Arthur Graham’s Reviews > Tall Tales with Short Cocks Vol. 4 > Status Update

“So, now what’s this terrorist organization you wanted to tell me about?”
“They are in Siberia,” Alexey said, lapping more vodka. “Very bad. They hate America and support Al Qaeda. At least, that is what I have heard. Their name is The Yeti.”
“The Yeti?” Christian said. “That sounds familiar.”
“No, you are pronouncing it wrong. The Yeti.”
“What kind of name is that?”
“It is a Muslim name. Excuse me.”

Alexey explained the situation with the Yetis and bears, and the Chairman nodded his fat head thoughtfully.
“Do we know the ideological persuasion of these Yetis?” he asked.
“No,” Alexey said.
“And you bears all accept the basic tenets of Marxism-Leninism?”
“Oh, yes,” Alexey replied, even though he had no idea what Marxism-Leninism was.

All over Russia, bears were depressed. The Yeti were moving west. This was due to global warming, but the bears hadn’t gone to university so they didn’t understand the bigger picture. All they knew was that one day bears were the best animals, and the next these strange creatures were punching them in the face and eating all their salmon and berries.

Alexey was a Northern Black Bear. He weighed 480 lbs and stood seven feet tall on his hind legs. His fur was thick and his rock-hard skull could withstand a round from a .22 rifle. He was death on four paws. Hikers felt their bowels turn to ice water when they heard his growl. He was massive. He was intimidating. He was terrifying. So he was very surprised to find himself getting punched in the face by a yeti.

Rosa threw the dishwasher open as she stumbled past, its door falling like a giant foot in a Monty Python sketch. Nine angry gnomes were instantly pulverized as she hopped up onto the counter, and twice as many cracked collectibles immediately took their place. They swarmed across the fallen door, taking up dirty knives and crusty forks along the way.
“You said you did the dishes!” Calvin screamed.

“This was a spectacularly terrible idea,” Rosa observed.
“I’m beginning to see that now,” Calvin replied, reaching for the metal rolling pin. He then began rapidly rubbing his feet over the small patch of carpet left to them.
“What are you—”
“Static electricity,” he said, “I’m gonna pull a MacGuyver on their asses and electrocute them with science!”
“That rolling pin has a non-stick rubber coating, Cal.”

Safely hunkered down in their furniture fort—with only minor burns from Calvin’s ill-conceived toaster-fork-launcher attempt—Rosa & Calvin ceased swatting at the pint-sized predators to take a quick inventory of their supplies: the rolling pin, the comal, 6 Snickers, 3 coffee mugs, and a television remote.
“If we take the batteries out first, we’ll have THREE things to throw,” said Calvin, disassembling the remote.

“Honey, garden gnomes are not collectibles.”
“THERE’S A MARKET!”
“There’s a market for Clorox-laced heroin, too, but that doesn’t mean it’s—”
“THERE ARE CONVENTIONS.”

I don’t remember the walk to her place all that clearly. I just know that we stumbled a lot and stopped to make out a few times. The whole time, I struggled to forget that this Nicolette chick had probably just experienced some god-awful diarrhea. To be honest, it kind of made me hesitant to even hook up with her. I mean, what if she wanted me to go down on her and all I could smell was the residual shit?

I know how certain things work—girls don’t take long in the bathroom at parties, unless maybe they’re doing coke. But when a girl is in the early stages of dating, or in the even earlier stages of flirting, they’re in & out of there in a matter of seconds. Even when it’s a poop. In fact, usually at parties they poop even faster than they pee so they can instantly flush the stink away. But anyways, I digress.