Swine quit his tow-trucking job and started his own business, “Red Sea Snow Removal.” He and the missus loaded up a couple shovels into the indigo station wagon and drove to a neighborhood on the rich side of town in search of clientele. Upon seeing a driveway filled with fifty feet of snow, Swine pulled into the driveway. As a result of Swine’s unfortunate understanding of objective reality, the vehicle became completely engulfed by the snow.
“We’re trapped,” Swine lamented. “We’ll never escape.” He began to weep. Mrs. Coinhead wasn’t a fan of sniveling.
“You need to stop acting like such a ho,” said Mrs. Coinhead.
“We’re going to die in here,” Swine cried, ignoring his wife’s advice.
“I assure you that the grim reaper will not be paying us a visit today.”
“You never know when Death will come knocking at your door,” Swine philosophized.
“If that’s the case, then you never know when he won’t come as well.”
Swine couldn’t argue with such airtight logic. In lieu of acting like an effeminate weirdo, Swine decided not to surrender to the inevitability of death, an act of defiance which got his testosterone pumping. Motivated by the desire to sip from the cup of life, Swine took one of the shovels and inexplicably began banging its handle against the windshield, fracturing the glass into a pattern that somewhat resembled the collapse of World Trade Center Building 7.1 Mrs. Coinhead stopped him before he could cause the poor windshield irreparable damage.
“You're exhibiting the very worst traits of both feminine and masculine energies right now," Mrs. Coinhead critiqued. "Your combination of force without reason is indicative of Baphometic influence. Have you been playing with the stupid ouija board again?"
"I was trying to contact my deceased father about a jar of gold coins that he allegedly buried in the forest."
"While you're certainly not a genius, you're usually not this stupid," said Mrs. Coinhead. "Why is it that your instinct motivated you to exit my indigo station wagon through the windshield? Are you retarded?"
"It's where the most light is coming through," Swine argued. "Therefore, it’s the best place to escape from this pit of death.”
"When we get home, your ouija board is going straight to the dumpster. Now watch me reason my way out of this conundrum like a civilized man. Instead of trying to escape through the windshield like a deranged subnormal, I'm going to roll down the window and dig my way to freedom."
Swine watched in amazement as his brainwashed wife rolled down the window and dug a tunnel all the way to the door of the party mansion in which he hoped resided his first customer. As he crawled through the tunnel, he daydreamed about the fortune he would make shoveling snow off the driveways of wealthy elites. When he arrived at the door, he felt completely rejuvenated. Forgetting his wife’s recent lecture on the importance of civility, he knocked on the door with the gusto of a drunken Viking pillaging a village of polyamorous hippies living together in a perpetual state of harmonious bliss.
“Do you always need to act like a complete embarrassment?” asked Mrs. Coinhead.
“I’m excited about all this money we’re going to make.”
We're not going to make any money if you keep approaching situations in such a neurotic fashion," Mrs. Coinhead lectured. "Take a few deep breaths and calm yourself down."
Swine did as he was told. Unfortunately, the cold weather instantaneously crystallized his mucus into a collection of jagged pellets, so during the process of inhalation, one of said pellets tore the lining of his nostril, resulting in a formidable nosebleed. A man wearing a dandruff-covered beret opened the door.
"You’re dripping blood all over my welcome mat,” said the man with the beret.
"I'm being attacked by weaponized snow," Swine responded, the blood from his nose methodically oozing from his nose in a pattern similar to that of fifth generational warfare.
"That's too bad,” the man with the beret responded, indifferent to Swine’s suffering. “My name's Svelk, poet extraordinaire."
"I love poetry," said Mrs. Coinhead. "Nothing gets my juices flowing like a good turn of phrase."
"I've been working on a new one," said Svelk, removing a piece of paper from his back pocket. "Tell me what you think:
When I was in college
I used to pray to the void
For the downfall of western civilization
Now that it's occurring
I feel a bit sad
I'm worried the new arrivals
Won't care about my pronouns
Nor my advocacy for exit-entry
I tried to join the brotherhood of man
But my application was rejected."
