MYTHOLISIZING GTOOTA

Once upon a time in a mobile nation called the North Pole there lived a Gtoota. The Gtoota was highly regarded and honored throughout the many lands that sometimes fell under the North Pole's jurisdiction because of her uncanny natural (and cultivated) soldering abilities. This marvelous talent had a miraculous and McGyver-esque tendency to extricate her from the most ridiculous, dauntingly dangerous, dangerously daunting, draconian, dithrambic, dopey, dithering, didactic, dropsical, drizzling and dowdy of situations.

It was in just such dire circumstances that the great Gtoota found herself on the night of the 72nd of Plouchiary in the year 500 billion in the nation of the North Pole. This evening's story finds our heroine finding herself availed of the necessity to impart oranges to a vicious troupe of rowdy orangutan football players.

It was on the rickety pirate sloop, Malvicta, the infamous scallion galleon of the Bering Strait, in the midst of a howling torrential arctic hurricane, surrounded by ruthless enemy capitalistic-fascist, gerbil-driven paddle boat, high-explosive, male-to-female, helicopter-canopied inflatable flying teapots. Furthermore (belch), she was hungry. For snacks. The fiendish gerbils had consumed every last morsel of her personal supply of Triskets, reprehensible boobs that they were.

She sighed melancholily, thinking of the lost Triskets; of their succulent, water-retention-inducing, oh-so-salty exterior; of their mildly fascinating ribbed texture; of their tantalizingly uniform, nearly squarish shape - which reminded her of those bygone innocent, nostalgic, tear-inducing, memories, of which she had forgotten, which were of genuine balsa wood models of unrealistically shaped alien space vessels.

Oh woe to the citizens of the North Pole, who were not to be visited by aliens in normal-shaped craft, but instead were subjected to the worse kind of degradating inferiorly made (and furthermore, insultingly colored - hot pink) excuses for visitors from other planets. The Triskets, however, remained undaunted. For they had great, unfathomable (possibly not entirely justified) faith in the super special spiffy stinky stygian abilities of their much more conservatively colored (black) decoder rings.

Gtoota sounded her rhinestone-studded, xmas light-covered flugelhorn, signifying her intentions to impart victory upon herself. She could do this because she had recently resoldered the power cord to the lights on her extravagantly magical, boondoggelingly sparkely, tinsel-ridden, mosquito-repelling, somethingly-something flugelhorn.

In response a thin wail of cheers arose from a soggy nearby cardboard box with the words "FRESH APRICOTS" emblazoned on its side. She knew this could only mean one thing: five rabbis from Cleveland, each dressed in an easter bonnet, matching garter belt, and a Kiss-style platform shoe/aquarium ensemble, were about to leave the room.

"Bye," she said.

Turning to her trusty umbrella, she commanded grandly (belch): "Henceforth, go forth!" All were so stunned as to be rendered unconscious and drooling, whereupon she gathered up the much fantasized about Triskets and debarked.

The mystery of the orangutan football players and oranges remains unsolved, taunting countless open-polar-sea-believing-in explorers to their certain deaths. To this day. (the end)

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