The Magical Adventures of Bologna The Faery!

I used to have a magical invisible Faery friend. Her name was Bologna. I don't know why. She just insisted on being called that name for some reason. One day, back when I was eight years old, Bologna and I were walking down the road, and we saw a dead cat. It was crying. Er--- wait... Dead cats can't cry. How silly of me.

Well, anyway, we saw a dead cat, and all of a sudden, Bologna yelled, "Fuck yes! Fuckin' A, man!" Needless to say, I was caught completely off guard by her remark, and I just felt compelled to ask her why she reacted with such unrestrained glee. "I just found a nickel!" she replied. I was happy for her.

Then she turned to me and said, "Let's go smoke some pot!" I stared blankly at her. "What is pot?" I asked her, for I did not know what pot was. "It's herb, man! Fuckin' tree! Don't tell me you've never heard of it! Fuckin' A, man!" she exclaimed with extraordinary enthusiasm. I told her that I had never heard of it.

"Okay, take me down to my bitch's house. We'll go get a dub," she ordered me. Her bitch's house was just down the street (her name was Cheez), so we walked over and knocked on the door. Cheez answered the door, dressed in nothing but socks. Her boobs were stupid looking and flabby. I hated her. She was old. "What the fuck you want, hooker?" she asked me. "What's a hooker?" I asked, for I did not know what a hooker was. "I need a dub. And hook it up fat!" Bologna whispered loudly. Bologna giggled gleefully. "Shit, just chill on the couch a sec," Cheez said.

We sat down on the couch, and Bologna farted. I giggled, because I thought it was funny. Bologna cackled madly. "Twenty bucks," Cheez said. Bologna gave her the money, and Cheez threw her a sack and a set of scales. "It weighs five, but go ahead and check it," Cheez said. Bologna weighed the sack, and frowned. She grabbed her gun and pointed it at Cheez. "You fuckin' shorted me, you fuckin stupid-ass bitch!" and with that, she shot Cheez right between the eyes. I got covered in brain tissue and blood. "Eww!" I screamed.

"We gotsta jet, big pimpin'!" Bologna cried. We ran across the street, into the Magical Meadow where she lived. We sat down by a rock. Bologna was coughing, because she smoked too many cigarettes entirely too often, and had no stamina for such intensive running. I began to wonder why she hadn't just flown to our destination.

Once rested, Bologna pulled out a pipe, and loaded it up. "You have to try this shit, dude!" she exclaimed, and handed me the pipe. I smoked from the pipe. I coughed. "I don't feel anything," I said. "Just give it a few minutes," Bologna told me. So I did. I gave it five minutes, thirty six seconds, to be exact. "Still not feeling anything. I need to get home anyway," I said. "Okay. Let me walk you home, retard," Bologna said. She liked to call me retard a lot. She said it was her little nick-name for me.

We left the Magical Meadow, and started walking towards my street. We looked both ways, and started crossing. Then, out of nowhere, a car came speeding down the street. "Look out!" I yelled to Bologna, but too late. As the driver hit the brakes, Bologna was splattered all over the windshield. "No!" I screamed, saddened that her remains were now being wiped away by the windshield wipers.

That's the end of the story. Seriously. I can't remember anything after that. Leave me alone.