Bloggers and journalists insist that people love to read lists. Will Splarks ever succumb to the unending List-o-philia that refuses to die?
Well … you’ll notice that in my title, dear readers, that I said I’d explain the top ten reasons for why I stopped writing stories and making lists.
This is a dreadfully sinful LIE.
1. Once upon a time, there was a chicken. It danced in the moonlight. (Go on, you might as well check out List Item #2; it may be relevant)
2. It attracted some nearby gorillas.
3. The gorillas, being more powerful than the chicken, considered biting its head off and consuming it for a snack.
4. Then they realized that they’d have to fight each other for the chicken–there wasn’t enough for all of them.
5. Given that fighting is a pain in the ass, and lying in the grass scratching one’s butt is easier, they decided to ignore the chicken.
6. The chicken continued its avian ballet, unaware of its brush with death.
7. A clever reader asked, “Why exactly would a chicken dance in the moonlight? Wouldn’t it be in a coop somewhere? And chickens don’t really dance, do they?”
8. The author, in the interest of artistic expression for fowl (won’t somebody please think of the chickens?), had to clobber the reader, duct-tape their mouth shut, and shove them in a closet.
9. The chicken, frightened by the unexpected clobbering noise, fled the scene.
10. The gorillas cried, for they had been enjoying the graceful dance of the chicken.
11. The sun rose mournfully in a cold gray sky over an empty field. A mime dropped a rose.
12. This story became a film and won awards at the Sundance festival because of its innovation and embodiment of all the qualities of a good independent film.
13. The author’s readers sent hate mail because not only had the author subjected them to a stupid story that mercilessly consumed a tiny portion of their lives, but because the author had also lied about the number of list items. Also, the film was totally different from the story and that was like, a total sell out.
14. Devastated by the harsh words, the author jumped off a bridge.
15. The author’s spirit woke up in a world where happy rainbow unicorns pranced about. Nice flower fairies made her a princess outfit out of rose petals. She was satisfied by hearing the sad thoughts of those who sent the mean letters: “I’m really sorry now that she is dead. It’s all my fault that she killed herself. I am truly a pathetic excuse for a human being.”
16. All the mean people felt so bad that they killed themselves, too. They showed up in the afterlife alongside the author.
17. Forced to accommodate the influx of contrite people, the rainbow unicorns left her to fend for themselves. The flower fairies made everyone else princess outfits, too. The mean people, feeling better about themselves now that they were princesses, went back to writing hate mail and leaving it where the author could find it.
18. There is no happy ending to this story. The moral is: don’t think “they’ll be sorry when I’m dead!” and kill yourself, because they might feel so sorry about it all that they’ll kill themselves, too, and then they’ll be there to annoy you for all eternity. Defiantly keep on writing pointless stories simply to amuse yourself. You can buy princess outfits at the costume store, anyway. It’s not like flower fairies have a monopoly on the costume industry.
THE END
