Tommy Goblin lives all alone in a little tree house at the end of Lavender Lane down in Dingly Dell. All the goblins in Dingly Dell are kind and happy and that makes Dingly Dell a very special place. There are boy goblins, girl goblins, and some other goblins who are . . . well, anyway. Living in Dingly Dell is better than living in Mid-Dingly, where the undocumented goblins live in their goblin hives and play their music out in the streets. It’s much better than living in East-Dingly, where the scary black goblins live in their rock houses behind their security bars. It’s better by far than living way out in the White Bread Forest, where all the yuppie goblins live in their gated goblinhoods with their litters of little blonde goblets.
Tommy likes his tree house where he frequently maturbates, but that’s another story for another time. He likes his many little goblin friends and he likes all the little goblin shops and goblin cafés and goblin bars where he can go and meet with other goblins to buy goblin trinkets and eat goblin snacks and drink goblin juice. Tommy often drinks more goblin juice than a responsible goblin should – but again, that’s another story.
* * *
The Saga of Linda, the Goblin With a Difference
One early morning in Dingly Dell, Tommy Goblin awoke as usual and went straight to his kitchen to brew coffee. While the coffee maker bubbled and hissed
and spewed forth the elixir on which he relied to get through life upright, Tommy went out to the balcony. As was his custom, he looked out into the morning air and whistled a little tune. But this particular morning, just as the first note escaped his pursed lips, Tommy’s ears pricked up at the sound of rummaging around in the alley behind his tree house.
“God damn it,” Tommy thought to himself, “I know they’re goblins too and they aren’t hurting anything, but I’m tired of those bottle-gathering homeless junkies pawing through the trash in my alley.”
And so, intent upon confrontation Tommy scrambled down off his landing and stormed into the alley. When he got there, there were no junkies to be seen. There were no scraggly goblins on stolen bicycles with garbage bags tied to the handle bars. There were no scabby-faced tweakers with shit-stained trousers upended head-first in his dumpster. There was, in fact, no sign of life at all. Tommy scratched his head: “Where did that noise come from?”
Just then, Tommy saw a heap of blown papers bulging and moving with something underneath. “Probably a rat,” he thought, and he moved toward the offending vermin intent upon crushing its pointy head beneath his goblin heel but just before he could kick at the heap a tiny face emerged. It was a kitty cat, a young one, barely an adult, maybe still adolescent. “Aww,” thought Tommy, “I almost kicked a kitty.”
Tommy bent down to pick up the kitten and noticed she was panting and heaving, her tiny heart pounding in her young chest. She was over-heated as though she’d been running, perhaps from some mean boys because Tommy also discovered that someone had shaved off all her fur. From head-to-toe, she was totally hairless. Tommy wondered who would chase a hot, young, bald pussy into the alley and leave her there. He decided to take her back to his tree house.
On the way up the stairs he stroked his new little, bald friend and hummed a comforting tune to her that she seemed to like. She nestled up against his goblin chest to show him so. He thought she must be hungry after her travail so he opened a can of tuna and fed it to her. It made her smell a bit, but if you have a hot, young, bald, hungry pussy in your tree house, you should fill it up. She ate greedily and rapidly, bobbing her head down into the can, lapping furiously at its smelly contents until they were gone. Then she purred and rubbed herself against Tommy’s leg indicating it was time to play.
Fond as he was of his new buddy, Tommy did not wish to play with a fishy pussy, not in an alley, not in his tree house, not anywhere. So he gave her a bath with warm, sudsy water. He scrubbed the alley grime off her with a coarse cloth that made her skin all soft and pink and when he was through he patted her down with a big, warm, fluffy towel. But she squirmed and tossed so he couldn’t get her totally dry.
“That’s all right,” thought Tommy. So he got a ball of yarn and went to his bedroom where he played with a hot, young, bald, wet, soft, pink little pussy the rest of the morning.
But as mid-day approached and the sounds of life outside drew Tommy’s attention to more important things, he knew he had to take his little friend back where he’d found her. He’d had fun, but a goblin can’t spend his whole life playing with pussies. Besides, she was
almost completely useless. She was far too stupid to be any good around the house and Tommy had no intention of spending hard-earned cash to feed and care for a worthless pussy.
