Rated T because you're probably gonna have to have prior knowledge of what a body pillow is to even FATHOM the HIDDEN MEANINGS and ALLEGORIES THAT MAY BE HIDDEN IN AND/OR DERIVED FROM THIS DUMB CRAP. Thou hast been warned.
The time was 3:47 AM. Location: The Basement. It was some forgotten Saturday mornight, and all throughout the house, not a creature stirred, nor was this joke going to be forced any more than it already is.
A certain wrestleman was peacefully snoring face-down on a certain The Couch. His big brother was safely cuddled up with his plush dinosaur Poodonkis, his whiny baby brother was writhing back and forth in his bed thanks to his night terrors, and not even Homestar made a sound as he slept face-down on the kitchen counter after a failed pantry raid attempt.
It seemed as if it would just be another calm night of slumber. Then… it happened.
Once knocks. Twice knocks on the front door.
"Thra—Thracia 776—!" Strong Bad managed to splutter out as he awoke with a start, flopping off The Couch immediately and onto the floor with a heavy WHUMP. Groaning, he slowly hauled himself back on, rubbing his head with his glovèd hand, grumbling "Geez…! Can't a guy get some much-needed couch rest 'round these parts?"
Now, normally it would probably really suck to get woken up at such a ridiculous hour, and of course it did. But somehow, this sucky late-nite wake-up call felt… different from the rest Strong Bad had experienced over the course of his life.
Then it hit him. "Are those my snail mail senses I feel a-tingling?" he considered in wonder, implying that he had snail mail senses prior to this moment in time. "Oh, of course! It all makes sense now…"
Rubbing his chin thoughtfully, the wrestleman absently pondered who in their right mind would be delivering mail at this dang hour, then brushed this intrusive thought away because weird crap was all the time happening and none of that had ever really bothered him in the first place anyway, so why the heck not?
Carefully sliding off the couch and onto the floor, he swiftly tiptoed up the stairs (so as to not wake up Baby Strong Sad) and into the living room, sneaking out of the front door of the House of Strong. If Strong Bad were attempting this sort of tactical espionage action at any other hour he definitely would've been busted, but chance and expert timing played in his favour.
After taking a couple steps outside the wrestleman stopped in his tracks and quickly and unnecessarily forced himself to focus on the night sky.
"Wow, the moon is so… up there tonight," he stated dryly toward the heavens, which were conveniently so cloudy that it was pretty hard to see a thing. It's not like I really NEED to see anything right now, he smugly added in his head before slamming face first into the mailbox.
After the impact, Strong Bad slid down the mailbox pole and collapsed onto his back. Dazed and fed up with getting hurt every two freakin' seconds, he hissed and tried to scan his surroundings, grasping the mailbox pole to lift himself up.
He groped and circled around sb_ , feeling that the little flag thingy on the side was turned upways and seeing that his snail mail senses were correct after all. Nearly breaking the lid off as he tried to crank it open in the pitch black, the wrestleman reached inside and felt a package of some sort within!
"Jackpot!" he whispered, smirking madly as he pulled the mysterious object out of the mailbox and broke into a sprint back towards the open doorway. Halfway across, the clouds unveiled the moon just long enough for Strong Bad to catch a glimpse of who it was addressed to…
Strong Sad?
"Wait, since when do people mail him stuff!?" he muttered slightly jealously before shaking his head to clear his thoughts and continuing on his way.
The wrestleman figured it was probably some embarrassing lame-o crap his baby brother ordered over the internet and was pretty sure that guy wouldn't miss it for as long as it took to root through its contents thoroughly.
Of course, as fate would have it he couldn't have been paying attention to the soft padding footsteps approaching from the house, and thus it was quite surprising when he suddenly collided with that sweet, punchable, rotund lump of dump.
And so, for the third time that night, this time with (no) thanks to the comedy stylings of Hooke's law, Strong Bad was sent sprawling backwards, tightly clutching the package.
