“Wull I’m not gonna say ‘Once upon a time’ if that’s what you’re all bloody hee foh. And wawl I’m not the type who’d sit around a bloody campfire telling fairytales to snot-nosed kids who think that ‘stupid’ is a sweaw word, I guess you all are expecting something out of me, awn’t you? Well fine, but let’s get it bloody oveh with.
“Sitting on a wall in some town that was never important enough to be named was an egghead that nobody loved. He had black haih, egglineh, and a bad attitude. The world hated ‘im with a passion, and there was a price tag on his head that could buy a poor man a bloody mansion. So the egghead—whose name was creatively Humpty Dumpty—sat on ‘is wall all day, ev’ry day for years and years and years, playing his guitar and glaring down every man, woman, child, and human-like species that happened to have the bad luck to pass him by.
“Then, one day, in the middle of a power chord of “Crazy Train”—a song that was, in fact, written by his *cough* hero.—A little gihl in an ugly little flow’r dress stopped by and clapped.
“Now Dumpty had no life. Nobody had eveh stopped to say hello and they bloody well never went to the lonely egg-based pahties he had at ‘is wall on Saturday nights. Dumpty was pretty bloody excited that this snot-nosed brat was impressed by ‘is playin. So ee played another song, and at the end, he even tried a stage dive into the wild crowd.
“Unfohtuneately, there was no wild crowd. He ended up falling on his bloody egg-head and cracking it open all oveh the place, which was a bloody mess to clean up and it probably hurt ‘im as well.
“Well the little brat that had been watching him whipped out her cell phone—bloody kids having cell phones now adays. I didn’t have a cell phone. I had string, and an empty can of soup. Bloody kids having a bloody cell phone and they’re bloody eight!—and dialed the only person that could possibly help at a time like this.
“As it turns out, the bloody brat wasn’t completely dim-witted after all, because she didn’t call a doctor or a medical professional of any kind. She called the King.
“Now you brats may not know this, but once upon a time there was, in fact, a king in your bloody country. He had all his haih piled up on his bloody head, but a heaht foh rock n’ roll and a voice that drove me bananas! ‘Is name was Elvis. ‘Ee was an idol and a drunk, but he was the King.
“Wull the King sent out his managers and backround dancers, his drummer, his guitarist, his background singers, his children, and I even volunteered Sharon to help—SHARON!—but it was no use. Little Dumpty was in fact, dumped. All oveh the sidewalk. In gooey piles that everyone tried not to step in.
“The King held a funeral for Dumpty, after which there was a bloody amazing reception where the little brat from before played Dumpty’s guitar better than he ever would or ever could. Life moved on. People forgot Dumpty and the stains on the sidewalk were washed away by a particularly grumpy janitor.
“So I suspect yu’ll be wantin’ a moral or something, so here it is. All you bloody snot-nosed brats out there want a lesson? DON’T BE AN EGGHEAD! Everybody hates them until they die. There’s your moral. Now go home, or I’ll knock you off a bloody wall. And how did you get in my bloody house in the first place?”