Once upon a time, there was an octopus who loved hyperbole. His favorite pastime was to sit around and spin long yarns about most anything. His second favorite pastime was to say hyperbole as many times as he could, because he loved the way it rolled off his tongue. (note, I had planned to strike this out by saying that octopuses don’t have tongues. Turns out they do. Humor attempt: thwarted.) Oh, wait, octopuses can’t sit. And it’s octopi.
Once upon a time, there was an elephant who loved hyperbole. His favorite pastime was to sit around and spin long yarns about most anything. His second favorite pastime was to say hyperbole as many times as he could, because he loved the way it rolled off his tongue. This elephant’s name was Walter. Because of his tendency to tell tall tales, Walter was rather short on friends. You see, Walter’s peers did not share his appreciation for certain literary devices, and with good reason: they were animals. Animals can’t appreciate literature. Walter was rarely invited to parties anymore because of his habit of honing his hyperbolic handiness. However, he continued to collect his creative capabilities to conceive more compositions of colorful capacity. He often practiced his delivery in the woods, to make sure that his stories were as absurd and hilarious as he could make them. Though he seemed satisfied spending much of his time making up stories, Walter yearned for more. He wanted an audience. He wanted someone to appreciate his efforts. Soon, Walter became discouraged. He stopped practicing his deliveries. No one wanted to hear his tales anyway. Finally, he gave up entertaining even himself with his exaggerations. He used his trunk to burrow a hole in the ground, and when it was finished, he crawled inside it and hid, keeping only his trunk above ground for air. The sky began to rain. One drop landed at precisely the perfect spot on a leaf, and a tiny tree frog came tumbling down from high atop a tree and landed squarely on Walter’s trunk. This spooked Walter terribly, so that he jumped up from his hole in the ground, leaving behind a massive crater. The tree frog managed to hang on to Walter’s trunk, and he stayed there clinging for dear life until Walter noticed him.
“Why, hello, tiny toad. To what do I owe this surprise visit from such a petite reptile as yourself?” Asked Walter.
“T-t-t-t-t-titus is m-m-m-m-my name, s-s-s-sir. I-i-i-i-i’ve got, a t-tendency to stutter-ter-ter.” Walter gazed at Titus for a moment, mesmerized. Here was a minute tree frog, but he contained all the rapping power of Eminem and Jay-Z without all the swearing and crude content! This was brilliant! Titus glanced down, obviously ashamed of his imperfection. Walter’s mind began to spin at all the possibilities for greatness. With his literary genius combined with Titus’s hip hop prowess, the duo could be unstoppable! They set to work almost immediately on writing a rap that would soon gain renown as the greatest song ever written in the history of the animal kingdom.
The lyrics were as follows:
Born on the south side of the jungle gym
Where we rumbled and raved till the rhythms went dim
He had a body mass index of four hundred and nine
While some may call it fat, I think it’s just fine
He had alliterative tendencies that troubled my peers
They’re allergic to his aphoristic anthems, I fear
He has seventeen addresses that receive hate mail
And he checks them every day so it doesn’t get stale
As you can probably imagine this routine got old
So he poured out all his patience and stuck his head in a hole
In a log lying lamely in a luminous pile
Of Kentucky Fried Chicken spanning over a mile
His appetite was fierce and this aviary grub
Burned like fire in his eyes, so attractive to that chub
But as he sank in his teeth, out of the corner of his eye
He saw a fly being swallowed by a little green guy
T-t-titus was his name and a t-tendency to stammer
Put his rapping potential up with the likes of MC Hammer
He was bound for superstardom and if you can’t already see
The r-rapper called T-t-titus was none other than m-m-me
I travel the world in my 747
I hit up the clubs where we party till eleven
In the morning when it’s light, you’d think we be gettin’ tired
But I just down another Monster so as not to expire
Now a fateful Monday morning on a maniacal Monster craze
We’d partied so hard the room was filled with purple haze
My imp-p-pediment dulled my diction down to downright disgusting
All the sugar I’d consumed had my dental fixtures rusting
So Walter and I up and quit the clubbin’ scene
Yeah we joined a monastery like those dudes from Nicene
So the moral of the story as I think I’ve made it clear
Is if you ever see an amphibious rapper come near
Enjoy your little lick of limelight ’cause it won’t last long
Then prepare yourself for a life of chanting Gregorian songs
Now here’s another line as a bonus prize:
I like Italian dressing on Slovakian french fries
No that’s not quite right…how about “Hand me the vuvuzela or i’ll poke out your eyes!”
No, no, no…”Every time you catch a fastball a Puerto Rican child dies?”
No, that’s a bit racist. Hmm…”They’re taking the hobbits to Isengard, guys!!!!”
Wait a second, that’s not very original.
All this idiotic indecision is making Anna cry.
And that was the end of the song.
Within about 2 weeks of radio play, the song had eclipsed every number 1 that has ever been released by Lady Gaga, Katy Perry, and Ke$ha, combined. It went viral all over the internet. Soon, Walter and Titus became so ridiculously famous that they had to go and hide in the rain forest to escape all the paparazzi. To ensure that they went out with a bang, Walter and Titus had wax replicas of themselves made to look like they were dead. They left the replicas in their shared apartment along with several empty bottles of pills. When Walter and Titus arrived back home in their African rain forest, they breathed a sigh of relief. They were glad to be rid of all the publicity. Coincidentally, they found the recording studio where all the “dead” artists make their music. There, they ran in to Tupac Shakur, Michael Jackson, Amy Winehouse, Kurt Cobain, and Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. Walter and Titus were offered a multi-million dollar contract with the studio, but they refused. The elephant and the frog were now officially out of the music business. They’d had their fun, but it was time to go back to being an animal again. They declined the music contract, and the two lived happily ever after as renegades in the African Rainforest, writing raps that would never be read and resting them in a red repository which was reserved in a remote region which required religious repetition of rites for reception.
Special thanks to Jeremiah for that EPIC rap! Also to http://www.thesaurus.com for help on the alliteration. 😀