“Sometimes,” he thought, “the young ones are best once you send them on their way.”
And thus, with one swift kick in the ass, Tommy Goblin booted a hot, young, bald, wet, soft, pink little pussy back out to the alley whence she came. “Time for lunch,” thought Tommy.
Now Dingly Dell, as everyone knows, is a place with no shortage of eateries. Every other doorway leads into a bistro, a sushi bar, a deli or one of those places that purports to serve what they call “raw food,” which is, in fact, lukewarm, unseasoned vegetable mush pressed into unappetizing shapes that sell for $14 to pretentious, urban snots who wouldn’t know good dining if it fucked them in their wheat-grass-tea-cleansed assholes. The point is, Tommy Goblin had ample food choices at that particular Dingly Dell noontime, but none of them sent his little goblin flag up the pole.
He scratched his little goblin head and furrowed his goblin brow and thought hard with his goblin brain – what should a goblin do on a perfect Dingly day to find a perfect lunch? Think, think, think, scratch, scratch, scratch, furrow, furrow, furrow – and then he had it.
“I know,” said Tommy, “I shall go to the zoo.”
The Dingly Zoo is a special zoo. Goblins come from all over the world to see the collection of rare and exotic creatures who live there. There are wombats and weasels and winkly whoops, and tigers and tapirs and tiffly toops, and horses and hippos and huffly huffs, and zebus and zebras and ziggly zuffs. There are also orangutans, but they don’t rhyme with anything.
From Tommy Goblin’s tree house, even at a full skip, it takes a goodly while to ramble down to the zoo. It isn’t far really, but it’s a commitment. So Tommy set out for the zoo and as he skipped he whistled a happy little goblin song:
“Tweet tweet, I love the zoo. Tweet tweet, it loves me too. Chirp, chirp, I’m on my way. Chirp – crap, he thinks I’m gay.”
(As we said, Dingly Dell had some “other” goblins.)
So Tommy Goblin quickened his pace and skipped on through the park, avoiding eye contact with the buff boy goblins near the public restrooms.
When he reached the zoo, Tommy Goblin went straight in to see his friend Sue, the orangutan. Tommy liked Sue and Sue liked Tommy. Tommy thought Sue would make a good girlfriend, but then he remembered that even in a village as happy as Dingly Dell they have laws against that sort of thing. And beside, orangutans don’t like to watch football and they’re not much better at conversation than hot, little, pink pussies.
Anyway, after a brief visit with Sue, Tommy skipped down to the Dingly Zoo restaurant and ordered an entree that cost $43. It was a special lunch. It
should have been. Imagine a goblin all by himself at noon in the Dingly Zoo eating a lunch that costs more than it takes to feed a whole family of Sudanese goblins for a month. Tommy felt kind of ashamed, but not really.
After lunch Tommy skipped away for home. This time he avoided the park and went the other way – up Dingly Boulevard to Goblinson. When he reached the corner Tommy had a thought:
“I think I will go to the Alibi and have a goblin juice.”
So he skipped on over and went into one of Dingly Dell’s oldest neighborhood dives. Even on such a happy day, there are some scary goblins at the Alibi when the sun is out. They like to play billiards and some of them are very good. They like to tell stories and some of them are very rude.
Tommy Goblin was usually a very sweet goblin. But get a juice or two in him and he could get pretty ugly, especially over a game of billiards. It’s a shame to have to admit it, but in the friendly, happy little goblinhood of Dingly Dell, there are more than a few crusty old nasty goblins who cheat. That made Tommy a very sad goblin.
But he wasn’t about to start trouble at the Alibi. No sir! The Alibi on a weekday afternoon is not some twinkly goblin bar like Tommy often goes to. No, the Alibi has old goblins missing fingers who’ve been drinking goblin juice professionally ever since they got mustard-gassed in the First Goblin War. They chew with their mouths open and their yellowy white beards have dull orange nicotine stains under their gnarled, red goblin noses. They rarely trim their goblin claws and when they do they use a pocket knife.
