Reflecting back over the years that have passed since the thing happened I recall that two people persistently pestered me as to just how I injured my wrist in response to my generalized report of the incident. I had a suitable answer for one but felt constrained from answering the other. Yes, this is old news, but in defense of my evasive behavior as predicating the present disclosure, I remind the person still interested in acquiring the details that there is an appropriate time for everything, and now I'm prepared to share the entire story with anybody who wants to know having had time to rethink and reconstruct the details in a refined, cohesive, and universally enlightening manner.
It happened late on a Wednesday in late December being late in the year, just two years before the year of late (now even later, of course), sometime late in the evening during late considerations upon matters of the darkest concern and of the most pressing interest--being, however, too late to act upon the same--and, well, at any rate, I was seriously troubled by the considerations of the-late and so I helped myself to a second bottle of Welch's grape-juice.
Sometime long into the transition from late to later, I heard a knock at the door. I told the Knocker to go away as it was, of course, late. Instead of going away however, the Knocker opened the door and invited itself in. Being swayed by my senses my first thought was that the-thing-that-knocked was nothing more than a juice incubated over-inflated helium balloon; but again, with a second blink and strained reconsideration, the-thing-that-knocked refocused as a fluke better comprehended in metaphysical terms used to define apparitions of the netherworld; like the Greek tormentor Tartarus, or some escapee from the brain of Dr. Seuss exacerbated into physical form by a contraindication similar to Dickens' undercooked potato. --Nevertheless, in consideration of the rational mind, the apparition did enter my apartment by purely methodological means; that is, by way of an expanding resilient substance responding to an undefined internal source of extreme pneumatic pressure.
As I sat dumbfounded at the apparition, the-thing-that-knocked continued to expand its bulk into the entire shape and form of my kitchen, the area within which it occupied, totally. During the aerobic display through which this pink thing completed its memorable and fearful entry, a poor circumstantial fly that enjoyed roaming the kitchen without fear of assault was plastered against the ceiling via the pink thing's all-consuming bulk. (Apologies to the reader but I found it necessary to add this detail as severance at this point to establish good confidence in my present tale apart from a possible recruited judgment of some other tale).
Anyhow; as the knocking-thing continued to expand I began to fear for what little remained of my own shrinking space of occupancy, having witnessed the demise of the fly. Obviously being devoid of courtesy and willfully ignorant of prudent behavior as betrayed by its total disregard of my verbal protests against its demographic expansionism, the pink-thing just kept right on forcing its bulk upon me until, by the time it had fully forced itself in and beyond the kitchen and now pressed rudely against my forehead, it abruptly stopped expanding and I suddenly found myself face to face with the biggest elephant you ever saw.
Now the familiar family of elephants don't transfigure themselves nor do they gawk at you or giggle; yet these annoying presentments were immediately manifest as the outstanding characteristics of this all but indefinable fluke. Admittedly, this was no ordinary elephant. In fact, I doubt that the-thing-that-knocked possessed any kind of genetic relation to the elephant genera as we know it, whatsoever.
Well, the first thing this elephant-imposter did, after its obtrusive introductory-transfiguration, was to belch right there in my face, nearly knocking me out while fumigating my apartment with a smell similar to ether. Then it said "Hello," blushed, and giggled away any acknowledgment of impudence by obfuscating the Christian demand for shame. Obviously its stupid giggling didn't betray the gracefully shy nature that defines the prudently shy of our own species, but rather, as I would come to understand clearly with the evidence unfolding before me, betrayed the forward nature of a very mischievous beast.
Immediately after the pink-thing's opening presentation it transfigured its features (imperfectly, considering its transfixed ears and trunk of course) into that of Winston Churchill, and then began to rehearse the Chancellor's warmongering propaganda-speeches of the WWII era complete with bourbon-slurs. I must admit that in the beginning I found this quite humorous. Then I discovered that the pink-thing thrived on my attention and grew louder and more obnoxious with the attention I gave it; and so I told it that it was a poor impressionist and that Hilary Clinton could do a better impression of Churchill than it could. To my brief relief and amusement, the elephant's countenance fell at this; then it grinned and transfigured its features into that of W.C. Fields (again imperfect only in its ear and trunk proportions, if you can imagine). --"A minor change of impression," I quickly interjected, hoping to discourage the pink thing from repeating the over-sung and disgustingly worn-out, "my little chickadee" monolog.
Thereafter the pink-thing appeared to be unaffected by further attempts at discouragement and with its forehead still plastered against mine, the-thing-that-knocked began to perform an uninterrupted string of transfigurations portraying every world renowned-personage imaginable, including Mayer Amschel Rothschild, Adam Weishaupt, Theodor Herzl, Edward Jenner, Lois Pasteur, Karl Marx, Georg Wilhelm Hegel, Sigmund Freud, Charles Darwin, Ivan Pavlov, Henry Kissinger, Ted Turner, Walter Cronkite, Abe Foxman, Elie Wiesel, Allen Greenspan, John Hagee, Pat Robertson, Michael Savage, Rupert Murdock, Michael Eisner, Somner Redstone, Edgar Bronfman, Jeff Zucker, Peter Chernin, Mortimer Zuckerman, Donald Graham, Ariel Sharon and of no surprise, some of Ariel's faithful concubines including George W. Bush and Tony Blair. In short, all the optometrists who have made, and continue to make, the defective eye glasses for the world.
The elephant wouldn't quit despite my demands so I threatened to slug it in the nose (as you know, I was referring to the elephant's snout-like appendage). Ignoring my threat, the pink-thing defiantly became louder and more obnoxious than ever. Obviously to mock my protests, the-thing-that-knocked then ventured onward to expand its transformations to include the fictitious world, presenting itself as Dumbo the Flying Elephant, Porky the Pig and the Cat-in-the-Hat, and then, as a trying crescendo-type assault against my decidedly harmless nature, the-thing-that-knocked (and knocked and knocked) had the final audacity to transform its features into the likeness of yours truly--including its disproportionately distorted ears and trunk rolled and tucked into a semblance of my own, but (as the reader surely can imagine), much exaggerated. --And so I kept my word, and I slugged the elephant in the nose; hard.
The last impression presented by the elephant was a phantom-like thing with a rocket-blast of hot air shooting from its snout as hypothetically envisioned in forthcoming disappointed politicians. It then flew about my apartment like a loosed child's balloon deflating toward obscurity. When the-thing-that-knocked finally sputtered and fizzled out, its pink remains lay as a motionless thing on the floor being about the size and shape of a chili-pepper. And then, as if to release me from my mental captivity, the-thing-that-knocked went "poof," and then disappeared altogether.
I awoke the next morning to discover I had injured my wrist, which occurred, I suppose, when I poked the pink elephant in the nose--and, well, that's just about the way it happened--I so dispose.
Oh, by the way, I did catch the elephant's name, it was, I'am Ur Reality.
