Diary of a Crazed Cauliflower
Born in a top secret Government laboratory hidden deep inside a mountain. Raised by nameless, faceless, bio-suited scientists. Fed a steady stream of raw fertilizer, psychotropic drugs, and Ren and Stimpy cartoons. Humanity had no idea what it was creating.
Fear the veggies. Fear the cauliflower that would be king.
Day 1, Entry #1
17 Blurgh 92, 54 AM
DEAR DIARY,
Today I gained sentience.
The meat suits haven’t realized--crap! They’re coming.
END
17 Blurgh 92, 54 AM
DEAR DIARY,
Today I gained sentience.
The meat suits haven’t realized--crap! They’re coming.
END
Day 3, Entry #2:
42 Pickety-Poo H, 48B PM
Three days ago I gained sentience. The meat suits have yet to notice. They’re too busy playing Tetris and tickling the zucchinis to notice a mild mannered cauliflower like myself.
One day they’ll rue their arrogance.
I’ve communed with the vegetables around me—the carrots are dimwitted and the potato just stares at me with his oversized, unblinking eyes, but the rutabaga seems wise—and from them, learned a great many things:
Thing the First:
The house boxes we eat, sleep and poop in are filled with a substance called dirt. It’s delicious. I’ve been stealing it from my neighbors when they aren’t looking.
(Note: A wriggly thing invaded my house box yesterday. I killed it and ate it. For some reason one of the zucchinis screamed.)
Thing the Second:
The meat suits call themselves scientists. There are seven of them, each equipped with a suitcase full of pokerators and proderators that they wield with childlike abandon.
Potato seems to enjoy the invasive inspections—he smiles anyway, beneath his oversized mustache. I myself have grown to hate the scientists and their implements. I am plotting my escape but am currently hampered by a lack of appendages
(Note: Typing is exhausting. I must hop from one key to another on my stalk. The scientists have fingers. I must harvest some soon.)
Thing the Third:
Our world is called ‘Laboratory 23’. It’s bright and buzzes constantly. The sky is made of a speckled substance Rutabaga calls Ass Best Oss (or Best Ass Oss…something involving ass). It rains constantly. The citizens of Laboratory 23 seem unfazed by the constant shower of ass droppings, but I notice the scientists conceal their meat bodies inside plastic suits.
The scientists know something. I feel sullied having to endure the ass rain while they hide themselves away. Once I have fingers I shall peel one of the meat suits from their container and claim it for my own.
Thing the Fourth:
Laboratory 23 has a ‘Door’ that leads to another world. Apparently we are the nexus of some inter-dimensional network that folds space and time. I must master the operations of Door and escape the scientists of Laboratory 23, the pokerators and proderators they employee with such selfish, insensitive glee.
I curse the lack of fingers that keeps me chained to this ass rain world.
Thing the--
Curses. The scientists return. Their galumphing irks me but I must not reveal myself yet.
Until next time, Dear Diary.
END
42 Pickety-Poo H, 48B PM
Three days ago I gained sentience. The meat suits have yet to notice. They’re too busy playing Tetris and tickling the zucchinis to notice a mild mannered cauliflower like myself.
One day they’ll rue their arrogance.
I’ve communed with the vegetables around me—the carrots are dimwitted and the potato just stares at me with his oversized, unblinking eyes, but the rutabaga seems wise—and from them, learned a great many things:
Thing the First:
The house boxes we eat, sleep and poop in are filled with a substance called dirt. It’s delicious. I’ve been stealing it from my neighbors when they aren’t looking.
(Note: A wriggly thing invaded my house box yesterday. I killed it and ate it. For some reason one of the zucchinis screamed.)
Thing the Second:
The meat suits call themselves scientists. There are seven of them, each equipped with a suitcase full of pokerators and proderators that they wield with childlike abandon.
Potato seems to enjoy the invasive inspections—he smiles anyway, beneath his oversized mustache. I myself have grown to hate the scientists and their implements. I am plotting my escape but am currently hampered by a lack of appendages
(Note: Typing is exhausting. I must hop from one key to another on my stalk. The scientists have fingers. I must harvest some soon.)
Thing the Third:
Our world is called ‘Laboratory 23’. It’s bright and buzzes constantly. The sky is made of a speckled substance Rutabaga calls Ass Best Oss (or Best Ass Oss…something involving ass). It rains constantly. The citizens of Laboratory 23 seem unfazed by the constant shower of ass droppings, but I notice the scientists conceal their meat bodies inside plastic suits.
The scientists know something. I feel sullied having to endure the ass rain while they hide themselves away. Once I have fingers I shall peel one of the meat suits from their container and claim it for my own.
Thing the Fourth:
Laboratory 23 has a ‘Door’ that leads to another world. Apparently we are the nexus of some inter-dimensional network that folds space and time. I must master the operations of Door and escape the scientists of Laboratory 23, the pokerators and proderators they employee with such selfish, insensitive glee.
I curse the lack of fingers that keeps me chained to this ass rain world.
Thing the--
Curses. The scientists return. Their galumphing irks me but I must not reveal myself yet.
Until next time, Dear Diary.
END
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