Untitled
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I’m in such an ugly mood that I’ve taken to trolling the comments section of my own goddamn website. This is bad, right? Ugh.
I’m sure it’s fine. I think you only need to be worried if you create a fictional commenter based on another facet of your personality for the sole purpose of waging war against what you consider to be the best version of yourself. I just go for a jog when that happens.
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On the next episode of, “Big, Dumb, Loud Motherfuckers Who I Guess Are Working on Something in the Woods or Something.”
“Hey! I’m dumb and loud! Let’s fucking fight!”
“Fuck you! I’m dumber and louder! I’m going to win the fight!”
“Hey fuck both of you fat, loud dummies! I’m the dad character so I’m the biggest fucker and I’ll fight both of you!”
They fight and then it rains. A scientist explains to the group of dumb, loud, motherfuckers that in this case, the rain was a result of nature literally expressing regret at the chain of events that resulted in both the dumb, loud, motherfuckers themselves and the assholes that decided to broadcast their antics on television.
The entire group of big, dumb, motherfuckers begin working collectively on a rational thought that might serve as a response to the scientist’s words, but the exercise proves too daunting and they settle for making fun of his glasses.
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OFFICER: We chased him all the way over to this golf course, but then he just disappeared on us.
THE MAIN SPY: He’s here. Hiding.
OFFICER: Well what are we supposed to do? Scour every inch of this golf course? That’ll take forever!
THE MAIN SPY: I have a better idea.
In his daydream, the Main Spy pictures himself on a riding lawnmower, chasing the grass-haired villain. It becomes so vivid that he doesn’t even realize he’s making lawnmower sounds.
THE MAIN SPY: Rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr
OFFICER: Are you imagining killing him with a lawnmower?
THE MAIN SPY: No.
OFFICER: Because I think it would make more sense just to shoot him.
THE MAIN SPY: I know. That’s what my plan was going to be.
The Commissioner walks up. He’s a large, jovial man in a cowboy hat and bolo tie.
COMMISSIONER: Hope you dummies weren’t talkin’ bout killin’ him with no goddamned riding lawn mower.
OFFICER: We weren’t.
But the case of the grass-haired bandit has been a long, vicious affair and the Main Spy drifts back into thoughts about mowing.
THE MAIN SPY: Rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr
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I love how over on the right, it’s like, “Oh and speaking of baseball, why not play fantasy baseball?”
Next time I hear about someone being run over by a car, I’m going to be like, “That’s so funny! I actually rode in a car earlier today!”
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The pancake is so hot that when it hits the guy’s face, it just sticks. The family receives word and they race to the hospital, but the main doctor is like, “Sorry folks, the pancake was too hot. The best we could do was carve out little eye holes and then a mouth hole.”
It sure is sad at first, but when they peek in, they see that the doctor had the restaurant send over a second pancake that he fashioned into a tiny hat - no charge.
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What the letter said was that I found her very attractive and that I’d seen her walking her dog a lot and so I just wanted to say hello. It also said that I’d watched her several times through a window, but not like HER window or anything. I meant through my car window when I was driving. And that “watching,” sounds so creepy. It was more like I just happened to glance over and see her.
That was the gist of it. And I didn’t have any paper so I wrote it on an old traffic ticket envelope and put it under her windshield wiper blade.
“Hey!” she screamed.
I started to respond, but she marched right by me and up to the parking enforcement officer who I guess was standing behind me.
“I was parked just fine!” she screamed. “What is this, some sort of bullshit quota you have to fill?!”
He didn’t like the accusations and so he fired right back.
“I didn’t give you a ticket!”
“Liar!”
“Man oh man,” I thought.
And I guess she was having one of those days because she pulled a gun out of her purse and shot the parking officer three times in the chest. Then, she put the gun barrel in her own mouth and pulled the trigger. It was a huge mess.
“Well, I guess that’s a no,” I said, in a real sitcom-y voice.
“WAY-TO-MAKE-IT-ALL-ABOUT-YOU,” boomed the helmet fastened to my dog’s head that converted his barks to English.
I poured the remainder of my expensive latte on the dog’s helmet, which caused it to crackle and malfunction.
The right girl was out there somewhere. And I would find her.
Next to me, the dog’s helmet made a crackling noise. A sarcastic crackling noise.
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The publication was called “Animals.” It was a homemade magazine and each issue was written by hand and contained unique photographs. No copies.
