Funfiltered Episode #021 - "You're Just a Poopy Pancake"

Day 2 within Day 51. It is three nights ago*. Day 48. The hour for hitting hay impends. With civic opinion of Bassett at base-level, he is aerobically hampered. I bid Pfidze to slink from her room pre-cockcrow and proceed cattily† to the raven cage - Bassett‘s in a no-flutter funk and his plumage must know the wind. Pfidze overcomes her adiposity and deftly abides. She untethers Bassett. He soars freeward. He encircles. He LIVES. It is two nights ago. Avian discharge is found in the trifle. How was the trifle open to disgrace? Why was it un-fridged? Enigmata that precipitously unravel when one considers… if one was to enjoin Bugs Bunny to tend an allotment, one would be a fool to expect one’s carrots unmolested. To the pitchfork peasants, I swear on my children’s lives that I did not emancipate the bird‡. But it turns out that Bart fucking Joyles has installed a “nanny cam” concealed within an artificial fern. It is now. They bay for Bassett’s blood. My black beauty and I are insulated within the sequestration within the quarantine. I have barricaded the door to my room. I am the toy within the pod within the Kinder Surprise. If you have arms, please take them up and rush to my aid. I am at the Hope High Castle, just off the Billham junction in Bracknell. You will face resistance. Vanquish it. I’m in Room 6. Please bring food. Fuck the podcast, where are you cruds when I need you?! *I am employing the present tense for narrative wield, though I will admit my internal sense of linear chronology is going the way of the paper map. †In a furtive, feline fashion, not in the manner of a bitch. It was a big ask for an even bigger lass but have you pegged the km/h a tiger clocks? ‡Such empty affirmations are of substance to simpletons. Anyway, I didn’t do it, did I? As far as I understand, proxies fall outside the parameters of culpability. Like crossing your fingers when fibbing.