Pus = Profit

Last week I was lounging in a yellow inflatable kiddie pool in my back yard one afternoon when Juice, in her prairie dog phase, rose out of the ground and rested her cheek on my legs, which were hanging over the side of the pool. When I asked Juice why she had risen out of the ground she said, “So I can flick pool water at you like so.”

She began flicking, but I smiled with my eyes closed and said, “Sorry, I’m not annoyed. Plus, I can’t feel my legs. I disconnected them.”

“Gross!” Juice shrieked, causing me to open my eyes. “This isn’t pool water! Your legs are pussing! I think some pus went down my shirt!”

“I’m growing pus to sell to florists. I figured if hangnails will grow a decent amount of pus, imagine how much detached legs will grow!”

“What do flower shops want pus for?” Juice asked, gazing over my increasingly pus-filled pool as I stirred my precious white commodity with my hands. “Pus can’t be more valuable than my little bunny Foofoo,” she added, holding up two fingers to form her current finger friend.

“The presence of my pus grows white roses, which are valuable,” I said.

Needless to say, Juice stripped to her bathing suit and joined me. “Golly, Jolly,” she said, sinking her body deeper into the pus. “Detaching one’s legs is fun.”

“Help me detach my arms,” I squealed, glad for the encouragement. After Juice obeyed, I leaned my head back against the poolside and said, “Now I can grow twice as much pus. I’ll be rich! I can finally buy hairless armpits!”

“What, is there a sparrow town meeting up in that tree or something?” Juice asked, tilting back her head as well.

I looked above me. We were in the direct shade of my oak tree, which seemed to be holding more sparrows than leaves. Then my vision was blurred when a white substance other than pus plinked down on my face.

“One bird dropping and you’re scared out of the pool,” Juice smirked at me as we watched from inside my house a few minutes later. The sparrow convention was raining down their droppings all over my yard, contaminating my pus pool beyond repair. “How many birds are there?” Juice asked.

I leaned my reattached arms on the window sill and said, “They’ll be done soon.”

They've been there for SEVEN FRICKIN DAYS!!!!!!!