A breath of fresh soil emanates from the window of my loony bin. Droplets left by a careless spray gather on the desk where my toes curl like the tendrils of an anemone stretched by an effervescent breeze. But like pirates on a sinking ship the inmates play a crass tune on their portable speaker. An ode, no doubt, to their lunacy. Some unsheathe their metaphorical cutlasses, others walk the metaphorical plank. I look out the window again to behold countless miles of a dark storm-riddled sea. I stand up, hold a. spyglass at arm’s length that I’ve just conjured up from thin air and exclaim “Heave ho, scallywags! Batten down the hatches! Ye pox faced, scurvy infested, parrot loving, Lilly livered sons of bitches!”
A map of Doofusland is in front of you and you wish to meet the king. Long live the king. You reach the palace in the heart of Doofus city, the capital. Long live the king. You climb atop those ornate marble staircases, bound across the aisle with the joy and verve of a devotee from strange faraway lands with your head lowered (he must never be looked at before being bowed to) and bow before the throne. “Long live the king!” you say as you raise your head to look at his face, your face, in a mirror.