mymanymoodsofme

ME, MYSELF, AND EYE

Category: short story

CONSUMING NIGHTMARES

“It always starts out the same. It’s a beautiful day and I’m on the beach. I’m just relaxing, soaking up some sunshine and checking out the babes, and it’s all good. And I notice these two girls in particular who are really giving me the eye. One of them is a beautiful, well-built redhead in a skimpy little red and white polka-dot bikini. The other is a bit younger, also with red hair, and dressed in an equally revealing blue and white polka-dot bikini. And like I said, they’re both giving me the eye and sending out all the right signals.”

The doctor licked his lips in anticipation. He knew it was about to get interesting.

“Are they sisters?” he asked.

“I don’t know.”

“But they both have red hair.”

“That’s right.”

“Do you have a thing for redheads?”

“Well, I do love Lucy.”

“I see.”

“Anyway, the first one, with the red polka-dots, gives me this big smile while at the same time the other one starts singing. Then they both start dancing for me in the most exotic and erotic manner I’ve ever seen. And I can’t take my eyes off of them, nor do I want to! It’s as if I’m under some kind of hypnotic spell.”

“And how does that make you feel?”

“Oddly enough, it makes me thirsty.”

“Thirsty?”

“Yes. For a cold, delicious beverage of some sort. It is, after all, a hot day.”

“And so are the girls.”

“That’s right. Then, as if on cue, red polka-dot bikini girl offers me an ice-cold, refreshing bottle of cola.”

“And of course you take it.”

“Well I try to, but before I can grab it blue polka-dot bikini girl hits me over the head with her own bottle of cola and insists that I drink it instead. This infuriates red polka-dot bikini girl who tells me I better drink hers’ or else! Soon they’re both beating me mercilessly with their soda bottles.”

“And how does this make you feel? Hurt? Angry? Confused?”

“Actually, it kind of turns me on. So I say: ‘You seem like a couple of nice girls. How about a threesome?'”

“You said that?”

“Well it is, after all, my dream.”

“And then what happens?”

“They both become convulsed with rage and start ripping the very flesh from my bones, which is when I decide to make a break for it. And after a wild, madcap chase across the sand I find myself hiding out behind this bar called the Kit-Kat Club. There I am, dripping blood, pouring out sweat and barely able to catch my breath, but none of that seems to matter to me anymore. The main thing is I’m thirstier than ever, and come hell or high water I’m going to get myself a cold, delicious beverage!”

“I see.”

“Just about then this short little guy shows up dressed up in a loud Hawaiian shirt and wearing this very strange-looking hat. He’s just about the silliest-looking son-of-a-bitch I’ve ever seen, but there’s a saint-like expression on his face which makes me trust him completely. Then, like an angel of mercy, he holds out a tall, cold, refreshing glass of fruit juice and asks me if I’d like a nice Hawaiian punch. Well, by this time I’m thirstier than the leading paper towel, so I say: ‘Sure I would!’ But then, BAM, without any warning or provocation he sucker punches me with a vicious right hook and down I go.”

“And how does this make you feel? Victimized? Betrayed? Exploited?”

“Not really. For some reason I feel like I deserve it. Then this other fellow comes over, and at first I’m afraid he’s going to offer me something to drink as well because at this point I’m so thirsty I could hardly refuse. But he just smiles and hands me a potato chip.”

“A potato chip?”

“That’s right. And not just any potato chip. It’s the most wondrous potato chip ever known and the most beautiful and perfect potato chip ever created!”

“I once heard about a piece of cake like that, but I couldn’t believe it.”

“Well, you can believe this. So I eat it up and it’s the most incredibly delicious taste-treat I’ve ever experienced! It’s the crispiest, crunchiest, yummiest potato chip ever conceived and my entire being tingles with exquisite ecstasy as I become one with the chip. And at that very moment I have a breakthrough revelation which leads me to a whole new level of understanding about myself and my purpose in life.”

“And what is that?”

“I realize that if I’m ever to be happy I must achieve balance in my life, and therefore I need not only a thirst-quenching beverage, but a delicious, lip-smacking snack as well.”

“I see. Then what happens?”

