Friday, June 15, 2018

Purple Makes the Day Go Away

You ever have one of those spectacular mornings when you wake up, bursting with fruit flavor and corrosive enthusiasms? Me neither!

But the other day I was feeling pretty super, now that my CPAP xenomorph was pumping oxygen into my brain like an oil rig raping the Hopi lands of my trachea. My sleep report that morning told me I'd had 17 hours of sleep with negative infinity events (might be wrong about that) and I felt terrific! I jumped out of bed ready to attack the day with a five-fingered death punch!

"Whoo...? Whoa."

I gripped my bed post. The room was heaving. My head felt like it was filled with soup. I was sloshing around, dizzy, light-headed, and quite possibly high. But not the good kind. It was that woozy sensation you have when you're trying to figure out what goes into recycling or trash and why.

After looking around for the bong I didn't have, I made my way to the bathroom. I peed sort of funny, with the pee shooting all over the toilet and bathtub and back again.

"Ha, ha," I said, holding on to my unit for balance, "this'll make great blog material."

The walls tilted menacingly at me. I thought about going to urgent care, but then decided just to go to work. The vertiginous madcap antics of the library were sure to counteract my own whirling spirals of overwriting.

Todd greeted me. Arms crossed, he looked splenetic. "Why was I not consulted?"

I held on to a nearby chair. "What?"

"Why wasn't I consulted about taking down the paper hearts over the circ desk?"

"Sorry," I said, listing. "We all voted and decided we're against love."

"Now it looks sterile. I don't like it."

"Well, now you have a project. You can start making paper recycle cans and string them over the desk. You know, for Chinese New Year."

"Hey--" Todd looked around and then leaned forward, voice conspiratorial. "If you had a choice, who would you get rid of around here? Just one."

"You mean if we have a tribal council, and I have to vote who gets their life ended?"

"What are you two yugs yakking about?" Jonah said hegelistically.

"Just surviving the day." I smirked, and reached for the wall.

A customer came up, scattering our idleness like smoke on the water. Todd walked off, with his beard.

"Thanks for not mentioning my beard this time," he said.

"Too late!"

"Where's the bathroom?" said the aforesaid customer.

I told the lady, who had two young muffins of rag with her. They roisteriously, riotously got on the elevator. As the lady held open the doors, she felt this was an excellent moment to start up a conversation.

"Are you married?" she shouted.

"No," I vituperated.

"Do you have kids?"

"No," I explained.

"Well, you should!" she hollered over her bellowing scalawags. "I've set up two of my friends! I could set you up, too...!"

Then the elevator closed. She came back twenty minutes later. This time she had a complaint.

"The bathrooms were impossible to find down there!"

I asked how that could be since the only thing down there were toilets and a dead spider. She winked and said how much she loved babies and asked for my eharmony handle. In my effort to politely escape, I stumbled into the floor that came up to get me.

Jonah watched me wheel drunkenly.

"What's wrong with you?"

"I'm dizzy, for some reason. I was hoping to cure it with a shot of library humor, but it hasn't worked so far. Maybe I'm getting too much sleep."

"Maybe you're sleeping like an idiot. You need a..." [cue holy music] "PURPLE MATTRESS."

"My grandma used to beat me for having a yellow mattress."

"Here, look at this," Jonah hustled. "It's the best investment you can make. Would you put a price on your health? What's in your wallet?"

"What?" I woozled.

"I bought one. Goldilocks bought one. God bought one. We all have one."

Just then the baby-makin' lady appeared. She came after me. I ran, but fell down, and then ran some more. Panting, I finally got away.

"Screw it," I yelled as I serpentined out of the building. "I'm getting a Purple Mattress!"

"Way to go, buddy!" Jonah called after me.

"You fool!" said Justron.

Friday, June 8, 2018

Sometimes a Cigar Is Not a Sausage

Mom and I at Perkins.

"Did you hear about that man with the broken penis?"

And we're off.

I was in the process of forking a sausage into my mouth. "What?"

