Hose Monster Blog

1.27.2003

Two small lads, ignoring the oppressive heat of the Arizona desert, had worked themselves into a frenzy of excitement while running around the backyard of the small condominium tucked quietly into a corner of a community overwhelming populated by Americans closely following the decrees of the candidates regarding the necessity of a national prescription drug program. On this afternoon, the source of the excitement was a item crafted a year ago, to which we shall simply call “The Booker.”

“It is the greatest one ever made,” the one lad, who stood roughly a head taller than his companion, said to the other.

“No way it can do that stuff,” the shorter one replied.

“Wanna bet?”

“Let's see it.”

The two melted their way into the house and proceeded to tear apart the contents of a hall closet in search of “The Booker.” Just as the shorter one was about to give up hope, his friend stood up with a champion’s smile plastered across his face. Above his head he held it, held in its foldings by a large paper clip. Tattooed on both sides of the fuselage sat the Magic Marker words “The Booker.”

It was clearly the greatest paper airplane ever.

The simple sight of “The Booker” had driven the shorter lad into a frenzy. Forgotten were his assertions that “The Booker” could not fly for thirty seconds at a time, or that he had made a 13 year-old’s bet with his friend, the type of bet that you under no circumstances wanted to lose for consequence of being labeled a loser by your friend. No no, our young lad wanted nothing more in these moments than to see just how much booking “The Booker” could do. He tore off at a sprint in the direction of the sliding glass door, hitting his full stride as he approached the open doorway.

Or so he thought it was.

The bang produced by the collision between all 95 pounds of the young chap and the equally strong panel glass echoed throughout the halls of the small abode. His friend would later marvel at the enormous size of the smudge left on the glass by the boy’s nose; the fallen kid would have likely done the same if he could have seen it. But for him, everything had gone dark.


This week's honorary Hose Monster: No One Dan the Goose Tom from Orby Online "The Ultimate Renaissance Man" -Kool Keith "I heart hosemonster" -Fat Sarah "Hose Monster = Hero" "The king of political talk" "The voice of reason in all this chaos" -The Ward "A lot of sense" -Orby Online "Writing so good it should be illegal or at least expensive" -Mad Little Ponies Her Meeshness interviews the Hose Monster Another Hose Monster interview with a beautiful girl 80 things about the Hose Monster 20 things about the Hose Monster All Archives Bathroom Conversations Cell Phones Piss Cabin Flushing Magazines Cold Toilet Nohr Nohr 1 Nohr 2 She Inspires Me Old Flames Blue Thong Rain Saturday Morning More Rain Waking Dream Tony Pierce Ultrablognetic Meeshness Moxie Jam Sandwhich Off-Wing Opinion Dan the Goose Mad Pony Ham Fisted Theatrics E-mail Me	1.27.2003 Two small lads, ignoring the oppressive heat of the Arizona desert, had worked themselves into a frenzy of excitement while running around the backyard of the small condominium tucked quietly into a corner of a community overwhelming populated by Americans closely following the decrees of the candidates regarding the necessity of a national prescription drug program. On this afternoon, the source of the excitement was a item crafted a year ago, to which we shall simply call “The Booker.” “It is the greatest one ever made,” the one lad, who stood roughly a head taller than his companion, said to the other. “No way it can do that stuff,” the shorter one replied. “Wanna bet?” “Let's see it.” The two melted their way into the house and proceeded to tear apart the contents of a hall closet in search of “The Booker.” Just as the shorter one was about to give up hope, his friend stood up with a champion’s smile plastered across his face. Above his head he held it, held in its foldings by a large paper clip. Tattooed on both sides of the fuselage sat the Magic Marker words “The Booker.” It was clearly the greatest paper airplane ever. The simple sight of “The Booker” had driven the shorter lad into a frenzy. Forgotten were his assertions that “The Booker” could not fly for thirty seconds at a time, or that he had made a 13 year-old’s bet with his friend, the type of bet that you under no circumstances wanted to lose for consequence of being labeled a loser by your friend. No no, our young lad wanted nothing more in these moments than to see just how much booking “The Booker” could do. He tore off at a sprint in the direction of the sliding glass door, hitting his full stride as he approached the open doorway. Or so he thought it was. The bang produced by the collision between all 95 pounds of the young chap and the equally strong panel glass echoed throughout the halls of the small abode. His friend would later marvel at the enormous size of the smudge left on the glass by the boy’s nose; the fallen kid would have likely done the same if he could have seen it. But for him, everything had gone dark.