It started with blacking out and waking up in places I didn't recognize. Splash Mountain, the Tower of Terror, and even the Tilt-a-Whirl were not off limits for my unintentional debauchery. An inexplicable sensation would pull inside of me upon my awakenings, accompanied by flashing images of an angry duck and a mouse.
I have had many of these happenings, but one in particular was different. Different, because once I awoke, I could recall everything from before I lost consciousness, and what I remember can only be described as abominable.
My name is Daiten Fontenot, and this is the story of how my life changed forever.
Picture, if you will, your average Friday evening. The traffic is slowly dying beneath a setting sun. Street lights flicker your hometown to life. All is simple and good.
But then something overtakes you.
It's a feeling unlike any other, and as it ripples beneath your skin you shudder and let out a "Hyuk!"
You mistake this sensation as something benign, but my god, you are wrong. It is in this moment where your living nightmare begins. Yet you, diddling and unaware, shrug it off, only to regret not addressing it later.
The moon is now low in the sky, glowing brightly like a sweeeet tangerine.(1)
You sit on your patio, a cold beer snug in your hand, and watch as the lunar body climbs higher and higher into darkness.
Something about it's orange hue unsettles you. It stirs and awakens fragments of memories you didn't even know you had. The significance of the color orange is at the tip of your fingers, but the debut of the familiar sensation snatches it from your grasp.
It climbs up your spine, "Gh—" you panic, "Gorsh!"
The word itself and the color orange come together as one god-forsaken entity in your head:
Goofy.
Your eyes trace the rim of your bottle in thought, "Goofy G. Goof?" you smile doubtfully, "The anthropomorphic dog?"
You laugh bemusedly, blithe-stricken yet still uneasy. You know deep inside that it is possible: that this fictional monstrosity could have some sort of influence over your episodes.
You haven't the time to decide if it's true or not before something else happens: the spaghettification(2) of your limbs.
You get up, only to find yourself unable to walk, lest it be in a goofy sort of gait that you've never performed before. You are perplexed as you go to set your drink on the side table, and you miss it by roughly 5 inches.
It spills onto the floor, and you're more amused than befuddled, "Hyu-hyuk! Gorsh!" The words you speak are foreign to your tongue, orated in an accent that you fear might be his.
Startled, you dash into the confines of your apartment, searching for answers. The sound of a nasally duck dwindles amongst the ringing in your ears. Your heart swells with a yearning to find the source of it— to embrace none other than the iconic sex symbol, Donald Fauntleroy Duck.
"Why?" You wonder, "Why do my loins burn with such a passion for this avian creature?!"
Your answer lies in your phone messages. You scroll through them, becoming more and more bewildered with each exchange of steamy texts. Graphic (and illegal) images assault your eyes, but the worst of them lies in what the sender, Donald, addresses you by: Goofy.
"No." You say aloud.
You toss your phone aside and lumber goofily toward the nearest mirror, desperately combing through the image it reflects.
The horror becomes all-too real, "No!" you scream.
Your vision blurs with tears, for you now know the significance of the dreaded color orange. The bright green top hat and the shaggy brown vest you wear is a dead ringer for the famous bestial machination of American entertainment.
Your tear-stained eyes trail to the window, the muscles in your body seizing with something goofy upon gazing at the moon. With the unnatural, cartoonish turn of your insides, you suddenly realize that it all makes sense:
The black outs, the locations, the sexual fantasies... they're all tied to the Dark Lord Goofy;
They're all tied to you.
(3)"Uh-hyuk!" you weep, "Shucks!" It's all you can say, though it is a pitiful expression of the conniption you truly feel inside. You dig within your altered conscience, clawing desperately to find your true self, but all that remains is the sick, deranged persona of Goofy.
This is your life now, you realize. You are a cruel joke, twisted into reality by the strange workings of biology and fiction—
But you haven't even made it to the punchline yet.
"Ahyuck!" A terrible pain forces you to double over in anguish, "Somethin' wrong here..."
And you are right. There is something terribly wrong.
You begin to scream, "Hyu-ouch!" as the monstrous creation of Walt Disney begins to warp your human body into some other—perhaps superior—form of it's own.
In an instant, you feel your cells become one-dimensional like a cartoon, along with your body which is soon blackened with the fur of a goof. Even your organs become animated, perhaps shifting to better digest human flesh and the seminal expulsions of your duck partner.
Minutes later, there is not a shred of you left. Not even your humanity. You have succumbed to your own strange disease... to the beast otherwise known as Goofy.
The world is now at your mercy. With a surge of animated power, and the erection of a capitalist tycoon, you race into the night to feast on the hearts of mortals.
Your community lives in fear of what you have become. Every month, as the full moon rises, they hear your howls echo through the mountaintops—
"Yaaaa-hoo-hoo-ho-hooey!"
— the elderly tremble. Mothers hold their children closer. Fathers ready their shotguns as if they stood a chance against you, the monster they all fear and loathe:
Goofy G. Goof.
Count your blessings, dearest reader, for this is but a mere glimpse of the living hell that I call a life.
THE END
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NOTE 1: sorry, I just can't even right now.
NOTE 2: "spaghettification" is an actual term used by NASA, so like if you think you have any better word suggestions, just know that all those astronomers are gonna read it and think it's dumb
NOTE 3: from this point on, the dialogue is Goofy quotes and sounds that I found on Wiki.