So Tommy happily left the pool table after some unhappy geezer beat him like a step-child. “Who needs pool,” he thought, “when there’s goblin juice to drink and new friends to make?” Tommy chose his new friend easily – the only goblin in the bar with tits.
With the offer of a cocktail, Tommy introduced himself to Linda, a lovely goblin lady about his age. Linda wore a black skirt slit high on the side that displayed a smooth brown thigh that tapered elegantly into her shapely calf. Her deep-set eyes beamed from beneath her delicately arched brows and her high cheekbones framed a strong beauty that radiated exotically in glowing, Latin style.
A compact woman, there was a boyishness about Linda tightly coiled in her pert, youthful figure. She shook Tommy’s hand when he introduced himself and she did so confidently, not with the wilty, meek grasp of some poor damsel, but with the eye-locked self assurance of a woman who knew herself and her place in the world. Tommy was smitten immediately.
Now as we said, Tommy Goblin is given to drink, a fact about which we shan’t embellish. Still, this fact is relevant if only to explain how it was that through the course of a late afternoon he and a dark complected perfect stranger sat in a shit-hole swilling hooch then spilled out into the sun’s setting glow and stumbled back up to his tree house for some adult frivolity.
The events of that particular evening are, from that moment, lost to history cloaked, as they are by the veil of drunken recall – a thick sumbitch, that veil. But it can be inferred from the events of the next morning that a special friendship emerged between Tommy and Linda that proved special enough for the two of them to retire in a state of near complete undress, her arm across his chest, her face against his neck while he lay supine, sawing logs in an unmade bed. Make of that what you will.
Whatever may have transpired, skipping ahead to the next Dingly morning, Tommy Goblin awoke feeling as if a family of ferrets had moved into his mouth and shat into his skull. Only grudgingly did he open his bleary eyes to let in the dawn. Lifting his arm to shield himself from the light, he noted two things: one, he was shaking like Michael J. Fox on a helicopter and two, he was not alone.
What the dim light of a bar and the fog of drink had obscured some hours earlier abruptly enough became brilliantly, alarmingly clear. Linda, it seems, was a deceptacon.
That is to say, she was a lady in form only, not in substance. Linda, to use the vernacular of Dingly Dell, was a shemale. Replete with stubble and Adam’s apple, there she lay next to Tommy in mute but vibrant testimony to the fact that a Goblin hitting the sauce can damn sure get fooled by a chick with a dick.
And so, boys and girls, as this tale of the Goblinhood draws to a close we should ask ourselves just what it means. Does it matter what Tommy Goblin did in his Crying Game moment? Do we care whether he went up inside a convincing tranny? Do we wonder at all whether he should have popped into a bar in the first place or whether he should have indulged himself with a ludicrously overpriced zoo lunch after his day began suitably enough with the little, pink pussy fate laid at his doorstep? Are these the questions we should ask?
No. They’re not. We shouldn’t concern ourselves with details and we shouldn’t ask if the foregoing story is fact or fiction. Whatever it is, it’s true in a broader sense than facts can ever be. Remember, boys and girls, don’t let the facts stand in the way of a good story. In this case, the story tells us a simple truth that transcends facts and that truth is . . .
Sometimes you and you alone are your own best company.
Oh sure, you might wake up one morning to some hot new pussy and you might enjoy it just fine, until you realize it’s dumber than a hat full of assholes and you have to kick it to the curb. Some lunchtime you might dine lavishly among the beasts and it might be gratifying, until the check comes. Some afternoon you might pop into a pub for a few shots and knock some balls around a table, until you realize the salty fucker whipping your ass won’t let you win no matter what. Some early evening you might get lucky and take home a hot Hispanic harlot only to discover the next morning that she’s packing a shriveled, uncut member. These things happen when you leave your tree house.
