It’s while staring for endless hours upon the unsettling toothy grin and singular crazy eye of Joel Osteen that I find myself thinking.. “I wish I had some jetpants.”
I need an apartment. Who’da thunk I’da needed a place to, like, permanente live? Whodey?
Rest in Peace, Joe Nuxhall. I hope I remember our secret handshake when I get up to heaven. Oh, who am I kidding. I’m not going to heaven. It’s made of marshmallows and they don’t want me there because they want me to be sad. Who fucking needs them, anywise? Forget ’em, Joe. You’re better’n them, anyhow. I’ll meet you on a neutral astral plane and we can give our play-by-play commentary of the Apocalyptic war between heaven-and-hell whilst discussing our favorite iced cremes and those down-home JTM stekes now on sale at your local Kroger-brand-Kroger-store.
If you’re not Joe and/or you’re not in heaven then don’t read that last part. It… it’s personal.
I’m talkin’ to YOU Norman Mailer.
Last night I dreamed that I worked for Homeland Security and we were hunting a known terrorist (who could control time and space with his mind, which means it was pretty futile… yes, I’ve been watching too much ‘Heroes’). Anyways, I was to meet up with my C.O., when this wiry black airport security guy shoves a dime bag in my hand and hurries back to his post. It struck me then that we must have pre-arranged an airport drug deal. The dime bag suddenly becomes two. Then I leave him a $39 bill at the lunchroom table where I’m sitting, just beyond the security check-in. Then these two hippie kids sit at a table adjacent to me. And at a table to my right sat some gay kid, who, when I picked up my jacket to go and dropped the bag on the ground (inevitably), picks it up and hands it to me quickly and obviously and says loudly, ‘you dropped your pot!’ Then the head security guard storms over yelling, ‘what the fuck is going on over here?’ The two kids to my left stammer, ‘Uh- I- um, like, some kind of drug deal… marihuana…’ The MAN yells, ‘separate tables all of you!’ That’s when my walkie-talkie blares and my C.O. yells ‘where the hell are you? get your ass down here!’ So I produce the baggie and indicate the security guard move closer. He does. I show him my ID, badge, and whisper, ‘I’m with Homeland Security, I’m undercover. There is a known dangerous terrorist in your airport right now and I need to get to the scene. I could get fired for telling you this and I don’t even want to think of the interrogation you’ll get for knowing it, but you need to let me go… NOW.’ He does. I stop and turn around and slide the bag back in my pocket, all of them onlooking, amazed.
Earlier, I had been a castmember of Scoobie Doo. I think I was Fred, which I have mixed feeling about because I should obviously be Shaggy, and I have to wear an ascot. But at least I get to fuck Sarah Michelle Gellar. Anyways, this evil serial killer had taken refuge in a castle made of haystacks, full of booby-traps. He says that in fifty minutes he’ll let it collapse on the hostages, and us if we’re in there. So I’m like, ‘fuck that,’ and use my incredible acrobatic skills to scale the outside of this fortress, get to where I want, release a net, and free the hostages. Who are all floating sickle-cell balloon animals that talk. They thank us and we put the serial killer in prison.
Another time I broke into a friend’s house in the middle of the night to leave them a toaster. He and his whole family wake up, and it is tense for a moment, not to mention embarrassing. But I clear everything up. He gets his surprise toaster, and I don’t get my head bashed in.
God, I love sleep!