“I ask potato chip man for another chip, but he just laughs and says: ‘Nobody can just eat one!’ Then, as if to spite me, he starts dancing around and singing this song about how his potato chips are so good that nobody can just eat one. And a bunch of his friends come over and start singing and dancing and carrying on as well. So I ask them if I could please have another chip, but they just laugh at me and say: ‘Nobody can just eat one!'”

“And how does this make you feel?”

“Like a nobody.”

“Please continue.”

“Well, after about thirty seconds they all just disappear, but then  I notice that one of them had dropped a potato chip onto the ground during their dance. So I reach down to pick it up, but when I do it suddenly sprouts arms and legs and runs away from me.  ‘Damn it, potato chip,’ I say, ‘get back here!’ But the potato chip just laughs and calls me a jackass, which really pisses me off.  So I chase after it because now it’s a matter of principal, and I’ll be damned if any wise-cracking potato chip is gonna make a monkey out of me!  Because above all, I must defend my dignity and maintain my honor.”

“Of course.”

“So off I go, scampering after it on all fours, but before I can catch-up it darts into the front entrance of the Kit-Kat Club.”

“The bar you mentioned earlier.”

“That’s right. Now the Kit-Kat Club is a very exclusive establishment, and everyone there is either young or beautiful or rich or some sort of celebrity. So I’m trying to fit in without drawing too much attention to myself, but I’m still determined to catch that smart-ass potato chip. And I notice this little guy in the corner trying to pass himself off as a miniature tortilla visiting from out of town. So I say: ‘Hey you!’ and he says: ‘No speaka the English.’ But then his moustache falls off and I realize that he’s really the potato chip in a diabolically clever disguise. So I say: ‘Nice try, wiseguy, but now I’ve got you!” to which he replies with an unflattering string of vile profanities. And just as I’m about to grab that foul-mouthed little chip to finish him off, this dog comes pouncing in from out of nowhere and devours him with one quick gulp.”

“A dog?”

“Yes. So I say: ‘Hey dog! That was my potato chip!’ But the dog just licks his  balls and says: ‘If it’s on the floor it’s within my jurisdiction. That’s the law.’ And I realize he’s probably right. Then the dog introduces himself to me, and it turns out that he’s none other than Seymour McPisst, the famous super-genius spokesdog from all of those beer commercials back in the day. He also had a short-lived television sitcom about a dog elected to Congress who goes to Washington and poops in the president’s slippers.”

“I think I vaguely remember it.”

“Anyway, he offers to buy me a beer which I readily accept, and he tells me that every one dog year is equal to seven human years. ‘That’s the law,’ he says, ‘so I’ve been able to drink liquor since the age of three.’  ‘Are you some kind of lawyer?’ I ask. ‘Of course I am,’ he replies, ‘You scratch my back and I’ll bite yours!’ He buys several more rounds of drinks, and as he does so he becomes increasingly introspective. He tells me he’s worried that we as a society are becoming more and more like unwitting pawns manipulated by greedy narrow-minded forces uninterested in anything but their own selfish desires. He also worries that young people only hang-out with him for the beer.”

“And what do you think about that?

“Frankly, doc, I really don’t care one way or the other so long as someone else is paying for it. But I don’t have time to dwell on the subject because all of a sudden this squirrel comes crashing in through the window flying some sort of makeshift glider, and it’s just about the damnedest thing I’ve ever seen!  He grabs my box of Nut Clusters breakfast cereal, which I didn’t even realize I had on me, then turns around and  gives me the finger before hauling ass out of there.”

“Do you chase after him?”

“Well, I think about it, but then I figure that any squirrel clever enough to build a hang glider might also be packing heat. But McPisst the dog has no such inhibitions and he goes stumbling off after the squirrel, who’s now using a jet-pack to make his escape. So I’m left alone at the bar, and it isn’t long before people start looking at me funny. Then I notice a foul odor in the air and realize, to my horror, that it’s emanating from my very own armpits. And everyone’s wrinkling their nose in disgust as they look upon me with utter contempt, and the more I try to press my arms against my body the worse it gets. The stench becomes so unbearable that reality itself is repelled from me and I find myself lost in a dark, awful, meaningless void of nothingness.”

“Was it hell?”

“I don’t think so. It was more like the Republican national convention.”

“Please continue.”

