ONE DAY
I became the president of the National Elephant’s Cream Society. Yes. Weird. No. Not Really. Yes? Maybe.

Do you think?
The purple chickens with orange spots flew away to join the land of the hopscotch’s delight. Who was left? Nobody but the lonely gold elephants churning their butter into cream. About 24 clones of Orlando Bloom came to visit about a year ago, but only caused chaos when they stole the butter. Buddha lived here about 54 years ago, when the purple chickens with orange spots ruled over the land. Thank the Lord, that I became president of all this. Cream?

Cream has been made here for the past 99,875 years to sweeten the mouth of all sins. To attract all angels to the sweetness of no sin. Banjos are very common on my land. The leprechauns. They enjoy dancing to our kvetch music. Translucent windows shatter into 96 pieces! SOME falling into the butter. OH NO!
What to lollop???

RIFF RAFF.
So ironic, exotic, automatic.
Our butter. Our cream.

Teapots, it’s what we use to store the cream. Coffee pots. It’s causing global warming. We are the reason for the world’s destruction. We are mafia. Our cream. We are just avatars. Shadows in the blissful night.
No one knows of us.
No one speaks of us.
We are ghosts of cream.
The Brouhaha shrill. That feeling. So wonderful, yet frightening.

Guffaw, our secret language, which only our people know. The gold elephants. We do this to keep secrets between our cultures. Sepia is the only tint we see. We see no color, except gold. We wonder what colors lie underneath our masks. Schadenfreude is the name of my doctor, the only one who can fix my insanity. Or temporarily hide it. Am I insane? President of the National Elephant’s Cream Society?

You decide for yourself.