Archive | November, 2009

Black Friday.

29 Nov

It’s the biggest shopping day of the year. Millions upon millions of dollars will be spent by millions upon millions of people–all trying to get the perfect gift for somebody. It’s a nice thought, really. So many people enduring so much for their loved ones. However, as we all know, the road to hell is paved in good intentions–and great bargains.

My brother, Nick, and I arrive at Target at around 5am. It’s cold, around 40 degrees. There are already a few hundred people in a line stretching across the front of the store. We take our place at the end of the line, which is by this time twenty or thirty yards from the entrance. CAN’T WAIT FOR THE BARGAINS!

Six minutes pass. This sucks. I want to go home.

I hear a man screaming in the distance, I get to my feet  and peek around the crowd to see who it’s coming from.

I’m pleasantly surprised to see that Target has employed the services of local madman Jeepers McGinley, who has abandoned his usual “The End Is NEAR” sign to make a quick buck. (I later learned that this Jeepers was in no way affiliated with the Target Corporation and was, in fact, trying to be ironic. It was completely lost on me, as I bought every single item on that board.)

The manager is seen approaching the doors. People get to their feet and quietly shuffle as close to the front of the line as they can. There’s an audible rise in tension as aggressive murmurs sprout so ubiquitously that it seems the air itself is whispering its appeals for haste. I hear the unmistakable sound of a gun being cocked. Then I hear the sound of a cannon ball being lowered into a cannon’s shaft. This confuses me and I take a moment to look for the weirdo who brought the cannon.

Ah, okay. This guy.

I begin to ask the guy where he got his cannon, because I also have a few thousand dollars that I’d like to spend on absolute bull shit, but before I can get it out, my brother brusquely grabs my arm.

“It’s go time.”

“What?” He’s started pulling me forward. I begin to hear screaming in the distance.

“Keep your knees high. It’ll keep you from tripping over the fallen.”

“Wait, the fallen? Like people?!”

“Yes Kyle, fallen people.”

“Ah, okay.” I take a second to slip on my mob cleats and continue pressing forward. As we enter the store, the sound of a cannon firing rings out with a sound like the thunder of a storm that’s just overhead.

“Was that a cannon?” Nick asks.

“Yea. It belongs to this guy who looks a lot like Jennifer Lopez with a mustache.” I look back toward the entrance. “There’s no way he didn’t kill at least five or six people. You think we should call the cops or someth–”

DEXTER DVD’S!” Nick yells. He runs up to the display, but it’s blocked by a woman and her cart, which is already full of goods. Nick grabs the cart and pushes it as hard as he can down the aisle.

“My cart!” the woman yells, and begins to run after her rolling presents.

“Ah crap. I already have this season,” Nick says, puts the DVD back, and begins to walk towards the clothes. In the distance, the woman seems to have fallen down and is being drug by her carts powerful momentum.

More explosions can be heard from across the store. I remark at how quickly that tiny man was able to mobilize his cannon. Then my mind stumbles across a horrific possibility: What if there’s more than one cannon in the store? As I finish this thought, several Target cops in full riot gear march past. A gallon of milk flies past them and explodes at my feet. At the opening of the jug is a rag with its end burnt. It seems someone didn’t understand how molotov cocktails work. I grab a bottle of wine, tear off a portion of my shirt, put it in the bottle and light the end. Then I throw the bottle back to where the milk came from, so they can see how to do it.

“Look out!” Nick yells. He pulls me into the women’s clothes department just as a flurry of flaming arrows strikes the ground where we had been standing. “It’s begun,” he says. Quietly, my brother removes a home made knife from his back pocket. He cuts a line down the middle of his hand and then smears the blood across his face. “Buyer beware,” he says in a gravelly tone.

“Shopper’s delight,” I respond, laughing smugly and raising my fist for a fist bump. My brother shakes his head, gently pushes my fist down and hands me his knife. I pick up a nearby package of Hershey’s chocolate syrup, cut it open and smear its contents on my face.

“Let’s move. I need a new sweater,” Nick says, scanning the area for threats.

“I’m getting Wesley Up for Christmas. You think we got a shot at it?”

“DVD’s? It’ll be a blood bath. You ready?”

“Let’s shop.”

We break away toward the electronics–leaving civilization and full prices at our backs.

To be continued.

Goin’ Rogue My Own Way.

25 Nov

In its first week, Sarah Palin’s book, Going Rogue: An American Life, sold 700,000 copies. Here’s the cover:

Freedom lies in open skies and track-jackets.

