The yellow orb.
It beats down unflinchingly.
Never ceasing its work cracking and scorching this barren wasteland.
Our motley crew of short and tall prepares for the long journey across the black nothingness to the green oasis of memories past. The spheroids flying and the metal pinging with the showering lusciousness of barleywines tempts and calls our names.
But the small ones cry and squalor.
”BRING MY RAINBOW UNICORN DADDY!”
I’ve made this journey before, but this one is greater than those in the past circular trip around the ceaseless yellow orb.
The ruffians from Hopsville, the Bearboys, and the Technecks rumble to our oasis raring to sully and celebrate its demolition.
Preparations must be made now.
Bring on the sudsy, yellow sustenance in mass quantities.
The tubular meat casings must be ready for the bonfire of provision built by the dark compressed bricks of firelife.
And the small ones. Oh the small ones.
Their ambulatory challenges decry your expeditious journey. Strengthen your two walking sticks - now a muleman for these little ones.
”WE’RE GONNA MISS EVERYTHING!”
”DO THEY HAVE CHICKFILA?!?!”
Our fantastical oasis draws near though it seems further away. The time is nigh.
Also, please make sure to put on sunscreen if you’re going to be out there all day in the heat, y’all. Melanoma is a real thing.