“I was expecting complete failure on your part, and my expectation was met,” said Swine, annoyed by the prospect of having to do business with some uppity artiste.
“I’m the physical manifestation of the blessed union of sarcasm and sincerity,” said Svelk, removing a flake of dandruff and flicking it into the puddle of blood.
“Your beret sucks,” said Swine, unable to contain his annoyance with the leisuring class. “You need to get a job, and perhaps invest in some moisturizing shampoo.”
“You need to moisturize your nostril lining,” Svelk quipped. “Have you been digging for a morning snack?”
“I haven’t eaten boogers since I was a child. I was given an award for my discipline by the department of homeland security.”
"I have a graduate degree in poetry writing," Svelk bragged, hoping to impress Mrs. Coinhead with his intellectual prowess.
"Shouldn't you be drowning in debt? How can somebody with a poetry degree afford to live inside a party mansion?" asked Swine.
"My father is the CEO of Benevolent Injection malt liquor," Svelk explained. "The fortune he's amassed in the healthcare industry affords me the privilege of spending my days placing all my profound thoughts onto loose leaf paper."
"Your thoughts aren't that profound," said Swine, secretly jealous of Svelk's brilliance.
"I'm a bit confused as to what you want," said Svelk. "Do you always go knocking on strangers' doors in the early morning to dispense insults?"
"I was wondering if we could shovel your driveway.”
"How much?"
"Two-hundred dollars."
"That seems a bit steep," said Svelk. "Do you offer any additional services? Do you know anything about plumbing?"
"I am certified by the state to use a toilet plunger," Swine bragged.
"I think you could be of some use," said Svelk. "May I invite you inside? I'm having a bit of a bathroom issue."
"That sounds stinky," said Mrs. Coinhead. "We're not in the turd business."
"As far as I know, you won't have to deal with any bodily waste," said Svelk. "However, you might very well be killed."
"There are things worse than death," said Swine.
"I assure you that this is one of them," Svelk replied in cryptic fashion.
Svelk led Swine and Mrs. Coinhead to one of the third floor bathrooms inside the party mansion. When he opened the door, the spectacle of a squirrel figure-skating on a sheet of ice inside the toilet was occurring in four grotesque dimensions of neon asininity.
"What the hell are we supposed to do about this?" asked Swine, noticing himself falling into a state of mesmerization by the sight of the squirrel’s athletic grace.
"I want you to get the little beast out of here," said Svelk. "He's been here for ten days. His shenanigans are interrupting my creative process.”
"I'll never leave," said the squirrel. "Consider this bathroom conquered and colonized. You can find somewhere else to journal your pathetic thoughts.”
"How is there a sheet of ice inside the toilet?" asked Mrs. Coinhead. "It feels pretty warm in here."
"He's an evil magician,” Svelk explained. "Never before have I met such a blasphemous creature."
In response to Svelk's accusation, the squirrel carved an image of an inverted pentagram into the ice and began chanting frequencies of death into the poet’s eardrum, which in turn placed images of war and decay into his third eye, their ugliness so intense that his knees buckled, dropping his entire body to the floor.
“I’m in agony!” Svelk cried. “He’s subduing me with his evil gangstalking weaponry!”
"I'll take care of this little creep," said Swine, grabbing a pen off the sink. "This rink is officially closed!" He began repeatedly stabbing the ice in the tradition of an amphetamine addict destroying his mother's mattress because he erroneously believes that inside it resides a hidden cache of rolled quarters.
"Quit using my pen to break up the toilet ice," said Svelk. “It was given to me by the very queen of the pod people!”
“You imbecilic incel, the queen of the pod people is the world’s number one purveyor of psychotronic malfeasance. She probably sent this little douchebag into your life to sabotage your party mansion.”
