The Cross-International Flight

As publicized here a few days ago, the Macaroni Report’s first international, trans-continental triathlon (more like stalk-a-thon, let’s be real) is underway. Undoubtedly, the Broom Closet Sasquatch is behind this deluded scheme, as it reeks of him almost as much as the drainage ditch out behind the Macaroni offices.

Well, thankfully I’m still fairly literate, despite this prolonged exposure to double doubles, newfies, and of course the myriad of disappointment and lies they’ve deemed “pizza”, and was able to see the warning OPC released (thanks for that, by the way).

With the Macaroni headquarters abandoned in favor of this odyssey of stalking, I decided that after 103 days in the Canadian wilderness, this was the perfect time to return to Greenville, where mountains are indoors and the grass is distributed through ceiling tiles in middle school bathrooms. So, I flew home.

I stopped by the local Timmy’s on my way out of town, where the usual gossiping lumberjacks had worked themselves into a tizzy that the island was in for a dusting of snow later today, for the first time in five years. Polite panic was beginning to break out in the streets at the mere thought that the temperature may drop to a full 30 degrees and become, as they say in Victorian, a “sub-zero winter freeze” (-1 Celsius, how disastrous). The promise of snow was almost enough to tempt me to stay, but then I remembered how quickly the Macaroni staff, thanks to the Mail Room VP’s connections in the USPS, had been able to send a box of macaroni and cheese just a few weeks ago. Their message was delivered loud and clear, like a cheesy, delicious horse head in the bed.

At first, it was relaxing to fly over the endless wilderness and icy tundra of the Great White North. Crossing over into the United States was no easy task however, as the laymen for the in climate border wall spotted me somewhere over Minnesota. Fortunately for me (but mostly them), their incredibly warped perspective of the world made it utterly impossible to aim or shoot anything with even a minimal degree of accuracy.

Shockingly, it appears in my absence Greenville has caught up with 4th century Greece–since when has there been paved sidewalks? Even more astounding, I could have sworn I saw the Mail Room VP, but that was probably a jetlag-included hallucination. I know for a fact the Stray Cat spotted me, and while it was great to see her, it’s only a matter of time before the stalking expedition tracks me back here.

UPDATE (not even ten seconds later): The Broom Closet Sasquatch knows. It’s all over. Mexico, here I come…

-Furnace Dragon

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The Cross-International Flight

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