Okay, you soggy mothercluckers, the Janelle reshaped herself into an etheral catlike form as she joined her animal companions, It’s time for the fun part. Let’s grant the shit out of your wish.
Ia’m naot soggay.
Oh hen yes you are soggy Michael you’re the soggiest of the three of you.
Wait a second. All that we just did wasn’t to help grant my wish? Assafrass heehawed in confusion.
How in the hen would that grant your wish?
I don’t know…I mean I just figured—
Can’t I just have a little fun sometimes?
I guess so. I mean you did say that now was the fun part—
It’s all fun! I’m a naturally joyful person! So everything is fun to me.
Caan yaou pleasae staop yoaur haorrible iamaginary rackaet? Iat’s gaiving mae a headachae.
Cluck you! Twerk on your hamn accent before you come crying to me.
Michael wimpered.
Hey um um what about me? whined Angela.
What do you mean what about you what about me makes you think I can tell you what about you? the Janelle quipped back.
Angela wimpered. Michael tried to put his arm around her, but it was difficult because they were dogs experiencing the absence of gravity.
Now come on y’all quit your vitching and follow me, the Janelle gestured forward.
The animals watched as the space beside the Janelle’s gesturing paws stretched like a burst ink pen in space time, spreading goopily and messily all over the place, dripping and oozing and smelling slightly of stale coffee grounds.
Well? Are you coming on in or not? asked the Janelle, prepared to jump right in to this disgrossting splotch.
Assafrass gave a tentative heehaw. Um, what in the cluck exactly is that thing?
You don’t know what this is?? the Janelle tsked, Why, this is a Plott hole, of course!
Michael sneezed, A Plaott hoale?
That’s what I said. First discovered in an alternate reality by Vilhelm F. Plott in 254 BE—which stands for ‘Before Egg’ if you never went to school—while shme was experimenting with a type of storytelling called ‘writing’ for the first time in the multiverse.
My brain hurts, Angela whined.
The Janelle conjured up a paddle and spanked her forcefully.
Concentrate on that pain instead.
Um, Ms. Janelle? Assafrass imaginarily started, raising a hoof.
Um, my name isn’t Janelle you cockhamned dumbass—oh excrete me that was insensitive. Also why are you calling me Ms.?
I don’t know it felt appropriate. Anyhowwhatsit, what’s a multiverse?
Shut the cluck up don’t ask questions you don’t want to know the answer to.
But I do want to know the answer!
Hen no you don’t. Now the thing about ShMr. Plott is shme was what you might call shit.
Excraete mae?
Sorry. I keep forgetting I’m talking to idiots. When I say shme was shit, what I shmean shmy shmat shmis shmat shme shmucking shmucked at shmiting.
I aam veary confaused, Michael chewed on his tongue wide eyed, Yoaur uase oaf praonouns deanies praoper caonvention.
You’re a dog that communicates with other animals through pure imagination what the cluck do you care about the grammatical conventions of pronouns for? Now shut the cluck up and let me get on with my story cock hamnit!
Saorry.
Plott’s writing was so all over the place and haphazard that shme had scarely done more than tasted some ink and licked some pages in the shape of some letters. One of shmis first shmtories was about a man named Paul who inexplicably started being referred to as Paulette halfway through the story. There was no indication that Paulette or Paul wanted this needed this asked for this or had anything to do with it, it was just kind of there all of a sudden halfway through the page. I’ve read it, it was ridiculous.
Everybody knows that having a character suddenly become a woman for no explicable reason is offputting. What’s even more offputting would be if they suddenly just knew how to be a woman, and that’s what happened in the original draft of Plott’s story. Trust me you can get some serious mental whiplash when the same character experiences blue balls over a crush and then puts in a tampon over the course of two paragraphs.
Plott didn’t even realize how badly shme had clucked up until shme went back and reread their gloopy mess of a story after a particularly debaucherous bender. Hungover and in deep debt to the postdimensional slug mafia, there was only one thing Plott could do.
Assafrass snored obnoxiously. Angela followed with a light pittering snore. Michael suddenly let loose a barrage of chainsaws.
Excrete me! What the cluck is wrong with y’all! Wake the cluck up!
Snores continued.
Wake the cluck up!! The Janelle hissed, clawing the three snoozing companions in the face.
Aaoow! Assafrass thought as he bleated.
Aaoow! Angela thought as she cried.
Aaooaw! Michael thought as he arfed.
Pay attention you clucking fools. Remember, you axed me to explain this.
They apologozied, promising to pay better attention.
As I was saying, there was only one thing Plott could do. Which was—
Revise the story to make it more concrete and compelling? Assafrass interjected.
Cluck no! What the hen is wrong with you? Who do you think you are? No! No clucking way! What Plott realised was that he had—shme had written in a bunch of holes in his plot. Also there were physical holes in his—shmis first draft because of the rats but that’s beside the point. So Plott devised a way to fill all those holes. Fill all those holes tight. Yes, those tight holes were just aching to be filled.
Uam, Michael huffed, I’m naot saure haow tao praocess thais.
What’s there that you can’t process?! What I’m saying is Plott filled all those holes, filled them deep and hood till nothing else could fit in them. Those holes were gushing with overflow.
The animals stared aimlessly into eachother’s eyes, their collective stupidity chaffing the Janelle’s brainwaves.
Anyhowwhatsitever, what I’m getting at is that that’s what we’ve got before us, she gestured towards the splotchy mess before them, And all we’ve gotta do to get your wish granted is press deep in to this hole and fill it up.
Michael farted shamefully.
The Janelle patted the splotch confidently, Luckily it’s already nice and wet for us, she squinted icily at her students, Come on now, get on in.
