Where’s My Voodoo Shakespeare Testicle?

I was out on a nude beach

with my metal detector
looking for buried treasure,
when I stumbled across something
that appeared kinda weird.

It was a hairy, sphere-shaped object,

which looked strangely like
the testicle of an Englishman.

I took it home and

showed it to the baboon
who lives in my closet, Fred.

Fred said it might be the testicle

of William Shakespeare
because legend has it,
following his death,
The Bard’s left testicle
detached from his genitals,
after being re-animated
by a magic spell, cast by an
agoraphobic sorcerer
called “Mookie.”

The testicle is rumored to have then

worked as a street mime for a while
before joining a bizarre cult of people
who wore pirate costumes and chicken suits,
as well as ladies’ underwear
on the outside of their clothes;

the testicle said to have escaped the cult,

then sailed in a bathtub all the way
to a beach in Florida where he
lived out the rest of his days
telling mildly offensive jokes and
kickboxing manatees.

Could this be that legendary testicle?!

I decided to consult the

voodoo witch doctor
that lives in the dumpster
behind my apartment building
(and occasionally sells pretzels to transvestites)
about the matter;

I brought the testicle to him and

when he saw it,
he began shaking,
convulsing, and
speaking in tongues.

The testicle then

began expanding,
hovering in the air, and
quickly morphed into
an Elizabethan-clothed man
with a pompadour haircut,
gigantic testicle for a head, and
long, skinny penises
for arms, legs, and digits.

The testicle man

snapped his fingers and
pointed at me, saying how he
wouldn’t let me hide him in my
pony-themed bathroom
like I do with that giraffe I have in there;

he took off running and then

jumped into a gondola
full of penguins
who were doing tai chi
to death metal and
sailing at warp speed out
into the gallows of Biscayne Bay.

I looked up in the sky and

saw the wicked witch
from the Wizard of Oz
flying above me on a broomstick, and
so I shot Fred from a circus cannon at her,
and he hit her in the head,
knocking her unconscious;

I then broomstick-jacked
her punk ass and
went after the Shakespearian Testicle-harboring gondola.
“Come back here! I wanna sell you on eBay!”
I howled as I
launched into the air
on the broomstick and
flew after them over the waterbody.

Their gondola appeared to be headed downtown.

When I finally caught up to them,

the Testicular Shakespeare and
the penguins had been joined by a
pack of nuns with stun guns and
were now roaming the streets of Miami
giving impromptu dental exams
to random pedestrians whilst
performing sock puppet interpretations of King Lear.

This motley crew noticed me

coming on my broomstick and
quickly dispersed, with
Shakespeare Genital Dude running on all fours
into a movie theater.

I followed him in,

now riding on the llama,
which I stole from Marilyn Manson
who was outside the theater,
wearing a kilt, and
dryhumping a malfunctioning parking meter.

I didn’t see the Shakespeare Sexual Organ

anywhere when I rode into the darkened theater,
so I dismounted and
ran down the aisles,
slapping people upside the head,
yelling “WHERE’S MY SHAKESPEARE TESTICLE!?” at them.

I then remembered what my grandma told me to do in such events-

“Flail your arms spastically and
sing show tunes at the top of your lungs.”

After two painful renditions of Oklahoma,

I finally found my voodoo testicle creature.

He was hiding in the elephant’s anus

which was dangling upside down from the ceiling
like a chandelier, and
he was sobbing uncontrollably.

Without delay,
he profusely apologized for the trouble he caused;

Shakespeare Testicle said he just wanted to be friends with me and

really didn’t wanna be sold on eBay or kept
in the bathroom with a giraffe.

I then burst into tears,

apologized back,
hugged him, and
we rode away together into the sunset
on Marilyn Manson’s llama.

We spent the rest of the day

cursing in faux Australian accents and
bursting into public libraries,
jumping up on tables and
shouting avant-garde poetry
written by angry lesbians.

Voodoo Shakespeare Testicle says he now plans to

join the witch doctor in the dumpster
selling pretzels to transvestites;

I think that’d be a really good career choice for him.