“Well,  I cry out in anguish:  ‘Someone please help me! I got stinky armpits!’, and at that very moment the woman of my dreams appears from out of nowhere and gives me a magical bottle of anti-perspirant. Suddenly I smell wonderful and completely irresistible, and as she smiles seductively at me I ask: ‘Can we make love  now?’ But she doesn’t answer my question, she just laughs and says: ‘You’re dreaming!”

“And then?”

” And that’s when I wake up, always in a cold, clammy sweat, completely drained and utterly exhausted,  and sobbing like a little baby.”

The doctor considered what he had just heard. “Well,” he finally said, “I’m not sure how it all adds up, but it seems clear that you’re a very sick individual.”

“But can you help me?”

“Perhaps, but it will take some time. I believe you have unresolved issues concerning your perception of reality, which we may be able to address with the proper therapeutic approach.”

“But what can I do in the meantime? Please, doc! I can’t take much more of this! It’s about to drive me crazy!”

“I suggest you try to relax by engaging in some of your favorite pastimes. Do you have any special hobbies or interests?”

“Well, I do like watching TV…”

 

 

 

 

 

 

THE RETURN OF SECRET ANIMAL INSPECTOR MAN

I had just returned from assignment in Antartica, trying to answer the age-old question: “Why are there no ants there?” It is called ANTartica after all, and not MOSQUITOartica or even POLARBEARartica. But it turns out that the reason there are no ants there is for the same reason that there are no mosquitos there, and that’s because no one makes overcoats small enough to fit them. Besides, Eskimos hardly ever have picnics, except on National Picnic Day, which only comes once a year, and we all know how terrible ants are at planning that far ahead. They don’t even have calendars, for crying out loud! But happy National Picnic Day anyway! Last year I got a chicken-salad sandwich and several pieces of twine, and I don’t think I’ve been that happy since my early days as a young, idealistic animal husbandry marriage counselor. Those were happy days indeed, until I realized that no such job existed. But life goes on and so do I, do I ever! For I am Secret Animal Inspector Man.

THE SPY WHO SHOVED ME

Sometimes I watch TV, but mostly I just make funny faces at myself in the mirror. It’s much more interesting than television and, because of its interactive nature, gives one a higher degree of intellectual simulation than might otherwise be attained. Or do I mean ineffectual stimulation? I’m not quite sure but I suppose it must be either six of one or have a dozen of another. And I’m not crazy or anything, but suddenly I’m hungry for donuts and I don’t know why, but it’s probably due to some kind of police conspiracy or government cover-up. And nobody’s been able to explain that one to me so don’t even think about going there because now you’ve got me all confused so thanks a lot! You must be some kind of wise ass smart aleck with a depreciated nipple face, if you know what I mean. So I’ll just ignore you, and if you don’t shut-up I’ll ignore you with my foot up your butt!

Anyway, there I was, making funny faces at myself in the mirror, just like any normal average ordinary run-of-the-mill American might do on a Saturday night, when suddenly I thought I saw my dirty laundry moving out of the corner of my eye. This was very unusual, and at first I thought it must be some kind of optical delusion. After all, my dirty laundry never ever moves anywhere unless it absolutely has to. Even if I yell and scream at the top of my lungs it just sits there silently, as if to mock me. The underwear and socks are bad enough, but the smocks are the worst. No wonder artists go crazy!

But then I saw it moving once again, so I did what any normal average ordinary run-of-the-mill American would do. I pulled out my gun and started shooting.

“Please stop!” begged the laundry, but it was too late for that because I was already out of bullets. As I franticly reloaded, this time with “hollow-points”, the laundry pleaded once again:

“Please! I’m unarmed!”

“Of course you’re unarmed,” I said, “You’re the laundry!”

“But I’m not!” it screamed, “Please! I can explain!”

And with that, out of my oversized pile of dirty, overdue laundry tumbled a little gray man. Not a lot gray, but just a little. So I said what any normal average ordinary run-of-the-mill American would say under the circumstances.

“Are you from outer space?”

“No sir.” He showed me a badge which I wasn’t allowed to look at. “I’m with the NSA.”

“The National Security Agency?!”

He shook off some of the dust. “Actually that’s a common misconception. Our official title is Numbnuts Spying on Americans.”

