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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 inside

of the cool refrigerator, and pull out

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

what was kept in the refrigerator
(which was smallish, and quite

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 his two pillows,

once again at the refrigerator, 

scrounging around for another

cheap beer.  As always, if he 

found one, he’d drink it.  And if

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

his body pointed just the right 

direction (in this case, toward 

the stove) where he’d stir a bit 

or turn over a few items that 

were frying in a pan above an

electric heat, or he’d put on

some rice.  Or he’d sidle over

to a 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 had been lain atop the board,

that were at the ready, to to say,

and then he’d either 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 pan or bowl that sat upon 

the stove.  And eventually,
he’d carry those pillows of

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

in an attempt to find another
can something to whet his

worked-out whistle.  And in such

efforts he’d most often succeed.