Category Archives: Fictishy

Intelligence: affirmed

I took the GRE early yesterday morning. Strangely enough, the test center was downtown, about two buildings away from where I served jury duty about a month ago. But this time, I would be doing no judging. Indeed, it was *I* who would be judged.

I entered the building, and the attendant in the lobby told me I was required to check in. I signed my name to the log in the appropriate place. “You may proceed,” announced the attendant. Behind him, vast sliding doors opened, and I stepped onto a large platform which began to rise as soon as I stepped inside.

After a few seconds of upwards inertia, I stepped out into a rectangular white room filled with people from all walks of life. I stepped over to the receptionist, an attractive Latina wearing a red polyester space suit with a butterfly collar.

“I am here for the GRE,” I said.

“Excellent,” she replied.

She handed me a clipboard with a form which I was to complete, to verify that I would be the one taking the test, and not some partner-in-crime masquerading as me. To this end, there were blanks on the form in which I was to include my date of birth, my social security number, my thumbprint, blood and urine samples, and the cup size of the first girl I ever kissed.

Eventually, I finished filling out the exhausting forms, and returned them to the receptionist, whose suit was unzipped to a few inches lower than where it had been previously. Catching me eyeing her, she said defensively, “This material doesn’t breathe.”

I returned to a seat alongside all the other people who were there for testing. I learned by overhearing various conversations that the GRE was far from the only test being offered that day. This was verified by the fact that one by one, various official-looking people in red polyester space suits identical to the receptionist’s came out and called people’s names. The people were to get up, put their things into lockers, and follow the official-looking person down the hallway into a room containing lord knows what.

Finally, my name was called along with those in the last group. I was instructed to remove my wallet, watch, keys, and belly chain and put them into a locker. There were about five of us in the group, and we were led down the hall into a large metal chamber, which appeared to be some sort of airlock or decontamination room. Along one wall hung five silver jumpsuits. Suddenly, we heard a voice over a loudspeaker. It was that of the official who had led us down the hall, who, we realized, was not alongside us in the chamber. “Please remove all of your clothing and put on the test-taking apparel,” the official said. “Remember, every move you make is being recorded, so we will know if you leave on your underwear.”

The five of us stood there, briefly wondering for a moment if there would be any separate-gender locker rooms available. But no, it was intended that we would change together. “The GRE is not a time to be bashful,” we reasoned, as we doffed our casual attire and donned the futuristic testing garb, which, as it happens, was made by FUBU. “Nice tattoo,” whispered the cute brunette who changed near me, obviously referring to the stylized Bronson Pinchot head on my left buttock. I nodded in acknowledgement of her remark. It occurred to me later that she may have been flirting with me, but at the time I was too nervous about the test.

Finally, clad in our silver jumpsuits, we were led into a room with five computers. We each took a seat at the computers and for the next four hours were subjected to several series of questions dealing with matters verbal, quantitative, and analytical. After I completed the battery of questions, my final results were displayed, and a broad grin crept across my face.

That which I had questioned had now been proven: I am smarter than you.

Hey hey groundhog day

My friends, today is that American holiday known as Groundhog Day. It is famous in large part due to the movie of the same name featuring Bill Murray as a man who relives the same day over and over again until he gets it right. And let me tell you, Groundhog Day did not get this reputation from nothing. This is actually the two hundredth consecutive time I have lived out this day. And every day I have written about it, but whenever the day starts over, what I had written disappears and so I have to start over. Naturally, I am fairly tired of this. Otherwise, however, I really can’t complain. After all, it is a Saturday, and I really have very few obligations. Mostly I have been sleeping in. I fed the cat last night, and won’t need to again until tomorrow morning; and so as long as I remain on the same day, I’ll never have to feed my cat, and will never have to worry about him starving. So that’s pretty cool. It is pretty frustrating, though, having to watch the same television programs over and over – the Britney Spears SNL is hardly the way to cap off the night, and yet I find myself watching it with alarming frequency. I have absolutely exhausted my DVD collection and my comic books so, like I said, I mostly just stay in bed all day. It beats working. I know that eventually I’m going to have to win the love of the charming Andie MacDowell and do good deeds for the eccentric citizens of the town in which I live, but that town is Chicago and really there just aren’t enough hours in the day.