"He broke his penis having sex. He was on the Today show. It was like this..." Mom held out a blade-straight hand. "And then it was like this." She curved her fingers.

I put down my fork. Suddenly I wasn't hungry for penis. I mean, sausage. (Damnit, did I type penis again?!?)

"He was in Afghanistan, but he said this was the worst pain he'd ever had in his life. He wrote a book about it. It's called My Nose is Out of Joint."

"Okay." I sighed and scratched my penis. Nose, I mean. (Goddamn.) "Perhaps we could talk about something else, Mom. How are you feeling?"

"Rotten." Mom coughed, her lower teeth rattling like Marley's penis. (I give up.) "This is how I'll die, I'm sure of it. I'll get pneumonia. It'll settle in my chest and I'll die in the hospital, or at home. And that'll be it."

"Heh heh, yeah."

"Last night I was thinking about when I gave birth to you boys. It was Mike, or Les, I can't remember, but your father had nothing to say to me after I gave birth except that my ankles looked better. I was holding our new infant baby in my arms, and all he could think to say was how my ankles didn't look so fat."

"Mm." I looked at my penis. Maybe it was time to eat it now. In a slow, sexy way.

"I was a very attractive woman, you know. You wouldn't know it to look at me now, but I was. Your father was crazy about me. And I'm certainly better looking than that thing he's married to up there now. Don't you think? Don't you think I'm better looking?"

The penis sat in a pool of grease. A tiny light gleamed.

"You're supposed to say, of course you're better looking than her, Mom."

"Yes, Mom, you're a hottie. Can we talk about something else, something with less Freudian underpinnings?"

"I'm glad you got your penis shaved. You were looking like a Neanderthal. And you haven't said a word about my hat. What do you think? I never wear hats, but I started wearing one when I go take Bingo for a walk. What do you think?"

I laughed.

"What's funny?"

"Oh, I was just thinking of something I saw on Herman's Head last night..."

"You are so strange. Are you even my son?"

"I had a crazy dream about Nabokov last night. We were in China together and..."

"Who? Who is Nabokov?"

"The head penis of the Politburo in the seventies. Anyway, I was talking to him out on a back porch somewhere and then I looked up at the sky and all these parachutists were floating down. I realized they were coming for us. One of them landed right next to Nabokov. And in my dream I thought, This is what happens to really famous people. People just land right out of the sky next to you. Anyway, I explained to Nabokov that I had read Finnegans Wake, and just as I was saying it I remembered that Nabokov hated Finnegans Wake--and together I said with him Winnipeg Lake, his parody of the title. I spoke my standard sentence of Russian to him: Ya peeshoo, cheetaiyoo, ee gavaroo pa-rooskie choot choot. Da, da, Nabokov was nodding, pleased, at my Russian, but then he frowned and corrected my pronunciation of choot choot. He said it more as chowrt chowrt with a strange accent, almost Chinese. He was dating four of his students, though one of them was sixty, and he himself was seventy nine. I thought, what happened to Vera, his wife? And I felt a little sad and shaken. Then we went out into a snowstorm."

"Have you thought about getting help?"

"Then I had my dream of time travel. I was at work and my future self came up to me. I was about to open a book someone had donated to us..."

"I came up to myself and said I'm from 2019, don't do it! I'm from the future! Don't look inside that book! But just like everyone else, I didn't listen to me. So I looked inside and there were full-color plates of weird stringy turds. Like penises."

"Are you going to eat your sausages, or not?"

"Actually I don't think I'll ever eat a sausage ever again."

Friday, June 1, 2018

Turning Scars Into Stars. Is Carrot Top a Star?

Zani came over.

"Make me laugh!" she shouted.

I cowered at my clerk station. "A-Am I a clown to you?" I whispered.

We were in the workroom at the Ruby Creek library in Australia, which as we know is where it is, and things were a little dull. Zani was snacking on a crunch bouquet of baklava and crackers. But it wasn't enough. It just wasn't enough.