Somewhere underground, a family of hyperintelligent mole people must have been loudly complaining about the huge racket from above this late at night. Ahh, family bonding time…
Meanwhile back in the front yard, Strong Bad was lying in a bunch of springy grass, growling as he held his aching head. A blinding flashlight shone in his eyes all of a sudden, causing him to flinch… then he heard a familiar whiny voice directed towards him.
"What are you doing?" his brother Strong Sad yawned. His tone wasn't aggressively interrogative, which was slightly unexpected considering what had taken place like two seconds ago.
"B-Baby Strong Sad!" Strong Bad gasped as he sat up, shielding his eyes from the light and pushing the pilfered package behind his back. "Look, man, I was just— I was— going on a stroll…?"
"At 4 in the morning?"
"Oh, uh, heh, well, it got a little late, didn't it," the wrestleman chuckled nervously, then caught himself. "Hey, wait a minute! How's my nightlife any of your dang business? And why are you awake, too!?"
"I want to make sure you weren't doing anything stupid or reckless at this hour." The elephant man rubbed his eyes sleepily. "Just go to sleep. Besides, I'm up to get my pack-age from the mail," he stressed in a crappy French accent.
"… Yeah. Your, um, package. Which is totally there. In the mailbox," Strong Bad coughed unsuspiciously, hoping the parcel wasn't in his brother's field of view. "I think you should go ahead and get it, actually. I'mma… go to sleep."
"Goodnight," Strong Sad stated blankly. Strong Bad grunted in response and scooched aside as his brother made his fat way over to the mailbox.
Finally, as soon as El Dumpo Grande was far away enough, Strong Bad would be home free. He stumbled onto his feet and made a run for it back into the House of Strong with the mystery package in tow, sliding past the sleeping Homestar as he mumbled something stupid about random number generators.
Halfway down the stairs into the basement, however, he heard a worrying whine from outside, followed by stomping footsteps. The wrestleman decided he had better get to the bottom of this pronto, literally and figuratively, so he flicked on the lights in the basement and hopped onto The Couch, tossing the box in front of him.
Strong Bad reckoned it'd probably take his brother a couple days to make it halfway across the living room so theoretically he could take his sweet time, yet the enigmatic contents of the box were calling forth to him in the voice of a chorus of hundreds of hot angel babes singing in perfect harmony.
After cracking his knuckles in preparation, feverishly he tore apart the wrapping on the package… but this was still not enough. A sturdy cardboard box blocked his path yet, and what's worse, it was covered in tape! And the stupid packing type, too!
Time was running out, but the noise of his brother's soolnds (and violent wheezing) lazily pounded across the ceiling until it suddenly… stopped?
The tired wrestleman sighed in relief, slumping down on the couch. "…Must've had a heart attack," he finally mused aloud, imagining the possibilities and feeling at least a little bit exhilarated at the prospect of making a headstone tablet all by himswelf.
Getting back to the task, however, he remembered the only obstacle keeping him from knowing whatever the heck kinda sucky stupid trash his brother ordered over the internet.
Strong Bad glared down at the package sitting in his lap. In that moment, the magnitude of all the Strong Bad Abuse Points suffered that night combined with his rage and welled up inside his body until it materialized in his throat like the illest verbal vitriol ever meant for a cardboard box.
"I hate you," he spat.
The box did not reply.
Locked into a staring contest with a darn cardboard box, the wrestleman had let his guard down long enough the Ghost of Christmas Suck to quietly slink his way down into the basement.
"I think I'm winning," strained Strong Bad, deeply focusing on the box until his eyes started hurting. A shadow loomed over him, but unfortunately he chose to ignore this omen from the afterlife until it was far too late.
"Strong Bad, give me back my—" the whiny nerd started to protest noisily and suddenly, freaking the living crap out of his brother who reacted by yelping and flinging the box straight at the wall!
