This Week In Weird Twitter, Volume 88

This Week In Weird Twitter, Volume 88

Gil pulled his car to a stop and stepped onto the curb, pressing down the lock on his 1983 green and faux-wood-paneled 1983 Chevy Citation with his palm. Taking a deep breath, he surveyed his surroundings, planning for what he had to do.

He took a step toward the house. A bunny nibbling on some clover at the edge of the yard hopped away. Gil wondered if any of those clovers were of the four-leaf variety. If ever there were a day when he needed luck, it was that fateful Saturday.

A cold breeze brushed swept across, causing him to reflexively reach up and make sure his fedora was in place. Before he confronted his nemesis, he had to be prepared, be calm and collected.

Realizing the time for delay was quickly passing, he hurried to the front door, walking past a convertible PT Cruiser before ringing the doorbell. He wasn’t expecting it to play Kool and the Gang’s “Jungle Love.”

Lee answered the door. He was holding a tennis racket. “Come in, Gil, come in. Bridget and I just finished playing a few sets.” Gil noticed her standing in the living room, her racket laying on the back of the couch behind her.

“I trust you brought your checkbook, Gil.” “Not today, Lee, not today.”

The two men glared at one another before Gil, feeling his confidence swelling in his chest, said, “You see, my dear Lee, it’s all a matter of fractals, of evolving symmetry. It’s all about the numbers, about predicting what will happen next. In this case, the geometrical design favors me, despite what you might thing about me needing to hand over a check for $12.73.”

Before Lee could answer, Bridget chimed in. “Just pay us what you owe us. It’s not our fault the package didn’t arrive at your place. You should’ve taken out insurance. Our clients demand, and deserve, payment. Now get out your checkbook.”

Gil attempted to reply, but before he could, he was interrupted.


Outside the house, Alexa walked in the street, wondering what the mathematical pattern held for her.


Meanwhile, back inside, our intrepid hero informed the would-be heroine that he suspected it might come to that. She asked how he figured it out.


Also meanwhile, but across town, a subplot may have been forming. Will our narrator remember this subplot? Let’s find out!


The sales clerk asked if he had any questions about the baskets and why he wasn’t paying attention to the festivities going on outside.


The bigger question was why the clerk was speaking so rapidly.


Little did Jeff know, he had a yarn to spin.


In another exciting development, we discover that there was a yard sale going on next door to Lee and Bridget’s home. All reasonable offers considered.


Back inside the house, Gil ruminated upon his good fortune and how the noise of the yard sale would help mask any noise coming from inside the house.


He was getting a sense that his boldness might pay off.


He locked eyes with Bridget, drawing upon the hours of practice he’d undertaken with his raccoon sidekick.


His confidence was tempered; his thoughts fixed on all possible outcomes.


He grabbed the tennis racket from Lee’s hand and boldly smashed a bouquet of fresh-cut flowers sitting on a table in the foyer. Lee lunged backwards, taking Bridget with him.


The thing was, Bridget exclaimed.


Gil gasped and pointed out the window. A Burt Reynolds lookalike pulled up next door, looking for a new decoration for his ride.


Bridget was having none of it. She reiterated her threats.


The Burt Reynolds lookalike haggled over some flatware. His date, unperturbed by his choice of activities, attempted to lighten the mood with humor.


It was at this moment that Jeff cruised by on a Segway, a plethora of wicker baskets in hand. He decided to see what else he might get a good deal on. He made eye contact with the fork.


She took his breath away and he careened off the road, falling off his Segway. His pet llama, Randy, go loose and took off. Jeff called after him.


Ever the optimist, he didn’t let a loose llama and being face-down in a ditch cause him to despair.


Back at the negotiations for the flatware, the fork offered another seemingly random statement.


Remember the girl who got hit by the bus? Guess who Jeff noticed next to him.


Meanwhile, back in the main plotline, Bridget laid down a marker.


He should probably narrate this story, or “story,” too, to be quite honest.


Bridget continued, though no one knew what she was talking about. Burt’s date, though, she turned her head towards the house and nodded knowingly.


Lee, attempting to help, interjected.


Then he added.


Gil, sensing another moment of opportunity, offered a taunt.


As Bridget lunged, he went there. He got pedantic.


The pair tussled, knocking over drinkware and vases. Then, a burst of glass sprayed across the room. A llama stood staring, holding a wicker basket in its mouth. The doorbell rang and it began to bob its head.


In this version, there’s also a llama.


In the living room, with a tennis racket, a llama, some backup dancers.


But Gil wasn’t going down without a fight. Drawing upon his knowledge of “Soul Train,” he called for a line. Burt’s date had wandered in by now, plus Jeff and Alexa. “Let’s get funky,” said Gil. “My plots demand it.”


I keep using that word “plot,” but I’m not sure it means what I think it means.


The three struggled, Jeff and Alexa sat down, the llama did llama shit, and Burt’s date offered the strangest narration ever.


Upon hearing those words, Gil, Lee, and Bridget realized the folly of their dispute and resolved to settle the matter in an even more ridiculous way.


Just then, Not Burt Reynolds crashed through the front door and power-slid to a stop. He winked at his date, who hopped in through the window. Jeff and Alexa joined them. Now, there was no one left but the three, plus the llama.


They decided to clean up before continuing their skirmish.


Tomorrow was Sunday, after all.


It was then that Bridget spoke, not to Lee, but also not to Gil. No, she was looking at the llama.


It ran away and the three remembered they were angry. Weapons were drawn.


I guess that’s pretty much what’s going on at this point.


Bridget flung the catalog at Gil, who hurled a tennis racket at Lee, who threw a pillow at the llama, who nuzzled up to Bridget. They knew there was no resolution to their situation and began to back away from one another, slowly.

“Did the fractals predict this, Gil?,” Lee inquired. Gil smiled and pulled a leash and a handful of hay from under his fedora. As he fed the llama hay, he attached the leash to its collar. It was his now.

“Yes, they did predict this. You were just unwilling to see the patterns, the connections.” He tossed an envelope, one containing $12.73 on the coffee table, which was laying upside down but whatever, and headed toward the door. Placing the llama in the backseat, he tipped his hat toward the confused pair and said his goodbyes.

Not sure what had happened and why their house had been destroyed over not-quite $13, Lee and Bridget scratched their heads and tried to figure out the situation. All they knew was that they had been beaten by the best. And the best started his car. It backfired, and headed down the road.

Richard Cromwell is a senior contributor to The Federalist. Follow him on Twitter, @rcromwell4.
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