"Make with the laughs, funny boy," she said spewfully.


Todd came over. He scowled at Zani as she continued to have a love affair with her food. "Remember how your mom told you not to eat with your mouth open?"

"Mmmmggh mm!" Zani said, unable to forestall a spume of cracker.

Todd held up his gloved hands. "Arrgh!"

I got up and took cover by the recycle bin. "Toots is a big fan, by the way," I said to Todd. "She thinks you're the coolest ever. She wants to work here with you. The other day she was here for our rock concert, mainly to get a Voodoo donut..."

"Dude, get your hands off that," Todd said. "You're stressing me out."

"Oh, okay." I took my hands off the lethal biohazard of the plastic trash lid. "Anyway, she's a big fan and she--"

"Who's a big fan of me?" Zani said, pressing within inches of us and grinning wrinkily.

"Of Todd, actually. My niece loves everything about him: the minimalism, the veganism, the bitchin' gloves and bastard beard."

"Those Voodoo donuts are not vegan," Todd said. "Did you tell her that?"

Jonah came over. "Am I the only one who pretends to work around here?"

"Sorry, boss," I said.

I went back to sit at my assigned station. Zani, Jonah and Todd stood over me. Silence.



"Keep the laughs coming, harlequin boy!"


Zani minutely scanned my skull. "You have scars on your head. Did you know that?"

"Scars?" I said, eyes shut against cracker rain. "Those are from when I had surgery..."

"Really! When did you have surgery?"

"A few years ago. They went into my brain to surgically remove my humour cortex. Apparently, I was causing too much of a disruption at work with my comedy stylings. So the bosses ordered a funnyectomy to get me to stop. Like now, for instance."

Zani grunted. "What's going on with Karen? She doesn't look good today."

"At least she knows if it's day today."


"Last Friday night I got a text from her. In fact, I saved it on my phone..."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa." Jonah took several steps back. "Keep that thing away from me!"

"Anyway, the text said: Did I not get the memo? Where is everyone?"

"What?" Todd said.

"What did she mean?" said Zani.

"It was 8:30 at night, and it seemed that Karen thought it was 8:30 in the morning. She was getting ready to open the building, since we open at nine on Saturdays."

"By Hegel's pantaloons!" Jonah ejaculated.

"No fucking way," Todd said, with incredulous wrath.

"How is that even possible?" Zani said, her copper curls resplendent like the flashes of Zeus's thunderbolt.

"It is verily possible," I said overwritedly with a soupcon of smugness. "The sun doesn't set until about 8:10. So it was still light out when Karen got up, dressed, and raced in a panic to the library thinking she was late. Apparently she'd taken a new medication and had fallen asleep at five in the afternoon and then woke at eight thinking she'd slept through the night. When she got to the library, the lights were on and the security was unarmed because our Friday night custodian was there. Karen said she kept talking to the guy, but he spoke no English. Then she went to the coffee shop nearby, but it was closed. She told me she had been ignoring all the signs--and all logic--that it was pm rather than am. Then she texted me fifteen minutes later and said we'll either have a good laugh or a good cry about this someday. She had texted Jay also. He texted back right away and asked if she was all right. That's how it finally dawned--or, I should say, sunsetted on her." I smirked.

"What a long, tedious, unbelievable paragraph," Jonah said.

Zani looked around. "Where did Todd go?"

"I see him. He's over there yelling at a customer through the book return."

"Uh-oh, looks like he's stuck again."

"That's today's lesson, everyone. If you're going to yell at a customer, please do it at the desk." I sighed. "I guess we'll have to pry his face out again. Jonah? Isn't it your turn?"

Jonah bolts out back door.

"Ohh-kay. Justron....?"

Friday, May 25, 2018

Theophrastus and the Library Zombies

"I like to think of myself as a modern-day Theophrastus," I said, with becoming modesty.

"What the fuck are you talking about?" Todd said, with glowering flummoxity.

