Into the Box
"Good morning, this is a message for Lil' Miss Never. I'm calling about RFID chips. I'd like to have one removed."
I wasn't expecting that. The paranoid schizophrenics rarely combine complete lucidity with such clear and unmistakable signals that they are insane and I should not return their calls. Truthfully, it is a mercy. I was expecting to do battle with irate right-wing talk show listeners all morning, people who would tell me that I am clearly a good American, and if I would just listen for a moment, I would come to the realization that Muslims are all jihadi terrorists that don't deserve the same protections under the Constitution as we do.
Fortunately, the talk show fans have gone silent. My MEAT-related hangover and I are great fans of silence. I spent the first hour of the morning sitting at my desk, drinking water and praying for death - a nice, quiet death that won't make my head hurt too much. I don't know what has happened to me. At some point, possibly in the middle of the night, gnomes have crept into my concrete bunker and stolen Club Girl Liver. This new, weak and useless organ is unable to handle two Cosmopolitans. Granted, these were Cosmopolitans mixed by DNA Lounge bartenders, the most vicious and over-pouring bartenders known to man, but it is rare and strange for two drinks of anything to make me stagger so.
If you happen to see my Club Girl Liver, please kick those nasty little gnomes in the teeth and return it to me. Quietly. With an aspirin and a glass of water.
I wasn't expecting that. The paranoid schizophrenics rarely combine complete lucidity with such clear and unmistakable signals that they are insane and I should not return their calls. Truthfully, it is a mercy. I was expecting to do battle with irate right-wing talk show listeners all morning, people who would tell me that I am clearly a good American, and if I would just listen for a moment, I would come to the realization that Muslims are all jihadi terrorists that don't deserve the same protections under the Constitution as we do.
Fortunately, the talk show fans have gone silent. My MEAT-related hangover and I are great fans of silence. I spent the first hour of the morning sitting at my desk, drinking water and praying for death - a nice, quiet death that won't make my head hurt too much. I don't know what has happened to me. At some point, possibly in the middle of the night, gnomes have crept into my concrete bunker and stolen Club Girl Liver. This new, weak and useless organ is unable to handle two Cosmopolitans. Granted, these were Cosmopolitans mixed by DNA Lounge bartenders, the most vicious and over-pouring bartenders known to man, but it is rare and strange for two drinks of anything to make me stagger so.
If you happen to see my Club Girl Liver, please kick those nasty little gnomes in the teeth and return it to me. Quietly. With an aspirin and a glass of water.