I had 22:41 minutes left. The Remote Slots were rampaging due to an unknown phenomenon. This traumatic phenomenon had profoundly altered the sofa-buddies’ fundamental sense of purpose, shaping their responses to all real-world situations. (Someone really should ask them where this so-called phenomenon came from, it’s likely gonna be Italy but…)
I was on, like, a wild wild loop mood-wise, so I thought I’d make some inquiries before I crashed again. Leaning-in, I asked one the biggest, hairiest couch caddies if they had a creed they might teach me about this mysterious phenomenon and their current states of mind. I thought – yes it’s okay to ask LOL, but, guys what-is-this-thing-about me did the whole tone of our convo turn! Really cleared some things up.
🤹🏽♂️ 🤡 🪱 🍋 🤹🏽♂️ 🤡 🪱 🍋 🤹🏽♂️ 🤡 🪱 🍋 🤹🏽♂️ 🤡 🪱 🍋
The elder Slot (detachable, non-slip, vinyl, six pockets for snacks, glasses, smartphone, ipads, snacks, book) just stared right at me and flamed, laughing: “You mad mother******? Teach is juggler and japer, leetch and lemon. TV Stand doesn’t suck. Be thankful you are not my student. You would not get a high grade.”
This sage remote control holster continued to lambast “pedagogues” for bypassing experience in favour of what they called “W/C pdfs”, unsubstantiated book-learning: “Mutha*****, can’t you see? Prechen pride is their poverty.” The armrest organiser pocket alluded to the pedagogy of the pedagogues as intimately as if it were known universally and I were its author. Speculation, fear and confusion dominated the polarising monologue that followed. Somewhat disconnected from the rest of the play, this mainly consisted of a ‘philosophical’ debate between the auld couch storage solution and a devil-figure called ‘Nightstand’ wherein our heroic anti-spill device was forever victorious. (To this day, I still suspect that whatever message was being communicated here might be related to that weird dinosaur commercial.)
After scaling these perilous scholarly heights, the Remote Slots paused to collectively ejaculate more steam on foul, despised, gelatinous teachers, dissing the Nightstand in a haunting precursor to the story which would eventually unfold. (Hold on, there’s a recording around here somewhere, ah, here it is):
Nightstand’s Predicament
Night-nite, stand
Bye-bye
IDK, smlz like BS
P an all us P-D-F after we lerned
We knew you$ wasno pdf
Upset with our bes
Bes P-D-F
pdf you$ a**hole
Saw you$ dirty a**
Nota lota chamber pot
3 in ten hundred year
De-vide, that’s one every…
The Slots sure had changed since I last met them, and not for the better.
12:11 minutes left. The major beef really started when a wandering Toilet Book overheard the Remote Slots’ hangry rendition of Nightstand’s Predicament. Word travelled quickly via your dad on Twitch. Toilet Books interpreted such subversive, anti-bedside sentiments as an attack on the significantly lower XP of their table, Nightstand. This prompted a particularly memorable quote by Toilet Books:
[quote redacted for spiritual purposes]
Pretending to flee, Toilet Books paused to observe Remote Slots’ super-effective punch ’n’ pennace patterns before committing any drastic moves. They noted that, when the Remote Slots chanted “P-D-F OMG shut the hell up”, they were charging for a lunge attack. After P-D-F-ing, the Slots would run towards Toilet Books and threaten quite epic harm against their rival table supplicants. At that precise moment, Toilet Books would begin their counter-offensive, unleashing numerous allegations of TV Tray gettin ‘gravy-stained’ by Nightstand’s chamber pots. (Toilet Books specialise in faecal magic crafted to exploit the Remote Slots’ coprophobia.) Squealing, crying, and screaming up the joint, the hyper-vigilant Slots completely stopped defecating, a gut reaction that would, ultimately, prove fatal.
The question remains not why. But where?
Up Next: No Newer Posts of the Toilet Books of the Nightstand