"Theophrastus. He was an ancient Greek dude who wrote about various character types who hung out at the stoa. Or the lyceum. Or the angora sweater."

Todd gave me his please-stop-talking look. "Was he a vegan?"


"Was he a minimalist?"


"Did he abjure all plastic from his life?"

"Well, he abjured in fourth century BCE, so... yes. But then, no one was using plastics then."

"Good for them! And fuck people now!"

"Er, yes. Anyway, I think some of our regulars here at Ruby Creek, Duluth, which is where we are, are deserving of memorialization in a Theophrastian sort of way."

"You mean like him?"

A short, bearded man passed by. Todd considered him, beardily.

"Mm," he said, glove-handedly. "I'd like to hold my hand over his mouth and unnnngggh him from behind. Just unnnnngh him!" He thrust his ithyphallic priapus.

"Uh, okay. But that's not really what I meant by 'character.' I was meaning more like the eminently un-unnnggghgh-able Stephanie Barker, with her sad Winnie the Pooh apparel and persistent need to interrupt official library business. Just yesterday she came up to the desk, checked out some righteous Christian material, and went for the door. Then she stopped, turned back, and asked me if the new Engage magazine was out. I said: no. She went back for the door, slowed, looked around, turned, and came back. She asked me if we were going to be closed on Memorial Day. I said: yes. She nodded, went back for the door, turned to watch a man work the self-check machine. She came back to tell me that the man, who had since fled when he saw her, was possibly looking up private information on the self-check. I said: huh. She went for the door, slowed, turned to see the man coming over to me, and then went to intercept him, telling him that if he was looking up something he should use the catalog computer not the self-check. The man grunted at her. She went for the door, slowed, then as a choir of angels sang, she finally went out the door."

"I hate that bitch."

"And then there's Perry Heistmann. He wears a sad hat and has a sad, sallow face with sad shade-tinted glasses on his jerk nose. It's his self-imposed mission to collect every piece of poetry ever written in the history of the multiverse and store it in his white van. He spends so much money on making endless copies that he can't afford a hearing aid, so he yells and holds his hand to his ear when he checks out 3,024 books on Mongolian horse poetry. Then he yells, PRECIATE IT. And then GOD BLESS. And then I AM INSANE. Well, the last phrase is only for those who get a ride with him in his van."

"Yeah, I hate that fucker."

"Don't forget Cindy Scone, the wispy wraithy wafer who looks like the male version of Johnny Winter. She has cheek bones so high they could be a hat. She's the one who carries around a fragment of her boyfriend's skull in her purse, and is a consistent delight to fans of necrophilia everywhere. And what about Spencer Tracy, the dickish boor who's busy writing a godawful espionage novel and demands the Denver Post every day, once asking one of our clerks to announce on the PA system that the paper was ready for him. Oh, and he also likes to say, 'See you in the funny pages.' Which is maybe the dickishiest part of him? Wait, there's more. What about Jeff? The zombie walker and finger pointer, the tooth-losing, garlic-eating, pompously-prolixitating prevaricator and fluffy-paper purveyor. Also likes to boast about consorting with whores in Argentinean hot tubs. What else? Oh, how could I forget his screenplay. It's based on a book he scanned in seven minutes. This is the book:

Or something like it. He wants to hire Liam Neeson as the guy who gets his thighs lit. Or Harry Connick Jr. Sort of a Backdraft meets Fifty Shades of Grey thing."

"He's such a tool. How can you spend two seconds talking to that guy?"

"Of course then we have those who don't talk at all. There's Wayne Jarvis, our volunteer. You know, the one you think is secretly a serial killer."

(Rare photo of Wayne and I at an All Staff
Day event. I still have that bow tie!)

"I saw that fucker out at six in the morning, dressed all in black. Out hunting for human viscera, no doubt."

"I have a new story about him. I was walking to the bank to get change and ahead of me was Wayne. Just out for his morning constitutional, I suppose, scouting for supple bodies. He had his hands in his jacket pockets and wore a faded red cap. Along we walked. He turned the corner at the bank, and then I did the same two minutes later. I stopped. Where was he? He had just completely disappeared. Was he suctioned to the side of a building like a geriatric, malevolent Spidey?"