I wrinkled my nose in disgust. “And you’re here hiding in my dirty laundry?!”

“Oh yes,” he replied, “We love dirty laundry!”

“But why??!”

“Oh, I don’t know. It’s comfortable and warm and I suppose it reminds us of when we were little babies…”

“No! What I mean is: What were you doing in my dirty laundry?!”

He almost seemed surprised at the question. “Why, spying on you, of course. I’m here to protect you from yourself.”

“Protect me from myself? You almost gave me a heart attack!”

“Well, I can’t help that sir. As we like to say at the agency: ‘Scaring is caring’.”

And with that he launched into a strange story of bizarre experimentation and frightening intrigue. But I had already seen that episode of the Kardashians, so I made him tell me more about the NSA.

“Oh yes,” he assured me, “We here at the NSA are on the cutting edge of 21st century espionage techniques. Even as we speak our scientists are working on methods to establish communication with domesticated animals.”

“You mean pets?”

“Amongst others.”

I must have had a puzzled look on my face because he continued without prompting.

“You see, we here at the NSA feel that domesticated animals, or pets as you call them, could be an invaluable source of information, and we want to know exactly what they know.”

Suddenly I understood. “You want pets to spy on their owners!”

“Of course,” he replied quite matter-of-factly.

Visions of a demented Doctor Doolittle danced in my head. I was almost afraid to ask, but couldn’t help myself.

“Have you had any… luck?” I inquired.

“Oh yes.” He reflected on this for a moment. “Strangely enough, it’s been the common housecat that has proven to be the most cooperative and easiest to work with. Unfortunately, all they’ll tell us for right now is: ‘I want chicken, I want liver, I want tuna, please deliver’. We’re sure it’s some kind of code, and we’re sparing no expense in our efforts to crack it!”

“And the dogs?” I asked.

He sighed. “We really don’t trust the dogs. We have unconfirmed rumors that they’re either a bunch of sleeping liars, or a bunch of lying sleepers, or maybe even both. And besides that, they’re always crying all the time.”

“And they ain’t never caught a rabbit so they ain’t no friend of mine!” I finished triumphantly.

He frowned. “Well, I can’t confirm that, but I’ll certainly look into it.”

And then I realized that he wasn’t really evil, like Dracula or telemarketeers, just misguided and moronic, like a fart seeking approval on credit. I felt like a child who had lost his incense.

“One of our most successful experiments,” he continued, “was with the common housefly. As a matter of fact, we were making quite remarkable progress until that unfortunate incident with the SWAT team.”

I felt sorry for him and despised him all at once. I knew I had to get rid of him but I didn’t want to hurt his feelings, nor was I sure how to dispose of the body. Meanwhile, he continued his pitch.

“And inter-specie communication is not the only option we’re studying. The NSA is working very closely with hundreds of professionally accredited psychics in an effort to unlock the secrets of the universe, and gain some basic understanding and insight into its deepest mysteries.”

I was intrigued, yet repelled. “Have you had any success?”

He thought about it for a moment. “Well, not yet,” he admitted, “but Madame Boom-Boom assures me that I might be coming into some money next week if I play my lucky numbers while wearing plaid.”

But by this time I had had enough, and it was time for him to go. At first I tried letting him down gently.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to leave.” I said.

“Don’t be afraid!” He cried out, “That’s just what the terrorists want! Don’t let them win!”

“Out,” I insisted.

“Be a pal!” he pleaded, “I’ve got a thirty-year mortgage!”

“Sorry.”

He seemed close to tears. “Please! Don’t make me look bad in front of my kids!”

“Get out!” I barked. I felt like a clumsy doctor, somewhat embarrassed and starting to lose my patients.

His demeanor suddenly changed as a vindictive look came over him. “All right,” he sneered, “I’ll get out. But you just wait. Somehow, someway, sometime, someday you’ll need me, and when you do I’ll be back with a vengeance! And then you’ll really be sorry!”

But it was too late for that because, just like any normal average ordinary run-of-the-mill American, I already am.

THE END
(for now)

BAD HAIR DAY

Today is Bad Hair Day, and so once again it’s time to remember the origins and history of this important holiday, and why we celebrate.