She’s currently on tour promoting the book. Her Texas stop isn’t until December the 12th. I, however, couldn’t wait that long, so I decided to go on the 24th of November, traveling all the way to Alabama to get a chance to meet with Palin. My Editor made the proper arrangements for me to meet with Palin at the Birmingham stop after she had done some book signings and made a brief speech.

I stand in line with a collection of lily-white, slightly overweight, conservative Americans. For a moment, there are whispers of a sighting of an African-American man at the event, but it’s soon revealed to be a regular white man standing in a shadow. The crowd is audibly crestfallen, but then seems to be slightly relieved. I ask a man in line why.

“Why what?” He responds.

“Why are you so relieved that there are no black people here?”

“When did I say that?”

“What do you think I said you said?

“That I’m relieved no black people are here.”

“Bingo. Consider yourself quoted.”

“Wait, what? What are you quoting?!”

"[...] I'm relieved no black people are here."

"... I'm relieved no black people are here."

Horrible. What a horrible man. Those concerned or angry can e-mail me for his name and exact number of how many copies of that stupid book he bought.

He also bought a Chicken Soup book. I think it was Chicken Soup for the Surly Old Soul That isn’t Quite Sure if it’s Racist or Not but Totally Is.

I decide to ask a woman in line what they think about Sarah as a politician, insofar as her political beliefs.

“What is it about Sarah’s politics that you like?”

“Well, she’s just a hockey-mom American like us. She believes in giving everybody a fair chance.”

“Focusing on your second point, because the first one only makes me want to burn this store down, you believe she gives everybody a fair chance? Would you elaborate on that?”

“She wants everybody to succeed, she wants everybody to go to college and have fulfilling careers and stuff.”

“Who doesn’t want that?” I ask her. “If that’s a point that sets her apart from everybody else, who is she being set apart from?”

“The left, of course,” She says. I immediately turn to my left, hands up in a karate-style defense. Nothing there. The left is a tricky, tricky bastard. I can understand what she’s afraid of.

“The left doesn’t want people to get a college education or to succeed?” I ask. The woman seems a bit confused, but in a stunning show of dialectic strategy, simply ignores the obvious flaw in her point and argues from a foundation of blindly-embraced ignorance.

“Of course! They all want the government to do everything! Socialists!”

“Socialshits are the worst,” I say.

She stutters for a moment, eying me suspiciously, then continues. “Before long, we’ll all be uneducated communists.”

“I’d hate to be an intoxicated commutits.” I snicker.

“Excuse me?” She hands her copy of her book to her friend who is standing nearby, crosses her arms and takes a step toward me.

“Hm?” I utter, suddenly afraid to make eye contact.

“What did you just say?” The woman, now displaying a sentiment that flirts with the line between anger and aggression, seems to have grown since approaching me. I’m visibly intimidated. I clutch the microphone tightly and take a step away from her.

“I said, let’s bring our boys home. Support the troops. Barack NObama. More like Al BORE! And then I said something about God hating mini skirts and Depeche Mode.”

“Well there you go! I’m glad young people have good heads on their shoulders nowadays.” She slaps me on my back and I almost vomit from a mix of terror and cognitive dissonance.

The signing takes about two hours, then Sarah speaks for another half hour. After she kisses a few hands and shakes a few babies she meets me in her luxurious tour bus. The air is alive with rampant desire. Her lust radiates from her as does the heat from a hot stove. She hasn’t arrived yet, but just the ora of the bus is enough to tell me that things might get a little…bipartisan, if you know what I mean. (If you don’t know what I mean, please e-mail Editor at [Editor’s Note: That’s not my e-mail address, and everybody knows what you meant.] [Kyle’s Note: That absolutely is your e-mail address. I made it for you. This is your new work e-mail. I deleted the old one.] [Editor’s Note: Wait, how did…? Never mind. I hate you.]

“Where is this idiot?” I hear her saying from outside the bus to one of her handlers. She must have thought Editor was going to be with me.

Palin is preceded by the light thumps of her high-heeled shoes coming up the stairs of her tour bus. As soon as she turns the corner and sees me, she smiles and holds her hand out.

“Well hyello there! How are ya?” Wait, is Sarah Palin from up north? I thought the hockey mom thing was sarcasm.

“I’m good, I’m good. How are you?” I respond, putting away my only purchases of the day, a MAXIM and a calendar of cats dressed up as history’s greatest assassins. I was on John Whiskers Booth when she walked in.