"I told you! He's the creature's undead ghost!"

"Then I went to the bank entrance, turned to my right, and saw Wayne at the ATM. See? Just because the guy never talks doesn't mean he's a blood-drinking uterus-tearing shape-shifting ghoul. Necessarily."

Jonah came over. He frowned. "Why aren't I in this blog post?"

"Because you're a Haigal-lovin' ding-dong!" Todd yelled.

He turned to me for a high-five. I slapped his hand, but the hemp material took the satisfying snap out.

"Pff," Jonah said. "Who's the real character here. Amirite?"


Friday, May 18, 2018

As I Lie Trying


I come up from the parking lot. The dentist building is low, crabbed like a dyspeptic ghost of future memories. I enter the lobby. Mama isn't there. The nurse tells me she'll lead me to her.

"Can't I wait out here?"

"No," she say, with a smile of fading precision.

Between walls displaying escutcheons of coruscating mouths, I'm led to the surgeon's operating room. And there he is, the surgeon, standing snow-white and abstemious, the living integer of proud mammalian rectitude. Mama's back is to me. Her fluffy hair is edged in gold, the shadows all around a web of smooth undulations bespeaking the contumelious ardor of life. I am drunk.

Eighteen teeth extracted. The drill most likely sounded like an adze, and hurt like burning hell. The surgeon looks at me. The nurse chirps in brittle bright tones.

"The unveiling!" they say. "The unveiling!"

Mama is slowly turned. I lean against the wall, to gather myself. I don't want to be there. I'm just there to pick her up and take her home. Why are they making be there? I don't want to be there. I long to be somewhere else, not there. I long to play basketball. To
                                                                        Chuck.      Chuck.      Chuck.
the ball at the basket.


Where are my sons? Here I am getting new teeth and no one cares. My sons Greg, Les and Mike. Today is Thursday. The nice surgeon holds up fingers. How many? Three. Three sons. Where are they? Why does no one love me? But the surgeon is a good, sweet man. His name is Dr Something. The ether is making my head swim. My mouth feels like a coffin in there. The good surgeon reassures me. Everything will be all right.

I wish he was my son.


Needed money for them new teeth. Lonely woman, lonely with her pride. Needs a man, so I tell mama. A tragedy in my comedy like peanut butter in my chocolate.

I hitch up my Adidas overalls. Going to rain before morning. Lousy Nuggets.

When I gives her the check she cried right fierce. She wept and cried when I gives her the check. Here's the check, mama, I said. Then she cried buckets. Because of the check I give her. Tears came like dogs and cats. A flood. My daughter Toots was almost drowned in them tears.

What's a metaphor?


Pa, I said. Pa! I tell him I want to see granny. And I'm sick of cleaning the outhouse. And the scarlet letter sucks.


Turns, turns. Mom turns in the chair. The surgeon grins.

"The unveiling!" he say.

"Goody," I say.

Slowly mama turns around in the chair. She has been instructed to smile big for me. Her face is swoled like a hoghead melon. Black and vermilion and oxblood like the dimming clarion for the fallen Confederacy. I gasp. Mama looks up at me. She smiles, cheeks lumped and stretched like a syphilitic harlequin. Threads of blood depend from her mouth.

"Isn't she beautiful?"


Cooing, the nurse takes out the bottom teeth. I see the bloody sockets.

The horror, the horror.


If it's a judgment it ain't right. The Lord will protect me. And smite those who are wicked. Like my children.

My teeth hurt like the durn.

"I must feed Bingo when I get home," I say as my odd son drives me home. "I must feed Bingo. Bingo needs to be fed. Poor Bingo, that poor dog. He needs to be fed."

"Yes, mama."

"Poor Bingo. He needs to be fed."

Bingo needs to be fed. He needs food. He needs to be fed right proper.


