Sometimes you just have to rain crapulent fistfuls of feculence all over a childhood classic.
To wit:
The Sand Witch
Dorothy’s house didn’t just land—it body slammed the Wicked Witch of the West straight into a beach cabana, legs curling like stale churros.
Moments later, Glinda descends in her glittery-ass bubble like a goddamn disco soap dispenser. She steps out all perky and clueless, looks at Dorothy, and chirps:
“Are you a good witch, or a bad witch?”
Dorothy, covered in sand and sweat, hair full of seagull shit, eyes twitching from heatstroke, snaps:
“I’m not a good witch.
I’m not a bad witch.
I’m a SAND witch,
you dumb BITCH!”
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About the Creator
Tom Baker
Author of Haunted Indianapolis, Indiana Ghost Folklore, Midwest Maniacs, Midwest UFOs and Beyond, Scary Urban Legends, 50 Famous Fables and Folk Tales, and Notorious Crimes of the Upper Midwest.: http://tombakerbooks.weebly.com
The Dryads are Calling
They say the forest by Phoenix River sings. Perhaps it is just he wind howling through the leaves, or a particular birdsong. But Percy Fisher knows better; he knows what lies in those woods, and he knows that the forest sings of his demise.
By Leigh Hooperabout 2 hours ago in Fiction
Comments (1)
I'm smiling now.