Day 1- The Mcfluffer Today was a crock of mish-mashes and pish posh. It all started at the Reservoir. I walked down Chestnut Hill ave. clopping along at my own pace and admiring the haircuts of various passersby. It was early, and the sun cast shapes of orange light over the street, warming the damp morning air. The local Yak herd gathered along the edge of the Reservoir, their gentle heads lowered to the water’s edge for a morning drink. Everything seemed to glow. A mullet passed by, followed by a handlebar mustache, and just as everything seemed perfect, I accidentally stepped on a small dog’s back. At the moment of impact, I heard a terrible sound from below, and my foot repelled with such reflex that I pulled my right groin muscle. The owner was not happy with me and neither was her dog, but I apologized far too many times and continued down the street, a slight limp in my step. When I reached the bottom of the stairs at the T stop I immediately noticed the presence of a putrid odor. Up ahead were the shapes of two figures that I guessed were probably a couple of huge dogs. They were lying down next to something and swatting their huge tails intermittently. I noticed something that looked like a human arm between the rails of the T line, and an announcement popped on from an overhead speaker. “Due to the presence of hostile track lions, we advise all patrons of the MBTA to please be on your toes and keep your head on a swivel at all times. Thank you for riding the T.” I was back at the top of the staircase as the Spanish version of the announcement came on. The bus back to the B line guzzled up Comm. Ave. A kid sitting to my right asked me if the word “pun” was an acronym for “play on words.” I asked him, wouldn’t that be pow? And he said oh yeah, and remained quiet for the rest of the ride. I finally got to Mcdonalds and sat down to enjoy my meal when I realized that I had ordered the wrong thing. I had meant to order a number 4, a noxious excuse for eggs and sausage on a mcmuffin, but instead ordered a number 14, the Mcfluffer, which is just a bag filled with fried insulation and Mcdonalds brand skittles. Too timid to return my order, I ate my bag of insulation, and, feeling particularly unhealthy, left Mcdonalds and passed out in a gutter. The staff at the hospital was very nice. The nurses kept cursing Mcdonalds for selling their Mcfluffers. They told me about how many stomachs they had to pump every day from those damn Mcfluffers. It was a lot of stomachs. A doctor made a comment about the rapid advances in stomach pumping machine technology since Mcdonalds started selling Mcfluffers. At this, the nurses mumbled and made perfunctory nods. At my apartment my roommates were sitting around the kitchen table staring at a grain of salt. They asked me where the hell I’d been and I told them I ate a Mcfluffer. They “oof’d” in unison, and I walked out onto our porch. Outside the sun was setting on the jagged horizon of trees and roofs, becoming dimmer, and stretching itself out, as if squinting to get a final glimpse of something. The Yaks moved slowly across the street into the Cumberland Farms parking lot. They would wait outside the store and grunt for change until the place closed, it was the same every day. I sat back and reclined my chair. Somewhere in the distance I heard a roar and a yell of sheer terror. Somewhere, someone was getting mauled.