Chapter 3.5: Pootis McTootis give you the Scoopsis
Pootis McTootis pulled back his coattails, sitting down in his Laz-E-Ass chair. He made sure his fisticuffs were buttoned, and straightened his top hat, looking directly at the audience. He straightened out his pants slowly, and sensually, and then said, "Good evening."
His monocle picked that exact moment to fall off his face.
"Well, fuck me, I guess."
He resituated, and tried again, this time remembering to reach over to his little stand next to his chair, and clicking the button to turn on the automatic incinerator that he also used as a fireplace on behind him. Screams began sounding from up the chimney, but he paid them no mind.
"Good evening folks, and welcome to the story", he began, straightening out the expensive-ass shirt he had on, and fluffing out the fluffy thing that was on the front of his neck. "I understand you may be confused right about now... by Jove, you may have been confused from the very beginning. Most of my stories are bland, meaningless fluff stories written for the sole purpose of making middle-schoolers giggle to themselves so that their teachers will take their phones away in class. And now, all of the sudden, this asshole is just going to make a semi-serious story about Vlad the Impaler? Is this kid on crack?"
He put his crackpipe up to his mouth, lighting it with the lighter from underneath, and took a big puff on it.
"And furthermore, it's boring as fuck. Nothing's happening right now. Well I, reader, have read your mind, and understand that you have concerns, questions, even comments. I would encourage you to write those out in a review or comment section or whatever this dumbass website has for that. As for this story being boring..."
He picked up his TV remote, and turned on the hit Ugandan action movie, Who Killed Captain Alex. The announcer announced, "Action is coming! I promise you!"
"Yes, people will die in the next chapter. And furthermore, very interesting context will be added in from the life of a very interesting man who neither gets credit where it's due nor gets his story told right."
He pulled a marshmallow stick out of his back pocket, roasting the marshmallow over the incinerator, which the screams had stopped coming from. The thing caught fire instantly, and he brought it back to his mouth, eating it whole, flames and all.
With his mouth still full, he continued, "I apologize for the infrequent uploads, and thought that it was obligatory to come up with an excuse, so here goes; over the past decade, I have been in and out of various care-now centers. The doctors say that it's because I, 'do too much cocaine', and, 'need to stop', because I'm, 'constantly overdosing', and it's, 'bad for my liver'. Well, Dr. Oz, this one's for you."
He leaned over the little stand, and did a line straight off of it. His pencil moustache was turned white momentarily.
"To wrap this all up, I would encourage you to write to me. Question my intelligence. Call me a faggot in the comment section or whatever. It means the world to me, and furthermore, it helps me gauge my audience, and how they view my content, what I can improve on, etcetera. So, do it."
Pootis McTootis stood from the chair, and straightened out his coat, only for his eyes to roll into the back of his skull, and he fell to the ground yet again. The TV turned to a group of middle-aged men slow clapping. Everyone went to bed.
The end.
Of this clusterfuck.
Now back to the previously scheduled bullshit.