And Bob’s your uncle!

All right. Let me get this straight. Yesterday, George W. Bush choked on a pretzel, fainting in the process. At around the same time, it was revealed that Prince Harry had partaken of the sweet doobage.

Am I to believe these events are unrelated?

Honestly. Reading between the lines of these two stories, it is fairly obvious that George W. and Prince Harry were hanging in W.’s crib, toking on some primo weed, when suddenly W. got a serious case of the munchies. He went into the White House pantry and opened up a box of Bavarians, but Harry was all, “Mate. I gotta bugger off home, to England. My dad, Prince Charles, will be royally peeved, pun intended, if he finds out I been out so late.” So, W.’s like all, “Later, dude,” and then he settles down in front of the tube to watch the ball game. At this point he is so wasted that he forgets he’s eating and not smoking, so he inhales the pretzel instead of chewing it, and then he chokes. Meanwhile, Prince Harry gets home, to England, and his dad, Prince Charles, is totally waiting inside the royal castle when he crosses the moat, and says, “Blimey, son. Crikey, I smell mary jane on your knickers, so I do. Wot would your poor dead mum, Princess Diana, ‘af to say about that, I wonder? Nuffin’ pleasant, ‘at’s wot!”

How easily the pieces slide together.

Ho ho ho, revisited

Hello, boys and girls of all nations! I am Santa Claus. I go by other names too: Kris Kringle, St. Nicholas, Father Christmas, Tubby, Chimney Monkey, et cetera. It really all depends upon where you are from.

Now, people are somehow under the impression that I live at the North Pole and have enslaved legions of elves in order to make toys for all the good little girls and boys of the world. This is all wrong. First of all, I don’t live at the North Pole. It’s colder than shit up there. And when I talk about shit, you know I mean the cold stuff. Instead, I live in the south of France, where the weather is much more temperate, and where “Mrs. Claus” and my various other concubines are free to lounge by the pool with their Christmas gifts sticking out, if you get me. Secondly, there are no such things as elves. Instead I have enslaved children. Although elves look a bit like children, so I can understand how that mistake could have been made.

Third, my people don’t make the toys anymore. We used to, but when consumer electronics started to take off it was no longer cost-effective. Plus, we had children building these things, not electricians. I mean, hell, ever since Nike started putting computer chips in their sneakers (for demographical tracking purposes), they’ve been losing approximately twenty percent of their workforce in electrocutions every fiscal year. That’s no way to run a business.

Anyway, we buy all the toys from an independent contractor, who is himself not responsible for making the toys, but instead makes deals with toy companies all over the world to sell us their goods at bargain basement prices, or else the Eight Tiny Reindeer will show up and make things difficult for them. The ETR are among the most feared Christmas-related intimidation organizations, and have been for the last several hundred years. Obviously, I’m quite proud.

Lastly, I have stopped using “naughty vs. nice” as a criterion for who gets presents and who doesn’t. I mean, it’s so difficult to tell if the little girl or boy is really at fault. Suppose a kid puts ice cream in his mother’s nice shoe, or a peanut butter sandwich in the VCR or something. I see that all the time. Kids are stupid. It doesn’t mean they’re naughty. And if they did know what they were doing, maybe it was warranted. Maybe their parents were assholes. Parent’s an asshole, shouldn’t take it out on the kid, you know? Then there are the little angels, the precious little shits who are so good to their parents that they have little invisible halos over their heads – not to mention the brown stuff covering the top halves of their faces – at all times. These little snots are so obviously trying to curry my favor, and while it’s true that they haven’t done anything bad, per se, I still have an irresistable urge to put a boot up their asses. So, I no longer discriminate between naughty and nice. Instead, I just give the good presents to the kids I like, and save the Power Rangers shit for the bastards I can’t stand. So, little Billy Galverton of Odessa, New York, if you’re wondering why you didn’t get that brand new ten-speed bicycle, well, maybe you should look in the mirror and ask yourself that question. Before you choke out the words, you won’t be able to help noticing that you’ve turned into Billy, the Brown-Nosed Bastard. Santa got no time for asskissers, sonny. And little Kendra Dowden of Lexington, Kentucky, even though you keep stacking your Barbies on top of each other and making guttural sounds that give your parents the impression that you are preternaturally possessed of sexual knowledge – flames which you feed by stealing your mother’s vibrator and putting it in the refrigerator (on the dairy shelf next to the butter), and taking Daddy’s condoms and putting them out in the glove box of his Trans Am – Santa will continue to give you the good shit – computers, VCRs, baby tees – because he thinks you got style and class, baby.

