Fluffy Blues

>Fluffy Blues

>Own a fluffy pony.
>His name is Spanky.
>Hear about a local music festival downtown.
>Spanky is very excited to go somewhere.
>You get his little harness and leash.
>Walk most of the way together, carry him across intersections.
>Police have closed the main streets to traffic.
>Spanky likes all the balloons and streamers.
>”Pwetty cowohs!” He bleats.
>Huh?  Oh, pretty colors.
>The first thing you run into at the festival are a bunch of blues musicians sitting on folding chairs and on the curbs.
>Spanky is entranced by the sounds of blues harp and guitar.
>You walk up to one very old, very good blues guy, playing a beat-up guitar.
>His guitar case is open for tips, and he has a card inside with his name.
>”BLIND CITRUS JOHNSON”
>”Hey, there folks.  This here’s Bertha.”  He pats his guitar.  “She an’ I gonna sing you a song.”
>Spanky listens in awe to him play and sing.
>When he finishes, you clap.
>”Why fwend sad?”  Spanky asks him.  “Need hugsies?”
>”Nah.  It’s just the blues, sonny.”  He says in his scratchy old voice.
>”Great stuff.”  You say, tossing a couple bucks in his case.
>”Thanks.”  He grins and turns toward Spanky.  “You got anything for me, sonny?”
>Guess he really is blind.  Guess he doesn’t realize he’s talking to a fluffy pony.
>Spanky looks up at you.  You shrug.
>Spanky turns in a circle, looking for something.
>”No haf’.  Sowwy.”
>”Aw, c’mon, son.  Nothin’ at all for an ol’ blues man?”
>Spanky’s lip quivers as he thinks and thinks.
>His eyes light up.
>”Spanky got!  Spanky got sumfin’!”
>”Well, good.  Put it in the case, sonny.”
>What the heck is he…
>Just then, you hear a female voice tell you what a cute fluffy you have.
>You look up.  Hot girl!  Put on the charm…
>”Pee-yew, sonny!  You cut the cheese?”
>The smell hits you too.
>”Spanky gif pwesent!” He chirps.
>Look down.
>Spanky has taken a massive dump in Blind Citrus Johnson’s guitar case.
>Oh, man…
>Maybe no one noticed…
>”Hey!”  One of the other musicians shouts.  “That fluffy just took a shit in Blind Citrus Johnson’s guitar case!”
>Grab Spanky.
>”Whee!  Daddy cawwy!  Pway aiwpwane now?”
>Run.
>You’re chased down the block by a score of pissed-off bluesmen wielding guitars.
>Luckily, most of them are old or have emphysema, or both.
>After narrow escape, slink back home.
>Two months later.
>You read online about a newly-discovered blues artist who’s crossover hit is lighting up the pop charts.
>It’s Blind Citrus Johnson with “Fluffy Pony Pooped in My Guitar Case Blues”.
>It’s a commercial success, but causes a violent rift in the blues community because of its pop stylings.
>Many bluesmen quit, or vow not to play again, or are shut out of gigs because they won’t embrace the new blues style.
>Shake your head.
>Stupid fluffy pony killed the blues!