1. Timmy fell into the well.

2. Timmy is climbing a palm tree.

3. Timmy cheated at fisticuffs with Harrison Ford.

4. Timmy wants butterscotch.

5. What Timmy wants, Timmy gets.

6. Timmy and I once followed an emerald green slinky into the catacombs underneath the Sunoco station. It smelled like burnt hot dogs down there. We found a yellow manila folder full of early technical specs for the Nintendo 64.

7. Timmy’s mother was having an affair with Juan, the music store salesman (played by William H. Macy). While they’d be off in the storage room “discussing extended trombone warranties,” Timmy would tinker with the Hammond organ, eventually teaching himself to play all the hits by N.W.A. He was getting pretty darn good too, until he got shot by that nun.

8. Timmy could swallow an entire jarful of aphids in one gulp.

9. Bugs Bunny cartoons always made Timmy cry. I never understood why until Christmas Eve, 1988. Now I cry, too.

10. Timmy’s last words were “I know I’ll never die.” His first words were “I was never born.” In between was mostly a string of blasphemies and incorrect Game Genie codes.

11. Timmy… was a virus. He couldn’t even answer the phone without mutating. A long-distance call from France that would have changed the family’s lives forever went unanswered.

12. Tonight, in Timmy’s honor, there will be a gathering at Dan’s Auto Parts & Waffles on Chrysanthemum St. There will be individually wrapped refreshments, and a Dishwalla cover band will stand silently on the stage for precisely one hour and fifteen minutes. You are not invited. Timmy would have wanted it that way.

13. Timmy is the well.

14. Christ, I hate Timmy.

MEMORANDUM
——–
Date: May 17, 2013
To: Rhthra Building Tenants
From: Building Management Office
Re: Water Fountains
——–
In light of the recent water leak due to a running water fountain in the building that caused flooding over a weekend, management will be shutting off the water fountains on all floors.

In addition, please do not pour liquids down the water fountain drains. This includes:

• Hot coffee
• Cold coffee
• Lukewarm coffee
• Arabica coffee
• Kona coffee
• David Lynch coffee
• Tea
• Ayahuasca
• Blood (animal, human or Christ’s)
• Urine
• Tears
• Liquid nitrogen (this includes YOU, Daryl)
• Fudge
• Crude oil
• Kerosene
• Whiskey (blended or single malt)
• Tartar sauce
• Magma
• Eggnog
• Ink
• Venom
• Maple syrup
• Semen (your own or someone else’s)
• Ranch dressing
• Crystal Pepsi
• Pace Thick & Chunky Salsa
• Clam chowder (red or white)
• Bacon grease
• Santorum
• Any potions given to you by a fairy or witch living in a cave or hut in the woods
• Tab
• Mayonnaise

To those employees who are presently in their molting phase: please DO NOT dispose of your shedded skin casings by attempting to stuff them down the water fountain drains. The specially marked green bins located on the 4th and 6th floors are there for your convenience.

We’ve received numerous complaints from the Almighty God’s office in Fresno that some employees on the 10th floor have begun worshipping and praying to their water fountain. Please be advised that there is only one true God, and further adoration of false idols will not be tolerated. Any damage to the building as a result of His infernal wrath will be the tenant’s responsibility.

In the event of an emergency, such as a fire, earthquake or surprise Justin Bieber concert across the street, please leave the water fountains behind when exiting the building. Your own life is far too important to risk just for a dumb old water fountain, much less one that doesn’t even work right thanks to some asswad dumping their vile, caustic fluids into it because they were too fucking lazy to use the sink that is literally five feet away.

To whoever placed the “No Jews Allowed” sign next to the 2nd floor water fountain: this behavior is unacceptable. Please return the sign to the 4th floor where it belongs.

Your cooperation in this matter is greatly appreciated. Remember, access to clean, drinkable water is a privilege, not a right.

-The Management

P.S. Fuck the Lakers

In the original ending of Home Alone, Kevin’s horribly mutilated corpse is found behind the shed in the McAllisters’ backyard. However, a last-minute rewrite was deemed necessary after mostly negative reactions from test audiences. #strangebuttrue

“That’th a lie! You’re all nothing but thick, lying thwine!”

“Excuse me, ma’am, but this is a closed-door meeting. I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

Gladys pulled back her famous gums and belched a seismic puff of sticky gold smoke. “THWIIIINE!!!” she hollered feebly.

