Splinter

Splinter of time.

Splinter of life.

Splinter tries and Splinter hopes but Pinhead presses on.

(Sung to “Soma”)

(No, it isn't)

Little Pinhead Duncan wrestled the piece of gristle with his tongue. The gristle had nearly got the best of him, until he turned the tables in a fit of derring-do. His tongue triumphed over the gristle, and had the tongue had a foot it would have placed this atop the gristle's head (had the gristle had a head) and beat his chest (had the tongue had a chest). Do you understand what I am saying?

Gristle rears its ugly head (as though it had a head) and waggles a limp gristle-y finger (you know the drill by now, I assume) at the world. Pinhead Duncan quickly swallows and the gristle is seen no more in its current state. We all have days like that, I suppose. In fact, there comes a point in each of our lives where we have a day EXACTLY like that. There's not a whole lot we can do about it, either. There was that professional baseball player who tried to escape the fate, but it didn't work out the way he had planned, as he wound up with a monkey wrench frozen to the back of his neck, and THAT is just a big disappointment. Anyone who has ever had a monkey wrench frozen to the back of his or her neck could tell you that much.

Pinhead Duncan swallowed hard and died. Something went in that should not have gone in, and Pinhead's heart felt sorry. Pinhead's heart sank low. Pinhead's heart burst in a bloody mess and Pinhead toppled over, face first in his onion rings. A passing diner looked on the beefy, bucolic scene and shook his head.

“Such a waste of a fine T-bone.”