Ernie Klent

by bernquist

Hello, my name is Ernie Klent. I’m a fairly normal, everyday kind of guy…that is, until you get to know me. Truth is I was born with a lot of abnormalities. Take my legs for instance. Fresh out of the womb I was completely covered in Bavarian lama hair from the waist down and had the leg structure of a cantankerous Egyptian eaglet with bulimia. It hasn’t been easy, but over the years I’ve been able to effectively mask my deformities with items like white spruce wood chip leg braces and real Bavarian lama sheers made of freelance watermelon rind. My head? That’s a different story. It has been a real trial disguising that I have the head of a Pacific Northwestern bark beetle (and yes it’s the same size as that of a stock bark beetle). It isn’t fair, but such is life.

It’s not easy when young bruin children at the super market are always screaming things like, “Look mommy!! He’s got a bug head!” and, “Daddy!! Look at his legs!! They’re all protuberanced!!!” Nope, not easy indeed. And I have developed a variety of interesting hobbies to help me cope. Sometimes when I’m all alone, I like to drink freshly catalyzed rabbit urine. The taste is tangy and bitter, but I like it. Yep, I like it very much! I eat goo sometimes, mostly tree sap and xylem due to my stupid head, but I like all the goos. Give me a strapping bowl of alligator bile and I’ll suck it right up.

I love spaghetti westerns. Not the traditional spaghetti westerns that were so prevalent in the late sixties and seventies, but the westerns in which duels are fought between actual pantsless men, literally slapping the wolf milk out of each other with pieces of real pasta! I find it invigorating. In my favorite film, The Ravioli Revenge, Larry Lasagna, the protagonist, has to save his beloved bride to be, Shannon of Stuffed Shells, from the clutches of the evil villain, Freddy of Fecal Fettuccine. I won’t give away the stupendous ending, but I will tell you this: it involves an abnormally behemoth dump truck stuffed to the bland brim with marinara!

I have crescent wrench hands and an abdomen made up of one huge dead albatross. Sometimes it’s hard for me to pick things up because I have to adjust the size of my grasp with each use of my metal hands. And let me tell you, it is so unimaginably difficult to adjust your crescent wrench hand with your other hand that is also a crescent wrench, you may decide that it would be much easier to just beat your own wood boring head to mush than pick up the decidedly oblong remote. But I carry on. Why you may ask? Probably because I am a physical impossibility that has never even come close to being anything that is real.

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