“Oh you know,” she said, taking a seat across from me. “Anytime I get to be around the American people it’s a good day.”

“Oh yes, I’m constantly surrounded by Americans. That’s all I work with, in fact.”

“Well that’s nice.”

“I hate people who aren’t from America.”

“Well,” she begins, holding a calming hand out, “We can’t–“

“I just PUNCH EM!” I clinch both fists and stare down at the table, my face contorted in a visage of total rage. I think I’m winning her over.

“Can we?” Sarah turns, looking for an assistant, “Is he all right? Does he have somebody here with him?” For fear that Editor will be contacted, I snap out of my patriotism-induced acrimony.

“I’m all right, I’m all right. I just love this country. You know how that goes.”

“Oh you betcha. I sure do.”

“Let me ask you, I’ve seen you on the covers of Newsweek and Alaska Magazine, looking very professional in both. Recently, though, I saw a picture on the internet of you in an American flag bikini.”

“Well, you know how people can be with their computers and editing and things, you just–“

“Do you think I would look good in an American flag bikini?” Sarah Palin begins to blush. I begin to scrawl a small note on my pad that reads “Do u like me? [y] [n],” when Editor comes in. Anything even remotely resembling a boner immediately deflates and reverts into my body.

“We gotta go. Supposedly some of the fans have told event staff about some of the comments you made to some of the people in line. Did you really tell a woman her comments made you want to burn the building down?” I nod my head solemnly. “They also mentioned you stealing a cat calendar?” I clutch my calendar tight to my chest. “Well, they want you out of here–now.”

“Damn it, Editor. Couldn’t you stall them or something?” I ask.

“How would I do that?”

“Ask them to sign something or make them list all the possible reasons why I hate you.” I gather my things and begin to stand. Sarah looks up at me with a wordless longing. She knows she cannot keep me on the bus. It would be a black eye to her entire tour. “Goodbye, sweet dove of the right,” I tell her. “You’ve caused a great conservative movement in my pants area on this day.” Sarah holds out a hand, then pulls back, as if my skin were white hot.

“Goodbye, Iron Kyle,” she says. I turn from her and walk to the front of the bus. Editor is waiting there with a few burly security officers.

“Okay, John McCan’t. Let’s get out of here.”

My Open Letter to the Zombie Race

23 Nov

Dear Zombies,

How are you? Things seem to be booming for you recently. That’s great. I’m excited for you.

Zombies, does it ever hurt your feelings to think about America’s obsession with blowing you up? Here’s a list of some zombie-murder-related media I culled up by typing “Zombies” into my brain.

  1. Left 4 Dead
  2. Left 4 Dead 2
  3. Dead Rising
  4. Dead Rising 2
  5. Nazi Zombies (Call of Duty Of-shoot)
  6. 28 Days Later
  7. 28 Weeks Later
  8. ZombieLand
  9. Day of the Dead
  10. Resident Evil (Games and movies)
  11. The Devil Wears Prada [Editor’s Note: There are no zombies in that film, Kyle.] [Kyle’s Note: You watch that one scene where Glenn Close eats that kid’s brain and then come talk to me.] [Editor’s Note: What? There’s nothing like that in that movie!] [Kyle’s Note: Whatever. I can’t remember anymore.]

That’s eleven just off the top of my head, and I’m culture-dumb. There are countless more examples of zombie-death glorification entertainment if one would only seek them out. Does this hurt your feelings? I remember when “Kyle-Murder 64” came out a few years ago. I was heart broken.

How am I supposed to react to this?

How am I supposed to react to this?

And I still have nightmares about that movie they made about me.

So believe me, Zombies. I know how it goes–having people constantly fantasizing about killing you. Here are some more people who also know what that’s like:

  1. O.J. Simpson
  2. Osama bin Laden
  3. The Geico Cavemen (Remind me to write an open letter to them, requesting their removal from the physical world.)
  4. Bill Belichick
  5. The entire cast of The Hills

My throat hurts. Crap. Is this how being a zombie starts? I’m not sure. If I do become a zombie, do you guys want to hang out? There seems to be such a strong sense of community between all of you. I never really see a zombie by himself or herself…or itself. Wait, do ya’ll still bone? If you do, tell me. That sounds hot. I think we could do something with that (…Purcha$ed.).

I’m doing pretty well, myself, in case you were wondering. I have to go now. I hope afterlife is treating you well.

