Stevie the pile-driver operator sat fuming at his rickety little table. You remember Stevie, don't you? Of course you do. It is most likely the table that is the stranger to you. Stevie's rickety little table was crafted from a solid block of chopped, pressed, formed, and cooked turkey breast (Stevie's rickety little table was always popular around the holidays).
“Fleck the balls with gobs of cha-cha,” Stevie would sing at the top of his pancreas as he crafted popcorn donkeys with his grubby little hands. He would dip deep into the popcorn vat and extract a handful of popped corn, white and fresh. Into the puddle of sugared epoxy he would drop it, coating each piece. He would then form the epoxied corn into a ball and proceed to the most disturbing part of the process – the part of which he sang.
He would fleck the ball with gobs of cha-cha.
There was a social worker from the upper west side who once walked in on Stevie while he was flecking the balls with gobs of cha-cha, and while being rather caught up in the moment, she soon needed to leave the room, as the horror of the process had overtaken her. Stevie smiled, as you might expect, and his hand pumped vigorously while he flecked. Most disturbing to the social worker were the illegal immigrants who stood nearby, ready to stir the steaming, stinking vat of cha-cha in between applications. Stevie just giggled a merry, Wagnerian tune to himself as he flecked another ball.
After all of his balls were suitably flecked, Stevie let shine his true artistic merit as he pressed each one into the shape of a herniated donkey, complete with saddle. There was a priestess from the coven down the street who had once suggested that he make the saddles large enough and supportive enough for anyone to ride in, but this was really not feasible at all. Stevie gave it a halfhearted attempt, but it was no use. It would require far too much popcorn, and of course more cha-cha than he was willing to commit to such a venture. The saddles would remain at a standard size.
The priestess from the coven down the street frowned and turned away. We all knew where she was headed, but Stevie kept a stiff upper nipple. This was no small feat, as Stevie's many rows of nipples were all quite soft and supple. For the upper-most one to remain stiff took a boatload of derring-do, and the city had some sort of ordinance about cleaning up after one's derring.
When the priestess returned with a man from the Federal Corn-donkey Regulatory Agency, Stevie knew the end was near. He opened the gate to the immigrants' pen as he saw the federal agent nearing over the crest of a nearby hill just above the industrial home of the “Pawtucket Erection Company,” but it was not the immigrants that the agent was coming for.
Stevie's upper nipple quivered in time with the pounding of his heart.
The end came swiftly but in rather tame fashion. The cha-cha vat needed to be drained and taken away by a haz-mat crew, while the offending corn-donkeys were transported to a large federally-maintained donkey destruction facility somewhere on Long Island. The illegal immigrants were rounded up and given jobs at a nearby quick-mart, and Stevie's turkey breast table was sliced into several portions and used in the production of appetizers at a state dinner. The ambassador from Latvia commented on the pleasant, smoky flavor.
Stevie himself was sent to federal prison, but was released on most weekdays to work at a community college, where he taught young men and women how to fleck.