Chapter Two: Tragically Holing my Life Away in LeSapinRencontre, Floodum.
I woke gently to Ping playing Bach's prelude in C on his cello. My favourite penguin is inclined that way and practices lots. Though it can get annoying (he has long learnt that practice is confined only to when I am IN the SlumpDream), sometimes he just comes out with the most elegant noises from that mechanism; this morning was one of those blessed times, which are rarer than I'd like them to be. But hey! I should take up an instrument myself and properly practice it, before I start critiquing my favourite penguin's cello abilities.
Ping made me the nicest cup of tea as well. I believe all this pampering was because of the night before: I partied hard that night, having had a Lady-Gaga fuelled dark chocolate romp; and got so drunk on the stuff that I happily crooned along to Here Comes the Bum, a genius song (not) by the Beatles. I thanked my angelic dream giver; we hugged, and I put on my hat and coat. But nothing could prepare me for the reversed world which I had stepped into.
Gorganzola was a cheese guy. I like cheese, but he only liked it for killing all the trees in his general vicinity. He would do this by plastering it up to their sap-holes, and getting the cheese to suck it all up; for it is not the nicest of creatures, this cheese of his. Halloumi can't say, "Hello, me!" to itself in the mirror, right? Wrong! For Gorganzola Mc Gargoyle had nurtured it to the point of precision, for it to say every time it passed one: "Hello me, let's kill a tree! Cheese guy sent us on a murder spree!" However, the trees fought back. Now, sip your hot chocolates and recline even further back in your weighted blankets, because this is about to get brutal.
The Ferntastic Mr Fern, leader of the Bloody Junipers and quite someone in Wackadomp (my ridiculous and highly diariable planet), waged war on Gorganzola, for the trees had ─ in my humble opinion quite unwisely ─ made a futile effort to stand against the Jeez-Louise Force of Cheese. The latest development from Sir Ferntastic is you can use marshmallows to fight away the cheese, because apparently they have an irrational fear towards them. Even scenting a marshmallow from a mile away can make the most cock-headed ("Hello, me!") halloumi faint from the danger waves. Since they're best half-burnt, trees often grab half burnt marshmallows from disgruntled 5yos nowadays. So today, the forest outside my balcony rang with trees saying, "Thanks for the remains" to weeping children desperately waving their marshmallow sticks.
My dreamgiver Ping owns a library. He devotes himself to writing every night, and so he has amassed many books in this library: five of them so far. He also takes from authors he likes, and discusses stuff with them. Ping employed me in this library, saying I could live there if I was his literary critique and wrote my own works. In fact, I am now doing the latter job.
However, Ping and I live on the border of Gorganzola Land, and Ping's land, since my dreamgiver is the mayor. And we don't keep up with affairs because they are written of in "Pine Poopers, Period.", whose editor-in-chief is the ludicrous Amanda Hugenkiss.
But the boffins had a crucial article, under the deceptively illiterate title "Cheese? No please!": "Ping! Groovecat! Be vigilant! Gorganzola plans an offensive on (YOUR LAND, PING!!!) right by the border. So WATCH OUT!!!! and don't spend EVERY NIGHT just reading your STUPID books. From Amanda Hugenkiss, heaven be my name." And we missed it.
The halloumi raided everything in its path, and blew a ridiculous amount of raspberries at the trees. They were livid. Observant as ever (she was a journalist, after all) Miss Hugenkiss spotted me and took me in her branches (even the leaves were arrogant) to the meeting. She reprimanded me: "What do YOU think you're doing outside, lazycat?" I miaowed back, for she did not speak cat, that I thought she was a "right old fartbag who could wind her neck in because at least I don't spend half my life righting up tree pamphlets on my pink typewriter about the latest marriage drama between Treelor Swift and (insert guy). But she'd brought an interpreter.
He explained in detail what I said (with a few translator's liberties, I must say), and got the Entiest of the trees to dump me inside a hole enmeshed with roots which whispered all the rudest things in the world: "You're not cool. You're just a liar. You're right to be ashamed. Yes, you did send that precious broccoli of yours into an early grave when you complained to him that seeing his face gave you a bad constitution." And that's where I am now, dealing with all this while trying to find the light - in both senses - and writing my heart out to OODLES of half-baked insults from a bunch of low-life roots.
HELP ME, PLEASE!!!!
Stay catty,
Groovecat