Aboard My Train Of Thought, Scott C. Endsley [reading comprehension books .TXT] 📗

where we were waiting in line for a vacant table. "Dawn Comes With Rosy Fingers," he spoke in a hoarse whispery voice.

Strange drew a revolver from a holster I hadn't noticed, strapped to his right knee, and pulled the trigger, aiming for Homer's chest.

"Whadja do that for?!!!" I shouted.

"Well, I figured he was this 'strange' character you've been warning me about."

"No Strange!" I attempted to forcefully assist him to remember what I was trying to drive into his thick skull by slapping the top of his head. "You've just shot Homer, the Intellectually Inept!"

"Oh, now I get it!" Strange remarked, shrugging his shoulders as I stooped down to Homer who lay dying.

"Homer, you got to think real hard; this isn't my story, and I have no inkling as to what the answering phrase to Yesterday's milk is tomorrow's curds, is."

Homer gasped for breath, but managed to declare "I'm not the... the... milkman...uh (cough cough)..." Then breathed his final breath.

I closed Homer's eyes as Strange crossed himself. "What did he mean, the milkman?" I sighed..
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(Episode 5)
As Strange was gobbling down his lunch while sitting on Homer's corpse, for the lack of empty seats, I was trying to put the pieces together in my mind. A couple of rows up sat a face I was well-aquainted with. Could it be? Yes, it was Marty! Of course! Marty is the Milkman! "Marty, how did you get here?" I hooted kind of puzzled.

He looked up in surprise with a piece of lettuce from his buffalo burger hanging from his mouth. "I was out deliverin' milk in yer neighborhood early this mornin', when all the sudden, this one-eyed midget holdn' a cat in one arm and runnin' outta yer house, holdin' a word processor under the other. Next thing I knew I'd landed on a large pile of rocks... head first!"

"So, Marty," I whispered closely, "what's the answering phrase to Yesterday's Milk Is Tomorrow's Curds?!"

Startled by my intrigue of a seemingly meaningless lyric, he almost choked on a Bunion Ring. "It ain't nothin', Clyde. Just a stupid poem I made up."

"Stupid or not," I said grabbing his hand as it was about to once more feed his face, "it's probably our only hope of getting out of this fictional muddle we're in!"

He stopped and took a big slurp of his Fermented Brussels Sprout Soda, and belched politely with his face imbedded in his napkin. "Ok, Ok...Yesterday's Milk is Tomorrows Curds; But Cow Patties Burn Better Than Buffalo Turds...I told you it ain't nothin'."

Marty informed me that there were others deep in the Fictional Forest, hiding in a cave. I instructed him that we'd have to assemble the entire group together and search for The Merry Calypso Singers, they were undoubtedly our only covert connection in this whole matter.

Upon departing from The City Of The Intellectually Inept, we entered deep into The Fictional Forrest on a drawn-out quest for everyone else. Nearing the underground shelter deep-set into the fringe of a humble foothill, Maggie came running toward us. "Mag, is that you?" I asked, blocking the sun from my eyes.

"Aye Clyde, I'm sure you know me good friend Deputy Doodah!"

Doodah appeared out from behind some bushes then recognized us. "Clyde, I have some very important information for you..."


(We'll return to Yesterday's Milk Is Tomorrow's Curds, after this brief public service announcement).
If you smoke....Stop!!!!!!!!
(We now return to Yesterday's Milk Is Tomorrow's Curds, starring Clyde P. Hipwing!)


"Now what in tarnation was that all about?" Doodah scratched his head. "Now I've lost my train of thought..."

"YOU TOO?!?!" I asked surprised.

"Oh yeah," Doodah remembered, "There's a unusual fella inside with some big news for ya about the one-eyed midget!"

Upon entering the small but spacious cavern, I spied a middle aged hooligan looking fellow with an effortless-to-behold-in-the-dusk 5 o'clock shaddow. "Hello Clyde." He somberly spoke.

"Mr Pigglesworth, is that you?"

Elmo cleared his throat. "I've got some information concerning Mr Big, the one-eyed midget. Now, I haven't been able to maintain contact with my collegues as to whether Chairman Meow, the Rumpusaurous Rex, has in fact completed his task in devouring him as of yet, but if not, your job once you return from the Fictional Forest is to, in essence, blackmail the one-eyed midget to return, or face public disgrace in light of the following info. Listen carefully:

"As a young sprout, he financed his college tuition 25 years ago with a money making scam, targeting the old and senile, making a killing by posing as a 'Professional Door To Door Toilet Flusher,' charging $10 a flush!

"He's been twice abducted by Europan Moon Women, and is known to have fathered as many as a dozen half human/half Europan children; thus contracting an extremely rare skin disease called, The Bacteria Poop Syndrome (BPS). Bacteria from the inner body work their way up to the outer layer of the epidermis and defecate in large quantities, turning the flesh into Cheddar, Mozzarella, Swiss, Colby, Monterey Jack, Parmesan or Cottage Cheese, depending on your ethnic background. Every month the victim sheds about a pound of cheese that's sold to your unsuspecting neighborhood Mom and Pop grocery store; to help pay medical costs and earn a little profit for the grocer.