So, if the children I’ve enslaved are no longer making toys, what are they doing? Well, they’re delivering them, of course. No sleigh or reindeer for these tots – everyone’s on bicycles this year, as we’ve had several vague terrorist threats from several non-Santa-loving countries. To alleviate the situation, I have purchased several Segway scooters for my deliverychildren to ride. At least, that was the original plan, but those fuckers are expensive. So I bought one for myself, and I must say, even though I am quite obese – disgustingly so – they get me from the bar to the boudoir to the kitchen to the toilet without any troubles, and as a man in his autumn years, that is really all I can ask for.

While the children deliver presents to you and your families tonight, I’ll be swilling moonshine and monitoring all of them. They’ll know not to misbehave or try to escape, because Santa’s got the detonator for those exploding collars that have been welded around their necks. I hope you enjoy what you get, because there ain’t no returns, Buster Brown.

Oops! Look at that. “Mrs. Claus” and three of her closest female friends are beckoning me into the hot tub. Who am I to say no? I may be Santa Claus, but I am also a man, damn it all. I think I’m going to have a very merry Christmas… maybe even five or six of them before the evening’s over.

So leave us! he said. Get the hell out of here!
Merry Christmas to all, and bitch, get me a beer!

And so I finally step into the nineties

I’ve worked out this webcam nonsense. It is taking little pictures of me every thirty seconds as I am sitting here writing this with a towel on my head, and before you go making any “towelhead” jokes, remember that I have just come out of the shower. I have nothing but respect for my Arab brothers and sisters. I have respect for all the people of the world. I am a respect slut. I’ll give it away to anybody. Why, just the other day, while I was walking to the Shop’N’Away to get a pack of Camels, I tripped over a shifty drug dealer who was taking a nap right there on the sidewalk. I apologized to him, gave him a hearty handshake, and asked him if he had any narcotics I could purchase. You see, even though he looked very skeevy, and not at all on the up-and-up, I respected him by offering to partake of a business transaction. Of course, it turns out that he was lying there dead, apparently from a stab wound to his nostrils, although you wouldn’t know it to look at him. At his funeral, to which I went in order to pay my respects, I spent a couple hours speaking to his mother about how, even in death, he seemed lively and vibrant and shifty; and when she pointed out that shifty isn’t a positive quality, I shared my logic that “shifty” was only a term that could be applied to someone who was very much alive. She gave me a hug, patted me on the head, and said, “You run along home now, son.” And so, to respect her wishes, I did.

I desperately need to start going to bed earlier.

Creeping goose bumps across my shins and thighs were far more responsible than the chilly evening air for keeping me cognizant of the dropping temperature, and that I was naked, and that I could not keep up my current pace for much longer without proper provisions. Rocky territory is terribly strenuous to navigate in bare feet, and it certainly did not aid my traversal that the heavy rains from the afternoon had made the terrain surprisingly slick. Consequently, the bruises on my backside, arms, and legs from the spills I had taken seemed to reproduce as if a yellow mold were growing just beneath my skin and eating down into the meat of my body. However, I had soon grown numb to the pain of those bruises, the moisture of the rocks, and the chill of the air; and the tingling sensation of the goose bumps was the only physical sensation that my precocious nervous system would allow my brain to recognize, lest I collapse in agony.

It had been exactly six hours since I purloined a hammer and hacksaw from an unsuspecting workman and made good my escape from the laboratories. He would soon awaken from the punch in the back of the head that felled him and turned purple the back of my left hand. No matter. He would have no visual memory of the incident, only a soreness and a ghost voice in his mind, quietly saying, ?Forgive me, friend.?

It was ten past ten, but obviously I could not know it at the time. All I knew was that the darkness gave me adequate cover. Lieutenant Dallas and his men were sure to be scouring the outlying area for any sign of my presence; fortunately, I was able to slip in and out of shadows, staying on hard terrain to avoid making tracks, lying belly down in fields of tall grass when exhaustion took its toll. I was as yet unsure of my destination, but I embraced a vague sense of direction, an instinct as to the next leg of my quest.

