Dog
“What is it, boy?” I asked in a husky whisper-shout as my loyal canine companion picked up the pace. “What do you smell?”
As he darted across the undergrowth I could see his lipstick was out. This was going to be pretty special. My legs moved, one after the other, as I leapt over rocks, vaulted over logs and shuffled through patches of fern at a breakneck pace, all the while keeping sight of my trusty dog-steed and his phallic beacon.
After what seemed like fifteen seconds, but was probably more like three months, we arrived in Alaska. My furry, wet-nosed accomplice slowed down and cocked his head to the side. It was then that I heard him speak: “Rufflin!”
“It can’t be!” I spat. “Macauley Culkin, all the way out here?”
My unbeshelled mammalian tortoise nodded solemnly. We advanced with caution through the greenery, taking care not to step on twigs and cats.
Before long we arrived at a clearing in the middle of which there was a log. Standing facing the log, as promised by my flightless, long-eared eaglehound, was the boy Culkin. His hands were clasped against his face and he was yelling at a wretched figure that was sitting hunched on the log. I opened my mouth to cry out “Damilola!” but stopped myself instantly as I realised it was Gary Coleman. Coleman was clearly distressed. Tears rolled down his bulbous brown cheeks, like urea seeping its way over a brace of ripened peaches.
“Do it!” Culkin screamed, and Coleman slapped his hands up to his own cheeks with a whimper. I lowered myself into the ferns. Culkin was clearly enraged and the last thing I wanted was to fall victim to his fury. I once watched him thwart two city gents using only common household items; I was no match for him. I pulled my beloved beaglehorse close to me and held his lipstick between thumb and forefinger. The time was almost upon us.
“You’re doing it wrong, man!” squawked Culkin, and almost knocked Coleman off his log with the force of his voice alone. “Try again!”
Coleman leapt from the log and made a dash in my direction. Culkin gave chase, and for a moment I was reminded of Time Bandits. However, Culkin soon wrestled Coleman to the leafy floor and my erection subsided. I could see the saliva on Culkin’s lips as he lay atop Coleman, who himself was face down in the slowly decomposing detritus that covered the forest floor. There was a scent of strawberries as Culkin unzipped his jeans. He caressed the Bros patch his mother had lovingly sewn to the pocket, and this caused him to breathe heavily and erratically. Coleman began weeping in earnest, nay, wailing. His voice, surprisingly deep for a kiddychap of his modest size, echoed throughout the canopy above. My trusty muttbrethren threw his head back to howl in agreement, but I was quick to clamp my hand around his bitter snout. He gave me a look that said, “I love you, my master, and I should very much like to sit in this position for some time.”
We sat like that for some time, while Coleman wailed, howled and hooted and Culkin panted in some kind of guttural symphony as if created by a swarm of buzzards made entirely from neck fat. When the din eventually faded to silence, I had the courage to step out and reveal myself. There was much rejoicing from all parties. We like it in Alaska. We find the lack of concrete reassuring and have no plans to return. Culkin sometimes has violent episodes. He once attacked me with a travel iron, and I do tire of his ceaseless booby trap construction, but by and large we are happy. Coleman often speaks of the time Muhammed Ali mistook him for a child, and we’ll laugh, and then the laughter will give way to tears and vomit.
(stusut79, Thu 18 Oct 2007, 10:11, 2 replies)

Come now
What the hell is that?
(Bluffboy South Africa! World Champions!!!, Thu 18 Oct 2007, 10:18, closed)

At last!
A post slightly more realistic than Lunar (50 jobs) Jim's fantasy efforts.

I'm not bitter though...
( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Thu 18 Oct 2007, 10:25, closed)