OK; I love to watch little tidbits from Phineas and Ferb, and more often than not, I find myself watching all the bits that include (mainly) Doof and Perry. Anyhoo, I was watching the episode "Backyard Hodge-Podge", and I was struck with a beautiful burst of inspiration.
So...if you haven't seen "Backyard Hodge-Podge", then I suggest you watch it, or else this little adventure into the thoughts of Perry the Platypus will make little-to-no sense.
Hope you guys enjoy!
God bless and have a great day (or night)!
ThePro-LifeCatholic
Disclaimer: I don't own Phineas and Ferb, nor its characters. But I had so much fun writing this. :)
It wasn't often that Perry the Platypus found good reason to berate himself. This was partly because he was an experienced agent who was famously known for his flawless successes and whose history of mistakes was practically unheard-of. It was also because, whenever he did give himself a scolding, his nemesis' catchphrase would inevitably slip its way into his criticism session; and whenever that five-word tag line popped into his thoughts, it was always in Doofenshmirtz's voice, which was nothing short of downright creepy.
Curse you, Perry the Platypus.
Curse himself, indeed. Curse his owners, for their misguided concerns apropos of their "mindless" pet's safety and health. He would much rather place the blame for his present predicament on Linda and Lawrence Flynn-Fletcher, who decided to have spontaneous "mini-dates" late at night on the sofa in the living room, long after the kids had been sent to their rooms and when Perry was supposed to be snoring, curled up in a fuzzy ball on his pet bed. Curse whoever had decided to make a documentary labeled "Little-Known Facts (And Possible Fabrications) About the Land Down Under" and dedicate an entire thirty minutes of said interview to the eating habits of the elusive platypus.
A cloud of black smoke puffed out of the open oven, filling the kitchen with the pungent aroma of scorched fruit and shaking Perry out of his inner ramblings. Linda Flynn-Fletcher moaned softly as she leaned forward, poking her head into the oven and regarding her ruined pie with a doleful expression. Her red-orange hair was frizzed; bags were forming under her eyes and her movements were slow, uncertain, and jerky. She pulled the burnt pastry from the metal rack and set it down in front of the platypus.
"Oh, here you go, Perry," she murmured. "I burnt another one. I guess that's what I get for staying up all night."
Perry stole a glance up at Linda. She sounded as distressed as she looked, but Perry didn't have much room to feel sympathy towards her current state of mind. He didn't have much room for anything at all, considering the three empty pie pans stacked next to him and his overstuffed stomach. Almost automatically, he sank his bill into the flaky, golden-brown crust. An explosion of piping hot berry juice filled his mouth with the sickening flavor of Doonkleberries, but he chomped his mouthful resolutely, trying to ignore the now-insipid taste of pie.
What had that last one been, anyway? It could've been Linda's starfruit-banana-mango-triple-tropical-summertime-fun-flavored pie…but, then again, it could have just as well been plain blackberry. By now, the tastes were sort of running together, and besides, that wasn't the important part. What was crucial was that he keep swallowing each new bite of discarded dessert.
Really, though: what had he been thinking? What sort of twisted notion could have possibly allowed him to change the channel while the mom and dad of the family were watching a television show during one of their "mini-dates"? It wasn't that he didn't like the food that his owners already gave him; platypus chow was all well and good, but having it for breakfast and dinner all the time (excluding the tidbits that Phineas and Ferb would sneak to him during meals and snacktimes) could get tiring.
Curse you, Perry the Picky-pus.
Curse the mammalogists who had studied the eating behaviors of platypuses for the documentary, and their conclusion that these egg-laying mammals had a fondness for almost any kind of baked delight…pie especially. And, of course, the state of the pie didn't matter to the mindless monotreme. On the contrary, those esteemed and influential people on the documentary asserted, platypuses (platypi? Platypeople?) actually enjoyed the blackened bits!
"Unless I get my act together," Linda was saying as she began mixing ingredients for yet another recipe, "That means plenty more for you, Perry."
