Fool.
This is the piece I did as a joke for a reading last winter on April Fools Day. The prompt was to exhibit "bad" writing. Of course I won first prize. I don't know what they were trying to tell me.

Fool

When Barth told Bif about the upcoming reading event concerning the 

April Fools hobnobbery, Bob almost immediately lost his top. His inner moist thoughts carried him into the feelings he had about the oatmeal that he had cooked earlier that day, in the morning. He had not been able to find a lid that fit significantly in a snug manner to the circumference of the pot and thereas there was not a proper seal and thusly the steam had wept out, crying out into to the birthing of the early morning airs of those early minutes of the earliest part of the day, and therefor ensuring the prosthesis that his oatmeal would for surely most likely develop into a kind of dryness the kind most people of this modern age have come to associate with an almost sure prognosis of the onsets of a yeast infection something soon to this day will come.

“Why should you be telling Bif about your plans to write something before presenting them to me?” Bob asked Barth with his hands and feets flailing about in wild abandonments. “As it was it that I first happened upon the posting on the internet much further back than the good parts of a month ago. Thirty three days to be exact. Thirty three days of my mind telling my body that it would never come up with nothing to write about worth a mere mention of the fact that it was inevitable that the fool’s day would come to inhabitate the earth and that you yes you Bif would end up on a fool’s day errand chasing the words upon the backs of every fairy tailed princesses from the harbors of New Delhi, Connecticut. Thirty three days which translates easily with a calculator into 792 hours which transcribes into over twenty seven thousand seconds never mind the milipedial tenths or one hundredsths of –parts of the seconds of time manufactured over the wombs of the inirtiatic turning of this earth’s rounds of the moon like the rouletted spinning wheel of Rupunzle and her blonde dirty eyes herself upon her spinning thread bares of gold and yes, you may have guessed it, as father time old man winter himself looked on with his graying beard that was once adorned with the same spinning nuances of the same tops of dradels that inhabit the fists of all children yet to come and that have come before and hence the Rumple Stilt skin is once again confronted with his family ties to the man the very same man and his lack of forty winks Rip van Winkle himself.

For those three men sitting there in the cafeteria, it was almost as if the water, it ran backwards instead of forwards under the bridge that day.

Barth placed his hands upon Bob’s back and started rubbing it in much the same way a man rubs a magic lamp after he has spent the good part of the night before at the house of one of the wives of one of his neighbor’s friends.

“Do not be too upset Bob,” Barth exclaimed romantically, “It is not as if the hairs on the tortoise were ever of much interest to any of the ladies anyways.” Barth smile shimmered much like a super Nova does on the outermost stretches of the universe.  He managed to expunge a shiny wink out of the right corner of his right eye to Bif, “Not the good looking ladies anyways heh Bif?”

“It is just that I am almost sheerly positive as a sheep that I shant find anything worthy to write about anyways,” Bif enamored. “A foolish heart is almost always branded by a cowboy in thick leather boots even if he is never the wiser that the hot poker is still wet in his hand,” he accrued.

Bob readjusted his sitting position, stifling an urge to run his hand down the back crack of his trousers to solve and itch that which had not just a minute before procured itself in a hostile advancement of his self awareness. That some sweat had started to gather there with no clear intention of dissapating anytime in the area anytime anywhere near soon. He wanted to reassure his friend Bif, as they had roomed together for sometime in college that he would come up with something.

“Do not worry much about it tonight Bif,” he said with an alarming velocity from his own tongue. “Something is for sure to come. You will think of something.”

“Perhaps you are right,” Barth said.

“Yes.”

“Yes.”

Bob turned and sprouted more words out of the side of jaw, “Yes.”

‘But it shalt most likely turn out to be pure drivel,” one said unto the other one.

“Perhaps you are right,” the other one said unto the one.

“Yes drivel,” the third offered up devoid of any attachment.

“Perhaps we should all write it out together,” they all three said at once.

“Yes,” Barth procured, “Perhaps we can all write about the benefits of languidity.”

They all watched as the sun dipped down under the boughs of the nearest cherry tree, the very one that perhaps had escaped the axe of the George Washington some many moons of fort nights ago. Barth thought for a moment that he was reminded of Bif’s uncle, and the day they had both encountered Bob’s cousin Bixby all those many years ago. They all thought together, at the same time, and it was uncanny really, how they all came up with the pictures of a beach in the south of Wales on a particulary hot and sunny day at exactly precisely the same time and moment.

Uncanny.

Cambel’s Beans with Bacon and Cream of Celery or just plain Tomato .

“Languidity?” Bif conceded with his next question. He glanced furtively over with his eyes at the rest of them. “What is the meaning of languidity?”

Bob clenched his stiff upper lip and said through it in a high pitched cry representative of some chivelrictic knight, “Languidity? My poor and old stupid friend that I had once met in college,” Bob said with glee, “Languidity is the quest of all fools fooling and the rains that will inevitability fall splendidly upon this very first day of April’s plane.”

“I would like to go to Barcelona,” Barth said, and Bob could tell by the looks on his face that he meant it. He looked, well, he looked, like traveling.

“A fool is nothing short of his plane since departed,” Bixby said.

“Exactly,” Barth said languididly placing his foot with a slow drooping drop of exhaustion down to touch upon the hardness that surely was meant to be the floor, “Exactly.”

And hence, Bob and Bif and Bixby and Barth, they all went to heaven content in the knowledge that they all would be better for it for playing the part of a fool, especially on the first day of April, because that is the day any fool and his partners should like to play at being the fool the best.

And they all were rest assured that they were now one step closer to knowing the trued meaning of languidly.

To all my hearty April Fools friends and their fools a very foolish goodnight.