Hey, one more question. Are you guys dead or alive? What does undead really man anyway?



The Real World: Purgatory, Ep. 3

20 Nov


Cast: Mark Twain, Katharine Hepburn, Karl Marx, Mother Teresa, “Iron” Kyle Irion, Cleopatra, Carrot Top.

Katharine Hepburn Confessional:

So, today we get our assignment for what our job will be for the next few…eternity? Shit.

The cast sits in the living room, sharing a meal. The furniture is made to resemble 70’s era decor–all rounded–all very, very hip.

On one couch sits Karl, Teresa, and Mark. On the love seat, Cleopatra and Kyle both sit Indian-style (They’re both holding bows, arrows, and broken treaties.) Carrot Top sits by himself on the floor in the middle of the room. Katharine sits in a recliner next to Cleopatra.

An electronic ringing is heard and Karl stands up. “I just got a new message on my T-Mobile Sidekick™!” Everybody gathers around.”It says: ‘Time to work, Real Worlders. Be in front of the house tomorrow at 9am sharp.'”

“I wonder what that means.” Mother Teresa says.

“What do you mean, what it means?” Katharine asks. “It’s pretty clear to me.”

“Is it some kind of riddle?”

“It’s instructions, Teresa,” Karl says. Teresa sits down slowly, eyeing them all suspiciously.

Mother Teresa Confessional:

I’m gonna get that fucking immunity. Believe that.

(The camera jumps from shot to shot of all the room mates going to sleep. A night vision shot shows Cleopatra crawling into bed with Kyle. Mark Twain sits in the corner with a small pad. He can be heard giggling boyishly. Kyle sits up, throws a shoe at him, and he scurries out.)

The next morning, the room mates all lumber into the large community bath to get ready for their first day of work. Cleopatra is taking a shower and Katharine Hepburn is applying her makeup a few feet away in front of one of the mirrors in the long line of vanities.

“So, are you and Kyle a thing now?” She smiles and looks around the corner at the shower. Cleopatra’s head shows from above the shoulder-level curtain.

“I don’t even know what a ‘thing’ is,” Cleopatra replies, washing her hair.

“You know, are you guys a couple? I noticed your absence from the room when I woke up this morning. Where did you sleep last night?”

“I just…got up really early,” Cleopatra says from off camera. They both share a laugh.

Katharine Confessional:

Cleopatra seems pretty cool. It’s nice having another girl in the house who doesn’t look like a skeleton covered in a beige trash bag. Also, I think Teresa has been drunk texting people from my phone. I can’t be sure it’s her though, because there aren’t any words, just nonsense, like she’s just aimlessly pressing down on the keys. (Cut to night vision shot of the girls’ bedroom. Teresa walks to Katharine’s purse, removes her phone and starts texting with her face.)

The room mates now stand in front of the house, waiting to be picked up. Since it’s Purgatory, all there is to see is a vast emptiness of gray mist. You cannot feel the mist, though. It is opaque, but completely odorless and without substance. It is cold. Somewhere, “Achy Breaky Heart” is playing.

Carrot Top squinches his face and farts. “All this fog made me want to make my own contribution! Now it’s really gassy out here!” Kyle reaches over and pistol whips Carrot Top across the back of his skull. Carrot Top crumbles to the ground and lays motionless. No one seems to notice or care–except for Mother Teresa, who removes Carrot Top’s wallet, takes out a handful of cash, and throws it to the ground.

A van arrives to pick up the room mates. Karl and a producer load Carrot Top in through the rear entrance of the van. The room mates are taken to an indiscernible location and dropped off. There waiting for them is Benjamin Franklin.

“Hello, Real Worlders. I bet you’re all waiting eagerly for me to tell you what job you will be performing while living in the house.”

“I’m not,” Katharine says. Ben chuckles uncomfortably. Katharine’s face remains humorless, like slate. “I’m not.”

“Well,” Ben Franklin went on, “Since this season is The Real World’s first season in a nether-realm, our job options were pretty limited, but we’ve made arrangements for you all with a great assignment. You’re going to, at least once a week, haunt someone who is still living.” Mother Teresa hops up and down slightly, clapping her hands.  Mark Twain and Karl Marx high five. Kyle laughs and nods in approval. Cleopatra and Katharine exchange girlish small talk. Carrot Top twitches violently, his eyes now pointing two different directions. “All you have to do is hop in the van and show up here,” Ben continues, “Walk through this door and haunt away. Your hauntee will be randomly chosen by the hands of fate. Oh, and one more thing. The van is yours.” Ben Franklin throws the keys to Karl. All the room mates celebrates clap and celebrate together.  “So, let’s get started, shall we?”

