CHRIMAS HODBOE had another glorious Saturday, which means so did everyone on the 10am, 12pm, and 2pm tours. The La Jolla Ecological Preserve was cold and cloudy and still considered perfect because of CHRIMAS HODBOE. CHRIMAS HODBOE doesn’t always use gravity, but when he does he makes it feel cheap.
CHRIMAS HODBOE took two seconds to think about crime on Saturday and guess what happened? Crime rate was zero for the next two hours, for the entire world. CHRIMAS HODBOE is unaffected by paradox. In fact, CHRIMAS HODBOE created paradox, and almonds. You’re welcome nerds.
Tsunamis and tigers have been known to run from CHRIMAS HODBOE.
Speaking of tigers, let’s talk about ligers. Ligers are real. They are the product of a male lion, a female tiger and CHRIMAS HODBOE. Big cats have a growth inhibitor gene that keeps them from reaching unsustainable size in the wild. This gene was placed in the female genome of lions and in the male genome of tigers by CHRIMAS HODBOE. Ligers are born without growth inhibitor genes and are thus able to reach heights of 14 ft. and weigh over 900 lbs. They are giants while tigons (products of male tigers and female lions and not CHRIMAS HODBOE) are dwarves. CHRIMAS HODBOE does not like dwarves. Unless they carry an axe and have a red beard longer than they are tall.
Here’s a quick guide to success:
1. Find CHRIMAS HODBOE.
In 1981, every bestselling book was written by CHRIMAS HODBOE. Each book was gifted to the “author” in a nightmare. This is the nightmare they all had:
The rusted metal door of the storage unit glistened with moisture from the dissipating fog of the late night. Weak light shone on the chipped paint of the stenciled number 42 above the door. Each step towards the door sent a muffled echo through the empty rows of storage units. He looked at the key in his hand. It was the only thing left in his father’s house. Each click of it sliding slowly into the lock quickened his heartbeat. The sound of the bolt disengaging felt like the judgement of a gavel cracking down. With sweaty palms he pushed the roll-down door of the unit up, the stillness of the night destroyed by the noise of the door retracting.
He wasn’t sure what he was expecting, but the floor to ceiling hoard of odds and ends wasn’t it. The pale light of the moon, only barely increased by the lone lamp at the far end of the corridor, bathed stacked boxes and pieces of old and rotten furniture. Loose articles of clothing could be seen randomly placed among the containers. An old blender perched precariously on an end table, filled with dirty and yellowed golf balls. As he stepped closer, a powerful mustiness and sickly sweet smell assaulted him.
He reached up and pulled down a faded pencil box and opened it. Lisa Frank stickers and pencils threatened to spill out. He put the box down beside him and pulled on the end table. For the next hour, he rummaged through the assortment of items. It seemed like anything and everything was collected without any rhyme or reason as to why. He found baseball cards crumpled up next to lawn darts. A bust of some roman philosopher rested on a decrepit nightstand next to a glass jar filled with dimes. He pulled all these things out and into the corridor. With each new worthless piece of crap he removed, a hole in the hoard became bigger and his pulse quickened.
An incredible urgency swept through him as he made his way deeper into the trove of junk. Faster and faster he removed the items. He was almost throwing things as he pawed his way into his father’s collection. He flung a huge mesh bag of wine bottle corks out of the mass, revealing a desk at head height. He could see through the hole in the junk the desk made. It was empty and dark beyond it. Climbing up, his excitement continued to build. Something more had to be behind there, something worth hiding behind all this shit.
Pulling his head and shoulders through, his hands grabbed hold of a metal pipe running down from the ceiling and elbowing off into the darkness. He struggled to squeeze through the opening, the skin of his protruding belly folding over painfully as he wormed his way in. Holding onto the pipe, he finally pulled the rest of his body through the opening, his legs reaching down to find the floor. His heart hammered in his chest. The sickly odor hung heavily over him. The light from outside was but a small beam shining past his face. He stepped forward, groping along the wall of junk.
Inching his way deeper into the dark unit, the hairs stood up on the back of his neck. Closer and closer he made his way to the light shining through. A noise from within stopped him cold. The sound of metal dragging reached his ears from directly across him. A rasping croak rang out and immobilized him in fear. A torrent of chains being snapped taut sang loudly as a white face thrust into the light in front of him. He stumbled back, scrambling on the damp concrete floor and stared in horror at the gaping mouth and waxy face writhing in the light. Clumps of stringy hair on it’s balding head hung wetly against it’s face. Bulging eyes with milky cataracts sought blindly for him. The gasping croak raised in pitch and intensity, spilling out from the missing spaces of brown teeth in an enormous mouth. Clawed hands strained against thick chains as it pleaded in a cracked and rough voice, “Feed me.”
Each “author” woke up after having this dream, ate a pancake without syrup and sat down at an Underwood No. 5 typewriter and wrote Jumanji, Cujo, Red Dragon, Djinn, and The One Minute Manager. Again, you’re welcome bookworms.
CHRIMAS HODBOE rarely eats pancakes. Osmosis was invented by CHRIMAS HODBOE as his preferred method of reading.
Goodreads Book Giveaway
Giveaway ends December 03, 2013.
See the giveaway details