Credit Valley Footpath was quiet and I was quietly lost in the middle of nowhere and there was nobody and it was awesome. All of a sudden, a tree started talking to me. What the fuck? I wouldn't talk back to it and it wasn't Skedaddles the Cat, but wow, it was a fucking big ass tree staring at me with wooden eyes. Looking down at me, it wouldn't leave me alone. Its leaves were huge, tree trunk enormous and round with roots spreading out, dominating the forest -- there was nowhere to hide.
The tree said to me, "You don't have the credit to be in the valley of my footpath." The tree was right. I had blown my savings on Amazon, betting on Indian sports teams, Nyquist as the Triple Crown winner, and NyQuil. I wanted to go home, but I was curious about the talking tree.
"How did you know that?" Maybe the tree put on a suit and tie and worked at RBC when nobody visited him. Everything was trippy.
"I've read your diary," the motherfucker echoed. "You're a poet." Shit, I had Lionheart Leaks and unreleased installments. It was worse than the Sony cyber attack. I was going to sue his goddamn wooden ass.
The tree grew a second face with three eyes bugging out at me, another mouth formed under its two noses and it grew nine branched-out arms. It was the most wood that I had ever seen. It tossed my diary at me with two of his hands. His third arm reached out and grabbed a fat joint underneath a log. Buddy was into the herb and Indians.
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| Indian Teams |
Buddy rolled another joint. I took a mean piss on his ugly roots. It felt good to relieve myself and I wanted to piss off the tree. The tree tried to grab me with his arms. Wood was flying everywhere, but I escaped. I started running away. Stopping once to look back, the tree turned around and mooned me with his wooden ass. His deep crevice spat out birch bark, but I was beyond his teepee and the edge of the magical, enchanted forest filled with giant mushrooms and eleven-leaf clovers.
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| Credit Valley Footpath |
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