This Week In Weird Twitter, Volume 108

This Week In Weird Twitter, Volume 108

Sam took a long drink from his longneck, savoring the plainness of it. It was like a glass of iced tea, unadulterated with sugar or any other such accompaniments. This wasn’t an Arnold Palmer or a John Daly, just an iced tea. Except it was a root beer, which is equally unpretentious. That’s not important right now.

The important thing is we’re talking about an influencer, one for whom every long drink from that longneck is a signal. The downward-facing dog of signaling, of influence. Not that Sam was much interested in yoga, though he did like dogs. Regardless, when he sipped his root beer, it inspired others to crack a cold one for themselves. We’re talking the good stuff, the small-batch root beers, careful crafted and bottled with the finest modern machinery.

Not that Sam cared, other than he sometimes got free root beer thanks to his influence. No, he was more interested in reclining, in getting in touch with his spirit animal. His spirit animal was the sloth, in case you couldn’t guess. There was also the package of Sweet Tarts on the table next to him. Those were pretty interesting in that they were both sweet and tart. It was an amazing combination.

There was but one problem, a persistent one. No matter how much he reclined, no matter how much he settled in, there were always devils about. Lurking. Watching. Waiting.


Those devils were always worthy of scorn.


Nobody was listening to Sam, but he didn’t let that stop him.


Besides, this was his rep.


And it was a solid rep.


His ideas weren’t consequence-free.


Though they were brilliant.


First, he needed to procure some monies.


Fortunately, he had an idea. His audience was less than receptive.


Except for one, mostly.


Alas, it was that kind of party. Things quickly went awry.


Like really awry.


Then a transitional character offered a transition, and the chance for a clean start.


If not one free of obstacles.


I think he meant Dianetics.


The interruptions didn’t stop there.


Sam was at his limit.


Not just because he was sporting a jaunty sweater and facing this.


He was also armed with a secret weapon.


Not that he didn’t have weaknesses.


Including easily surmountable weaknesses, but some things are just too horrible to stand.


Step One: Get some Fabuloso. You can clean with it, plus the smell will keep everyone away from the crime scene.


Increase the potential for annihilation by arming her with a certain cleaning product.


Sam realized the situation was approaching a 10 on the Richter scale.


He headed to the crossroads, rhetorically speaking. What he found there shocked him.


This seemed like a better idea than a banjo duel with Beelzebub, though the outcome would likely be the same. In either case, at least there was no winged sky trash around.


These little fellows were, though, and that was okay if an unexpected addition to his living room.


Sam heard a noise. He rubbed his temples and thought, “Not again.”


He also wondered what other nefarious schemes were afoot.


Such ruminations gave him reason to pause and reflect on his youth and how much more laughter there was back then.


He wasn’t sure how to feel about it. At least, he wasn’t telling anyone how he felt about it.


There was also the fact that no one was attending his free seminars. It was very disappointing, especially given the sonorous tone of his voice.


A strange character with a neck tattoo wandered in. Sam decided reclining took precedence over fighting it, but he did have words for the stranger.


The stranger was making a bold fashion statement. Interesting is a better word than bold, to be honest.


And making bold, or interesting, statements as well.


Though there was room for improvement. Maybe for devolvement.


Sam decided he’d had enough and that it was time for the stranger to leave. She didn’t go quietly.


Besides, there was a nature show coming on and he wanted to devote his full attention to it.


Except he soon realized the show was on the History Channel.


When the dialogue went in this direction, he turned off the television. Bigfoot most definitely never rode along on the Mystery Machine.


He needed to save his strength anyway, for tomorrow was a new day.


One with new goals, besides the being outraged thing.


Oh, and continuing to try and solve this mystery, albeit sans a Mystery Machine.


The television turned itself back on. The History Channel was still at it, but at least it had moved on to more plausible theories.


Or maybe not so plausible theories.


Sam yelled at the television, as was his wont, and turned it off again. He shook his fist for good measure.


From there, he ambled off toward bed, trying to remember if he’d left the house that day. He couldn’t remember and decided he didn’t care. It was his style.


As Sam entered the bedroom, he found he wasn’t alone. A woman sat in the corner, eating a bowl of Boo Berry, an Exacto knife in her lap. He realized maybe he should have broadened his categories of fear to include more than just devil birds.

Fortunately, she wasn’t after him, though she did have an offer. It was time for a road trip, maybe some light jobs providing muscle. There was also the possibility of assassinations. Fortunately, there were always plausible explanations for those.

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