This reminds me of the time that I went into the center of the moon to look for a really fine onion. You see, when I was a younger man, the rage of the day was a fine, white onion worn atop the hat like pin, or a smelly, layered bee in one's bonnet as it were. Well, it was well known to all that the finest white onions grew at the center of that great monument to socialist communism, the Moon. Well, being one to put on airs and graces, that folks not think me a neer-do-well, or worse yet, tatterdemalion, I pitched a shiny nickel to the ferryman and took from him a ticket to the moon.
The trip was a short one, but choppy as the great space river was a tad high that season. You see, the kaiser had seeded our clouds with norainium but our top scientists figured out a way to reverse the droughting process with a combination of moxie and prayer. However, the process had worked so well that the skies grew pregnant beyond the usual and we suffered many a flood and wet day! Some say that certain parts of the nation, namely Washington and Oregon have yet to recover. I hear that it's so cloudy there that vampires can flit about in broad daylight, kissing other boys and making rainbows by slapping their hands to their cheeks and squeaking loudly with joyous aplomb. Or am I thinking of homosexuals? In any event, I spent my journey in rapt thought, contemplating the whys of the wherefores, and the wherefores of the whys. With my hat tilted at a jaunty angle, and my cheek resting rakishly on my palm, I meditated deeply about what makes a lemon so damned fit for public office that you never see one fail to lose an election. Just a few weeks before then, Sven Lemonson had taken the treasured seat of County Ombudsmen, and Lemony Snicket had just been nominated to run for president. In light of the candidacy of the citrusy, ovoid fruit, all other runners had chosen to leave the race for certainty of the futility and cost of continued participation. Once, Lemon Pimento had been selected for vice president, and upon winning, his running mat, General Springstein assassinated himself. Once a formal inquiry had been imposed, it was determined that Vice President Lemon was not culpable to any charge, nor involved with the presidents unfortunate self-shootumupactionsequence, and he was placed into the highest office of our nation. I suppose that we men should consider ourselves quite happy that lemons choose to run so rarely, that we might have a chance. Then again, you'll never hear of a lemon who did his office poorly. Perhaps we are on the losing side for their rarity of action.
When the ferry finally alit upon the surface of the moon, I ventured out across its pocked, and pillowy surface. There, at the docks, was a bazaar populated by a veritable cornucopia of peoples, some from as far away as New Mexico, others as far away as Little Neo Chinasburg. Folks strolled back and forth sniffing trepidatiously at the merchants wares, and the air resounded with the singing cries of its sellers. "Dates for sale, pickled jackelopes, Ten thousand year old rocks!" I was curious at the various sundry bottles of tinctures and ointments that were poised nearby, but that was merely a distraction.
You see, when I was young, that is to say, younger than I am now on a temporal scale of relative linear perspicacity, the moonish bazaars were a good place to have your distractions solidified into political factions that would go to war with each other at each successive elective cycle. It was difficult, in those days, to get around when the wild ballots began to graze too close to town and the electoralites came pouring out of the heads of foppish gents, and slappish urchins alike. Great battles were fought in the streets and the moonicipal gardens until eventually everything had to quiet down so that something could be accomplished.
I strode confidently past the monument to Foundlingers, including the most revered, chairman Ho Chi Moon, and journeyed along the great lunar highway towards the mighty valleys of Mare Elysium. Back then there were no hightowers or roving armies of dapper, bespectacled pug dogs and a man could be left to consider his thoughts. Such reckless introspection was a popular pass-time in those days as it was considered a great risk. Too much consideration was wont to open the otherwise law abiding fellow up to all fashions of terpretation, and discombobulary. I, however was brave and reckless (though nary was I feckless, mind you!) youth prepared to confront the various sundry monsters of the day. Why, there were many a wicked beast lurking about in my youth. The Existentialist Pilferpoop, the Objectivist Neenermeyer, the Slipdermadlion Nihil for existence. I was afraid of them none!
After some time, I found myself venturing deep into the winding moon caverns where its said that the odd wind can turn a man's heart into crystal. I knew this was simply a silly tale told by superstitious yokels, however, as I was, myself a man of science. The idea of a wind that could turn a man's heart into crystal was ludicrous. I did, however, keep my eyes peeled for the very real threat of toads who's venom could turn a man's heart into Crystal Gail.
It was during this journey that I met a genie who's wispy, vaporous tail had become pinched terribly between a stalagmite, and a falling stalactite. Or perhaps it with the other way round. I have never been outstandingly clear on the matter. While I have heard that one is a top, and the other a bottom, it's also been said that you can still get some oral action if you take one home from the club regardless, so I suppose it doesn't matter much. Well, this genie, whose head was like that of Varg Vickernes tiny beard was wary of me at first, but after some growling and posturing, allowed me to approach and take stock of his situation. I told him that I could help, and he responded in an elated voice that reminded me of exactly four hundred and seventy-two stag beetles engaged in an uproarious, and unmarried orgy. Well, perhaps not exactly. Maybe more like four hundred and seventy-three. Time does shave slowly away at a body's memory from time to time. Whichever it was, the voice offered me a wish of my choosing if I could save his wholly immaterial tail from being pinched between two extremely solid, and very physical rocks. Well, reward or not, I hate to see a genie in pain, so I rolled up my sleeves, spat into my hands, rubbed them vigorously together (as was the style at the time) and began to lift the rock. My muscles bulged and strained inside my pillowy skin, and a grunted laboriously against my burden. Finally, I hefted the boulder a millimeter to the side. Now it should noted that in those days, a millimeter was called a "Spoon-fed puppy's fart," and were one to call it a millimeter, then one would expose one's self as a true rube! So I hefted the great boulder no more than seven spoon-fed puppy farts to the north-east, but no less than five.
Now slightly more freed than he was before, the genie leapt upon me with many hugs and purely platonic, and totally not gay-sex inducing kisses, then asked me what my heart desired. Well, I being a fella of simple taste, and few needs said I had merely come here for a fine, white onion, that I might have a chance at being named King of the Naked Mole-Rat Navel Surge (which was what we called the United States House of Representatives in those days). Well, he scratched his Varg Vickernes Tiny Beard head, and pointed out that the mighty grove of Moon Onions were but a few feet from where we stood. I happily walked over, picked the biggest, whites, most smelly layerdest onion that the world had ever seen and stuck atop my hat in the jauntiest, most rakishly hansome angle that you could imagine. The genie clapped enough times that it counted as a stadium ovation, and pointed out that he had technically done nothing, so if I chose, I could name another wish. I thought for a moment, then smiled and wished my hardest, deepest, sweetest wish possible. And that is how I finally got the forum title to be Redshirt Stormtrooper instead of Noobie.