Sounds in the background: dogs barking, gunshots. I whirled around to discover that not half a mile away there was a spectacular array of spotlights, dancing about on the ground, in the sky, and against the tall cliff that I had so treacherously descended a short time beforehand. I began to theorize the origins of the sounds: the dogs have picked up my trail, they might bark. Why the gunshots? Have they made visual contact? I was not standing in a light, there was no way I could have been seen. Perhaps the gunshots were fired in an effort to silence the poor dogs.

Imagination running away and anger building, I hastened my pace. Civilization must not be far, I thought. Still, I did not know what in particular I was looking to find. A McDonald?s? A convenience store? Certainly I would be arrested on sight when I appeared, nude as I was, under a bright neon light. My exposure to civilization was so limited ? I was unsure how to rectify my problem. Clothing stores, but I had no money, and they were closed, perhaps. Mugging a person on the street had little appeal. I could check into a hospital? certainly, with my injuries, I would not be turned away, despite my lack of coverage.

To be continued?

In a land of blind monsters, the one-eyed monster is king

May is the month in which a young gentleman’s thoughts turn to those of fancy. Love floats on the breeze like a cheap perfume. I have spent the last few weeks searching, in vain, for a date to the prom. Perhaps it is not in the cards, but as I have already booked a limo and hotel room, I am loath to waste them, so now I am combing the Yellow Pages for the city’s finest whores. Unfortunately, many of them already have dates to the prom themselves. I may be relegated to punch bowl duty.

This morning I discovered that a pair of wings had sprouted out of my back. They were small, maybe a wingspan of just a couple feet. Still, I thought it would be an interesting experiment to see if I could fly to work. I leaped out the window of my second-story apartment and landed on the pavement with a resounding thud. As I stood up I realized that I had forgotten to cut holes in the back of my shirt for the wings to poke through. I went back upstairs to change shirts, as the shirt I had on, as well as having no wing-holes, was also covered in blood from my fall (I had apparently landed in a puddle of blood). I put on a new shirt, cut some holes in the back for the wings to poke through, and leapt out my window again. Once again I dropped like a rock. I lay on the ground and wonder what I could have possibly done wrong that time. I realized that I needed to build up speed to get the proper lift. I ran down my street at top speed, and as I felt the wind catching my wings, a car appeared in my path. Aha! I thought. Perfect timing! I’ll just take off right before the car hits me. I jumped into the air and came crashing down through the windshield. I dangled over the dashboard, looking at the driver, who had been bombarded with shards of glass somehow, and thought, well, maybe I’ll try again tomorrow.

Jill says hello

She waved, but not to say hello; she was trying to get me out of her way. Uncomprehending, I stood there like a lump, jaw slack, gears turning in the skull, trying to figure out if I knew this girl. She didn’t even try to warn me again – bumped hard into my right shoulder, practically knocked me to the ground.

Perhaps I was asking for it, but I was irritated nonetheless. “Where’s the fire?” I yelled as she continued down the trail towards the setting sun.

“Pardon,” she muttered, without stopping or turning around. She disappeared into the brush as quickly as she had appeared – leaving crushed twigs and grass, and me, in her wake.

I didn’t see her again until almost a year later – although I had learned from neighbors that her name was Jill and that she lived about a mile down the road. We ran into each other – only figuratively this time – at the market. She was carrying a large basket full of potatoes; I was carrying a chicken.

“Afternoon,” I said as I approached her. She looked up at me curiously. “You probably don’t remember me, but –“

“I remember you,” she said. “You’re the fella what I almost knocked down a year ago. Sorry ’bout that.”

“Where were you going in such a hurry?” I asked.

“I was trying to make it home by curfew,” she said. “I get in a lot of trouble if I’m out too late.”

“I hope you made it.”

“I seem to remember I did.”

We shared a smile.

I formally introduced myself. She already knew who I was, in much the same way that I found out who she was. I had figured correctly that she was about five years younger than me. I looked at her face and her hair and her eyes and thought about how I’d never seen anything like her before. I asked if I could take her to dinner. Her response was that she was three months married.

