September 10, 2011
Duty Calls: Lt. Lester Lego
Suddenly the squawk box blares out a call; I have to turn my entire head to hear it as my ears are only painted on and little Tommy has plastered that damned long haired wig on top of my bald pate again. I swear that kid is a faggot.
But the call is bad, as bad as it gets. Plastic figure down at the corner of Wisconsin and Vine, a possible Legocide.
I turn on the emergency lights that never work and hope that little Tommy will eventually move the squad car over about three inches to Wisconsin Ave. where he is busily dismembering a dog.
The stupid kid doesn't know a building block from his butthole. His parents have had to take him to the ER twice last month to have the really big eight-dot blocks surgically removed. His dad said he's gonna have the word "HOOVER" tattooed across the kid's cheeks.
A half hour later Tommy finally complies. My squad car almost ended up in his colon but thankfully he ripped off Barbie's head and used her to scratch a non-existent hemmorhoid instead. There is something really wrong with Tommy.
Once we landed I saw the crime scene. It was just as I had feared. A Nerf dart to the back of the head. Lennie Lego never knew what hit him. His hat was knocked all the way over to the Fort Apache set where some idiot cowboy with a lasso permantly attached to his hand was trying to put it on his horse's head.
I couldn't really get that upset about Lennie's death. He bored out the back of Lolita Lego and was selling her body. That just didn't set right with a lot of us. Not with a Lego.
We may be made from hard plastic stock but we have a soft latex heart.