Filly McFillFill's Filler Factory

Little Jimmy was conceived in Jamaica and born in Brooklyn at approximately 2:49 PM. He was slowly and disgracefully pushed out of the womb when he was just a miniscule embryo, with a bald head, slit eyes, and a tiny nose. 
Why is his nose so tiny, you may ask? No one nose- I mean knows, nobody bothered to ask except probably you or me depending on the types of people we are. We can go big, you and me- wrong word, it’s you and I. 
Anyway, as he grew older, he gained a big lump in his tummy from eating too much KFC and Funyuns, fingers that rivaled the size of his father’s hand, a protruding eyeball, a constantly ingrown toenail, teeth as thick as your doorknob, a pegleg, hair as black and spiky as JoJo Siwa after the quirkiest of the quirkiest of the quirkiest phases, and a hook for a hand. 
He had a sorta decent life, as one may say, or several, or many, whatever number pops up in your head. Assuming you have a head, or a body to begin with. You could be just a pulsating mass of flesh, or a single bleeding heart on the ground for all I know. Sorry for offending you. 
God, everything is offensive nowadays, isn’t it? First, it was those dayum vidya games, then them animoos, then hair, then whatcha like. Back in my day, life wasn’t about what you liked. I had to walk up the mountains with my bare feet, with piercing, gray, sparkled rocks slicing and dicing my heels like glass. 
It got to a point where I had to crawl to school on top of a damn hill, and it makes me cry just thinking about the horrible pain I endured. You know what, before I get into the story of Little Jimmy further, I’mma tell you about the time I stubbed my big toe. 
So, one day, I was in my house with my husband Cletus Tightwad and my daughter L’Oreal. That’s right, we’re the Tightwads. Got a problem with that, wanker? My name is Ima. I’m Ima Tightwad and I’m proud. 
Anyway, I gingerly stepped out of the doorway and trudged so slowly across the floor that I felt insects crawl up my leg each step. I felt tongue-eating louses crawl into my slippers, which should’ve been impossible because they infect fishies, but I digress. 
I rammed my toe straight into the side of my table, and I felt a splinter push through my skin so hard that it made me rupture the space-time continuum with how loud I was screaming. I was screaming pretty quickly though, like the Yellow Bird in Angry Birds. He’s quick, but how does he go so fast? Does he fart itty-bitty teeny-weeny rockets? 
Those would hit the birds in the faces, and that would hurt. I had to go to the hospital and have the doctor lubricate my foot with butter just to get the splinter out, but not just the splinter. 
Apparently, the fabrics of my slipper were fused with my skin, and they had to snip the makeshift stitches I apparently made before using the “Unbelievable, This Is Not Butter” branded butter. Why the fuck would it be called that?
Anyway, back to the story. 
Little Jimmy’s hook hand chopped his alarm clock in half once it started blaring right in his ear at approximately 3:00 PM, eleven minutes after the time he was born. He slowly opened his protruding, slimy, nearly popped-out pupil inside of his eyeball and scanned around the room for an explanation on why he woke up at three in the fucking afternoon. 
The entire room he was resting in was coated in a dark gray, tough color, like unfertilized caviar that you eat straight from a Sturgeon’s womb, or the weewee of a Tasselled wobbegong, which is a type of fish just like the Sturgeon, except you can’t get caviar from that. 
“Oh, bullocks on a stick fried and jammed in Donald Trump’s left ear! Where could I have possibly been picked up forcefully from my other bed and brought so far away from my custom condo? My daddy paid sixty whole dollars for that building and worked incredibly hard gathering cardboards for its construction!”
That doesn’t make any sense. You can’t build a condo out of cardboard, silly bitchboy. Fat, stinky bitchboy. Laugh at him. Please. Don’t make me beg. 
Before walking, as in taking one step at a time out of the room, progressing the story further, Jimmy had a lovely gander at the door frame. It was coated in a chromium, metallic texture, ever so slightly rusted from the age. He was so enthralled with the doorframe, that it reminded him of a story from his childhood. 
When he was 12 years old, Jimmy was given the superpower to eat solidified matter, such as wood, iron, or quartz. He was given a science experiment by his class of exactly fifty-two (plus the teacher) people, by the name of “fun with biting my shiny, metal rocks,” and it was meant to conduct what would happen if you bit into shiny, metal rocks.
Jimmy bit into the rocks with all the might he had in his system, and every single baby tooth lodged in his pink-colored gums cracked to itty bitty pieces like glass being run over by a 2-ton monster truck filled to the brim with hot coals. 
Don’t worry, fellow reader, they indeed grew back like teeth are supposed to. After all, they’re teeth. Those squares with pointy ends that help you chew, otherwise known as masticate food, and eventually become larger by the years. He eventually found out about his superpowers when he bit into a radioactive piece of metal. 
Ah yes, those were the days. The doorframe days. 
Jimmy stepped slowly and carefully, foot by foot out of the doorway, which is what walking is, and scanned the dark and dreary hallway set before him, choked with yucky colors and glass windows fogged up to unseeability. Because that’s totally a word, don’t ask. 
He used his hook hand, which he couldn’t have ever thought would fail because he’s Jimmy and Jimmy can do anything, to wipe away the staining, light gray fog from the sand-made, originally clear-pane window. 
Instead of wiping away the fog like it should’ve done, his hook hand smashed the window open because it’s sharp and that’s what sharp things do, especially sharp things that are large. What was behind the glass turned out to be more than what poor Little Jimmy could’ve ever bargained for in his lifetime as a child.
