across a Steak House. Theodore had never had an entire steak before, as one of mother's Waldos had always eaten 0.1% of it. He began to climb up the doorway before realising that it was open. He fell flat forward on his face, catching the attention of one of the waitresses behind the counter.

"Oh, you sure bungled that!" giggled the friendly waitress. Theodore looked offended and drew himself up.

"I'll have you know that's offensive and racist to me, my mother, father, Mike Patton and all the other Bungles! Not only should I kill you where you stand and sue you for discrimination, I also want to point out that that employee outfit REALLY doesn't go with your slightly overweight figure!" A long pause followed... a pause almost as pregnant as the waitress looked.

"...And could I have a steak please? Only, I don't have any money..."

"That's okay, dickface, we don't have any steak here anyway. It's just a very elaborate practical joke. People order steak and we're like "HA! NO STEAK!!!" It's great."

"That sounds kind of lame to me, actually."

"Yeah, well it's also lame to want to try to climb doors."

"...Fair enough. Do you have... anything to eat?"

"Nope. The restaurant's a fake. A very elaborate prank on pretty much everybody. It'll probably be demolished soon. All we have are tables and chairs."

"That's fine. I'll take one."


"A table. And a chair."

"All right then."

The kid... whatever his name was... I'm too lazy to scroll up and check... grabbed a chair, sprinkled it with a little salt, and began devouring it. After the months of virtual starvation he had endured under his mother, the chair seemed like a delicious feast.

After he had finished contradicting things the story has already said for what's probably already the one-hundred-and-sixteenth time, he stood up, satisfied. Not only was he antagonizing the picky, pedantic readership, but he'd happily eaten his fill.

"You know you probably just exceeded your reccommended daily amount of wood by about 2 million per cent, right?"

"Isn't that rich coming from you?" said Theodore. "I mean, you probably slightly exceed your reccommended daily allowance of pretty much everything. It's not good for you, you know. Africans are starving. Men want sex with good-looking women. Some women want sex with good-looking women. Oh, by the way, could I get some money for the bus home?"

The hippo seethed, but calmed herself down. That is, until she reads this. "Aren't you supposed to be doing your gay climbing or whatever it is? This scene's gone on for too long now!"

Theodore suddenly appeared outside a nightclub. What? It was easier.

SRSLI Stealn't
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