This Week In Weird Twitter, Volume 132

This Week In Weird Twitter, Volume 132

Generally speaking, wooden legs aren’t sentient. They just exist, which is increasingly rare since their complete lack of flexibility has made them less popular than all alternatives except for pegs. Nevertheless, even though they’re hard to find, much like a good man, they can still be found.

Albert, the hero of our story, never set out to be a sentient wooden leg. He never even set out to be sentient. Heck, he never even planned on becoming a leg. Back when he was a tree, he had loftier dreams, like being a board used in a loft. When feeling adventurous, he thought he’d become an oar. When fancy, he thought about being an armoire. He didn’t know what an armoire was, but he liked the sound of it.

He did know what a station wagon was. Though faux wood paneling had gone out of style and was faux to begin with, he yearned for a day when station wagons again sported it, only real. Being wood, he wasn’t great at physics and didn’t understand how much weight that would add and how much that would negatively affect fuel economy.

Not that it mattered. For though Albert was destined for locomotion, he was not destined to bring back the family truckster. As Bob Ross would say when discussing happy little trees, that he ended up a leg instead of paneling was a happy accident.

It all started when Albert was stolen from a barn one evening. Though he escaped, he chose not to go home and instead decided to just travel the earth and get into adventures, like Caine from “Kung Fu.” A car pulled up and Albert got inside.


The driver asked Albert what he was after. He dropped him off soon after Albert answered.


Though the driver did have parting words for Albert before he sped away.


Albert walked along, wondering what his code name would be, before spotting a barn. Figuring that barns were good luck for him, he headed inside. There, he found a guy on a couch. He was playing a game and Albert joined him, though his lack of interpersonal skills continued to be a problem.


That’s when couch guy attempted to throw him in the fire barrel. Albert was unperturbed, however, as he knew it was but an attempt to give him a flesh wound.


He was also crafty and quickly engineered an escape.


Now being in possession of both a barn and a burn barrel, Albert decided he should host a party. He attempted to make friends with a passing metal hip. It did not go well.


Then, a wandering poet stumbled in, ready to spin a yarn.


Albert grew weary of this and attempted to get him to go. That proved more difficult than expected.


This line of conversation inevitably attracted the attention of another wanderer. He had strong opinions, but he wasn’t wrong.


The trio heard a struggle coming from another part of the barn, one they thought was empty. They were not alone.


They wondered who would emerge, and what part she would play in the story.


The dreaded multilevel marketing scheme. They knew just how to respond.


That’s when they heard a loud commotion coming from outside. It was a whole swarm of multilevel marketers. The situation was getting out of hand.


Albert looked at the “live, laugh, love” sign that was inexplicably hanging on the wall of this barn. This gave him an idea.


He asked the lunchmeat aficionados what they thought about his idea. The response was all the encouragement he needed.


Nevertheless, he decided to sleep on it. Or “sleep.”


As the sun rose, Albert was awakened by a strange clopping sound, like two coconuts being banged together.


Despite being barely awake and cranky, Albert approached the man in the costume. He had an idea.


His partners in barn life were not helpful.


The important thing was, his entire being doubled as a weapon.


It was in that moment that he realized that it was Teddy Roosevelt who had spoken him into being, so many years before.


Which was really preferable to some of the alternatives.


Albert decided to stop hanging in the barn and see what else life had to offer. Perhaps, for example, he’d find even more barns. First, though, he had to remember how to jump around. Not like House of Pain, jump around, but more like it was his only method of moving.


As he bid farewell to the Sandwich Twins, they asked how they’d done.


As he hopped merrily along, he met an amazing coterie of individuals, though some of their offerings were a little to reserved for Albert.


Other times, he was lost in his own head, thinking about whether he’d ever find a left for his right.


And even more other times, he was thinking about throwing things, even though he knew it would be hurtful.


Though sometimes he was just waiting until he could walk away.


But he never ran, or I guess hopped quickly, away. He ran, or hopped quickly, toward the object he was after.


Then, a voice came through from the distance and it all started to make sense.


Seagal before him, Albert remembered that this had all started with plans to wander the earth, like Caine from “Kung Fu.” He’d forgotten the adventure, so he got right on that by stopping to help an Amish gentleman.


Albert realized maybe he wasn’t Amish after all. He definitely couldn’t help him raise a new barn. He thought about asking a dog and a private investigator who’d stopped to watch the proceedings, but thought better of it.


Albert’s head began to pound. The world swirling around him, shapes melting into and out of one another. Steven Seagal did a roundhouse kick and vanished. The Sandwich Twins reappeared and floated into space. It was all so confusing and enraging, what with the disappearing minor characters.


The El Camino pulled out from the haze and a finger came curling out, beckoning Albert home. He hopped in, literally, and the car floated up into the air before launching into space. The driver was less than comforting.


Then Albert remembered that he wasn’t in a real-life version of “The Metamorphosis,” only one starring a termite and offered his retort.


With those words, the whole world around started dissolving and he began to emerge from what he realized was perhaps a dream. Perhaps he wasn’t a wooden leg after all. Maybe he was still just a chunk of wood in a factory, wondering what would become of him. Perhaps station wagons did still exist, much like wooden legs.

Either way, tomorrow would be a new day. He took leave of the barn raising coterie of barn-dwelling thieves and lunch meat enthusiasts. What’s more, he departed with the knowldedge that while he wasn’t yet a real boy, that was the wrong story and he had a better wardrobe plus a magical flying car with an alien in the back, anyway.

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