Sundays in the Dark

Threat Level: Midnight

2010-08-20T11:59:00.000-05:00

Florissant, MO (KSDK) -- No more monkey business.

Florissant police say the original report of a baboon being spotted in a back yard in Florissant has been dismissed as a hoax.

Florissant Detectives spent the better part of the day investigating the incident.

Police said a 14-year-old juvenile has admitted that the picture she reported to have taken of the baboon in her backyard was actually taken from an animal website.

It will be up to the St. Louis County Family Court to decide what happens to the girl.
The hoax consumed a large amount of time and manpower Thursday afternoon as police feared a potentially dangerous primate was roaming the streets of Florissant.

St. Louis Zoo officials responded to share their baboon expertise with authorities.

Diana Gulotta with Hazelwood Schools said students at Jana Elementary School in Florissant were denied their outdoor activities as a security precaution in case the baboon got onto school property.

So it was all a hoax! Who knew? Well I guess we can all just go back to our work and let our little ones out to play and leave our volleyballs just lying around without a care. And be prepared to watch your world crumble.

Have you people learned nothing from films and cartoons? The ‘hoax’ claim only makes things more harrowing! This baboon is smarter than we thought—if he or she is indeed a baboon at all—and he or she is obviously not working alone. It has someone at the news station, of that we can be sure. He has the Windsor moppet (I was on to her from the beginning, if you’ll remember). Does he have an inside guy with the force? Probably, and I’m sure he has rally monkeys at the zoo who have infiltrated the zookeepers. This is bad people.

I think it best if we all abide by some simple rules until we have this beast contained:

1) Be alert. Stay indoors when possible and beware of walking near trees or recreational facilities.

2) Stay armed. I am carrying a few spare bananas to ensure my ability to lure and then throw so the monkey might leave me to escape. Also, I have a .45 in my pocket.

3) Never trust a monkey. They will seduce you in with their monkey play and then its feces throwing and tickle fighting.

4) Teach your children basic monkey safety and preparedness. I’m not saying you should build a bomb shelter or anything crazy but I don’t think a community monkey siren would be taking things too far.

5) Take the news with a grain of salt. On Fox News last night I saw a report that a democrat ate three live republicans. On TMZ it appears Michael Jackson isn’t dead but actually living in a cabin with the old dancing Six Flags man (they share tuxedos). CNN is reporting stuff about Global Warming. News is sensational these days so don’t believe all you’re told. Remember, that is what the baboon wants.

As I hunt for the culprit and the truth I will keep you posted. Do not for a blink think this thing resolved. We seem to be very much on our own on this one as the government has yet to return any of my calls . . . it is like Katrina Relief all over again.

A Serious Situation. Please Be Wary.

2010-08-19T16:40:00.000-05:00

From KSDK News comes this:

“Florissant, Mo (KSDK) -- Florissant police are searching for what appears to be a baboon on the loose.

Sgt. Kevin Boscher said the department received more than one report of a loose baboon near Patterson and Moulet on Thursday morning.

Florissant officers are in the area and the St. Louis Zoo officials are assisting.

A woman named Samantha Windsor took a picture of the baboon with her cell phone. The primate's face is dark blue and black.

Windsor said she was awoken this morning by her barking dog. When she looked out into her yard, she saw the baboon standing under a small tree in her yard.

Windsor decided to take a picture with her cell phone. The phone says "smile" when you snap a picture. The baboon became agitated by that command and ran off to play with a volleyball.

Diana Gulotta with Hazelwood Schools said Jana Elementary School in Florissant is not doing any outdoor activities after they received a call from the Florissant Police Department about the search for a "monkey." They are considering exercising caution at other schools as well.

Gulotta said they are keeping close contact with officials so they know what they need to do to keep the kids safe.”

Can we please go over some of the ways in which this is one of the most stirring and captivating reports of 2010. Features like this—and yes, I could certainly see a battle for film rights ensuing—don’t come about often. The raw battle of Man vs. Beast scarcely comes so vividly to our attention and reminds us that it is a dangerous world with the ferocious lurking.

Let’s go over what we know as the stand-off unfurls, so as to be prepared and possibly assist in bringing this dire situation to a somewhat peaceable—if that is even possible—close.

First, the monster in question “appears to be a baboon”. So don’t go out there a pocket full of bananas set on catching a monkey, folks. This could be a shaggy, upright dog, or an especially masculine man of smallish variety. It would be, at this point, like telling someone there was a rat in the kitchen and them sauntering in and finding a grizzly bear waiting. Okay so it is not really like that at all, but really it is even though it isn’t . . . it just is, okay? My point is don’t expect a monkey, it could be anything at this point. Anything.

Also, remember that the otherworldly creature is ‘loose’. No strings attached here, both figuratively and literally. This thing could do anything: no parents, no leash, no cage, just one very free baboon-looking entity capable of everything evil baboon-looking entities with complete freedom are known for, a list we will go over in brief (not briefs, let’s be professional people).

