Pablo Spatula’s emoting elephant was beginning to annoy. All he did was emote. Night and Day: emote, emote, emote. Like a Latin declension gone wrong. Emote, emote, emote, emamus, ematus, emant.
Pablo Spatula had hoped that having an “elephant in the room” would make an interesting talking point for his strip-bridge evening. But, of course, no-one had noticed it.
Pablo Spatula was sick of hearing that his emoting elephant was “like, totally there for Jennifer. Fatal.” Jennifer, according to “Heat Rash”, the emoting elephant’s Bible, had been dumped by yet another tedious pin-up, adding fuel the already over-exercised notion that all men were incorrigible heart-breakers.
“Don’t you ever talk about anything else other than fragile celebrities and their tragic existences?” asked Pablo Spatula.
“You’re like, so totally shallow?” said the emoting elephant, whilst crying over the beauty that was “Paris Hilton’s Love Quest: The Search for a Rock Star Airhead Husband Who Will Later Beat Her Up” on the Infantile Imbecile Channel.
Pablo Spatula decided that enough was enough and took the emoting elephant for a walk.
The thing about elephants in the room, though, is that when you take them out of the room they are no longer elephants in the room, and they therefore cease to be anything.
Pablo Spatula took his nothing for a walk and wondered what to do with all of the magazines and mess. They would take some explaining at the next strip-bridge evening. Unlike an elephant in the room, which nobody ever notices.