How Hansel and Gretel Died In My Copy Of ‘Hansel And Gretel’

Imagine instead of a witch’s house Hansel and Gretel
visit a casino. The advice I’d give them is
to listen to the unknown. Because that’s where
their breadcrumbs are falling into. It shouldn’t be
too difficult to understand this concept because there isn’t too
great a distinction between a scary forest
and a casino – especially since said forest has the ingenuity
to yield kitsch houses made of sweets.
So. I’d say to make sure it’s man-made, though mostly it always
is. The unknown may be a little immature, just like the
actuarial science that run gambling houses and tap dopamine
from purple-haired mummies, but it should also
be crumbling, and mostly these houses of fate are…
You need to have something like toothpaste in
your ear to hear it, though – hardened, day-old toothpaste
because it needs to absorb the percussions of this
man-made, immature, crumbling, not too mathematical –
because nobody trusts an overly mathematical – unknown.
The witch-house facilities cough – from all the skinny
aerobics taking place inside – so
do exercise some courtesy before entering; like knocking.
The door draft would blow you away if you’re cocky.
These two children walked into unknown time and
when Hansel looked, his Casio wristwatch was soaked with
the strangest snot: therefore, young man, I’d say to
use toothpaste, because certain brands especially – even
in a day-old state – they’re rather snotty, but
cheap, crusty ones work too. Put it
in your ear, dude, the ear you’re listening to forest-time with…
A very scary chapter in my copy of ‘Hansel and Gretel’ told about
how neither Hansel nor Gretel wore gumboots when walking
into the drenched casino, although their toes felt those percussions
and, man, it was like Pac-Man snapping at the fallen coins, the
dying dead, water like tea embellished
to resemble such liquids only scoundrel foot
masseurs could coax – in this alternate addition of ‘Hansel and
Gretel’ – from podalic pores; and
this was when I remembered all the cars
outside were parallel parked. Oh, misguided
parallel parkers! Haven’t you learned from this dark
lesson in navigation? They died in the end, didn’t
they? In my copy their dumb breadcrumbs
were treats to the House (I call that old, mole-nosed lady ‘the
House’ – no offense to witches everywhere), vaccine-soaked
cotton wool for its fat-starved wanderlust on the trail of the
directionally innocent, scare tactics that attract
like contraceptives attract agoraphobic, sociophobic, stay-at-
home sperm cells. Why couldn’t the witch have bred her
own children in a cauldron or something and eaten them or
something before they were even ready?
Otherwise we wouldn’t have seen something beautiful:
the dumb breadcrumbs turning into a mysterious, unchartered
sea. In my addition there was a craphouse-full of them, so many
and they crackled under the stomping, jingling, slot-machine
soles of the two irresponsible children, who
didn’t hear a thing but eventually – yeah, I think they
eventually just didn’t hear anything.