Embarrassed and disappointed, I made up an excuse to leave – in the process forgetting to do the task which brought me to the market in the first place – and began the long trudge home.

I only saw her once more, seven years later – although it was a rather one-sided experience, it being her funeral. She died while birthing her fourth child. The whole town came out to the funeral, as she apparently had become very active in the community and in the church. I had moved away some years earlier, and now had a wife and child of my own, but we were in town when it happened. Her husband – who turned out to be a good man – saw that I was one of the largest men there and asked for my help as a pallbearer.

It was winter and a recent snow had just melted, and as we carried the casket through the cemetary I slipped on a dark patch of ice, falling backward but retaining my grip, thus jerking it out of the hands of my fellow pallbearers and bringing it crashing down on me. I broke my right leg and was unconscious for three days.

After I was carted off to the hospital, Jill was committed to the ground without further incident.

A couple of decades later, my oldest son wed Jill’s fourth child, a daughter. Jill’s widower and I became great friends. He never remarried.

I died a few years afterwards, just after my second grandchild was born.

Hello. I am an idiot who stays up late for no good reason. Nice to meet you. This is my wife, Frieda. She continues to diet even though she’s ten pounds below her desired weight. My son, Norbert, sitting over there on the couch, tells girls that he is in love with them on the first date. And my daughter, Ariadne, is busy at the bookshelf making sure all the spines are flush with one another. Yes, it’s just the four of us. My job at the balloon factory keeps food on our table, but it’s really Frieda’s successful pet photography business that brings us the finer things in life. So we’re doing okay. You should drop by for dinner sometime. I make these killer burritos that Frieda won’t eat because the’re fatty, and Norb won’t eat because he’s allergic to bean paste, and Ariadne will only eat if she can dip them into a small glass bowl of ketchup. Anyone else who can appreciate my cooking is always welcome. Hey, maybe you and me could play a few holes tomorrow. Let me know, I’ll see if I can get the guys to come along.

I received a parking ticket this morning. I aim to contest it, as the block I was parked on had no signs anywhere indicating any sort of restrictions, at least on my side of the street. The man is trying to make a monkey out of me, but I won’t take the banana. Dig?

I saw a report on the news this morning about a woman filing a complaint against a police officer. It seems that the officer broke into her apartment during some sort of drug bust, and caught red-handed, she asked if there was anything she could do to save herself jail time. He told her she could do him a favor; she thought he meant rat on a supplier. Instead, he took her upstairs and requested she perform a sexual act on him. Afterward, she managed to save trace amounts of his bodily fluids, which she then brought forth as evidence in her complaint. Now, I don’t condone at all law enforcement abusing their power for sexual favors, and I would like to see this bastard prosecuted. But, of course, this serious and not at all funny story reminds me of a whimsical story handed down to me one drunken evening on the Rue de Faible, by an elderly gentleman who insisted he was my “Great-Aunt Gene”. Allow me to set the scene: a secluded country interstate. And the players: a hapless yet attractive reckless female driver, and a police officer, of the corrupt variety.

And so the story goes:

Cop: License and registration please, ma’am.

Woman: How fast was I going, officer?

Cop: You were going ninety miles per hour in the thirty mile an hour zone.

Woman: That’s very fast.

Cop: Isn’t it?

Woman: I didn’t see any signs posted.

Cop: You ran them all over.

Woman: No.

Cop: I’m afraid I’m going to have to give you a ticket.

Woman: Please, officer, it’s my first offense.

Cop: Says here it’s your thirtieth offense this year.

Woman: But it’s my first this month.

Cop: [writes out ticket]

Woman: How much is the ticket for?

Cop: Seven thousand dollars.

Woman: You’re kidding.

Cop: Wish I were. The Chicago Department of Revenue needs that money to build private orphanages for the children of deceased unwed teenaged mother millionaires.

Woman: Is there any way I can get out of the ticket?

Cop: Ordinarily, no. But since I am a police officer of the corrupt variety, that provides us several options. First, you can give the money directly to me.

Woman: I don’t have my checkbook.

Cop: Just as well, as I’d prefer cash. Second, I could make you strip down to your underwear and walk along the yellow line in the middle of the road, while I follow closely in my patrol car and yell humiliating things through the loudspeaker.

Woman: I saw that one on Dateline.

