Chapter 13 - The Flies are Restless

^mice are notorious for being bad at estimation ^^In the backside of the page, the word “police” refers to the fuzz that grows when an old bagel is dipped in chicken-flavored mud. **Les langues officielles du Canada sont anglaises et françaises *Canada’s official languages are English and French** °Peter complained aboot this part, eh? °°The hair belongs to Joe, but it’s on Cobbler’s head.

“Noo! Not the afro of…” cried Cobbler but he was interrupted by a totally random guy with a giant “Hello, my name is Joe” sticker on his back who fell out of his hair and landed on him “Arg! How did I end up in the hair? That’s just disgusting; there were a bunch of lice taking advice from some nice mice that twice used a device that changed rice into ice-covered dice, Yeawk! I hate rhymes!” Joe (the random one) screamed and ran off into the distance, leaving Cobbler alone with the afro. “What’s (Squeakity) wrong with (Squeak) that guy?” asked a mouse from the afro, “He started (Squeak) yelling about (SQUEAK!!) rhymes and (Squawk?) rhymeaphobia and (Squeak) having words (Squeak) close in (Squeak) one him (Squeak) or something (Squeak) like that. (Squeak)” “Yeah, he was really (Squeak!) about the (Squeak!)” said another mouse. “Squeak, Squeaken, Squeaked, Moo!” interjected a third. “Wait a minute!” cried Cobbler, “how many mice are in this afro anyway?” “Huh, that’s a tough question, mice count everything in base 5.123 so it’s really hard to count past 5, but don’t worry I estimate that there are only about 4 mice in your hair^’ reassured the first mouse. “Well four isn’t too bad, you can stay as long as you don’t cause too much trouble.”said Cobbler said as he headed off towards his home. The path to Cobblers home was a very dangerous one, there were massive berry-flavored lava pits with vicious banana-flavored ones hidden amongst them. After the lava was the Forest of Whoa, a forest the full of talking trees saying things like, “Whoa, my moss grows in the dark” and “Whoa, that tree just talked”. After the forest is the worst thing of all, the Caverns of Confusions, which is made up of a maze of twisty little passages, all alike. Normally, Cobbler would just fly over all these dangerous things and have a relatively easy trip. However, the extra weight of the afro and the estimated four mice weighed him down so much that he couldn’t get over the peak of the mountain. He strained and tried but he just wasn’t strong enough. And then, with his strength gone, he plummeted down towards the sharp rocky floor below him in the Caverns of Confusion. FOOOP! (Squeak) POOOF! Luckily for Cobbler and his band of merry mice, the giant afro happened to be very fluffy and squishy and thus it prevented the injury of everyone (except for that one mouse that was stationed at the lookout post who was turned into a pancake). Cobbler arose and looked around the cave. It was a normal-looking cave. In fact, it was a regular cave. “Hmm, I wonder why they call this the Caves of Confusion if nothing is con – EEWW! Yuk! Yak! yew!” cried Cobbler as he tripped over a mouse-pancake, “This pancake looks like a mouse but it tastes like a pancake, that’s very confusion.” Cobbler tried to regain his composure, but, before he could, he saw the following sing.

Cobbler was greatly confused, what is a welcometo or a cavernsof? And aren’t informational display units usually called signs and not sings? Cobbler was greatly disturbed at the confusion, but he continued deeper into the caves because he was sure that was the way to get home. That certainty quietly faded as he lost his dialect and found himself in a Canadian paragraph. “Well, how aboot that eh?” cried Cobblour “I feel like being bilingual!”* Cobblour wandered further down the tunnel but now he had some purpose, eh? He now could be used as an English-to-Canadian translator to speak to the migrant-pickling labour forces imported from the East, eh? “Alors, qu’est-ce qui c’est que ça?” Cobblour a crié. “J’ai envie d’être bilingue!” Cobblour a erré dans le tunnel, mais avec quelque but maintenant. On peut l’utiliser comme traducteur anglais-canadien, pour parler aux ouvriers migrants qui faisait les conserves au vinaigre° Cobbler shuddered as he escaped from the Canadian paragraph. Who knows what would have happened if he had been there longer? Luckily, he seemed to have escaped with no adverse affects. “Gasp!” Unluckily cried a mouse from Joe’s hair°° “Blockflöten the German exchange mouse is acting really weird” “To…much…Canada…eh?…eh?…Eh?…eH?…eh?” Screamed Blockflöten “Eh?…eh?…Ca-na-ni-DA!…eh?…EH??” Luckily Cobbler never cared for the mice in Joe’s hair anyway, unluckily Blockflöten wouldn’t be (eh?..eH?…He??…Eh?…how aboot that? Eh? Eh? Eh?) quiet. Luckily Cobbler had some Earploogs of Silence from Gustav Da Gooda himself! “Unlookily, I, Gustav Da Gooda, must take my Earploogs of Silence back.”

Luckily Cobbler found his was back home, unluckily Blockflöten’s condition kept the flies from sleeping. Luckily, Cobbler ran out of chapter, thus ending the lucky and unlucky things early.