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Koko Schnookums

Koko Schnookums had a name
and it was Koko Schnookums.

He carried around two pillows
(yes, he!) upon which he couldn’t

rest his weary head, should he
have had one.  Koko was baking

a strawberry pie, facing the
proper direction.  He’d drink a

tightly wound Muscle Milk just for
a couple of tightly wound muscles. 

He’d open the refrigerator door, 

which was low to the ground, so 

he’d bend over, look around into 

the cool refrigerator, and pull out

a beer.  It was something cheap,
this particular beer, like most of

what was kept in the refrigerator
that was low to the ground.  Koko

would belch around four to five
times, on average, after drinking

one of his cheap beers. And after
that fifth belch he’d likely be found

stooped over with his two pillows
at the refrigerator scrounging

around for another cheap beer.
If he found one, he’d drink it.

If not, he’d go back to the stove,
and do a bit of cooking, once again

his body facing just the right direct
ion (toward the stove) where he’d

stir a bit or turn over a few items
frying in the pan, or put some

rice on, then he’d come back to
the cutting board atop which

were a slew of vegetables and

next to which was a paring

knife, and he’d go about slicing
and dicing and peeling and once

in a while julienning the veggies
that he’d lain atop the cutting

board to be at the ready, and 

then he’d either scoop things

up and put them into a pot 

or a pan or he’d pick up the

cutting board and slowly,
using the paring knife, with

the board at just the right
angle, scrape the slices,

dices and/or juliennes into
a receptacle upon the

stove.  And eventually,
he’d carry those pillows

back over to the fridge
and bend over, just so,

in an attempt to find
a third beer in there.

And in that effort he’d
most often succeed.