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It was the summer of July. That's where it

  • It was the summer of July. That's where it began. That's here it all began.

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  • They were small, unobtrusive and furry. Everyone just picked them up off the street and took them into their homes. It was the summer of the invasion.

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  • The Hipster Beard invasion. Where they came from no one knew. Why they were adopted without critical ironic self-distance was inexplicable. But it had to be stopped.

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  • And I was the man to stop it. I grabbed my chainsaw, told my sister that I'd be back, and set out to right some wrongs like the guy from Quantum Leap. Except not like Quantum Leap.

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  • But also sort of like that one episode of Quantum Leap where the guy goes back to the sixties and inhabits the body of a downie. Good stuff. But, I digressed, and reached into my

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  • bag of tricks to pull out a random flechette I found floating in the flotsam I had in there. It seemed to match my mood and I proceeded from there. I guess they saw it as a threat.

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  • Only I knew how waterlogged the dreadful gun was, how clogged with seaweed. They backed away as I waved it toward them. Just then, an eel merged from the barrel, and they all began

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  • dancing the Harlem Shake. They went at it like cerebral palsy kids high on caffeine and fermented cocktail cherries. It left no-one untouched as the eel made its way up into

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  • the principal's yazoo. The eel's caress was familiar enough. But then the principal remembered where he was. He froze pondering whether he wanted the eel in or out. Meanwhile, when

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  • his secretary entered—dressed as an eel—the Principal nearly shit, thinking he was seeing double. It was just a plot by eel and secretary to drive the Principal nuts—and it worked.

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