Everyone is born, but not everyone is born the same. Some will grow to be butchers or bakers, or candlestick makers. A rapist or a dancer…or die early from cancer. Some will be born with one kidney, one ear, one lung, or have fetal alcohol syndrome…from a drunk mother on rum.
Some kids are born without a home. In Ferguson’s case, an extra chromosome.
Whatever the reason, in the bleak winter season, Ferguson arose, with blood coming out of his nose.
“Mommy I dying I dying,” cried the young little child.
“Oh it’s just a bloody nose, pumpkin. I keep telling you not to stick your finger in there.”
“It’s where gets fingerpaints!”
“No, you buy finger paint at the store. You don’t get it from your nose. Why don’t you go play with your coloring book and crayons?”
Ferguson listened to his mother, and waddled to the playroom to find the best book ever.
One like no other. It was Dora the Explorer, he sure knew how to have fun. He reached for the blue crayon, to color in the sun.
“MOM!!” He screamed with great angst!
“Yes, my darling little knickernoodle?!”
“I need BOO CWAYON! DOWWA THE EXPLOWEH!”
“You’ll just have to look for it, pookitten.”
So off he went with great worry and haste. The world was his oyster. No time to waste. The timing was right, the story’s begun, for the journey of Ferguson, and his missing crayon.
“Cwayon…CWAYON!” Ferguson shouted into holes in the ground. Hoping it would turn up, safe and sound.
“I found its! I found its!” He exclaimed with such joy!
Could that be it? Could he have won? No, it was just a dandelion.
Ferguson gets filled with stress, while his pants get filled with mess.
He pressed on, determined like the junkie, he meets up with a cat, by the name of Ms. Chunky. Minding her business, Chunky quietly ate, with Ferguson assuming his crayon was cat bait.
“KITTY CAT EAT BOO CRAYON! ME EAT KITTY!”
Ferguson began to chew the paw off the cat, while the cat clawed his eye, and flew off like a bat.
He marched along a bit, not phased by the blitz. He then stood and did nothing, like the Jews of Auschwitz. Contemplating his path, he quickly discovers, a hole in the ground, completely uncovered.
“MY CWAYON IS THERE!” He says with a snap. Yet he finds out the hole is in fact a bear trap.
Did this stop Ferguson?
Of course not you fool, he hobbles along, with a face full of drool. He digs in the dirt, like a dog with a bone. He picks what appears to be a metal pine cone.
“MY CWAYON IS HEYUH!” He gleefully sings! He pulls the crayon, which looks like a pin.
The explosion was loud for this little renegade, what he thought was a crayon, was an army grenade.
Depressed he was, so Ferguson returned home. He cried to his mother. He cried all alone.
“I want WED cwayon!”
“You mean your blue crayon,” his mother consoled.
“MS. CHUNKY ATE IT! AND THE BEEAH TWAP ATE IT! AND THE GWENADE!”
“Awwww, my poor little darling.”
As he sobbed and sobbed, he rants and rants, yet something strange fell out of his pants.
“MY CWAYON!” He said!
The two were happy and celebrated. He even messed his pants again, he was so elated.
And that was the story of the Ferguson rhyme, his blue crayon was in his pants the whole time!
IamRob of Freak Safari can best be described in two words: Internet Cancer. His articles not only infect you like readable tumors, but he amazingly finds a way to make you happy about it. In other words: It’s a good read for people who have no desire to go to heaven.
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