"Mr Big is now suffering from the far more advanced stages of the disease; and his feet are gradually succumbing to the final, most decisively horrifying manifestation due to the affliction; Limburger cheese. For that very reason, he belongs to a highly, secretive support group, called 'Odor Eaters Anonymous.' The group gets together two times a week, wearing paper bags over their heads so as to not recognize each other. Everyone is to participate in an hour long session of foot washing; to share in each other's misery and shame.

"You present the warning to Mr Big, and he'll have no choice but to return to the Fictional Forest." Pigglesworth announced.

"Wow, where did you get all of this?" I whispered, being very deeply struck that a simple cherry picker would have the resources to gather such sensitive information. But, how stupid of me, he could For-saw the past!.

Then He leaned closer... "It's all in The X-Wife Files!"
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(Episode 6)
After a near complete fortnight while surviving on wild berries, nuts and maple sap; we woke on the 13th morning, eyeing the The Merry Calypso Singers approaching our encampment. "Go ahead Marty, you know what to do!" I prodded.

Marty swaggered toward the obvious chieftain of the gleeful bunch. "Are you the Milkman?" The band leader demanded.

"I am!" Marty boasted.

"Yesterday's Milk Is Tomorrow's Curds!...." the leader prompted.

"...And Cowpatties Burn Better Than Buffalo Turds!" Marty heralded with his chin held towering high.

I, with much ado, darted at the leader who subsequently reared back and hurled a blazing cowpattie, just missing my right shoulder, after I approached to greet him. "Why do you guys keep doing this to me?!" I whimpered..

"We don't want you! We want the Milkman!" The headman insisted.

Marty advanced forward as the Merry Men picked him up over their heads, hailing "God save the Milkman!"... and marched on.

We tarried along for miles, and still more miles, until we fell upon a massive pile of mangled wreckage..."My demolished Train of Thought!" I cried.
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(Episode 7)
"I hope you know, though I don't need to assist you much... I'm going to do everything I can to make a fool of you!" Matilda clawed at Mr. Big.

"Shut up, pretty pussy cat, you're gonna make me rich!"

"And now, live from the Sands Motel, in Las Vegas, Nevada.... Ladies and Gentlemen, it is my privilege to introduce to you this evening...Emilio Esparanza Muchco Gusto Julio Bigjohn, i.e. Mr. Big, and the world's only talking cat!"

After about five minutes of thunderous applause, Mr. Big started his gigantic leap into world fame. "Thank you, Ladies and Gentlemen .... What I'm going to demonstrate to you this evening, took years of hard work in exhaustive efforts to teach a rather dumb feline to master the English language. No one else in all the world can take credit for my fantastic feat. She holds a PhD, has dined with 3 US presidents, 14 different world ambassadors; and knows 23 different languages from many different nations."

"Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!" The audience sighed in adoration.

And now! .... Ladies and Gentlemen," Mr Big proudly announced, "I shall ask Miss Matilda Waudlebaum the following Question: In all the years of my exhaustive genius efforts, as concerns your education, how be it that you of all dumb... er um...uneducated species can express your innermost thoughts in the English dialect?"

Matilda replied quite profoundly....... "Meow."

The crowd dotingly chuckled as she rubbed up next to the microphone, purring for all to hear.

"I'm gonna have violin strings made from your entrails, if you don't co-operate, cat!" Mr. Big whispered, covering the mic. "She's just kidding, aren't you, Matilda?"

"That's right, Ladies and Gentlemen, I was left at an orphanage at 3 months of age, until my humble Mr. Big rescued me. I never had to sleep outside, ate the most nutritious of food; and after he taught me to speak, he enrolled me in the finest Ivy League school in the nation!"

"Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!" The audience melted as Mr. Big smiled and winked his only eye to the camera.

"But, if you think I'M fascinating," Matilda purred, "I'd like to introduce you all to someone who REALLY has a lot to say!"

"WHO?!" Mr. Big nervously inquired.

"Let's give a big hand for Mrs. Nelly Big, who is sure to entertain us with a fun-filled evening of fascinating tales of her estranged husband, come on out, Nelly!"

"But, but, but there is no Mrs......"

"Hi, dumplings," Nelly winked, "as soon as Miss Waudlebaum informed me of this occasion, I cancelled all my prior promised appointments just to speak on your behalf. Now, where do I begin? Oh yes, let's talk about all the troubles in the bedroom..."

"Woooooooooooooooh!" The crowd lit up.

"Oh, I'm gonna kill you, cat!!!!" Mr. Big yelled, while in pursuit of Matilda as the crowd became indignant -- throwing chairs, shoes, the four basic food groups, and whatever else was available, on to the stage. Just as you'd think there absolutely wasn't anything left to throw, a brawny gentleman in the first row leaped onto the stage and clobbered Mr. Big with a 60 pound kitchen sink over his oversized head, knocking him senselessly comatose. BONK!!!!!!!

"Woooooooooooooooooh! Ouchhhhhhh!!!!!!!!"

Then, there was a sudden hush on the crowd as the floor rumbled and the fire breathing Rumpasourous Rex, Chairman Meow, exploded like a ruptured appendix... and pounced on Mr. Big, rump first, over his entire face; then loosed an enormous 300 decibel hunk of cheese, shattering Mr. Big's every bone... not to mention bringing down all the fancy portraits hanging on the walls. He arose triumphantly and swallowed the One-Eyed Midget