The auxiliary grandmother of fourteen wasn’t always this way. She used to go to church, played pinochle with the gals at the moon base, and collected pennies on which she believed Lincoln looked constipated. But time does its thing, and some of us don’t bake like normal bread when the dial’s turned up. I guess you could say she was more of a quiche.

My entire seventh birthday was spent at her nightclub, The Cramped Camel. I was told it would only be for an hour, but really, is anything only for an hour? There were sliding glass doors that led to more sliding glass doors that led to huddled whispers and pats on the back and little plastic bags of opiates. I took a wrong turn and found myself in the alley out back. A broken down stretch limousine was billowing black smoke as a small group of sobbing women in glittery miniskirts looked on. I thought I heard someone say that the limo belonged to Phil Collins, but then someone else said the Smothers brothers.

“What color are strawberries supposed to be on the inside?”

A lithe, hairy arm snaked its way through the growing crowd, grabbed me by the scruff of the neck and flung me like a gym sock into–

By now the stenographer was typing so fast her fingers appeared to be still. The chairman’s beet-red face was bubbling with rage, but there was nothing he could do. Gladys was forty-five minutes into her recitation of the Home Alone script in Latin, and the entire audience was captivated. They’d rip him limb from limb if he tried to intervene.

It all started to unravel when Gladys bought those Aramaic cookbooks from the Salvation Army. The recipes all seemed harmless at first glance, but the measurements were all weird and some of them called for insects that don’t exist anymore. We tried to burn the books one day while she was at Whole Foods but none of us could move our limbs. When she came stomping through the front door like General MacArthur on mescaline, carrying enough Kalamata olives to smother a college football player’s dreams, we knew it was over. That’s when I landed in my eighth birthday.

Simply put: Strawberries don’t have an inside. They’re outside the whole way through. This is one of the Seven Bruising Truths that will be explained in painstaking detail on tonight’s episode of Plunging Headfirst Into The Exhilarating Freedom of Madness With The Stars, only on CBS! Don’t look at me.

Some people wake up and think they’re in heaven, but they’re just shuffling in circles inside a dusty labyrinth wallpapered with their smudged memories. What nobody tells you is that they’re constantly shitting, like nervous caterpillars looking for a way off your arm. All these dumb, sloppy souls leaving pencil-thin trails of shit on the linoleum that would linger there forever if it weren’t for the vigilant (pointless) efforts of the others, perpetually twenty yards behind with their sick little vacuum mouths. Who are they? Oh, they’re the ones who think they’re in hell.

“You want another beer?”

Gordon’s gray face rippled sadly in the stale breeze from the fan as it oscillated toward him, then away again. He turned his head slowly until his eyes found the source of the mouth-sounds.

“Agggagahhgaahggag,” intoned Gordon.

“Do. You. Want. Another. Beer.” The bartender was looking at Gordon the same way a talk show host might look at George Clooney upon realizing it was actually a garbage bag overflowing with thumbs and used cotton swabs.

“Give him an iced tea,” commanded the squeaky voice from behind the curtain. “Give him a refreshing iced tea. Everyone likes iced tea on a hot night like tonight.”

It’s a shame no one was listening, because Gordon really would have enjoyed the hell out of that iced tea. But he was given a Tecate Lite instead. The voice trailed off uselessly into the humid atmosphere, twisting and flanging and bouncing off the wings of every firefly it could reach before being absorbed into the Great Cosmic Sponge. Maybe it’ll be reborn, regurgitated into a bright winter morning as a hungry cat’s meow or a slightly off-key Judge Judy theme song leaking out of a dead man’s brand new 67-inch TV. Or maybe it’s just gone. Do they even serve iced tea?

As Gordon dragged his leathery tongue around the edge of the beer can, his mind floated effortlessly along the soft Nebraska shoreline, leading a backlit caravan of candy-colored ambulances to some spiritual barbecue to which none of them were invited. A baby drops his toy helicopter out the window and it bounces into the black ocean. Baby cries, no one cares. Babies cry.

“Does that beer make you a man?” demanded the bartender over the ever-increasing din of the fan.

Gordon’s synapses crackled as he fell back into himself. The edges of the frame were visibly frayed by now. He was amazed no one else could see it, much less try to tug at the corners.

