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A Not-So-Swift Kick To Reality's Groin by Ray Printer Friendly

Well kids, it’s another night, and I’m not sure how I feel about that. I’m here, you’re here, I guess we should try to enjoy our time together, right?

I spoke to my brother this evening. I feel like I scared him a little, but maybe I’m being a little too dramatic. I tend to get even weirder when I’m stressed. Or maybe it’s when I’m exceptionally bored, I don’t know. The point is, I’ve been acting exceptionally strange lately, and I don’t know what, if anything, to do about it. Generally, driving people away is a good thing, but it might be something to get concerned over if I’m doing it unintentionally, and to my loved ones: “Mom, give me a hug!”

“Yeah, about that…uh, I’ll just stand over here.”

“Aunt Mary?”

“No thanks.”

“Little Bobbie?”

He just starts crying, and runs to his mother. And I suddenly realize that although I do have a family member named Mom, I don’t have an Aunt Mary, and there is no one in my family called Little Bobbie. And even though I’ve come into the home of complete strangers and scared the hell out of all of them, at least I haven’t scared my family. It works out best for everyone.

Maybe if I continue to talk to my loved ones when I’m like this, they’ll eventually have some sort of intervention. They’ll all gather around me, they’ll sit me down on a couch, or—if there is no couch—something that can be used as a couch substitute…perhaps a counter top or a strange entertainment center that has been bought on the internet, and it looks like the Batmobile, but actually holds a TV, a stereo, and a wet bar.

They’ll sit me down, they’ll say, “You’re out of control. What are you on?”

I’ll go, “Nothing.” And they won’t believe me at all, because you don’t have an intervention for someone who’s on nothing…how stupid. They’ll search through my house, looking for drugs and finding only left-over bits of the enchiritto that I tried from Taco Bell that time and found to be severely lacking, and maybe a dirty movie or two, if they look real hard (and they WILL look real hard, because that’s how determined they’ll be to save me from myself).

And finally, they’ll sit me back down, but I’ll feel all bad because they all look very hot and exhausted, what with looking all over my house for illegal substances. So I’ll make them some lemonade. I’ll make sure all of the little glasses match, and I’ll put the ice cubes in a big bowl, and load everything up on a giant serving tray, and then I’ll pretend that I’m some old-timey servant, and I’ll walk around serving drinks and pretending not to over-hear bits of conversation. Then I’ll cough politely until someone tips me. Then I’ll sit down and take my intervention like a man.

They’ll go, “So, um, yeah. Intervention. What are you on?”

I’ll go, “Look, I’m really just sort of stressed out. Or maybe I’m just really bored.”

“Why don’t you make some friends,” They’ll tell me. “You have been down here in Austin for over a year, you still don’t go out with anyone. What’s with that?”

“That? Nothin’. I don’t like people.”

“But friends! Everyone needs friends!”

“Yeah, I have some.”

“But you don’t have any here!

“Nah, I’m good. What if I learned how to juggle chainsaws? While break-dancing? That’d be pretty tight, huh?”

“Dude, that would be so totally bitchin’,” they would say. “You learn how to juggle chainsaws while you break-dance, I will give you my car.”

“No way, man—I’ve seen your car. If I do this, you have to donate your kid to charity.”

“What? What charity wants kids? Nobody wants kids.”

“The Ice Capades?”

(Quick aside: when I went online to check my spelling of Ice Capades, I found an article about how it went out of business a long time ago. I can’t believe nobody told me—I’m serious, man, I didn’t even know that there were no more Ice Capades. Although this is generally the kind of thing that would make me very happy, I couldn’t help feel a pang of sorrow that part of history had died. Then I remembered what part of history it had been, and I woke up half my apartment complex laughing and cheering. Now if someone could just figure out a way to destroy Disney On Ice, I would be free to take over the frozen world of entertainment with the greatest show ever: “Celebrity Clown Death World: On Ice!” It would totally rock.)

Anyways, back to my intervention. They’ll finally get down to the root of my problem—the world—and they’ll try to make me stop. “You’ve had too much of it,” they’ll tell me. “Most people know something of moderation, but you’ve definitely crossed the line.”

They’ll lock me up in a little room—no more world for me—with nothing but a computer and some padded walls, and all my future posts will be about marshmallows. I’ll still be extremely weird, but at least I won’t bother my loved ones anymore, because I’ll be locked up in some institution where they don’t have to listen to my nonsense any more.

It will be like some figurative cocoon, where I will grow and mature, and then—to everyone’s complete surprise—we will realize that it was also a literal cocoon, and I will burst forth as some sort of kick-ass beast with spikes all over and teeth that shoot poison and a voice that will make your stomach bleed. I will start a rock band, and only the most X-treme people will be my fans; they’ll get all pumped up, they’ll loot cities and start fires, and when they show up to my concert, I’ll sing until they die of internal hemorrhaging. And then I’ll fly away to my secret fort at the bottom of the ocean where mermaids serve me tacos and lemon-lime Slice in a can (which they don’t even make any more, but the mermaids have tons of it because it was so delicious that they bought gobs and gobs when stores still sold it).

Take that, reality!


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