Alright, look. I understand what everyone is saying about me. And it’s true. I, Eggs Benedict Cucumber, am ugly hot. It’s not something I’m afraid to admit to myself anymore.
I’ve been attatched to the idea of ugly hotness since I was a young lad. The girls would come up to me and tell me “Bottleneck Crinklepants, you’re so ugly you’re hot.” The boys would then come to me and say “Bunkbed Cracklepop, you’re so hot you’re ugly.” And I would stay up late into the night to find out what they meant, and why they couldn’t pronounce my name. Afterall, Beethoven Carlpatch isn’t that hard to say, but they always said something else.
It followed me to my career as well, as people would simultaneously stare and gawk at my attraction and the strange way that my abnormal features made me attractive. It was akin to being the Greek Gods Aphrodite and Hephaestus at the same time, and that made me even hotter to those around me. I remember my first director’s words to me. “Crumblymuff, you’ve got such a hard biting distinct look to your face. I can’t take my eyes off of you.”
I once had an issue where I was on break from my breakout role Sherlock Holmes when I had a brick with a note attatched break through my window. The note read, “My dearest Cucumberbutt, I have stolen from you what you most desire, but its physical form is nearly unnattainable. You have a week to figure out what it is and who I am. Best, D.”
I had no idea what to do with this information, but I scoured near and far when I could. The first few days gave me naught to work with, but I was able to track down some information. Namely, my family had not been attacked, my wife had not been taken, and everything seemed almost normal. Almost. There was still a feeling I couldn’t shake as I tried to figure out what was taken from me. How could something without a physical form be stolen. It’s nearly impossible to think about, but I, Bunkerbuff Crinklychips, was not one to quickly give up.
It was then at once that I noticed a man following me and as he dissappeared I gave pursuit. The man had been tracking my progress, taking notes of how far I had gotten. Seeing as he was my only lead, I had to catch him. Luckily I was chasing him down an alley when two men rather stereotypically were carrying a large mirror down the street and the man gazing at my ugly-hot visage made him stand and stare, giving me just enough time to tackle him to the ground.
If it were not for the man’s lack of care, the entire mission would have been a success, and I would have been never closer to the truth until it was too late. After a serious round of questioning which revolved around gazing upon my glorious yet hideous features that he gave in. He was assigned to kidnap someone, but he would not tell me who. Before I could pry out the name, he took a cyanide capsule and with his dying breathe whispered, “Robert.”
With that I approached my friend, Robert Downey Jr’s apartment for answers. When he didn’t answer, I let myself in, stunned to find the truth. The D stood for Downey, and he had captured my true love-Martin Freeman, and was holding him hostage in his house. I stood and appreciated the alliterative appeal of my storytelling when he at once came down. My old friend, my true foe. After a battle of wits I was able to prove myself as the best Sherlock, something that made him hate me so. After the battle was won, I unlocked Martin and held him in an embrace. Downey tried to steal my love, what I most desire. Then, Martin told me, “Benadryl Colondart, you’re so ugly hot.”
It was then at once that I accepted who I am, and what I was. I am Benjamin Cocklesnout, and I am ugly hot.
You may be Sher-Locked, but I am a Freeman.
This article is a part of The Quak, our annual April Fool’s satire issue.