Moo. Image via Wikipedia
They stretched as far as the eye could see, field after field, as if there was no end to the fields. It was worse than space.
We were not at Woodstock. We were in a crappy field. There were 14 hippies overall, and about 7 cows. To my eternal disappointment, the cows weren't wearing hats, but that's not the issue here. I'd made some general enquiries as to where we were, but the cows were too stoned to help and the hippies generally just mooed.
Some time passed on that grassy hell, stretching out like something long and stretchy. A big elastic band, perhaps. But I digress. Max was getting hungry. So was I, but I wasn't planning cannibalism yet.
"So, you still don't know where we are?" I asked the lead hippie.
"You can't, like, be here man." He replied distantly.
"Seriously? We're doing this? You're a cliche. You're all cliches!" I raged, "Why can't I meet fleshed-out, relatable characters?"
"You've got me!" Max chirped up from behind a cow.
"You're not fleshed-out!" I yelled angrily. It was true, Max was just a stupid sidekick really. I mean, he has a tramautic backstory and a dogey past filled with tragedy and triumph, but you never ask about that, do you? No, all you want to hear is another story about Max getting his head stuck in an ostrich or carrying out race crimes against Smurfs.
Damn you! Damn you all!