“Are you the Top Dog? The manager says you’re Top Dog,” the bartender continued. She was grinning, exposing rows upon rows of teeth that looked like steaming Raisinets. Baby giggles.

It was no use. He wouldn’t talk. It was the same routine at every Applebee’s. Same questions, same stench of syrup, same lady in the parking lot screaming things about guardian angels and someone named Jim. He once thought he’d found the answer in Minneapolis, but it was only the high-pitched whine of an overcooked fajita platter. No Top Dog here.

Gordon bit into the can, spraying a fine mist of blood and foam all over the greasy counter. The aluminum squeaked and sparked between his chompers. It could have been a pulled pork sandwich, but you’ll never know. It’s purely subjective.

Normally, this is where the floor would open up, causing numerous families of four and their respective cheeseburgers to tumble into an infinite abyss of ice-cold nothingness, after which an enormous spiral staircase made from mother-of-pearl would push its way up through the mist and… yada yada yada, you get the drift. But this time Gordon was only interested in the corporate discount. He finished his can, dabbed the corners of his jagged mouth with his napkin, and rose from the stool that would never be used again.

“You all are doin’ a fine job here,” he declared to anyone who would listen. “I’m Gordon Hajirfjdg, the CEO of Applebee’s. As a result of your satisfactory service, I will spare all of you from the agonal fates you so richly deserve.”

[canned laughter]

The dead man blinks, baby is sleeping. The universe sighs and sheds another layer of its onion skin.

Brushing the Dorito crumbs from his grotesquely distorted football jersey, he fumbles for the remote control.

“I thought I was watchin’ Judge Judy.”

Go back to sleep, Jim.

Sorry, starving kids
This million is set aside
for nude Bea Arthur.

I’m having a little trouble catching “Friday Fever” or “Friday Hepatic Encephalopathy” or whatever those asshole kids call it these days. Maybe I’m just bummed out because I didn’t win the auction for that naked Bea Arthur painting. It would have looked so fucking classy next to my nude Polaroid of Robert Zemekis.

Some might say, “What kind of submental jackass would blow seven figures on an ironic painting of Maude’s tits?” Granted, there is an argument to be made there. But I would then have to retort, “At least I didn’t donate money to the son of a bitch that made Garden State so he could make a follow-up.”

I confess, I saw that piece of shit. I’m not entirely without blame. I went of my own volition, handing over real, actual money to sit in a darkened room and watch Zach Braff stand there making that Zach Braff face in front of a wallpaper with the same ugly pattern as his ugly shirt, and I accept whatever unimaginable agony awaits me as punishment in the next life. But for what it’s worth, man I sure hated the hell out of that movie. It was kind of a “creeper hate.” I left the theater with a sense of unease, but I wasn’t yet ready to admit I’d wasted my seven bucks (or however much tickets costback in those olden times). I just attributed that rotten feeling in my gut to a bad batch of Sno-Caps. I’d write the Sno-Caps Corporation a stern letter when I got home, then sit back and reflect on the wonderfully poignant work of art I’d– aw hell, that movie fucking sucked a mile of cock. And the more I thought about it, the angrier I got. Angry at every person involved in every stage of creating that godawful pile of self-indulgent tripe, but also at myself for being suckered into sitting through it. I mean, the wallpaper bit was in the trailer, for fuck’s sake!

I can honestly say, however, that of all the thoughts that passed through my wounded mind during those traumatic post-Garden State days, not one was “More of that, please!” Tragically, the same cannot be said for the rest of this doomed society, as evidenced by the fact that Braffhole successfully passed the hat around on Kickstarter for two million dollars to fund his next unbearably twee project whose title is so damn stupid I can’t bring myself to include it here. Of course, it later turned out that he didn’t technically “need” the two mil ha ha but thanks for being such awesome fans anyway ha ha luv Zach. Ain’t he a stinker?

So, I guess when you think about it, there are dumber things to waste a couple million dollars on than a tasteful nude portrait of the third-hottest Golden Girl. Yeah, that just cheers me right the fuck up.

