THE BUZZ ON HOW I GOT FONDLED BY FLECKO Greetings, my dearly appreciated readers, and thank you for taking the time to look at this...AHEM...rather harrowing and mortifying (to say the LEAST) personal account (mixed with some rather shockingly precise personal accounts of OTHER people that just so happened to also live in O-Town) of how I, the dearly beloved anthro-fly tomboy rockstar Maggie Pesky (now exactly 13 years old; 12 at the time of this VERY unfortunately, yet also kind of fortunately true story), ended up having to live in O-Town's local mental institution for several months due to PTSD-induced insanity from what my ever-so-creepy old uncle, Flecko, had done to me. However, I personally would not recommend reading much farther unless you have either A) an extremely strong stomach, and/or B) a nice big barf bag on hand. You see, it all started in my hilariously gross and pathetic (at least by full-sized hum-animal standards, anyway) home-shantytown of Stickyfeet, also known as Not-Quite-New Junk City (which, strangely enough, actually turned out to be right in the middle of O-Town's local dump; I honestly don't know whether or not I actually SHOULD be glad that it just so happened to be in such an incredibly convenient location for good old Uncle Flecko to exceedingly thinly-veiledly kidnap me from, but just bear with me here). One day in my rather uncharacteristically humble abode (which, naturally, was none other than a great big empty milk carton in the shape of a house), I was just chilling out, maxing out, relaxing all cool and all strumming some sweet notes on my trusty hot-pink double-neck guitar...when all of a sudden, some hairy, smelly, weird-looking old hobo by the name of Flecko (who was CLEARLY up to no good, might I add) decided to start making some awfully SERIOUS legal trouble in my neighborhood (which ironically turned out for the best after all; more on that later) by flying his way (presumably from the also HEAVILY abused and emotionally crippled O-Town wallaby resident Rocko's trash can) STRAIGHT onto my (immediate) family's front doorstep and obnoxiously pounding on the door as if he literally, like, OWNED the freaking place or some shit. "Um, HELLO?! What is it? More importantly, who ARE you?" my nerdy, Filburt-bespectacled, office-suit-wearing, cheesy-mustached father (Chauncey Pesky) and his ever-so-lovely-and-slender blonde housewife (Frieda Pesky) somewhat angrily swung the front door open (causing Flecko to reflexively fly backward in a quick dodging motion so as to avoid getting well-deservedly smashed in the face by said door) and asked Flecko as me and my adorably pint-sized, 8-year-old little brother (Pupert Pesky) somewhat reluctantly walked down the stairs and also approached the front door to see who it was. "Greetings, everybody! I could not POSSIBLY be prouder to announce to each and every one of you that my name most certainly IS indeed Flecko! Flecko the Fly!" Flecko explained proudly, performing a great big flying backflip and finishing it off with only THE most downright insufferably melodramatic of "TA-DA" poses and cheesy grins just to illustrate to us how irritatingly proud he was of both himself and his amazingly uncreative name that was most likely rivaled only by mine in its sheer creative ineptitude and corniness (at least to what my current knowledge at the time had been) while me, my little bro and my parents alike just exasperatedly rolled our eyes at his (in retrospect) hilariously nonexistent expense. "Uh huh...so tell me, buckaroo, WHY exactly should WE, of all people, be impressed by this?" my good old letterman-jacketed, 16-year-old, narcissistic douchebag jock of a big brother (Aldrin Pesky) suddenly joined the familial crowd and sarcastically asked Flecko, adorning his irritatingly handsome face with a painstakingly smug and self-absorbed smirk all the while. "Uhh...because I, like, LIVE in Rocko's trash can and still look THIS mouthwateringly appetizing?" Flecko nervously explained, lifting up his tank-topped arms to expose his putrid, hairy armpits (as well as quite a good bit of his big, bloated beer gut) while also thrusting his rather unsettlingly well-endowed pelvis DIRECTLY in my general direction as both me and the rest of my immediate family disgustedly covered our eyes with our (four separate, as opposed to Flecko's mysteriously two separate) forearms and audibly retched in response.