A Tale Of Love Lost In Forty-Seven Acts Condensed Into One

The bug hit the car’s windshield with as mighty of a thud as a bug hitting a windshield could make. It’s guts spreading flat against the smooth glass creating a kaleidoscope of brownish-grey-green hues across it’s surface. In an instant, the driver of the car, a Mr. Alan Furlow, hit the windshield wiper fluid and the blue liquid squirted the messy guts away. Well, not really away, the guts now congealed on the windshield wipers as they waved back and forth, back and forth, way much too long over the arch of the windshield.

What was really unusual and quite coincidental about this bug was that his name was also Mr. Alan Furlow. The driver, Mr Alan Furlow, had no way of knowing that he just accidentally killed and washed away his bug doppelganger, Mr. Alan Furlow, thus giving him a pass on Bad Karma’s ugly head intervening in on his day, but it also didn’t change the fact that this death still occurred.

Mr. Alan Furlow, the driver not the bug, suddenly felt the need to step on the gas petal harder. The car protested for half a second and then sputtered five pistons faster. Alan felt the hairs on his neck rise, but he didn’t know what that meant. He scratched the back of his hand absently.

Half way around the world, Mr. Alan Furlow’s true love, a Miss Margery Pinklestein, also absently scratched the back of her hand. Mr. Alan Furlow and Miss Margery Pinklestein had never met, no would they ever meet, for they were doomed from their birth to wander the Earth without each other. In a weird twist of fate, the bug versions of Mr. Alan Furlow and Margery Pinklestein had met and were in fact, married. Margery of course, was now a widow, although at this moment she didn’t realize it. Currently she was sitting in their 4 bedroom dung hole assuming that Mr. Alan Furlow, the bug, not the driver of the car, had been distracted…again…on his way to the big sunflower with which she had tasked him to collect some pollen for dinner. Margery, the bug, not the hand scratching human half way around the world, was planning on making her famous Sunflower loaf in celebration of his recent promotion from poop roller to poop scout.

Meanwhile Margery Pinklestein, the person, not the widowed bug, had nothing of interest going on this day and will not be talked about again in this diatribe.

Mr. Alan Furlow, the driver, not the dead bug who will not be dining on Sunflower loaf this evening, nor will he be bragging to his friends at the stagnant water hole about his recent pay raise, decided to go through the drive thru of his favorite burger place; Colonel King Burger. The sales promotion of the month was the Double Loaf Burger. Mr. Alan Furlow purchased one of these and drove away. As he unwrapped his Double Loaf Burger from the greasy wax paper, his heart felt heavy. A single tear leaked from his tear hole and slalomed it’s way down his chubby cheek. He wiped it away with the back of his hand and thought nothing of it. He sighed and also thought nothing of that as well.

Mr. Alan Furlow, the living not the dead, finished his loaf, and while licking his greasy  fingers tossed the wax paper into the backseat of his car. It landed on top of a pile of many other Colonel King Burger wrappers. It disturbed a family of bugs whom Mommy Bug had just given birth to a litter of 50 brand new spanking baby bugs.

And she was debating naming one of them Alan.

(Their last name was Hippensnatch so it didn’t mean much, but you know…whatever.)

~Fin~