He had a very stupid name, Hoggy MacGoogan. Short story long, Hoggy’s “supposed” father was an Armenian prankster. His parents before him were greater pranksters and had their last name legally changed to something, anything Scottish. Literally translated, Hoggy meant disregard the following Scottish. His mother was completely oblivious. Not because she was American, but because she was more concerned with the greater priorities in life, like shooing away the persistent gorilla from the kitchen. One day, Dad disappeared, not sure if it was coincidence, but so did the badgering gorilla. Perhaps not coincidence, nine months later, Mom gave birth to the ugliest thing anyone has ever seen. At this precise moment, none of this mattered one bit. Hoggy MacGoogan was running for dear life.
Through the sweat, which coated his entire body, he could feel the hot breath of the rare sprinting crocodile on the back of his neck. In terms of rarity, the sprinting croc is as rare as the albino eland. Nonetheless, he wished someone had warned him about this danger. He was more amazed that the crocodile actually ran on its back feet, upright like a human, than he was about his slim chance of survival. In fact, he should have been more concerned about how he was on the verge of total dehydration, his out of shape body putting so much strain on his feeble heart, and the snake nest his foot was about to step in.
If all this wasn’t dire enough, allow me to juxtapose this fact. Little did he realize, a colony of flesh-eating red ants had nested in the seat of his pants. They were about to make their presence known. Moments before he died, he thought he heard the strain of the sad trombone.