I found a tick on my shoulder. He hadn’t bitten me yet, so I pinched him between two fingers and held him up for inspection. His black legs kicked and kicked. I thought I heard him say something, so I leaned in close and listened. Spare me, he said. His voice was very high-pitched because he was so small. Why me, God? he cried. Because you were trying to drink my blood, I said. You might be carrying lime disease, I can’t have that. The tick’s legs stopped kicking. I’m talking to God, he said. You’re fucking presumptuous, aren’t you?
Wednesday, January 4, 2012
There was an accident at Santa’s Workshop. Santa’s mind was switched with a parrot's. The accident occurred while Santa was in his office. An elf came in to talk to him. We need to finalize the naughty list, said the elf. Finalize the list, said Santa. The elf didn’t know Santa had a parrot mind. Yes, said the elf. Finalize the list, said Santa. Me? the elf asked. Really? He was proud that Santa trusted him with such an important job. As for the parrot with Santa’s mind, it died quickly once exposed to the harsh terrain of the frozen north.
A disaster on the mainland stranded them at sea. Some said it was zombies, which was doubtful. Anyway, something. They drifted. The ship’s entertainment was a magician. He preformed seven shows daily to keep the guests occupied. His best trick involved making a small dog vanish and reappear. After twenty-eight shows they cornered him and demanded his secret. No one will know, they said. I’ll know, he responded. We’ll die out here, they said. Die without knowing my secret, he declared. They tore him limb from limb, then ransacked his apartment, but they never found a clue. Or the dog.
He was in a movie theater bathroom. After twenty minutes he called for help, but no one came. Would you? Run into a bathroom where a man was screaming? At twenty-five minutes he wondered where all this moisture could be coming from. The stream stayed steady, he’d missed the end of the movie. Perhaps he’d taken on the piss of the world. He was going for everyone. Productivity would skyrocket worldwide, and the theater bathroom would become a shrine where pilgrims would come beg for a chance to hold his dick while he slept. Piss on, he thought. Piss forever.
The women will all be between the ages of seventeen and twenty-four, and there will be a ticker that runs at the bottom of the screen advertising video games and ring tones. At first, it will be faddish for celebrities to try and get their vaginas on the air. The executive who chooses the vaginas will receive gift baskets with photographs attached and endless pics via text. It’ll ruin his marriage. Eventually, people will start getting bored with nothing but tight close-ups of vaginas. This channel used to show butts, people will say. But then they went and sold out.
Scientists discovered a new virus that made people forget how to read. A news crew interviewed a Marlowe scholar in Florida who said, “I hear they’re calling it ‘The Internet.’ Another news crew interviewed a Shakespeare scholar in Boston who said, ‘I hear they’re calling it ‘Text Messaging.’ The two scholars knew each other, a little, and one called the other on the telephone. The Marlowe man said, Good line, very funny. The Shakespearean said, Thanks. There was a long pause. Anything else? asked the Marlowe man. Anything else you have to say? Yes, said the Shakespearean. Texting is funnier.
I decided to become a speechwriter when I heard that the actress Rashida Jones was dating one. Speechwriting is easy. You just write, I believe this shit, we the people need that shit. I wrote up some samples and sent them out. A week later I heard back. No thanks, they said. The mayor would never refer to the economy as ‘Super fucked.’ I wrote back, If he doesn’t think the economy is super fucked, fuck him. I heard Rashida left the speechwriter. I don’t know what her new beau does, but I bet I can do that shit, too.