What happened or didn’t happen to Tommy Goblin that day or thereafter is immaterial. What matters is that all you good little girls and boys learn from his mistake. The world is a wonderful place full of sex and good food and booze and fine looking women. But none of it is quite wonderful enough to make you not hate it. Live long enough and you’ll know full well the truth of this maxim – as long as you’re alive, you’re potentially fucked. Contrary to the maxim, opportunity often knocks more than once, sometimes several times in one day. But trust me when I tell you, let the fucker knock. Don't answer. Stay indoors, draw the shades, make a sandwich, watch pornography and pass out drunk on your couch. It’s best that way.
Tommy likes his tree house where he frequently maturbates, but that’s another story for another time. He likes his many little goblin friends and he likes all the little goblin shops and goblin cafés and goblin bars where he can go and meet with other goblins to buy goblin trinkets and eat goblin snacks and drink goblin juice. Tommy often drinks more goblin juice than a responsible goblin should – but again, that’s another story.
* * *
The Saga of Linda, the Goblin With a Difference
One early morning in Dingly Dell, Tommy Goblin awoke as usual and went straight to his kitchen to brew coffee. While the coffee maker bubbled and hissed
and spewed forth the elixir on which he relied to get through life upright, Tommy went out to the balcony. As was his custom, he looked out into the morning air and whistled a little tune. But this particular morning, just as the first note escaped his pursed lips, Tommy’s ears pricked up at the sound of rummaging around in the alley behind his tree house.“God damn it,” Tommy thought to himself, “I know they’re goblins too and they aren’t hurting anything, but I’m tired of those bottle-gathering homeless junkies pawing through the trash in my alley.”
And so, intent upon confrontation Tommy scrambled down off his landing and stormed into the alley. When he got there, there were no junkies to be seen. There were no scraggly goblins on stolen bicycles with garbage bags tied to the handle bars. There were no scabby-faced tweakers with shit-stained trousers upended head-first in his dumpster. There was, in fact, no sign of life at all. Tommy scratched his head: “Where did that noise come from?”
Just then, Tommy saw a heap of blown papers bulging and moving with something underneath. “Probably a rat,” he thought, and he moved toward the offending vermin intent upon crushing its pointy head beneath his goblin heel but just before he could kick at the heap a tiny face emerged. It was a kitty cat, a young one, barely an adult, maybe still adolescent. “Aww,” thought Tommy, “I almost kicked a kitty.”
Tommy bent down to pick up the kitten and noticed she was panting and heaving, her tiny heart pounding in her young chest. She was over-heated as though she’d been running, perhaps from some mean boys because Tommy also discovered that someone had shaved off all her fur. From head-to-toe, she was totally hairless. Tommy wondered who would chase a hot, young, bald pussy into the alley and leave her there. He decided to take her back to his tree house.
On the way up the stairs he stroked his new little, bald friend and hummed a comforting tune to her that she seemed to like. She nestled up against his goblin chest to show him so. He thought she must be hungry after her travail so he opened a can of tuna and fed it to her. It made her smell a bit, but if you have a hot, young, bald, hungry pussy in your tree house, you should fill it up. She ate greedily and rapidly, bobbing her head down into the can, lapping furiously at its smelly contents until they were gone. Then she purred and rubbed herself against Tommy’s leg indicating it was time to play.
Fond as he was of his new buddy, Tommy did not wish to play with a fishy pussy, not in an alley, not in his tree house, not anywhere. So he gave her a bath with warm, sudsy water. He scrubbed the alley grime off her with a coarse cloth that made her skin all soft and pink and when he was through he patted her down with a big, warm, fluffy towel. But she squirmed and tossed so he couldn’t get her totally dry.
“That’s all right,” thought Tommy. So he got a ball of yarn and went to his bedroom where he played with a hot, young, bald, wet, soft, pink little pussy the rest of the morning.
But as mid-day approached and the sounds of life outside drew Tommy’s attention to more important things, he knew he had to take his little friend back where he’d found her. He’d had fun, but a goblin can’t spend his whole life playing with pussies. Besides, she was
almost completely useless. She was far too stupid to be any good around the house and Tommy had no intention of spending hard-earned cash to feed and care for a worthless pussy.“Sometimes,” he thought, “the young ones are best once you send them on their way.”
And thus, with one swift kick in the ass, Tommy Goblin booted a hot, young, bald, wet, soft, pink little pussy back out to the alley whence she came. “Time for lunch,” thought Tommy.