The poor package was flattened and torn on impact as the two brothers looked at it go in horror. Strong Sad let out a squeaky "My pack-age!" as he covered his eyes, aghast.
"Oh, nice going, Phantom of the Dumpra! Now look at what you did!" hissed No-shirt, climbing over The Couch's armrest so he could finally reach the remains of what was once a mighty staring contest opponent. "I didn't wanna see your stupid internet merch that I hated in one piece, anyway!"
"No, wait!" cried the annoying elephant man. "Don't open the box! It's—it's personal! You don't know what you're getting yourself into…!"
"Uh, yeah. It's something stupid you paid for with actual, physical money to get delivered here, which I've clearly put way more effort into getting tonight than it's freakin' worth!" the wrestleman hurgled in exasperation. "Now stop your whining before I make you stop."
At last, after an entire night's worth of blood, sweat, and tears, he took a deep breath pulled out the contents of the box wreckage and regarded them with a sense of victory, like spending all night trying to beat an end boss in some lame video game.
"Ha! Now look who's…" Strong Bad's voice trailed off. What once was a sense of all-encompassing glory had now dissolved into total bewilderment, which must have meant this was the basic equivalent of the CONGRATURATION of the night. He glanced back at his brother, who was sitting on The Couch, somberly burying his face in his hands, full of shame.
"Strong Sad," he choked, "what… is this?"
It was apparently some kinda pillow case, though much longer than a regular one. The size wasn't really what Strong Bad was worried about, though. It's more what was printed on it that was absolutely uncomfortable to witness.
Her legs were smooth. Her curves made your eyes follow them along if you stared at them long enough. Her brown locks looked almost soft enough to touch. Her one piece swimsuit, complete with elegant Bauhaus 95 lettering, made her look modestly hotter than ever before.
That lack of arms, her snow white skin, the cute little bowler hat, that massive underbite—Yeah, it was a Modestly Hot Homsar body pillow, I should stop before I need to remove myself from this country.
Just looking at that accursed thing for too long was even making Strong Bad's face heat up. The corners of his mouth twitched, and then, he did what neither of the two expected him to do: he cracked up and started laughing. Not just a regular old chuckle, however; it quickly escalated from a lowly giggle to a maniacal cackle, as he rolled around on the floor, flapping the gross pillow cover around and and guffawing at his little brother's pathetic existence.
"You—you seriously—this is—a body pillow! I—I can't even—Hom—chgkh—gghmfmhm!" Pictured: The elusive wrestleman in the wilderness, trying to formulate a sentence whilst promptly laughing his own buttocks off.
Dumpo the Elephant was the exact opposite of amused, though. "It's called an ah-nee-may da-kee-mah-koo-rah," he forced out of his place where words come out of to no avail.
"I can't believe this! I mean, can believe this! You suck!" No-shirt retorted wheezily.
"I do not!"
"You suck!"
Turning away, crossing his arms and trying his hardest to pretend he didn't even care, Gron Sad weenily declared, "Yep! Okay! Fine! Just go ahead! Keep laughin'! I own a da-kee-mah-koo-rah now and I-I'm not ashamed! Not at all! I'll still be getting some more than you ever will!"
Homestar Runner abruptly strolled into the room just then, munching on a hot pocket. "Hey juys," he chirped, pizza-flavoured goodness spilling out his mouth all over the floor, "that kitchen accident nap I just had was the most not-buwning-my-face-inest decision I've made tonight, not to mention these hot pockets awe a-pwetty-pwetty goooood! What's happenin' on ovew hewe?"
He watched the scene unfolding before his eyes: the two-bit wrestleman R.O. all over the place holding an attractive fabric sorta Homestar lookin' girl and the rhinom'n trying to ignore it. Tears were streaming down both their faces for apparently different yet linked reasons and neither seemed to really notice the terrific athlete's presence.
"Man, you guys. Man! I've gotta stop havin' these late-mownight munchies," he announced before shoving the rest of the hot pocket into his mouth and leaving the room.