A Little Bit of Serious.

20 Nov

So, sad things happen sometimes. They happen a lot of times. I’m not going to get mad here at anybody or any sentient being, but I will say this: although things may end up badly for good people, that in no way diminishes the validity or effect their goodness had on those around them. A great person makes those around him or her better–whether those surrounding realize it or not. If that original great person is lost, it’s not a complete tragedy, because the best of that person has been planted in those around him or her, and some of those seeds will flourish and grow and will serve to influence and improve the lives of others. Those lives will then plant more seeds, and so on and so on and so on–and in this way that person lives forever. If anyone ever tells you there is no merit to living a good life because we all die in the end, they’re lying.

It’s easy to get mad when a good man dies afraid and alone, while bad men sit high in comfort and arrogance, but don’t worry, that bad man will be dead long before that good man is gone. Good men ripple through our lives forever. They never leave. Even though we may not have a name for them, we feel them, and are guided by them. I believe so.

As stated in the brilliant Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure, “Be excellent to each other.”

Goodbye, Jay. May you live forever.

The Real World: Purgatory, Ep. 2

18 Nov
"This is the true story...
“This is the true story…
“…of seven strangers…”
“…picked to live in a house…”
“…work together and have their lives taped…”
" find out what happens..."
“…to find out what happens…”
“…when people stop being polite…”
“…and start getting real.”


Mark Twain Confessional:

I think last night I heard Kyle and Cleopatra doin’ a little bit of this. (Makes an “O” shape with left hand, moves right pointer finger in and out of “O” shape.) I don’t have any solid evidence, no, but I feel that soon enough I will. (Raises a small legal pad with “Evidence” written across the top in crayon. Mark Twain winks at the camera demurely and spits on the ground.)

“He’s been on the damn computer all night!” Cleopatra screams. Carrot Top sits at the computer, looking annoyed.

“Maybe we should all share the computer,” Karl interjects, both hands outstretched in a gesture of mediation. “We all need it. It’d be most beneficial for us all to get equal time with the computer.”

“Stay out of this, Karl,” Carrot Top says, pointing at Karl. “Hey, hey Cleopatra, look at this!” Carrot Top holds up a stuffed toy dog with a comically-large set of teeth affixed to its mouth.

“What is that?” Cleopatra asks.

“This is the only mouthy bitch I need in my life.” Carrot Top then sets the dog on the computer desk and slides it into the trash can.

“When did you even have time to make that?” Cleopatra asks, hands on her hips, hair up in a towel.

“You know what? I don’t know.” The look on Carrot Top’s face leapt in an instant from over-whelming self-satisfaction to a deep, confused terror. “When did I make that?” Carrot Top begins trembling, starting at his hands.

Cleopatra reluctantly steps forward, placing a napkin on Carrot Top’s shoulder, then placing her hand on the napkin. “Are you all right, Carrot Top?” By this time, Kyle and Mother Teresa have entered the room. They are wearing eachother’s clothes.

Carrot Top looks up at Cleopatra, a flicker of hope in his eyes. “I’ll be a lot better if you’d let me…SCREW YOU!” From under the desk, he pulls out a giant power-drill with sunglasses taped to it. Cleopatra jerks her hands away and grumbles loudly. “Oh, come on!” Carrot Top yells. “That’s funny! It’s comic GOLD!” Carrot Top pulls out a foot-long, gold plated Jerry Seinfeld statue. Carrot Top then leans back, laughing obnoxiously. Kyle approaches him and pulls back his bonnet.

“Hey man. Why don’t you chill out?”

“Chill out? Well I’d have to say that it’s ice of you to stop b–” Carrot Top starts to reach under the desk.

“Stop,” Kyle says.

“Stop? Why don’t you learn to t–” He reaches under the desk again.

“You know, I’m kind of a prop comic myself,” Kyle says, his genitals slipping out from under his loose, poorly fitting nuns’ robes.

“Yea? Do one of your jokes, then, using one of your props.” Carrot Top crosses his arms and sits back in the chair. Kyle simply pulls back one side of the robe and removes a 9mm handgun with an ivory handle. Carrot Top almost falls out of his chair from shock. “What the hell kind of joke is this?!”