It was only by the sheer force of concentrated will that Perry was able to keep his mouthful of partly-chewed pie from emptying itself all over the kitchen floor. Another pie. Another pie. He had barely made headway into this Doonkleberry one, and this was his fourth pie! How could he have ever foreseen this type of scenario? With the baking skill that Linda possessed, Perry had been hoping for one, maybe two, burnt pies per week (if he was lucky).
Curse himself for thinking that he could use more food variety in his life. Curse himself to the deepest, darkest depths of whatever accursed inferno sentient animals believed in.
He wrinkled up his bill, catching the faint whiff of smoking crust. Linda, tied up with chasing her husband out of her work area, hadn't noticed the odor yet, which probably meant that this next pie was going to be another reject.
Well, no matter how it turned out, Perry knew one thing for certain: he was most certainly not going to be the one eating it. His unbreakable determination in the face of adversity had been completely worn down. He'd been up since 3:17 AM, gorging on botched pie after botched pie until his stomach threatened to graze the floor beneath his feet and the desire to bury his head in one of the ruined confections was nearly overpowering. He dragged himself from the kitchen, lugging himself and all the extra weight he had acquired that morning to the nearest secret entrance.
Doofenshmirtz, for the love of all that is good and just, you had better be up to something diabolical today.
He shuffled into his lair and was greeted as per usual by Major Monogram, who was sounding far too chipper for the platypus agent. Perry hauled himself into his chair and collapsed against its red, cushioned back, not even bothering to salute as he normally did. Instead he emitted a weak chatter (sounding more like a strident squawk to his own ears). At this rate, he was probably on his way to becoming the most corpulent agent in OWCA, although he felt anything but well-nourished at the moment.
"Guess whose birthday it is, Agent P?" Monogram was sporting a pink party hat, far too small for him and perched precariously on the edge of his head. Perry was thoroughly disinterested in the major's excited announcement; he was too busy focusing on his churning insides.
"It's mine!" The major blew a noisemaker. "Help yourself, Agent P!"
Help myself…?
A piece of double-layer white cake, slathered with bright pink frosting, popped up next to the platypus' chair. Stuck on top was a purple candle, flickering with a small red-and-orange flame.
Oh.
Even the aroma of the baked treat was enough to agitate the already-debilitated agent. He stuck his hands out in a gesture of blatant (and somewhat desperate) refusal, his teal fur flushing with a faint green tinge.
"Huh," Monogram's voice had a trace of disappointment, "Not a cake person."
He launched right into the briefing, which Perry barely heard. Then Carl appeared on the screen, accompanied by a host of other OWCA agents, who together presented the major with a horribly mangled version of the birthday song. It couldn't really be called a "song", since there was no melody, rhythm, or tempo that Perry could discern. Two seconds into the performance, he slipped out of his chair and quietly removed himself from the incommodious scene.
Bursting out of his lair in his white-and-teal-striped rocket car about three seconds later, Perry had to jerk to a sudden halt and open the window to take huge gulps of fresh air. The speed of his vehicle was not helping his fluttering stomach, the contents of which were sloshing around like a bowl full of eggs and melted butter that Linda had accidently left in the mixer on high speed the night before.
Don't even think about that.
Passing over his host family's house (still with the glass hatch open), Perry was struck full-force with the perfume of baked pie, mixed the distinct stench of charred pie filling. He slammed the window shut, sucking in his breath and scrunching himself into a small, miserable ball of green-tinted fur.
For the sake of Doofenshmirtz's hygiene and the cleanliness of his penthouse, the evil scientist had better have something easy for his nemesis that day. Maybe he could request a trap where he was sitting in a chair, rather than being hung upside-down or squeezed into a canister or surrounded with tarts and pastries.
Curse you, Perry the Platypus.
Why did Linda feel a need to be up all night baking stupid pies for that stupid "Live and Let Pie" event for charity? He could've done very well without her constant thoughtfulness for the family pet (she was probably going to save every bit of pie she managed to burn while he was away and give it to him when he got back). Phineas and Ferb should have never been perfectly alright with their parents feeding him desserty foods in the first place. Curse that ill-advised documentary. Curse himself for thinking his life would be better off with more sweets.
Curse himself, indeed.
Ah, poor Perry. Man, this was a blast to write. I got it done fairly quickly, too, which is always a nice bonus.