The Opening Passage of a Story I'll Never Write

The Opening Passage of a Story I'll Never Write

"It was a fine day in the life of Faddindale J. Warbuggle, perhaps the finest of his entire life. A fine day, that is, until he decided to celebrate his promise of matrimony to his betrothed, one true love, The Countess Esmerelda, with a naked romp in the pine forests behind his country estate.

To be sure, it was not the blows across the bridge of his nose from the boughs of the pines that brought chagrine to the tall but near-sighted young man, nor the nips on his heels and buttocks from the many fierce, ravenous and quite possibly rabid badgers that lived in the limestone hills that nestled the pine forests, nor even the poor choice of a pine cone to wipe poople from his arse that evening.

You see, that morning, Faddindale J. Warbuggle was the owner of the best and most accomplished pompadour in all the land. Was. For Faddindale's Pomp fell victim that fine spring day, to the malicious and unforgiving pine branches. Faddindale's fame, fortune and betrothal to the voluptuous Esmerelda were all doomed.

In the fortnight long battle between pompadour and pine tar, the latter was the victor. A clipper's shears brough to an end Faddindale's notoriety.

Now broken, alone, bald and drawing more than a little of the ire of Bubba, the Countess' father, Faddindale threw his ukelele and katana onto the back of his elephant and eternal friend, Jeremiah, and began his trek across the barren wasteland that is South Dakota, to begin his life anew in the fabled golden cities of a place men call Minnesota....