The year was 2513 and you might have guessed that by this time racism would be all but extinct, but unfortunately such was not the case. The “human race” seemed stuck with this terrible and ugly habit, like a stubborn teenager refusing to grow out of a particularly immature stage. And even though by that time everyone’s skin color was pretty much the same, people continued to look for ways to judge one another, mainly as a substitute for self-esteem. I guess it’s wired into our psychology. After all, it had been proven way back in the 21st century that people who can’t “see” beyond the surface of skin-color also can’t “see” below the surface of their own brain. So we shouldn’t be too surprised that the idiotic “tradition” of racism continued into the 26th century.

In 2513, however, the institution of racism was based not on skin color, but on the color and appearance of hair. Finer textures and lighter shades were preferred, with darker, frizzier hair looked down upon. “Blonde” hair was seen as a sign of royalty, although by this time it had little more than a sandy-brown hue. “Brunette”, which was actually just a slightly darker shade of the same brown color, was deemed inferior and to be avoided if at all possible. “Red” hair, much the same as the others but with a slight ruddy-brown tint, was the rarest of all, and thus feared and reviled as no other. It was considered the hair-color of the devil himself, neither to be trusted nor tolerated. And besides, “red-heads” were always such smart-asses.

Dyeing your hair a different color was of course prohibited, which made for a thriving black market. Even so, if you were caught with an ounce or more of Clairol you could be looking at some serious jail time, especially if you couldn’t afford a lawyer specializing in “cosmetic” defenses. Wandering gangs of rouge beauticians became all-powerful and roamed the streets at will, while lawlessness seemed to rule the land. And, as always, it was the innocent who seemed to suffer the most. These were dark days indeed.

Perhaps this foolish self-imposed misery would have continued on for another couple of hundred years until everyone’s hair had evolved into a single homogenous color, but on that fateful day in 2513 everything was about to change forever. For it was at this particular point in history that God Himself had finally had enough, and He decided to render a just and deserved judgement upon all of mankind. And the very next day everybody’s hair just fell right out, and they all became a bunch of weird-looking “baldies”, which is how the “Non-Hairy Krishna” religion began. And we all know how annoying “they” can be.

Anyway, happy Bad Hair Day!

THE RUDOLPH CONSPIRACY

I’m not sure how long it will be before “they” get to me, but I feel certain that they will, and soon. After all, it’s Mr. Big I’m talking about here. He sees you when you’re sleeping, he knows when you’re awake, and he’s very judgemental as well. I have it from reliable sources that he also keeps individual files on everybody, and that he’s not afraid to use this information for his own personal gain. This in itself should be enough to make anyone paranoid, but it’s only the tip of the iceberg; a small portion of the vast conspiracy and cover-up which lies beneath. And at the heart of it all we find Mr. Big’s number one torpedo: Rudy “Red Nose” Reindeer.

Rudolph Reindeer was the product of a broken home and an ill-fated marriage. His father, Karl, was a loud-mouthed braggart with a massive inferiority complex. At night he would come home from work and vent out his frustrations on his family, flying around the house in a drunken rage, crashing into the furniture and terrifying the dog. Rudolph’s mother, Olga, was unstable as well, and prone to fits of depression and anxiety. Years earlier, while working as a young doe at a petting zoo, she was fawndled by a well-known politician, and the poor deer never did get over it, despite a lucrative feature spread in Sleighboy magazine.

As mentioned in the song, Rudolph was constantly picked-on by his fellow “deer-peers” for his reddish-colored nose. Of course it’s silly to judge someone based on the color of their nose, but reindeer can be very stupid and mean in this regard, especially when being herd. And it really is a shame that young Rudolph wasn’t allowed to play in any reindeer games; for he was very athletic and might easily have won gold at the Reindeer Olympics. Instead, he became a sullen and angry young reindeer, an outcast of the poorer southern section of the North Pole.

Mr. Big, at the same time, had troubles of his own. Elf exploitation and reindeer enslavement had rewarded him with fabulous wealth and worldwide fame, and he had become used to the power and prestige that went along with it. But after years of abuse the elves had finally gotten together and were threatening to go on strike. And the reindeer, usually so thick-minded and reliable, were demanding better working conditions, as well as frequent-flier mileage. Something had to be done, and Mr. Big needed a head-cracker to do it. And that’s where Rudolph came in.