I know it’s Thursday, because those damned Christians are out again. Periwinkle ties, freshly ironed smiles and a parasol to shade them from the apathetic gaze of the Creator. Always on Thursdays. Here, anyway. I can only assume they’re wheeling that proselytizing shitshow around different parts of the greater Los Angeles area throughout the rest of the week, possibly even moving other mediocre wannabe writers to bitch about it on their own blogs that receive up to a whopping ten page views on a good day. Or maybe they’re just on a different wavelength than most, causing them to warble back and forth between existence and non-existence on a weekly basis. Someday soon, I will walk by them and they won’t have heads. Or was that today? I was only on my fourth cup of coffee at the time.

WHAT DOES THE BIBLE REALLY TEACH?

A rhetorical question, of course. You know, like “Where’s the beef?” or “Why are you in my closet, Jeffrey Beaumont?”

Hey, Mr. Bible Man, Bible me bananas. I am touching your face, Bible Man. It has the pliability of cookie dough. No resistance. Going to make delicious oatmeal raisin cookies with your face. No, an ashtray. I just got a new kiln and I’ve been dying to… no. Kneading what was your Bible-face, squishy, squashy. You hate it but you can’t complain without a mouth.

Oops! I forgot to add water. The remains of your pasty visage crumble and flake through my atheist fingers and cascade in slow motion to the concrete below your stompy feet. A squadron of ants emerges from the cracks and makes off with every last crumb, a display of efficiency and teamwork both adorable and terrifying. You try in vain to crush them but only manage to amuse the occupants of a passing (doomed) tour bus–

Skids on a Moebius banana peel, rolls once, twice, bounces, glides gracefully into a Panda Express. No survivors. Another Yelp score ruined.

WHAT DOES THE BIBLE REALLY TEACH?

Bible A leaves the station at 3:35 p.m. traveling east at 8,520 mph. Bible B leaves the station at 10:10 a.m. traveling west at 4 mph. Why is the station on fire?

Sally drops a Bible from the top of the Eiffel tower. Five seconds later, Jorge drops a canteloupe from halfway down.
How many seconds will it take for this to become a hot new trend? How many more seconds will elapse before the backlash? Show all work.

Put that shit in a bold PowerPoint presentation and take it to your grave. Nobody would understand. They’re only interested in short ribs and American Idol.

Fuck Thursdays.

Dearest Ronald,

PEACE,
RONNY

—

This here is exactly why I need to stop poking around in the attic. Well, that and the spiders. And the wormhole to Dallas. I don’t even have an attic, to be honest. But if I did, it would be hot and very empty, just like Ronald.

Nurses always have tea. Did you know that? For real. Ask any nurse if he/she/it is presently in possession of tea and the response will invariably be “Green or hibiscus, you creepy fuck?” It’s never failed me in my time of need (9:47 a.m., Tuesdays). I’m a simple man.

Hibiscus is a fun word to say, isn’t it? Someday I want to say it eight hundred times consecutively. Maybe even shout it at a nun once or twice. Could you say it after a few shots of novacaine? We should hang out. In a well-lit public place, obviously. We’ll take turns mutilating our respective consciousnesses and saying “hibiscus.” Hey, if we each bring a friend, we could form a terrible, atonal barbershop quartet and never speak to each other again. But you don’t really care for music, do you?

Okay. I usually bring my own tea. I don’t know where it comes from and that’s just how I like it. No sugar, no cream, no identifiable point of origin. Just sediment in a porous bag. That’s the American dream, is it not? Don’t mean to get all political on you, but…

Well, just for a moment. Aren’t you glad we never had to see Nixon in HD? He died in 1994. I was in high school. That morning, my right contact lens rolled back into my eye and I had to be excused to go to the restroom so I could fish it out. I’m not saying I killed Nixon, just that there wasn’t high-definition television yet. Don’t get any ideas.

Nixonian. Clintonian. Klingonian. You know you’ve made it when someone can tack the -ian suffix onto you and you don’t even feel it. You just smile, nod and walk on down the hall. Past the copy machine, past the utility closet, past the other copy machine. Into the ether. Bill Clinton, everyone.

[clappingseal.gif]

Meatheadian. No, that’ll never fly. Maybe a sarcastic -esque someday, if I’m lucky. Then again, at least I’m not Scott Ian of Anthrax. Ianian? Good luck!

