Sunday, June 15, 2008

I sleep on dogs now.




What do you sleep on? I bet it sucks. I got all kinds of dogs. You want to know how many dogs I've got on this thing?

Like five dogs. They're all happy, too. They look like they've just discovered that they won the lottery, but then they gave the money to orphans or something, because they've realized that true happiness lies in quantity of experience in the world or some shit. Maybe they'll join a monastery and spend the rest of their lives wearing these really cute little monk robes and calling puppies grasshopper and stuff. It'd be like kung fu panda, only without Jack Black and with a lot more dogs and no martial arts and also occasionally a dog would die and that would be depressing for small children who want to see cute animals performing martial arts, and then those children would grow up to have a crippling self confidence complex, like maybe they can't eat shrimp if there's a Jewish man around.

Anyway, it's pretty damn comfy. My mother caught me making snuggly noises at the pillow the other day though, so now apparently she feels the need to ask me if I'm, "OK." I tried to explain to her that it's just the pillow is so damn awesome now, but she just looked concerned. She mentioned that we had some real dogs, and that sort of took me by surprise. I mean, when the pillow came along, it sort of blew the less important stuff out the door.

So, I'm planning on sharing this thing with the other people of the world. Imagine, if you will, a rather cold, dreary farm scene. Old Tater, or some other rustic and elderly named gentleman, is out in the moonlight of the cold Oregon/rural Texas/Martian (for variety) moon. His hands tremble slightly, a tremble that wasn't there year ago, when he was still a young cattle rustler/store operator/tractor driver/Martian (for variety) as he lays a bouquet of roses down on his dead wife's grave. A single tear, though one with an ad in the personals section of the local newspaper, which isn't getting any action due to its lack of self esteem and halitosis, rolls down his cheek. Suddenly, he hears a whooping, hollering noise.

"FUCK YEAH LOOK AT THIS PILLOW CASE HOLY SHIT," he hears, coming from over a ridge. Suddenly, a huge repainted tour bus/jumbo jet crests the hill. A rogueishly handsome young man stares down at Old Maize. "Yo," the guy would say, "Get a load of this, old man," and he'd throw the man a freshly ironed pillow case. Suddenly, Old Beet's heart soars. Damn, he realizes, I've been throwing my life away, putting these roses on graves. "Thank you, young feller," he shouts after the departing sex beast extraordinaire.

Afterwards, he goes and joins a surfing community in California. He meets up with some young folks, teaches them the ways of the world in exchange for humor filled surfing lessons, and eventually shows everyone that the old can still be young at heart by winning some surfing/boxing/Martian fucking competition. He dies at the age of 120, while rocking out to Bang Camaro.

Anyway, I guess I'm just trying to say that, yes, I have plans for the weekend.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

You are completely insane. I laughed my ass off so hard reading this.