“Donatella! I saw a tremendous sweaty, hairy Gigantopithecus hominid!” Bubba enthused in his flibbertigibbet way, his shavocado exposed.
Donatella sat up from the bed and removed her headgear. “Is that a sesquipedalian way of saying you saw a sasquatch?”
“Yes! It’s in the woods! Let’s go get pictures!”
“Ay dios mio, hermano.” Donatella lay back down, wanting to return to her quiescent state. She’d had enough of his vacuous pandemonium. “Did you mix pumpernickel, balaclava, cumquat, queso, and soy sauce into pink sludge again?”
“It was succulent. So tangy and moist,” Bubba sighed. “It was rapturous happiness.”
“Get some self-control, Bubba. That superfluous mess tainted your brain last time. The hospital had to give you a galactagogue through a IV cannula, remember. It gave you milk in your man-tittie before you barfed.” Donatella chuckled.
“It was fucktastic!”
“Remember that bullshit you told me about the Hamburglar using a catapult to fly through the cumulonimbus clouds, holding ivory scrimshaw while doing the hula. That he wanted to exact justice on our neighbor using Neo-McCarthyism, posting his skimmington on Facebook.”
“This is different. I saw a sasquatch! He was the doppelgänger for Shia LaBeouf.”
“It was probably just some unctuous cat or a curmudgeon prosimian.”
Bubba was about to debulliate. “You’re always such a finicky, persnicity flatus-filled syncophant when you forget your kegels!”
“That doesn’t even make sense. I think in the gestalt state your mind is in, you and the sasquatch have some auspicious commensalism going on. Now let me go back to sleep.