Cop: Me too. That’s where I got the idea.

Woman: What else?

Cop: Third, you could perform a sexual act on me.

Woman: Which sexual act?

Cop: Ladies’ choice.

Woman: How about a kiss?

Cop: No.

Woman: Anything else?

Cop: Fourth, you could just pay the ticket.

Woman: Seven thousand dollars… I don’t know…

Cop: Seven thousand dollars, thirty dollars, five hundred dollars, whatever.

Woman: I can’t afford it. I have children to feed. I’ll do option number three.

Cop: You did hear me rule out the kiss, right?

Woman: What about a French kiss?

Cop: Your two choices are this [makes obscene gesture with hands] or this [makes obscene gesture with hands and face].

Woman: What about this [makes obscene gesture with hands and nose]?

Cop: Honestly, lady! I do have some standards.

Woman: Fine then. I’ll do the second one.

Cop: Fine. Before we begin I would like to ask you to be courteous and please wait 24 hours after this incident before you report my criminal behavior to my superiors. Can you do that?

Woman: I suppose.

Cop: Also, I must ask that you refrain from collecting any bodily fluids as evidence, as that would void our agreement and the ticket would be issued. Do you agree to that?

Woman: Fine.

Cop: Can you sign this affadavit to that effect?

Woman: [signs affadavit]

Cop: Hooray! Evil wins the day!

Am I being insensitive?

Hey, gang. How’s it going? Good, good. At this moment, it is approximately 1000 degrees below Farenheit here in Chicago, unless I am using hyperbole.

I was out tonight and as I was walking I could feel icicles begin to form inside my nostrils. Suddenly I could not sniffle for fear that chunks of ice would become lodged into my brain. I was forced to perform the reverse sniffle, or as I call it, “the splatter”. No need to reel in disgust, however – it came out like beautiful snowflakes dancing across my philtrum. It was so pleasurable, I did it again and again, and soon, passersby were gaping in delight and applauding with each exhalation. Suddenly self-conscious, I ran red-faced for the train station.

When the train arrived, I boarded immediately, not noticing the differently colored sign indicating the train’s destination. This was not a “Red Line” train, oh no – this could only be described as a “White Line” train. The car was filled with twenty identical homeless black men dressed in identical homeless clothing. In unison, they asked me for a quarter. Afraid, I tossed my wallet at them and ran to the next car.

The next car was filled with thirty identical elderly Hispanic women in identical clothes. The train arrived at a stop. The doors opened. One of the elderly Hispanic women stepped out into the blistering cold. The doors slid shut. Curious, I waited for the next stop. The doors opened. Once again, an elderly Hispanic woman stepped out onto the platform. It appeared as though the train were distributing its identical passengers, one to each stop!

In the next car I found fifty identical Korean babies. I only could guess at their number – but they filled the car and cried ceaselessly and in perfect synchronization with one another. These babies were surely no older than two – yet when the doors opened at the next stop, the babies stopped crying, parted the crowd, and allowed a baby to step out. The doors closed, and the babies resumed typical baby behavior.

Eager to get away from them, I hurried to the next car. I felt butterflies in my stomach as I saw that this car was filled with twenty-three identical college-aged white girls, all of whom I was attracted to. I could contain my curiosity no longer.

“Excuse me,” I asked one of them, hesitating slightly when I noticed their heads all turning towards me at once. “What sort of train is this? Each car is filled with identical persons of varying ages and ethnicities.”

“You’re not supposed to be on this train,” all of her said. The doors opened, and one got off.

“But I am,” I said. “Are you clones?”

“I am not a clone,” they all said together. “I am a highly sophisticated android, created with the purpose of populating the city. This train serves the purpose of distributing freshly created citizens across the city.”

“Why do you all look alike?” I asked. Another stepped off.

“There are only forty-three citizen templates. There are over one million people in the city. You do the math, bucko.”

“Wait a minute,” I stammered in disbelief. “Do you mean I’m an android too? That there are others out there like me?”

“You are if you have a serial number here.” In unison, they turned their backs to me and tugged down the waist of their pants slightly, revealing a thirteen-digit number printed across their right rump. The numbers were all unique.

I turned around, lifted my coat up, and showed my rump. “Do I have a number?” I asked.

