WE ARE GUERILLA STORYTELLERS

What is guerilla storytelling? It's the mispelled version of storytelling, with primates. Ha! No it's not. It's the misspelled version of storytelling with primates. Ha! What fun we're having! We all know gorillas aren't primates, they're really deliverers of singing telegrams!

Speaking of singing telegrams, The Writers were out in force last night, overtaking the world with our super powers, crushing talkative talkers with strength and literary prowess. Margot and Jeff collected me and Byron in the Batmobile, and off we flew to the armpit intersection of sheesh and the Around the Coyote festival. Around the Coyote is a festival dedicated to coyotes, indigenous four-legged carnivores of North America. True Amurcans. The important thing to know about Around the Coyote is that there are frequent and highly organized howling sessions.


Upon arrival at the howling session, The Writers partook of the free alcohol--beer (Peroni)(that's Italian)(yes!) and a bottled drink with vodka that tasted suspiciously similar to Country Time lemonade. There was also guacamole that was being prepared by a white-jacketed cook-like looking person, and this will play a role later in our story so I introduce it here so I can brag about my excellent powers of Foreshadowing, which is a super power akin to flying or instant rejuvenation, but without the moral quandry that often accompanies either of those.

The room crowdified. This is the scientific process by which humans multiply instantaneously, many of whom were wearing the same outfit, but in different colors; also many of whom were wearing leggings, which, if I was The Supreme Ruler of Earth, would be a crime punishable by death. And I mean, a really painful death.

After the crowdification, the guacamole was lovingly spread out on the table--no dish or anything, just spread over the table as though the table was one big cracker. Also, did I mention the free beer? Italian! Yes! The guacamole and a deep tub of beer (!) was set up mere feet across from the microphone. Unbeknownst to the legging-wearing crowd, the microphone was actually the conduit through which we, The Writers, would soon be taking over the world. The people talked and talked, running hands through hair, giggling big words.

So Margot reads her story first. Margot's super power is Voice, by which I mean, while reading, she is able to convert this literary gift into the verbal equivalent of death ray vision, which consequently made everyone's clothes disintegrate. So now everyone's naked. This was disturbing in some instances, not so bad in others.

Still, the people talked and talked. The ladies come and go, speaking of Michelangelo. Thanks much, T.S.

Then I read. I read a very light-hearted piece about tap dancing and interpretive dance. I'm very lighthearted, and while I was reading, I used my powers of Foreshadowing to melt everyone's brains. Some brains oozed out of some heads. For the record, oozy brains look very similar to guacamole.

Still, the people talked and talked and walked and walked, murmuring and oogling, stabbing the air with the occassional yelp.

Then Byron read. Byron used his powers of Structure to elongate the ear drums of the murmurers and the yelpers. The unfortunate side effect of elongated ear drums is a decreased cartilage mass for the lobe. If you listened closely, you could hear the gentle pings of earrings as they hit the wood floor. Without ear lobes, there is no room for earrings.

Then Jeff read. Jeff likes to say poetic things like, "Eat me, fuckmo." He's very poetical and shit. While reading, Jeff used his powers of Characterization to melt the lips off the peeps in the crowd. The murmuring subsided. Not all of it, apparently those people had talents that even the strongest Characterization cannot fight. Not coincidentally, the remaining talkers were wearing leggings. Need I tell you who the real terrorists are?

So then we were left with an audience of naked, brainless, lobeless, lipless beings, none of whom looked even vaguely human. As you can imagine, we chose this moment to make our move. Gracefully, we dumped the tubs of beer (!) into our bags (Really Big Bags)(designer)(!), scooped all the earrings from the floor, and jauntily skipped out the front door. The outside air was crisp and cool and we stealthily worked our way through honking cabs and angry SUVs, back to the Batmobile, which lovingly zoomed us back to The Fortress of Active Verbs, where we live with all the other superhero writers.

And that, boys and girls, is the story of Christianity.