“The queen of the pod people is my best girl,” said Svelk. “She’d never do that…unless she found out I’ve been cheating on her with a professor of creative writing, a fact which I’ve been posting all over social media.”
“The queen knows all and sees all,” the squirrel stated in robotic fashion, goose-stepping his way toward the targeted poet, his mouth foaming with rabies-infused bubbles.
Mrs. Coinhead threw a chunk of toilet ice at the squirrel’s head, but before it could make contact, the squirrel used his evil techno-magic to pause its trajectory in mid-air and transmogrify it into a delicious vanilla milkshake. Unpausing the action, the squirrel used his techno-telekinesis to place the milkshake into his hand, giving it a cursory sip. Meeting his stringent standards of approval, he threw the carcinogenic treat at Mrs. Coinhead’s face and did so with extreme prejudice. Guided by her moonbeam handling, she caught the milkshake without injury and consumed it in heroic fashion, reminiscent of an athletic shoe advertisement from the nineteen nineties. Her body energized by the shake, she inflated her basketball sneakers in anticipation of pure mayhem. It was at this moment that the squirrel realized he was in for a street fight.
“Are you ready to die?” asked Mrs. Coinhead.
“I’ll never die,” said the squirrel. “My consciousness has been uploaded into the corporate cloud.
“It’s about to rain all over your parade,” said Mrs. Coinhead, now transformed into a real-life action hero.
“Get him, Mrs. Coinhead!” Swine cooed from the sideline. Svelk remained silent, as he was still recovering from his rather pernicious case of Havana Syndrome.
Mrs. Coinhead executed a perfect backflip and ricocheted off the wall, her knee aimed toward the squirrel’s repugnant skull. Before she could make contact, the squirrel directed his malevolent torture energy2 toward the orange button on Mrs. Coinhead’s left shoe, bursting the pump button and deflating the shoe.3 Her airborne status and athletic ability now compromised, her body fell toward the floor. With intent to kill, the squirrel aimed demonic computer lightning at Mrs. Coinhead’s heart chakra, scoring a direct hit.
The success of the squirrel’s assault had the unintended consequence of loosening the grip that Mrs. Coinhead’s shadow-lurking oppressors held over her psyche via their weaponization of the moon’s natural radiance. Seizing the opportunity brought forth by this proverbial chinked armor, she freed herself from the grip of this war crime, tossing its influence over her existence into the abyss. No longer shouldering the violent yoke of malicious DEWs, Mrs. Coinhead’s body and mind were set free from these targeted attacks, gifting her with instantaneous knowledge on how to properly deal with this adversarial squirrel and his creeper magic.
Upon receiving these vibrations of death into her heart chakra, Mrs. Coinhead divided the energy in two, directing one half toward her crown and the other half toward her root. These respective red and violet streams exited her body and wedded (in the biblical sense) into a plasmic ball of goo in front of her solar plexus, which she fashioned into the likeness of a kebab stick. The squirrel attempted to kick Mrs. Coinhead in the face, but he slipped on a chunk of toilet ice and collapsed to the floor. While the squirrel tried to regain his composure, Mrs. Coinhead stabbed him in his ear with the kebab stick.
“I surrender,” said the squirrel.
And that’s how the gangstalking squirrel was banished from one of the third floor bathrooms inside Svelk’s party mansion. He accepted his loss in battle with utmost dignity and exited the mansion without further incident. Afterward, the Coinheads shoveled the driveway. Svelk was so grateful to have the squirrel out of his home that he tipped them an additional one-hundred federal reserve notes.
For nothing is secret, that shall not be made manifest; neither any thing hid, that shall not be known and come abroad.
Luke 8:17
I form the light, and create darkness: I make peace, and create evil: I the LORD do all these things.
Isaiah 45:7
And we know that all things work together for good to them that love God, to them who are the called according to his purpose.
Romans 8:28
Amusing and action packed, I couldn't want for more.