The first meeting between Rudolph and Mr. Big was a harbingger of things to come. Due to an unfortunate mix-up Clumsy the elf was put in charge of refreshments, and when he accidently spilled the hot chocolate onto Mr. Big’s lap all hell broke loose. Mr. Big went absolutely ballistic, screaming obscenities at Clumsy, who could think of nothing better than to smile sheepishly and shrug his shoulders, feeling bad enough already as you might well imagine. Rudolph sensed his opportunity and, in a display of cold-blooded loyalty to Mr. Big, beat poor Clumsy to death with an over-sized candy cane. In the reign of terror that was to follow this became his weapon of choice, for he could quickly and easily eat it to destroy any evidence of his malfeasance, and it left him with minty-fresh breath as well. Mr. Big had found his “enforcer”.

That Christmas eve, you’ll recall, was a stormy one, and everybody was on edge. The few elves that had crossed the picket line were unable to meet their daily quotas, despite 24-hour-a-day shifts assisted by 15 minutes of motivational whipping every 4 hours. Scabs were brought in, but then quality went out the window. And the reindeer continued their grumbling, this time about the lack of “danger” pay. Mr. Big knew it was now, or never.

We’ll probably never find out what actually transpired when Rudolph locked himself in that room with all of his fellow reindeer. What we do know is that 20 minutes later they emerged (all except Hoofa, the union-organizing reindeer, who vanished and was never seen again) to embark on the most famous yuletide journey in the annals of Christmas lore. Mr. Big had taken the biggest gamble of his life, and won.

Rudolph, meanwhile, was celebrated as a hero, but the endorsements and ticker-tape parades came and went much too quickly. He never received a dime from the song that chronicled his life-story, and he became increasingly morose and embittered as time went by. One day he showed up at Mr. Big’s workshop with an AK-47 and opened fire, but luckily it jammed and Mr. Big escaped with only minor superficial injuries. Rudolph was later confined to the island of criminally insane toys, yet another cover-up that never gets mentioned in the song.

Well, that’s about all I know for sure. As mentioned earlier, I feel certain that they’ll be looking for me, so I really ought to keep moving. I’ll simply leave it up to the rest of you to consider the facts as I’ve made them up, and to hopefully have a Merry Christmas anyway. And watch out for fat men in red suits.

SECRET ANIMAL INSPECTOR MAN

I looked upon the still-warm bovine carcass which lay upon the grassed earth where it was. I had seen this scene too often before, like deja-vu reruns over and over again and again in redundant repetition time after time but, being Secret Animal Inspector Man for a large metropolitan secret-agency, it was all in a day’s work and sometimes nights too. My name is Bane. Dick Bane.

“Was it… suicide?” Farmer Jones wondered aloud. He was a good man and I could see that he was upset. I could also see the top of his butt-crack whenever he bent over to feed the chickens. Not a pretty sight, and yet…

 “Was it… murder?” he assed.

“Worry not,” I flatulated, “For it was neither. Notice, please, the cow’s right arm seems to be inserted into it’s own mouth nearly all the way up to the elbow.”

“My God!” he gasped.

“I know,” I said knowingly, for this was the grisliest case of hoof-in-mouth disease I had ever seen! But life goes on, and so do I, do I ever! For I am Secret Animal Inspector Man.

MY CLOTHES ENCOUNTER

I was out walking my pet antelope, Penny Antie, in area 50, when I made a wrong turn and ended up in area 51. All of a suddenly some wiseguy in a spaceship comes flying out of the sky, and it scared me so bad I almost fell off my pogo stick! I yelled at him to slow down, but it was too late because all of a suddenly it was parked nearby, and I don’t know. Then these damn space-aliens came over. I don’t think they had any insurance, either, because the first thing they did was try to put me in some sort of trance. But I was too intelligence for that, and I only played along with them to see if they’d feed me. They took me to this shiny room, but when one of them got fresh with me I kicked him where the sun don’t shine! Then I hopped onto the back of Penny Antie, and we busted on out of there! We didn’t even stop until we got to area 39, 12 areas away, which is a lot! The hole experience seems like a dream to me now, but I know it really happened because later on I found “crap-circles” in my underpants. Damn space-aliens!