Flamingo- The Final Frontier

I used to have a pet flamingo. Key word “used” to. We had a good run; that is, until one fateful day. We were innocently opening fire hydrants when the police came. Luckily, Rupert (as I had named him) didn’t speak much English. So, although it hurt me to do it, I turned Rupert in to the authorities. His facial expressions all look the same, so I think he was…happy. Yes, very happy. I told the police that Rupert had made me do it, and luckily they believed it. Of course they believed it; it was either me or the penguin (yes, there were witnesses). So Rupert went to jail, and I went back to whatever it is I did. Two months later I got the awful news: Rupert was marrying a panda. Even worse, I was invited to the wedding (this concludes my theory that flamingo’s have bad memories). This was a bad thing. Not because I was jealous that he had fulfilled all of my life dreams (no, marrying a panda was not one of them…), but because who wants to see a flamingo kiss a panda? Is it even physically possible? I didn’t want to find out. Unfortunately, my shrink (I’m not really sure if he’s a shrink or not…I’ve been showing up at his door everyday for the past three years and he hasn’t said anything yet…) said I should go. He even said not to come to his house at 5 a.m. anymore! Now THAT’S progress!
The pineapple factory that the two lovebirds (I guess that’s half right?) were getting married in smelled of raw fish and, wouldn’t you know it, pineapple. Unfortunately, they did not approve of certain people taking free samples. But besides that, I couldn’t complain. Maybe it’s because my mouth was taped shut, or possibly because my foot hurt, either way, I couldn’t complain.
The wedding was quick and simple, and luckily I managed to cover my eyes before the “You may now kiss the panda.” So, in other words, I can’t tell you what panda’s kissing flamingo’s looks like. Not that I’d want to.
The after-party was much better than the wedding. It was at Rupert’s new house. Thus concluding another of my theories: not only can panda’s legally marry flamingos, but they can also own real estate. The sign on the front gate was frightening, however.
It read: “Violators will be shot. Survivors will be shot again.” Inside, there were many bottles of glue, along with boxes of wireless keyboards, and a surprising seven refrigerators. In the living room alone.
There were two choices for dinner. First, there was cat (as Rupert says, “the OTHER white meat). I decided to trust my instincts and stay away from that. But the other main course was squid. In potato salad. Covered with pickle sauce. Lots, and lots, of pickle sauce. Thank God there was an open bar.
For entertainment, the newlyweds played the movie “Casablanca” dubbed in Italian. Seven times. It never ended. THE MADNESS. After the one-film-film-fest was over, they had a karaoke machine that they decided to try out. If you ever have the opportunity to listen to a panda sing, I suggest you run for the hills. No, run past the hills. Run to the mountains. Don’t stop running.
For the final attempt to persuade the guests to stay longer, Rupert decided to play charades. That didn’t last long, seeing how flamingos have no fingers. In fact, no matter what he attempted to do, I always thought the answer was Swiss cheese. Man I love Swiss cheese…
As I left the party at 8 p.m. that night, I could only think of what I was thinking going to a wedding between a panda and a flamingo. In fact, I don’t think I was thinking. I’ve heard so many bad things; about this whole “thinking” business, I’ve just kind of stopped doing it.
As I pulled into my driveway, I realized that I didn’t own a car. Or a driveway. And that’s how I ended up in jail on account of riding a walrus into my neighbor’s window. I guess that open bar was too much for me to handle. I swear I heard it calling my name, literally. Jail wasn’t the bad part; it was that I realized that they fed me better than my parents ever did. They even had free, yes free, television. Unfortunately, they had the news on, and it was all about a “drunken maniac who drove into his neighbors window while yelling ‘hi ho silver’ to the walrus he was riding.” So, naturally, I combed my hair over and no one recognized me.
But that was long ago. Yet it all seems like it was yesterday. Or maybe it was. Who knows? I know I don’t.
So as I sit here wearing my binoculars, cowboy hat, and Hawaiian shirt, I get a phone call.
“Hey what’s up?” I answer in a grumble. I’m pretty sure I meant to.
“You have a problem, man. You need to be in rehab.” So I hung up, and went back to Oprah’s greatest hits. At least, I think that’s her.
I’m going to finish writing now, but I would like to thank you all for teaching me the meaning of Christmas. Or Kwanzaa. Or why I don’t have a name. You choose.