They did not answer. They simply laughed, and laughed, and laughed, in unison.

“What’s so funny?” I asked. The doors opened at the next stop.

“Whoops, this is my stop,” she all said, and one of them walked out. The rest stood perfectly still and straight-faced, as if their breakdown into laughter had not happened. The doors closed, and the train resumed motion. The next stop was my stop. I felt I should make some sort of amends.

“I should say,” I said, “that all of you are quite attractive. Would one of you like to have dinner with me?”

“Awww, how sweet!” twenty voices replied. “But I have a boyfriend.”

“All of you?” I asked “Every single one of you is unavailable?” How could this be?

“My boyfriend’s name is Dennis,” they said. “I’m going to his house right now.”

“But you are all getting off at different stops!” Then, I realized: there must be a Dennis living near every stop.

The train pulled into my station. The doors opened. One of the females stepped out. Shaking my head, I followed her. On the platform, I saw a homeless man, an elderly Hispanic woman, and a Korean baby also disembark. But there was one more car behind the one I stepped from, and no one was coming out of it. As the train pulled away, I peered inside and caught a glimpse of the cargo:

Forty 25-year-old white males, all identical to me.

I trudged back to my apartment, no longer delighted by “the splatter”. I locked the door behind me, threw off my coat, and collapsed onto my bed. Then, I got up and drank a bottle of vodka.

As I was walking to my car after work today, I saw a dead squirrel on campus. After burying the creature in a shallow grave under a bush, placing a single red rose on the mound of dirt, and crying quietly for half an hour, I thought of a funny idea for a movie: “Dead Squirrel on Campus”. It’s a teenage comedy about two ne’er-do-wells who are freshmen at the local party school. Unfortunately, their outrageous “extracurricular” activities – including but not limited to binge drinking, marijuana smoking, and teenaged sex with comely coeds – land their grades in the doghouse, so to speak. Facing strong parental disapproval and possible university reprimandation, the boys hunt for a way to up their grades toot-sweet. They discover an old university urban legend: that if your roommate dies, and if said roommate is a squirrel, you receive straight A’s for the semester. Seeing their solution, they search for a new roommate, a squirrel, that is likely to die or that they can kill. Cue a hilarious montage of them courting several crazy candidates. Eventually they pick one of them, a squirrel, and it moves in. The next morning, they throw it out their ninth-story window. It dies. Their scheme works. The two get straight A’s. They spread the word. Suddenly, everyone all over campus is killing their roommates who are squirrels and getting straight A’s every semester until graduation. At the graduation ceremony, the boys feel vaguely empty about the quality of their education, but they shrug it off. Soon, they enter successful jobs and marriages and have happy, healthy children and grandchildren. They live long, fruitful lives, affecting everyone around them in a positive way. When they die, which occurs coincidentally on the same day for both, they inspire crowds of mourners to eulogize and pay respects as their coffins are lowered into the ground. Meanwhile, in Hell, they scream in torment while their flesh slowly burns and foul demons play their intestines like a harp.

I think that would be funny.

I was two feet taller than usual today. I first noticed this morning, when I saw that my knees were hooked over the end of the bed, while my head rested against the opposite wall. As I attempted to enter my black 1991 Dodge Grand Caravan, I simultaneously banged my shins and whacked myself very hard in the chest. My ribs have been sore all day. Using my computer today I noticed I had to reach much further to press buttons and such. Apparently the increase in my height occured solely in my torso, as my arms and legs seemed to be approximately the length I was used to. I had a great deal of trouble balancing as I walked. At my dance recital earlier this evening I was a laughingstock. My dance partner, Maricelle, very nearly refused to take the stage with me; only at Madame Rebekkah’s insistence did she strap on her shoes and come out with me. It was foolish of me to go on, having full knowledge of my condition, but in my brazen bullheadedness I forged ahead without caution. Suffice it to say, it was a disaster. First and foremost, my leotard no longer fit, and so there was a body-cleaving wedgie running up the middle of both sides of my body. Perhaps more disastrous was the fact that Maricelle’s leaps were now two feet short; and so, not once, not twice, but thrice did she go sailing past as my arms failed to catch her. On the fourth, fatal pass, she knocked me off balance and I flipped forward into the orchestra pit.

The whole situation was quite queer.