Disclaimer: I’m still not a vegetarian, but I have substantially reduced my beef and pork intake because a doctor diagnosed me with the cholesterol of a 64 year-old Republican rancher three years ago. I was 23 at the time, and the condition is known as “You’re fucked.” Best of all, both my parents and all four of my grandparents were also diagnosed with Cholesterolus Fuckingkillyouitis early in their lives as well, so if I suddenly stop blogging, bet your money on a heart attack. If I die in the next few weeks, consider this my Last Will and Testament. I want a pony, and a jump rope, and an astronaut suit, Santa! I’m not entirely sure which way wills work. Get stuff while you live or give stuff when you when you die? I just want the one with more ponies. Anyway, read some stuff I wrote about vegetables.
My chest heaved as I finally crested the hill. I turned and gazed back at Broccoliworts, the only real Holliday Inn that I had ever known. I needed a break; I’d been traveling for hours. I sat down, swigging kombucha as I studied my map. It clearly detailed a perfectly straight road from Broccoliworts to Mt. Quinoa, but such a path wouldn’t make for an engaging character arc because I’m not a good enough writer to show catalytic personal growth with nuanced introspection, so the route I planned began with The Rolling Hills, then wound through The Abhorrent Swamp, and eventually finished with The Really, Really Tall Mountains. I’m more of a club-swinger than a scalpel-wielder when it comes to fantasy writing, apparently. The manic route I plotted snaked through an incredible 250 miles of wilderness, whereas the main road looked to take 30 minutes by Lyft. I can’t understate how ideal this road is. It’s a fucking highway. Just let me swing my damn club. I resumed my trek through the hills, occasionally swerving, zigging, and zagging, for character-building purposes. Consider each swerve, zig, and zag +1 Character growth for me since I haven’t written enough of a backstory for my character in this to show any truly measurable growth. At best, my character is somewhat boring and probably autistic. I marched on through the hills, sustained by grass awns pulled from my socks and the occasional bite of Lembas bread. Yeah that’s right, I went there. Fucking sue me, Tolkien, I’m sure my 42 followers will suffer a supreme disappointment when my monthly 600-word blog posts stop appearing in their spam folder. Since nothing cool ever happens in hills (hills without eyes, anyway), I soon found myself at the edge of The Abhorrent Swamp with a staggering 1,735 character points that I couldn’t spend, because even though I could send this whole story careening into Role-Playing Game territory, I’ve already written most of this paragraph with my characteristic self-indulgence, so I’m going to try to focus. Cut me some slack though, they’re fucking hills. Hills are just a fantasy narrative device to buy you time until you think of something actually interes- hang on, I’ve got it!
At the entrance to the swamp, a figure hung upside-down from the nearest bough. It was clad toe-to-head in red and blue spandex with his fists clenched between his knees, which were spread wide to the side, even as the bottoms of his feet were pressed tightly together. Already wary of superheroes, I approached carefully as he slowly lowered himself until we were face-to-face. “You have a knack for getting in trouble,” he said, his voice muffled by his mask. “Professor Bale already tried that, I’m not going to kiss you,” I answered. Tobey Maguire ripped off his mask. “Batman stole my gig?” he asked, incredulously. “It doesn’t even make sense, the cape would flap down and look stupid.” I leaned back and asked “Do you just hang here and try to make out with strangers?” Indignantly, he replied “Trust me, if I had just saved you from four assailants in an alley and it was raining heavily, you’d be into it!” I pushed past him and headed for the darkness of the swamp. “Watch out for Russell!” Tobey called, before shooting his webbing into the trees and disappearing from the camera shot. I brushed off Tobey’s last remark, since he was probably just mad that I didn’t make out with him. Hell hath no wrath like a Friendly Neighborhood Spiderman scorned. Seriously, he was a super-dick to Mary Jane after she broke up with him! Pathological, even. But as I fought through the still, oppressive swamp air, Tobey’s last words rang in my ears like the church bell that fucks up black Spiderman. Not black Spiderman like when everyone wanted Donald Glover to play the new Spiderman, but black Spiderman as in the Spiderman who is evil because his tights are black. Glad I had to clear that up, welcome to America! Tobey’s warning rang again in my ears, and I began to worry. “Who’s Russell?” I thought to myself. As I walked, I pulled out my phone to Google celebrity vegetarians to prepare myself for what personality potentially patrolled the swamp depths. No signal. That’s how you know it’s a good swamp, trust me, I’m a writer. Suddenly, a single Wi-fi network with a weak connection appeared on my screen. InfntSrrw. InfntSrrw? What could that mean? If I could just add in some vowels, it might make sen- sweet Mother of Asparagus! Whipping my head to the side, I searched desperately for a route off the main path. Venus Fly Traps the size of slightly larger-than-average Venus Fly Traps staggered the right side of the path, randomly snapping shut as they consumed one of the ubiquitous flies before opening slowly and effortfully, as Tom Cruise opens his eyes after realizing a new action movie will pay him millions of dollars for almost zero acting. If I hadn’t received my education at a Holliday Inn, then I’d know that Venus Fly Traps are harmless to people, however, thousands of years of human evolution told me to be wary of plants with teeth that are catching and eating things of their own volition. There was no escape on the right side of the path. I turned around. A thin, mousy-looking Christian Bale clad in tattered clothing from the Old West holding a battered rifle stared intensely and silently back at me. Perfect. Desperate, indefatigable, and obsessed with keeping appointments crucial to the plot, 3:10 to Yuma Christian Bale was the last thing I needed right now. He motioned with his rifle for me to move down the path. With a resigned sigh, I began trudging down the path before checking my phone. Two Wi-fi bars. I’d baited Omnivores with meat, but I’d never fought another Vegetarian, except for the times when Batman wouldn’t take “no” for an answer. I wasn’t prepared for this. I hesitated. A loud click sounded from my left as Christian Bale cocked the hammer on his rifle. I continued down the path, checking my phone as I walked. Three bars. The hair on my neck stood as I readied myself for Russell. A particularly short, mangled tree stood in a clearing ahead of me, obscured by fog. As I approached, the twisted tree resolved into Russell Brand, dressed in a tight leather vest and even tighter leather pants, holding himself in a particularly elaborate yoga pose. As I entered the clearing, Russell untangled himself from himself and stood in the middle of the path, barring my way. “‘Ello, mate,” he said. When I didn’t respond, he continued “If it’s enlightenment you seek, you’re gonna haf to go fru me.”
LeVar Burton is a Maybe 