Elmo the gimp

Elmo struggled mightily to get out of bed. Every part of his body ached, and he was walking like the Pulp Fiction gimp. I really should have just stayed home, Elmo thought to himself as he headed to class. At least it’s nice outside, he rationalized. It was nearly 70 degrees and sunny, and Tuesday promised to bring more of the same. Still, Elmo was in bad shape. He plodded throught the day, kept alive only by the thought of a return to the friendly confines of his bed. Alas, the day grew longer and any shred of chipperness Elmo once had faded into bitterness.