Now Dingly Dell, as everyone knows, is a place with no shortage of eateries. Every other doorway leads into a bistro, a sushi bar, a deli or one of those places that purports to serve what they call “raw food,” which is, in fact, lukewarm, unseasoned vegetable mush pressed into unappetizing shapes that sell for $14 to pretentious, urban snots who wouldn’t know good dining if it fucked them in their wheat-grass-tea-cleansed assholes. The point is, Tommy Goblin had ample food choices at that particular Dingly Dell noontime, but none of them sent his little goblin flag up the pole.
He scratched his little goblin head and furrowed his goblin brow and thought hard with his goblin brain – what should a goblin do on a perfect Dingly day to find a perfect lunch? Think, think, think, scratch, scratch, scratch, furrow, furrow, furrow – and then he had it.
“I know,” said Tommy, “I shall go to the zoo.”
The Dingly Zoo is a special zoo. Goblins come from all over the world to see the collection of rare and exotic creatures who live there. There are wombats and weasels and winkly whoops, and tigers and tapirs and tiffly toops, and horses and hippos and huffly huffs, and zebus and zebras and ziggly zuffs. There are also orangutans, but they don’t rhyme with anything.
From Tommy Goblin’s tree house, even at a full skip, it takes a goodly while to ramble down to the zoo. It isn’t far really, but it’s a commitment. So Tommy set out for the zoo and as he skipped he whistled a happy little goblin song:
“Tweet tweet, I love the zoo. Tweet tweet, it loves me too. Chirp, chirp, I’m on my way. Chirp – crap, he thinks I’m gay.”
(As we said, Dingly Dell had some “other” goblins.)
So Tommy Goblin quickened his pace and skipped on through the park, avoiding eye contact with the buff boy goblins near the public restrooms.
When he reached the zoo, Tommy Goblin went straight in to see his friend Sue, the orangutan. Tommy liked Sue and Sue liked Tommy. Tommy thought Sue would make a good girlfriend, but then he remembered that even in a village as happy as Dingly Dell they have laws against that sort of thing. And beside, orangutans don’t like to watch football and they’re not much better at conversation than hot, little, pink pussies.
Anyway, after a brief visit with Sue, Tommy skipped down to the Dingly Zoo restaurant and ordered an entree that cost $43. It was a special lunch. It
should have been. Imagine a goblin all by himself at noon in the Dingly Zoo eating a lunch that costs more than it takes to feed a whole family of Sudanese goblins for a month. Tommy felt kind of ashamed, but not really.After lunch Tommy skipped away for home. This time he avoided the park and went the other way – up Dingly Boulevard to Goblinson. When he reached the corner Tommy had a thought:
“I think I will go to the Alibi and have a goblin juice.”
So he skipped on over and went into one of Dingly Dell’s oldest neighborhood dives. Even on such a happy day, there are some scary goblins at the Alibi when the sun is out. They like to play billiards and some of them are very good. They like to tell stories and some of them are very rude.
Tommy Goblin was usually a very sweet goblin. But get a juice or two in him and he could get pretty ugly, especially over a game of billiards. It’s a shame to have to admit it, but in the friendly, happy little goblinhood of Dingly Dell, there are more than a few crusty old nasty goblins who cheat. That made Tommy a very sad goblin.
But he wasn’t about to start trouble at the Alibi. No sir! The Alibi on a weekday afternoon is not some twinkly goblin bar like Tommy often goes to. No, the Alibi has old goblins missing fingers who’ve been drinking goblin juice professionally ever since they got mustard-gassed in the First Goblin War. They chew with their mouths open and their yellowy white beards have dull orange nicotine stains under their gnarled, red goblin noses. They rarely trim their goblin claws and when they do they use a pocket knife.
So Tommy happily left the pool table after some unhappy geezer beat him like a step-child. “Who needs pool,” he thought, “when there’s goblin juice to drink and new friends to make?” Tommy chose his new friend easily – the only goblin in the bar with tits.
