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!”
“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?”
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!”
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.