“Whoever delivers this…” I said, trembling.
“What?” said my wife, Diane.
“I don’t know.”
And I didn’t know. Was locking the doors enough? Staying away from the windows?
“Well, I think it’s cute,” said Diane. “It’s kind of amazing that Toby has kept it up this long.”
“Toby…” I thought. “Hmm…”
And so Diane reminded me that in the early days of the summer, our 7-year old neighbor, Toby, had gone door to door asking each family in the neighborhood if they would let him take pictures of their pets for a magazine he was making. They were quick to oblige and so Toby started right away.
By the end of the week, the first issue of “Animals” was delivered to every house on the street. There was no order to the magazine, no table of contents – just a photograph of each animal splashed crookedly onto the page with a brief description listing the name of the animal, the general type (dog, cat, bird, etc.), and the owner’s name.
I thumbed through it, unimpressed.
“It’s shit,” I said. “A total snooze-fest.”
“He’s seven.”
“That’s no excuse. Look at this. What are they doing?”
But Diane ignored me.
“He needs to dig in…go after the good stuff. Which animal escaped? And when he did, who did the animal try to bite? Which animals are fucking? Which animal crapped in someone yard? THAT is what we people want to read about.”
And that’s exactly what the next and final issue of “Animals” had; Eight pages of graphic smut. Diane was furious.
“I wonder who helped him with this.”
I didn’t say a word.
“They saw you, you know. Every person on this street said that they saw you out there. In between the houses, climbing fences…”
With shaky hands, Diane flipped the magazine open to page six.
“This picture of shit,” she said. “Who…”
“It was a dog,” I said.
“But it’s not…”
“It was a big, man-dog.”
A few weeks into the fall, it was rare to find an animal left unattended anywhere in the neighborhood. That’s what I’d heard, anyway.
House arrest was over and I had a strip-mall nightclub to promote.
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The magic trick starts when the magician brings his car to a halt at a stoplight. He glances ahead to a coffee shop where, through the window, an attractive young woman can be seen reading a book.
Through the magician’s eyes we watch and his vision slowly zooms in on the woman, closer and closer until the next shot, where he’s standing inside the coffee shop, right next to her.
With both hands gripping a steering wheel and a seatbelt draped loosely over his shoulder, the magician is like, “Ta da!”
The woman is startled and she jumps.
But the magician expected this and so he does a great job helping the woman understand that what she’s witnessing is more than just a guy who wandered up with a detached steering wheel in his hand. He explains the car and the whole “zooming in” thing and really, it’s his description that is the real magic.
“He’s lying,” says a wrinkly old lady. “I saw him walk in.”
A witch! Or a masked opponent?
The magician dives and tackles the naysayer to the ground. He tries to unmask her, but the advanced age of the old lady makes it hard for the magician to differentiate between the edge of a mask and folds of loose neck-skin. In fact, he’s still tugging away on her face when the police arrive.
The magician’s car is never found. As for that steering wheel - well, the junk yard manager has a junk yard to run and if we think he’s going to go car to car looking to see which one seems to be missing a fucking steering wheel, then we’re crazy.
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Well the commercial starts and the guy is all friendly!
“Hey this is the best Black Friday sale EVER! Buy a mattress and get a TV!”
Then a tiny doll-sized version of the man pops out from behind the sale sign and reminds the guy to tell us about how the TV comes with a remote control!
This irritates the man because he’s been in business for a long time and knows that when you’re talking to folks about getting a free TV, it goes without saying that the damn thing is going to come with a remote control.
The man thinks that part, but what he yells to his doll-sized counterpart is:
“What is this!? The stone age?”
The little man ponders this and that’s when the big guy grabs the little man and shoves him inside of a hotdog bun.
The little guy screams and we watch a closeup of condiments being poured onto him. Then we’re back to the wide frame!
The mattress guy eats the hotdog and in doing so, murders his miniature counterpart. It’s slow and awful! When he finishes he apologizes, but not for himself! He apologizes for the doll guy and we’re like, “WHAT!?”
Then he grins and goes, “Now I’m doubly smart!”
But then a doctor explains to the man that eating another person doesn’t mean you inherit their intellect.
“The chewing probably destroyed his brain,” says the doctor.
“I’m same smart,” says the mattress man, correcting himself.
But we’ll be there on Friday because a good deal is a good deal.
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Lindsay Small-Butera & Alex Small-Butera
Watertown, MA
