Oh, the humanity! how I've neglected you, my stairwell enthusiasts. Much like my abdominal workout, I abandoned you so long ago. But alas! my return is nigh. Please take me back; you don't have to call me "dad".
This stairwell is a giant cement spiral leading to the Department of Transportation. The underside of the stairs is enveloped in roots, giving the appearance of an untrimmed armpit. I felt obliged to then cover the area in Axe body spray to give it that authentic teenage boy state of being. This is the ideal male body. You may not like it, but this is what peak performance looks like.
I began my ascent up the stairs, allowing my palm to slide up the curved hand rail. Before I knew it I was purring like a Bond villain cat. The steps themselves are a bit dilapidated with spots of green stains from rusted metal. It triggered a memory of Bobby Warner forcing me, in 1st grade, to eat a green pencil-top eraser. I ended up throwing that up as well as the Reese's Puffs I had inhaled for breakfast into the fish tank where the class pet, Harold, lived. At the end of the school year Harold was twice the size and had created a church dedicated to Arthur, from the kid's show of the same name that constantly played on the T.V. in class. Bobby Warner ended up prematurely growing a full mustache halfway through the school year, and everyone called him "Monopoly Man", so I wasn't too torn up about the whole ordeal.
It felt like I was walking up the stairwell for an eternity. I passed by two downtrodden vagabonds fighting over a bag of Tide pods. A line of four dancers performed the "can-can" down the steps. Two weeaboos were screaming and charging up their ki before engaging in an anime-esque fight to the death. A rainbow-colored slinky slunk down each stair. An elderly woman hobbled after it, clapping her hands and chortling as quickly as her jowls would allow. When I finally reached the peak I was greeted by one of those silver-colored mimes who perform street illusions. Or maybe it was just a statue. Either way I tossed it a crisp dollar.
Peering over the edge, the entire stairwell was visible. One of the hobos had pushed the other into the middle of the weeaboo fight where he took a pitiful roundhouse kick to the groin. An even bigger fight broke out, but the old woman following the slinky managed to walk through the ensuing tussle unscathed. I raced to the other side to see the slinky successfully make it down all the steps. Upon settling on the ground, it opened into a portal and a demon enshrouded in hell fire emerged and took hold of the old lady, with long obsidian claws. Without breaking character, the old lady continued her slack-jawed chuckle as the creature pulled her into the pit. The two disappeared and the portal collapsed, leaving only the slinky behind on the grass.
I looked to the dancers and then to the otaku/bum quarrel, which had devolved into an open-hand slap fest, but no one had noticed the absurd scene I had just witnessed. I got out of there as quickly as my urine-soaked jeans would let me. So that's why I didn't lick the stairwell. It wasn't because I didn't forget.
This stairwell gets 4 satanic Tide pods out of 5. Hmm, I guess saying, "satanic Tide pods" is redundant.