—

My sweet, sweet Ronald,

PARTY HARDY,
STEVE I MEAN RONNY

I heard that the earth’s core is spinning in the opposite direction. I like to think it’s a huge frothy eyeball that never looks at me. The iris, if you can call it that, spins even faster, oscillating from red to white to colors that would devour Crayola’s nightmares like a starving Rottweiler. The pupil is constantly screaming Jesus’ name, address and Social Security number.

There’s no rhythm to any of it. Sure, a chunk of driftwood can be the contorted face of your favorite pope if that’s what you’re into, but it won’t cease to be driftwood to those of us with better shit to do. Therefore, it doesn’t matter who or what the Eye isn’t staring at. But when it blinks…

There’s a reality where James Cameron is still at the bottom of the Mariana Trench, just waiting. Every so often a glowing thing will float into view, illuminating the creases in Cameron’s sad face. He extends his middle finger, and the darkness envelops him all over again.

-blink-

The Queen is playing Wii Tennis with an unnamed dignitary from a distant land. Steady streams of blood run down her face. The pudding cups on the silver tray remain untouched, and the palace emits a deep groan audible only to the disaffected kitchen staff.

-blink-

MUSSOLINI NAMED INTERIM CEO OF KODAK

-blink-

But where’s the brain? Greenland? This, too, doesn’t matter. You’re going to find it. You’re going to make a boat and churn the oceans into butter. Maybe it’ll be in a safe deposit box, or buried beneath a filthy swingset where the other you was humiliated one time too many. You’ll hold it in your big dumb hands and when you flip it over for the expiration date, you’ll find a hot pink Post-It note with the hastily scrawled message: “I WAS TRYING 2 ANNOY U.”

Worry not, friend. In this reality, it’s just steak sauce and the Queen is sleeping. Shhhhh…

I thought it was going to be a tomato plant, but it turned out to be one of those man-eating plants instead. It was just a baby but I kept my distance anyway. The stupid thing seemed right at home in that sunlit corner of the bathroom nobody ever uses. Now it has a reality TV show. Now it doesn’t. Now it’s dead. Now it’s stinking up the parallelogram of life.

Sometimes these dreams come in neat slices, as if prepared by a master chef at a restaurant I’d never be allowed in. It’s nice to have a clean break sometimes when you’re running through waist-deep ethereal sludge to escape from your leathery ninth grade gym teacher. Maybe you slash open a 40-pound bag of rice and 40 pounds of wasps emerge instead. It’s nice.

You know, for a moment I’m pretty sure it actually was a tomato. I bought it from this guy who looked like he belonged in the end credits of Super Mario Bros. 2. You know the type. We were sipping hot Tecate by his disgusting pool when he said he once snuck a peek at God’s Golden Rolodex. It was slick and greasy, he said. In hindsight, perhaps I should have looked for an alternative source for fresh produce.

Most of the time it’s just a mess. It’s the Arby’s of rapid eye movement. And don’t even glance at the Horsey Sauce if you know what’s best for you.

Amen.

President Rand Paul
slumped at his desk, dry heaving;
red phone off the hook.

Don’t talk to the waiter. Don’t even make eye contact. Frankly, I don’t know why you insist on coming here every Friday. Do you remember what you said to me that morning in the melatonin tent? Allow me to paraphrase:

OBFUSCATIONS AND SAUSAGES ARE MADE IN THE SAME FACTORY.

The President pressed his face against the cool window pane as velvety tendrils of otherworldly maroon light curled around his weak frame. He stared longingly out at the sloppy heaps of rotting fruit that cluttered the White House lawn.

“Don’t do that, you’ll ruin your makeup!”

An enormous Samoan man in an impossibly tight cardigan lunged across the Oval Office, grabbed the President by the biceps and flung him like a soggy beach towel onto the threadbare carpet. Lyndon Johnson’s piss stains.

Is that a smoke machine or is this real? Oh, man. Turn the light off for a minute. Do you hear that harmony? It’s like three different colored snakes. There’s a turquoise snake, a violet one that’s kind of irridescent, and a mustard colored one with a smooth matte finish. Listen closely. Eventually there will only be one, and you’ll be far better off if you can figure out which.

“The green one!” giggled the President. There were flecks of dried blood on his Winnie the Pooh bib.

Shit, the waiter’s coming by again. Look down. Pretend you’re crying. No, we’re not ordering an appetizer! You hate fajitas anyway.

“Mr. President, there is no green one,”

Is he right?