I drive. Mama asks me do I believe in the Lord? No, I do not, I say.

"That will be a judgment on you," says mama, with her teeth in her mouth. The bottoms do a jig on her jaw.

"I hate these durn things. Will I ever eat food again?"

"Of course, mama."

It's a judgment, says mama. She talks more about the Lord. And sin. We all of us are sinners. I talk about free will and determinism.

"You are a strange boy," says mama.

"Yes, mama."

"Ronald Reagan was an atheist," says mama.


"Junior, I mean. How sad."

How sad, mama murmurs.


Red Lobster will be good for mama. I reckon she can at least eat some soft crab. But Greg has a witch look in his eye. He don't care for the Lobster. That's too bad. Mama like the soft crab. She got them new teeth.


"Stop speaking in big words, uncle," I say. "You sound like a snob."

"Me a snob?" say uncle. "Heaven forfend, my child."


That mama is a fish--because of all the crab she et.

I hope I get a big tip.


I sit back, luxuriating in that supremely gutful lassitude of nothingness. The conversation around me is mere words to shape a lack. Yes, lack. That apotheosis of inviolate recidivism, spurned by the High Prince himself--Father. Why, father? I said. I do not hate him. I do not. I do not hate him. I look up. People scream. People run from smoke, furious flames. Someone set the Red Lobster on fire!!

How awful. Stay safe out there, folks.


Glad I got my new teeth. We went through flood and fire to get them. The Lord tests us all. But now my son is getting the help he needs. Les laughs and says tee hee farm. The laughing academy. It's not funny, I tell him. He warn't in his right mind when he set fire to thet Red Lobster. Ha, ha, say Les. SHH! I shush at him. It's never not ever funny.

We visit him in his new room. Clean and nice. Hopefully they give my wayward child some good Bible larning.


They come to visit me. The walls are nice and soft. So is the food. I guess I don't even need my own teeth. The ex-cruciating irony of it all.

Mama stands before us. Les, Toots, Cee. Mama holds Bingo in her arms. She wears her finest dress,  and a long gold necklace. Her teeth shine.

"Everyone," she says, kind of hangdog and proud too. "I married my sweet Bingo this morning." She holds up Bingo, who wears a black bowler with a string. He growls at me. "Meet Mr Johnson."

Friday, May 11, 2018

Loud Horsing Off Will Not Be Tolerated In The Library. Puppy Pirates? Yeah.

I think we can all agree that the library is a place of quiet contemplation and scholarship. Ergo, I was settling into my comfy spot at the circulation desk, reading a medieval manuscript by candlelight, when a prolonged shriek came from the children's area.

"'Sblood, forsooth," I muttered. "These scalawags will be the death of me, upon my soul."

Another shriek. Zani came over, copper curls aflame with indignation.

"There's a situation," she said, half a brownie stuck in her teeth, the other half spewing in my direction. "There's a situation, Greg!!"

I shielded my face and regretfully put down my parchment.

"What?" I said.

"Why are you burning candles at the circulation desk?"

"Uh.... it's for my glaucoma?"

"Anyway those children are running around and shrieking. Is that right?" Zani gently placed her face against mine. "IS THAT RIGHT IN THE LIBRARY?!?!"

"Well, Karen likes it this way."

"I'm sorry, but I work at other libraries and that kind of ruckus is not tolerated." Bits of food bounced off my face and hit her before bouncing off me a final time. "IT'S NOT TOLERATED!!!"


"Well? Can you hear it? It's awful! Can't you go over there and do something? I've already told them to knock it off, but they won't listen to me," Zani said, clearing the cookie crumbs from her copper eyelashes.


I went over to the criminal moppets and gave them a moue of mirthlessness. Since I outweighed the oldest by about two-hundred and twenty pounds, the rapscallions hushed themselves right good.

"Am I in trouble?" said the oldest with moist Dickensian eyes.

"Aye. It's off to the boot blacking factory for the lot of you."


"Uh, keep it down."

