Three Debates and Not a Single Discussion About Floorboards Barry
I am once again clinging to the ceiling out of fear of the demonic woodrascal known as Floorboards Barry, and watching the next two presidents debate on my TV. They had several bad ideas about crime, many good ideas about continuing to breathe so they don’t die (underrated quality to have in your two presidents), and no ideas about what to do with the man who skitters beneath my bulgeboards.
Make no mistake: Barry is as bad as 10 Aleppos, and maybe only three 9/11s, fine. I once claimed the 9/11s could go as high as 8, and someone on Twitter said “nah 3 fam,” and they pretty much nailed my ass on that one. So 3. But still. Barry boy. He’s got to get squished.
A true prez would walk up to the mic, breathe, say “is this doofus speakin’ stick even turned on, mic check 1–2,” breathe again deeply, and launch into all the ways they must stop Floorboards Barry in his tracks. I was on the edge of my ceiling waiting for an answer, and it never came from either Donald Turnblatt or Professor Grandma. To make matters worse, Barry giggled at me from beneath the floor the entire time, whispering “They’ll never help you…they’ll never come…you’re stuck here…in this house with me…”
“Shut up Barry,” I wept, praying either of our new presidents would save me with a frosty cool plan. My tears dripped down my upside-down cheeks, falling away from my face as I clutched the rafters tight.
“You’re…cryinggggg…” Barry chuckled.
“No I’m not, shut up, let me listen to my debates,” I stuttered between gaping sobs.
“I can taste your tears beneath the boards…your eye sweat…it gives me…strength…” I saw the boards heave and recede with newfound girth, which frightened me. Barry seemed to be doing that with only the slightest erotic breaths. He truly was growing in power.
“Oh keep crying ceiling boy…keep sobbing for a savior, you juicy clutch-child…it only compels me to rise…further…mmmmmmmmm…ohhhhhhhhh…”
It got so frightening, hearing his many sensuous moans and groans and seeing the big bulge get larger and larger with every spritzing of my adult tears, that I closed my eyes and wished for Floorboards Barry to go away. He said “My bulge is large enoughhhhh to hear your thoughtssssss, little rude gargoyle of the asbestos kingdom. I know you have wissssshed me away. But I will returnnnnnn.” And then the undulating floorboards sank back to their foundations, perfectly still. A warm sigh reverberated through the house — I could feel his terrifying essence permeating the walls, tickling the hairs of my forearm, frolicking in the secret garden of my earlobes, sub-vocalizing sweet secrets in the door to my brain.
Then he was gone. I tried scaling down the walls to the floor, but I gingerly touched the boards with one toe and it burned the pads of my feet! So now I live up here.
Yesterday I looked outside the window and saw the mailman walking backwards. That’s all he does now, walk perfectly backwards, break into a silly backwards dance, and never deliver anything. I am betting good money that’s Barry knocking around inside his body. I need mail so I can pay my bills!
Three debates and not one solution about how to get rid of Barry! When will these clowns stop dividing this nation and focus on the real issues?