“The joke is that I’m going to shoot you in your stupid, plastic face,” Kyle says.

“What? How’s that a joke?”

“Well, I think it’d be pretty hilarious. Don’t you, Teresa?”

“Ohhhh yea,” Teresa says from a large bean bag chair in the corner of the room. Karl Marx and Katharine Hepburn sit across from her. Katharine is French-braiding Marx’s beard.

“Listen, I’m sorry, okay?” Carrot Top pleads. “I’m sorry for being so rude. That wasn’t cool.”

“You’re right. It wasn’t cool. Now. Get off the computer. Get off the computer and don’t get on for the rest of the night. From now on, you have to ask Karl for permission before you can use it.”

From across the room, Karl raises his arms and yells “Whatup? Computer master!”

“Do you understand?” Kyle asks.

“I understand,” Carrot Top says.

“Now clean the pee off that seat and tell Cleopatra she can use the computer.” Carrot Top gets up obediently, sprays the seat down with disinfectant from the kitchen, and dries it off. He leaves momentarily, and returns with Cleopatra.

“Thanks, Kyle,” Cleopatra says sweetly, running her hand along the middle of Kyle’s back as she walks to the desk.

(Camera zooms out to Mark Twain, who is now holding up his “Evidence” notepad, grinning. He begins writing furiously, then looks up and nods at the camera smugly.)

Feelin’ Uninspired.

17 Nov

You ever feel uninspired? It sucks–especially when you’re attempting to create stuff. Writer’s block is horrible, but I think that’s different from uninspired. With writer’s block, you want to write really bad, but for whatever reason, can’t finish. I’m to the point recently where a part of me doesn’t even want to write anymore. What do I do? I need to go find a motivational speaker and force him to motivate me.

My first and only stop is with renowned motivational speaker, Zig Ziglar.

"Zig Ziglar: Motivation Through Pointing."

"Zig Ziglar: Motivation Through Pointing!"

I arrive at Zig’s home and sit at the kitchen with his wife. As I wait for Zig, she puts out two mugs, one in front of me and one in front of an empty seat across the table. She takes an antique tea pot and fills each mug with hot, fresh tea. She then lifts one of the mugs and puts two straws in the one in front of me.

“I only need one straw, ma’am,” I say.

“That’s why I gave you just one.” She takes a sip from her tea.

Just then Zig comes in wearing some tan slacks, a white oxford shirt and suspenders. He’s also wearing a cowboy hat.

“Zig!” I yell, standing to shake his hand.

“Oh, enough of that,” he says, smiling, and pulls me in for a hug, slapping me on the back and shaking me by the shoulders.”Good to see you, my boy. I haven’t seen you since you were on that show with Ryder.”

“Excuse me, sir?” I ask, taking my seat. Zig leans forward and takes a sip from the straw opposite my own in what I guess is “our” mug.

“Ryder. Ryder Strong,” he says, “I haven’t seen you since you and him were on Boy Meets World.

“Jesus Christ,” I say under my breath. My shoulders slump and I let out a big sigh. “I’m not Ben Savage. People have told me we look alike, but I was never on that show.” Zig leans back from the mug, removes my straw, and throws it to the ground.

“Then who the hell are you? Fred?”

“No. I’m not Fred Savage, either. I’m Kyle Irion, from the internet.” A light bulb goes off in Zig’s head.

“Myra, pour this boy another cup of tea.” He gestures with his hand and she brings me another mug. “Thank you Myra,” he says, waving her away. I reach out for the cup. “Hold on a second,” he says. Zig leans forward and spits into my mug. “You can drink that.”

“Why did you do that?!”

“My grand children told me about your site. It’s smut! Filth! Is it true that in one entry you referenced turning your genitals into a liquid-metal Brett Favre?”

“Well, yea, but that was j–“

“Brett Favre is an American hero! Do you understand me?! A hero!” He begins to tremble with anger–trembling so much that his tea spills over and burns his hand. “Ah, damn! Did you do that?!” He points down to his hand then to me.

“Wha–what?! No! No, I swear!” I jerk upright, tripping over my chair.

“You burned my hand! You used your youth to do it!” It’s clear to me that Zig has lost his mind.

“Zig, look! A socialist!” I point behind him. When his back is to me I make a run for it. As I drive away, I see Zig chasing me on horseback. Running for my life from that crazy old buzzard really filled me with the rush I was looking for.

So now I sit, newly inspired, eager to create. Thanks, Zig.

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