Okay, you soggy mothercluckers, the Janelle reshaped herself into an etheral catlike form as she joined her animal companions, It’s time for the fun part. Let’s grant the shit out of your wish.
Ia’m naot soggay.
Oh hen yes you are soggy Michael you’re the soggiest of the three of you.
Wait a second. All that we just did wasn’t to help grant my wish? Assafrass heehawed in confusion.
How in the hen would that grant your wish?
I don’t know…I mean I just figured—
Can’t I just have a little fun sometimes?
I guess so. I mean you did say that now was the fun part—
It’s all fun! I’m a naturally joyful person! So everything is fun to me.
Caan yaou pleasae staop yoaur haorrible iamaginary rackaet? Iat’s gaiving mae a headachae.
Cluck you! Twerk on your hamn accent before you come crying to me.
Michael wimpered.
Hey um um what about me? whined Angela.
What do you mean what about you what about me makes you think I can tell you what about you? the Janelle quipped back.
Angela wimpered. Michael tried to put his arm around her, but it was difficult because they were dogs experiencing the absence of gravity.
Now come on y’all quit your vitching and follow me, the Janelle gestured forward.
The animals watched as the space beside the Janelle’s gesturing paws stretched like a burst ink pen in space time, spreading goopily and messily all over the place, dripping and oozing and smelling slightly of stale coffee grounds.
Well? Are you coming on in or not? asked the Janelle, prepared to jump right in to this disgrossting splotch.
Assafrass gave a tentative heehaw. Um, what in the cluck exactly is that thing?
You don’t know what this is?? the Janelle tsked, Why, this is a Plott hole, of course!
Michael sneezed, A Plaott hoale?
That’s what I said. First discovered in an alternate reality by Vilhelm F. Plott in 254 BE—which stands for ‘Before Egg’ if you never went to school—while shme was experimenting with a type of storytelling called ‘writing’ for the first time in the multiverse.
My brain hurts, Angela whined.
The Janelle conjured up a paddle and spanked her forcefully.
Concentrate on that pain instead.
Um, Ms. Janelle? Assafrass imaginarily started, raising a hoof.
Um, my name isn’t Janelle you cockhamned dumbass—oh excrete me that was insensitive. Also why are you calling me Ms.?
I don’t know it felt appropriate. Anyhowwhatsit, what’s a multiverse?
Shut the cluck up don’t ask questions you don’t want to know the answer to.
But I do want to know the answer!
Hen no you don’t. Now the thing about ShMr. Plott is shme was what you might call shit.
Excraete mae?
Sorry. I keep forgetting I’m talking to idiots. When I say shme was shit, what I shmean shmy shmat shmis shmat shme shmucking shmucked at shmiting.
I aam veary confaused, Michael chewed on his tongue wide eyed, Yoaur uase oaf praonouns deanies praoper caonvention.
You’re a dog that communicates with other animals through pure imagination what the cluck do you care about the grammatical conventions of pronouns for? Now shut the cluck up and let me get on with my story cock hamnit!
Saorry.
Plott’s writing was so all over the place and haphazard that shme had scarely done more than tasted some ink and licked some pages in the shape of some letters. One of shmis first shmtories was about a man named Paul who inexplicably started being referred to as Paulette halfway through the story. There was no indication that Paulette or Paul wanted this needed this asked for this or had anything to do with it, it was just kind of there all of a sudden halfway through the page. I’ve read it, it was ridiculous.
Everybody knows that having a character suddenly become a woman for no explicable reason is offputting. What’s even more offputting would be if they suddenly just knew how to be a woman, and that’s what happened in the original draft of Plott’s story. Trust me you can get some serious mental whiplash when the same character experiences blue balls over a crush and then puts in a tampon over the course of two paragraphs.
Plott didn’t even realize how badly shme had clucked up until shme went back and reread their gloopy mess of a story after a particularly debaucherous bender. Hungover and in deep debt to the postdimensional slug mafia, there was only one thing Plott could do.
Assafrass snored obnoxiously. Angela followed with a light pittering snore. Michael suddenly let loose a barrage of chainsaws.
Excrete me! What the cluck is wrong with y’all! Wake the cluck up!
Snores continued.
Wake the cluck up!! The Janelle hissed, clawing the three snoozing companions in the face.
Aaoow! Assafrass thought as he bleated.
Aaoow! Angela thought as she cried.
Aaooaw! Michael thought as he arfed.
Pay attention you clucking fools. Remember, you axed me to explain this.
They apologozied, promising to pay better attention.
As I was saying, there was only one thing Plott could do. Which was—
Revise the story to make it more concrete and compelling? Assafrass interjected.
Cluck no! What the hen is wrong with you? Who do you think you are? No! No clucking way! What Plott realised was that he had—shme had written in a bunch of holes in his plot. Also there were physical holes in his—shmis first draft because of the rats but that’s beside the point. So Plott devised a way to fill all those holes. Fill all those holes tight. Yes, those tight holes were just aching to be filled.
Uam, Michael huffed, I’m naot saure haow tao praocess thais.
What’s there that you can’t process?! What I’m saying is Plott filled all those holes, filled them deep and hood till nothing else could fit in them. Those holes were gushing with overflow.
The animals stared aimlessly into eachother’s eyes, their collective stupidity chaffing the Janelle’s brainwaves.
Anyhowwhatsitever, what I’m getting at is that that’s what we’ve got before us, she gestured towards the splotchy mess before them, And all we’ve gotta do to get your wish granted is press deep in to this hole and fill it up.
Michael farted shamefully.
The Janelle patted the splotch confidently, Luckily it’s already nice and wet for us, she squinted icily at her students, Come on now, get on in.