With the offer of a cocktail, Tommy introduced himself to Linda, a lovely goblin lady about his age. Linda wore a black skirt slit high on the side that displayed a smooth brown thigh that tapered elegantly into her shapely calf. Her deep-set eyes beamed from beneath her delicately arched brows and her high cheekbones framed a strong beauty that radiated exotically in glowing, Latin style.A compact woman, there was a boyishness about Linda tightly coiled in her pert, youthful figure. She shook Tommy’s hand when he introduced himself and she did so confidently, not with the wilty, meek grasp of some poor damsel, but with the eye-locked self assurance of a woman who knew herself and her place in the world. Tommy was smitten immediately.
Now as we said, Tommy Goblin is given to drink, a fact about which we shan’t embellish. Still, this fact is relevant if only to explain how it was that through the course of a late afternoon he and a dark complected perfect stranger sat in a shit-hole swilling hooch then spilled out into the sun’s setting glow and stumbled back up to his tree house for some adult frivolity.
The events of that particular evening are, from that moment, lost to history cloaked, as they are by the veil of drunken recall – a thick sumbitch, that veil. But it can be inferred from the events of the next morning that a special friendship emerged between Tommy and Linda that proved special enough for the two of them to retire in a state of near complete undress, her arm across his chest, her face against his neck while he lay supine, sawing logs in an unmade bed. Make of that what you will.
Whatever may have transpired, skipping ahead to the next Dingly morning, Tommy Goblin awoke feeling as if a family of ferrets had moved into his mouth and shat into his skull. Only grudgingly did he open his bleary eyes to let in the dawn. Lifting his arm to shield himself from the light, he noted two things: one, he was shaking like Michael J. Fox on a helicopter and two, he was not alone.
What the dim light of a bar and the fog of drink had obscured some hours earlier abruptly enough became brilliantly, alarmingly clear. Linda, it seems, was a deceptacon.
That is to say, she was a lady in form only, not in substance. Linda, to use the vernacular of Dingly Dell, was a shemale. Replete with stubble and Adam’s apple, there she lay next to Tommy in mute but vibrant testimony to the fact that a Goblin hitting the sauce can damn sure get fooled by a chick with a dick.And so, boys and girls, as this tale of the Goblinhood draws to a close we should ask ourselves just what it means. Does it matter what Tommy Goblin did in his Crying Game moment? Do we care whether he went up inside a convincing tranny? Do we wonder at all whether he should have popped into a bar in the first place or whether he should have indulged himself with a ludicrously overpriced zoo lunch after his day began suitably enough with the little, pink pussy fate laid at his doorstep? Are these the questions we should ask?
No. They’re not. We shouldn’t concern ourselves with details and we shouldn’t ask if the foregoing story is fact or fiction. Whatever it is, it’s true in a broader sense than facts can ever be. Remember, boys and girls, don’t let the facts stand in the way of a good story. In this case, the story tells us a simple truth that transcends facts and that truth is . . .
Sometimes you and you alone are your own best company.
Oh sure, you might wake up one morning to some hot new pussy and you might enjoy it just fine, until you realize it’s dumber than a hat full of assholes and you have to kick it to the curb. Some lunchtime you might dine lavishly among the beasts and it might be gratifying, until the check comes. Some afternoon you might pop into a pub for a few shots and knock some balls around a table, until you realize the salty fucker whipping your ass won’t let you win no matter what. Some early evening you might get lucky and take home a hot Hispanic harlot only to discover the next morning that she’s packing a shriveled, uncut member. These things happen when you leave your tree house.
What happened or didn’t happen to Tommy Goblin that day or thereafter is immaterial. What matters is that all you good little girls and boys learn from his mistake. The world is a wonderful place full of sex and good food and booze and fine looking women. But none of it is quite wonderful enough to make you not hate it. Live long enough and you’ll know full well the truth of this maxim – as long as you’re alive, you’re potentially fucked. Contrary to the maxim, opportunity often knocks more than once, sometimes several times in one day. But trust me when I tell you, let the fucker knock. Don't answer. Stay indoors, draw the shades, make a sandwich, watch pornography and pass out drunk on your couch. It’s best that way.
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