Fattened corpses of mature people, looking to be somewhere in their 40s, innards exploded out of their rotting, stinking figures. Eyes and teeth were practically nonexistent at this point, as they likely would’ve shriveled away by now. Each and every orifice that these humans once had, now poured out bucketloads of light, beige-colored sand, mixed with black, pepper-like chunks. 
It was a rather unpleasant surprise. However, Little Jimmy was not too worried. It was probably just a glitch for all he knew. 
Jim-Jim continued lifting one foot up, setting that foot down, and repeating said action on his opposite foot, also known as walking, down the dingy hall. He wrapped his lips into a circular O-shape and began doing this amazing action where you blow a high-pitched tune from your vocal chords. It’s called whistling. It reminded him of the time when he was in choir as the only whistler in a group of yodelers back in his Kindergarten trip to Ireland. 
Ireland was absolutely astonishing, he pondered in his head, which is another way to say “thought.” There were these lovely patches of oak trees drenched in syrupy sap, grass as green as emerald found in a cave of jewels sparkling as bright as topaz, and bushes that were about as big as his hair at the time, because his father didn’t get him that proper haircut he so desperately beseeched for. 
This one unfaithful morning, six o’clock after having some shrimp on the barbie for breakfast, he stood in the midst of the many grade schoolers of all shapes, sizes, and ages, which should’ve obviously been a ultra-mega massive red flag to the staff. What on God’s green earth were they thinking?
Stink Yojimbo attempted to whistle like he was assigned to do, but he yodeled on accident at such a loud pitch that he shattered the eardrums inside of the canals on the sides of the other humans’ heads known as ears, to nothing but puddles of bloody chunks and, strangely enough, feces. Was there food up their asscheeks, Cartman-style? That will indeed continue to be a mystery for many years to come. 
Jimmy finally reaches the end of the corridor to the set of two extra doors, colored cyan but dimly lit by the yellow spheres above his festively decorated head. The doors were so cyan, that poor Jimbo physically could not grasp the true power of how cyan they were. 
So bright, so colorful, so dreamy, it made all of his memories flood back. He had to resist biting into it like a Crunch chocolate bar if he wanted to go home to his mammy and pappy who went by the names Bitch and Moan Sanchez. 
Shielding his two slimy, white globes connected to his brain, known as eyes, that are connected to the spinal cord, spiraling the central nervous system of the body, which are also connected to the peripheral nerves, which also help move the muscles and connect back to said peripheral nerves, he pushed open the door in a forceful and rough motion using his medial plantar. 
Amongst the hundreds, thousands even, of cadavers leaking sand from their holes, littering the cold, dirty ground, and the plentiful bunches of conveyor belts with these humans strapped to them by leathery, rusty, golden buckles, lay a tall, slim-built, female, opposite-gendered, not a man, woman. On a torn couch, popping fistfuls of Munchos down her bored and ennui-encircled face. 
Jimmy raises his arm, specifically his left one, into the oxygen that we breathe, and performs this strange flapping, flicking motion in order to gain her attention. He was clearly trying to get her to see him.
“Hello over yonder, Miss Female, on the rugged yellow sofa may be infested with cockroaches and bugs, you must be the owner of this fine, yet severely unkempt and sand-filled establishment, I’m assuming! May I speak with you for a minute, or ten, or twenty, whatever may float your boat as Americans may call it?”
“...s-sorry, what? Uh-”
“And while we are both conversing like fellow homo sapiens normally do in their spare, trying times, may I land my buttocks upon the cushion next to your lanky frame and widen my face-circles at your television screen? Is that ‘The Monetary Value Assigned to a Particular Object is Coherently Researched, Theorized, and/or Hypothesized by Randomized Guests’ I am seeing?”
“...yeah, I’m watching a game show? I guess some company would be fine. Just don’t touch my food.”
Jimmy ecstatically bounced, or in the more literal term, ran over to the bright-colored seat, his hook hand and peg leg simultaneously almost accidentally stabbing the cushion of the furniture on his way climbing atop of it, size rivaling his by a massive difference with its enormous weight. 
It weighed exactly three-hundred pounds, and it made him wonder if those three-hundred pounds would rival the same amount of a three-hundred pound back of feathers, or cotton balls, or even those fuzzy dice you put on a car window. Oh, the fun of mathematics and algebraic critical thinking.
“Anything on your mind, kid?”
“Precisely, tall female with a purple top hat, hazel-hue’d irises, wavy, blonde hair, charcoal eyeliner, Adidas-branded sandals, socks whiter than the whitest of snow, camouflage cargo shorts, and a wife-beater shirt! I would appreciate the simple inquiring of information about my whereabouts and the exact purpose of why I awoke inside of a rusted room with features that a hospital would have!”
“...right. So, this is my factory. I capture people and explode them with filler. I don’t really have a reason, I just do it cause… actually, yeah, just because.”
“Oh, my goodness gracious on my poor elderly great great great great great grandmother’s grave! My bullocks, that is such a preposterously evil, twisted, madman operation to commit! Inform me, tall female with a purple top hat, hazel-hue’d irises, wavy, blonde hair, charcoal eyeliner, Adidas-branded sandals, socks whiter than the whitest of snow, camouflage cargo shorts, and a wife-beater shirt, I must become aware of how you managed to escort me into this unknown area!”
“I mean, I just saw you sleeping in a box on the side of the road. Spotted a note taped on it too, from your parents. Said something about you never ‘getting to the fucking point?’”
Category:Trollpasta
Category:Pages with grammar that doesn't suck
Category:Stupid is as the main character does
Category:DIALOGUE!