During the summers of my youth, my days were spent largely walking the banks of Cheshire Lake Pond, a man-made lake predating man-made lakes. I still recall the warm summer air and cool breezes blowing through my short pants. That was the summer I first met Sylvia, my first love and second cousin, for she had come to stay with us following the destruction of her house and murder of her family during the Joy and Happiness riots of ’46. Her flowing locks parted in the wind to reveal eyes of solid emerald and lip-colored lips. She was 16, and I was but a lad of 15, leaving our love strictly forbidden, but it did not matter. Sylvia found herself smitten with Clarence Lovejoy, an oafish twit whose blonde hair made birds weep. Nearly 5’11” on good days, Clarence was held in high esteem by the whole town of Snidely, regardless of his criminal past or mediocre pies. I did not care about this, as it was only Sylvia’s approval that I meant to seek.
In the fourth week of my summer holiday, I happened upon a sign along the banks of Lake Pond on Cheshire, one advertising a model boat regatta. Finally, a chance to impress Sylvia had arisen. I had ruled out most sporting events in the earlier week as they were mostly dominated by Clarence and the Negroes. But a regatta was exactly the kind of thing up my alley, as my father was once a champion of tiny boats himself, before the flu outbreak of 1918 damaged his brain to the point where all he could understand were model trains, like the other mongoloids. That was neither here nor there. I immediately set off for my workshop in the basement on the third floor and began to construct my entry, a masterfully built schooner with all of the proper clippings. I painted the hull emerald as a tribute to Sylvia’s piercing eyes, and also because it is the fastest of non-primary colours. Within several days, my creation was finished, and I was sure I was poised to win the semi-prestigious event.
I awoke the day of the regatta several hours before the cock crowed. Too nervous for breakfast, I busied myself in the fourth story masturbatorium, followed by a fully clothed trip to the sauna. Dripping in sweat, I grabbed my ship and headed for the banks of Pond Lake on Lake Pond on Cheshire. The crowd was beginning to gather like moths to a moth regatta. There was Sylvia, her face gleaming in the sunlight reflected from the water. She smiled at me, and I nervously smiled back as the vomit slowly seeped between the cracks in my teeth and onto my pants. She giggled. My ears popped. From behind her emerged Clarence, boat in hand. That Scandinavian prick smiled in the way that resembled a corpse of a rightfully dead Scandinavian. I did not only want to beat Clarence, I wanted to dance his grave to music that he probably wouldn’t like. Soon, the call came to put our boats in the water so the race could commence.
The race magistrate, Thompkins Boatington, fired the starting canon, killing three on-lookers. The race was on! All of the boats skimmed across the perfectly clear, cloudy water. Other more feeble designs fell behind, but Clarence and I were neck and neck. What if I lost, I thought to myself? How could I deal with the pain of losing Sylvia to a Northern European? I was almost too distracted by my negative thoughts to see my boat cross the finish line first. Oh sweet victory! There was Clarence, sobbing in his defeat as his father rightfully spanked him bare-bottom. But where was Sylvia?
Looking back towards the starting line, I saw the horrid sight. As the spectators and competitors followed the rapidly moving boats, she had tripped and drowned in the ankle deep waters. Oh, fickle destiny! My selfishness had led to the death of the only woman I loved as both a cousin and a lover, drowned by the calm waters of Lake Pond Lake Pond Pond Near Cheshire. I fell into a deep depression shortly after, and remained a shut-in, until I was drafted in the war where I died. Clarence lived a full-life, but he remained Scandinavian, so even if my death came at the age of 19, I still won. Scandinavians are filthy people.
