As I biked home, I felt the brain-numbing pain of a snowball pelting my head and the cold, oh-so-painful-yet-normal-feeling-of-breaking-headphones. I always claimed to have a death trap on wheels, and this proved it.
Before entering into the black hole of unconsciousness, I realized said snowball was not a snowball—this was not the post office's bizarre form of revenge. No, these were random douches lobbing wadded up hunks of chicken bones.
And I'm not sure if that's a good thing.
I lost consciousness and I fell. I fell and fell. And fell and fell into the black hole.
I journeyed to an area cruelly called the Land of Hope and Dreams. I knew in this world I wouldn't be able to plan a massive Russian Roulette party, open a can of soup or even play with a yo-yo. This absolutely frightened me in a way a bout of fire ear never could.
Suddenly, an ominous demon approached me. I'll admit, at this point, I did soil myself.
It approached and cawed at me in derision, ""Cuckoo. Cuckoo. Cuckoo.""
As an avid eater of Cocoa Puffs during my younger years, I knew this cry could only mean death. I must face Sonny the Cocoa Puffs Cuckoo Bird Mano-a-Birdo.
""Don't I get a chance to challenge you to a game of Battleship or POGs?"" I asked the mascot of death.
""Of course you do!"" it clucked.
""Really?"" I asked, as hopeful as an orphan on ""Free String Cheese Wednesdays""
""No, I was lying.""
""DAMN YOU BAD CEREAL BIRD!"" I yelled while throwing a bottle of pop (yes, I'm still from Minnesota) at the cursed bird. This wasn't nearly as powerful as repeatedly hitting the snooze button, but in a pinch it destroyed my captors.
Unfortunately, it did not destroy the door that I ran headlong into. This contusion could not stop my journey, for I must soldier on, much like Frodo when he bravely walked up Bascom Hill.
However, through the door burst a new villain who vaguely resembled a Facebook stalker and/or a hand dryer I wasn't certain which.
""Ni you hao dai,"" it yelled at me. Whatever it was, it knew my hatred for both cursive and the Chinese language.
I needed a game plan for escape since it had worked when breaking out of Grainger. I donned my Indiana Jones hat and jaywalked away from this ordeal. I then rushed past a pissed off clothier and a purely diabolical golf cart.
I slinked by these souls for fear they'd kill me, or at the very least steal my bicycle.
Then KevinQuest clicked into full gear and I progressed past drunken discussion sections, Highlights magazine writers and people engaging in sex on the beach (sadly with no whipped cream). A bizarre Greyhound rider who loves fondling keys approached me.
""Choose your own adventure, Kevin,"" Fondler McGee said. ""But where ever you go, you must write about this experience in a column titled ‘Admiral Nelson'—just like your name. Oh, and also feel free to beat up your roommate with a turtle shell—make sure he's dressed like Mario too, it'll be delightful!""
Yes he was crazy, but I did take what he said to heart. Although ""Admiral Nelson?"" I just don't do that, for I'm the full and real deal.
