My Life as a Traffic Cone

rasputin6, by rotten elf

The Clairol box said Dark Auburn Brown. The model on the front had hair the color of polished wood. You know what I look like now? Chucky.

The other thing my hair now resembles is some kind of bile spat up by a radiation victim. You know what color is not flattering to a woman's complexion? That would be Radiation Bile Orange. It just catches all the flaws. In addition to imbuing your entire skin with a sickly ambient glow.

Dark Auburn Brown, my bile-spewing ass. This is the color of a three week old pumpkin, sagging, oozing, and vibrant with mold. It's an extremely eye-catching shade; Clairol probably repackages this color and sells it to the people who make emergency flares. Actually, maybe I'm being unfair. This color truly might resemble that of dark auburn brown hair, if said hair were covered with a fucking clown wig dyed a grotesquely brilliant shade of orange.

I was thinking of the usual solutions to my freakish disfigurement. Suicide; bag over the face; shaving my head and telling everyone I have cancer. Then it occured to me that perhaps my misfortune could lead to some measure of benefit for the world. For instance, my head now vaguely resembles the muppet Ernie, and could perhaps bring comfort to small children.

I'm also pretty sure that, if I just wait, the Highway Worker's Union will pick me up and use me to block off lanes. So if I disappear for a while, don't worry about me. I'll at least be serving a useful function.

RedFeather, by

The Frisco Kid is generally to be found all likkered up and spoiling for a fight. She's a sexy Wild West gunslinger in the great tradition of Annie Oakley and Calamity Jane, only a little less with the sharpshooting and a little more with the booze-fueled marathons of Star Trek and sodomy.

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