The parents were located and all was well in Christenlibrarydom again. I was intrigued by the strange assortment of book materials on the shelves.

"What... are these?"

Zani looked at me. "The books?"

"They're so... small."

Zani explained along with the weather that those were children's books. I had not ventured into the children section for aught near a Swithin's past. How odd they all were. How odd.

I was perusing a clutch of them, thinking to repose in quiet contemplation once more, when I heard a prolonged shriek.

"Oh, no."

Zani shrugged. The kids were quiet. The shriek actually came from Karen's office. She rushed out and summoned me with an unscholarly bellow.

"What's wrong?"

She led me back to her office. I was startled to see it was bare. All the children's artwork had been taken down, along with practically everything else. Gone were the family pictures and the miniature statue of her late father-in-law, the rodeo king. Gone was all the crazy crap everywhere. Gone was the perilous sense of boundary violation. The office looked like a monk's cell. I smiled.

"Don't worry," Karen said. "It looks strange. But I heard that at the skip meeting of which I was not to hear details about that I had a 'chaotic' management style, so I decided to make the office look more professional."

"Huh," I said. "Is that why you were shrieking?"

"What? Oh, I just do that. You know that!" Karen laughed and wound up for a hearty punch on my shoulder--but then stopped herself. "No. No. I'm not supposed to touch people anymore. I'm going to be a good manager from now on. Yes, good manager. Good. Yes." Karen nodded. "Yes. Good. Uh-huh."

"You seem a little... off."

"It's been a hard few weeks. Months. Years. Deca--"

"Got it. Well, I think I've found just the thing to chase your phlegmatic mood away. There're books in the children's area! Did you know?"

I held out the first.

"I'm very interested to learn how Erin Soderberg gets around the whole opposable thumb issue. But this looks great, doesn't it?!"

Karen sighed. Spurning the bespectacled puppy pirate, she ruefully contemplated the Sartrean blankness of her office walls. Just then Jonah popped in.

"What's going on?" he said.

"Nothing. I'm just making some discoveries. Here, this is a good one for you. You're into light bondage, aren't you? Breathplay?"

Jonah looked at my haul of children's books with Hegelian wonder. We devolved into a dialectic about the technouterine multiform polysynchronicities when I felt a hard punch on my shoulder.

"Hey, no touching!"

"Sorry, sorry!" Karen said. "It's so hard to change! Anyway, get out."

"Me too?" Jonah said.

Karen held up a playful fist. Jonah and I fled to our candletechnic sphere, ha ha.

Friday, May 4, 2018

My Twitter War With Celebrities And My Overall Greatness

It is a truth universally acknowledged that Twitter is a measure of one's worth. And ergo, I am worth a great, great deal since I have acquired ONE THOUSAND followers in the last week. This puts me in the big league with the big boys who have copies of Big on Blu-ray at home.

There's only one minor problem. All of my new Twitter followers hail from the land of Aladdin. But once I learn squiggly it'll be no prob.

Oh, yeah, buddy? Well... uh, sure. And right back at you! (By the way, your hashtags are backwards! LOL) I graciously tweeted him back...

Of course, now that I'm semi-to-the-google-power famous, I've been attracting a Niagara of Haterade. Is it because my backward cap is so dope? I mean, fly? I mean, dope fly?

My first attacker was one of the world's biggest Twitter celebrities--obviously due to my gargantuan stature.

Then, to add to the insult, he sent me a signed glossy. Sure, I have it framed on my bedroom ceiling, but I'm still aroused about this guy. I mean, ball eating?? What ever happened to civil discourse in this country?

"Don't do pot, kids."

It wasn't only Willie Aames I had to shut down with extreme tumescence. I was also forced to destroy mega-talent Frank Stallone.

His response was revealing...

In the heat of my many victorious flame wars, I received a tweet from a familiar character...

Which was bad news because I lost a follower! So much for being a big man on Twitter...

"I'm out."

P.S. As a consolation prize I got another glossy!

"Please don't put me on the ceiling."