"Call me when your other eyebrow grows back", said Melinda, as the elevator door closed in Daryll's face. What an unpleasant face it was -- ever since the accident with the taffy-making machine on the boardwalk. Daryll went back into his fetid little room in the big red hotel to catalog his algae collection, again.

"My mother warned me not to become a phycologist", he thought, as he sorted his seaweed. "Rock musicians and parasitologists get all the girls in this town." He took another sip of isopropyl-on-the-rocks and soon slumped over the Fucus vesiculosis.

Darryl awoke to the sound of a marching band of Smurfs. He thought it a bit odd that there was a parade on Mediterranean Avenue at O-dark-hundred on a Wednesday. He would have run to the window, if his shoelaces weren't tied together again. "Gosh, I hate it when that happens", he muttered as he hopped across the floor -- trying not to slip on the fish-heads. He yelled out the window, "Shut up -- or I'll call my uncle!"

That was no idle threat. Darryl's uncle was none other than Captain Cowstoe -- Jokes Cowstoe they called him. The captain, a compulsive pun-maker, was the ruthless despot of this seaport and his favorite meal was Smurf and Turf. Nevertheless, they didn't put down their trombones or pick up their pace as they stomped away playing "The Entry of the Gladiators". "I hope you all go down the storm drain", ranted Darryl -- a quite plausible fate for the little blue band, if there happened to be a sudden downpour.

Daryll hopped back to his chair and put his face back down on the pillow of Fucus in the white enamel pan. Asleep once more, he had a really bizarre dream. He dreamed he was a CPA working for an insurance company in Des Moines, Iowa, and he was late for work. He grabbed the keys to the minivan and pecked his wife goodbye, as she handed him his briefcase. "Have a good day at the office", said Melinda.

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