Notice that both police—very good with monkeys of all sorts—and local zookeepers are on the hunt. Does this mean the ‘baboon’ is from the zoo? Have you ever read any Conan Doyle? Maybe the zookeepers are there to tranquilize over-excited law officials, amped on adrenaline from dealing with this ‘thing’? Maybe they aren’t there at all? Maybe this is a diversion a cover-up of sorts . . . is there anything to distract from in the city aside from the Cardinals poor play? At this point it is all elementary but elementarily unclear.

Next, who is this "Samantha Windsor" and why did she have first contact. Is she in cahoots with our convict? Sounds fishy to me, but alas there are bigger monkeys to fry here . . . at least one we know of for sure.

Ms. or Mr. (let's assume nothing here . . . I'm sure there are many males named Samantha about. It's like when that kid got in a wreck and his mom was the surgeon, remember that. Everyone always thinks it's his dad. We cannot afford to repeat the same mistakes, people!) Windsor then fired off a picture revealing a black and blue face. Does this suggest a violent monkey? Perhaps, a monkey boxer? I think it is safe, smart even, to assume we have a fighting primate wandering our schools and backyards.

The monkey was a morning monkey. He was also in the shade which tells me he does not like the heat. He is no tropical baboon, but more of cold weather dweller, perhaps a polar monkey. Also, notice he was not in the tree, even a small, easy-to-climb variety, but on the ground. He is unpredictable and thus all the more dangerous. Had the Windsor fellow not scurried up and fought the monkey back via phone camera I am 99% certain he was preparing to eat her dog (which had a bark strong enough to wake her from a sound sleep and thus had to have been a huge dog, a huskey or bigger; to take on a dog like that indicates great strength and greater fearlessness). This monkey’s business is beyond monkey business.

What sort of a monkey becomes agitated at the command of ‘smile’? I’ve seen enough post cards of grinning chimpanzees to know monkeys love to smile. So this is either no monkey at all (as suspected by the police) or a very cranky one, like Donkey Kong.

In his fierce agitation our subject stormed off in a rage to play some volleyball. Oh, this is the worst. I know when I am in my most murderous of fits, nothing assuages the feeling more than a tidy bump, set, spike. This is worse than any of us thought.

The search is on indeed and hopefully the children will remained locked down. The only thing monkey at recess should be the bars, not a dog-eating, volleyball-playing, boxing beast. Think if this guy got to dominating recess volleyball and then bored wreaked havoc on the four-score boxes: self-esteems could bottom out. My thoughts are with those bravely standing firm in those schools. Begin the count, Day 1.

I’ll keep you posted but keep a look out while in the shade, near trees or dogs, or in the general proximity of volleyball or net.

Godspeed in the hunt.

Little-Big Me

2009-08-13T17:41:00.000-05:00

Well, August has arrived and with it comes the fruition or denial of my promise. I told myself repeatedly during my summer sabbatical from writing that once August came around I would get back at it, attacking what I claim as one of my “passions” with gusto worthy of such distinction. So here we go into the adventure once more. Let us embark on Season II of Sundays in the Dark—which, interestingly enough, is commencing on a very bright Thursday afternoon: I’ll be frank, I have plans Sunday evening . . . deal with it.

Let me begin our re-acquaintance—and if you want to deem it a ‘courtship’ all the better—with a summary of myself on this day. I have grown. If you haven’t seen me in a given amount of time (that is all of you . . . try to keep up) I have really shot up and out. I took some supplements I found in a dank Men’s Room at a Michigan service station named “Jess’s”, and I’ll tell you, it has been an intense war waged between me and my physical boundaries. The two most common words I have heard uttered in my direction are “Immense” and “Gerth”. And I concur.

It is strange being gargantuan. Here I am, plunged into a world of Lilliputians, and after years of being ‘sleek’ and ‘slender’ I find myself much like a de-whiskered feline. Have you ever cut the whiskers from a cat’s face? You see, the purpose of the whiskers is to allow the cat foreknowledge of whether or not the rest of it will fit through a given space. Without the facial measurers the furball will wedge itself into all manner of unmanageable positions the likes of which only butter and determination serve as liberators. And now this rapid transition has fated me thusly: wedged in doorways, lodged between bookshelves at the library, and jam-packed into my stadium seat at the local theater.

And despite my newly found gravitational fortitude my very mindset is quite moveable and, at present, absolutely shaken. As a sprite, I was prone to dash from trouble, and sneer from a safe distance. Now, when I try to dart, I topple. I am forced to stand tall—easily enough managed physically—and fight—a much more difficult feat. My only “move” is jiggling, ineffective at best. Even my towering height is a disadvantage as you little folk zip about—a memory now so fond of days long forgotten—relentlessly striking areas where I have no arms to protect. What good is cowering and covering my face in this realm of merciless body shots?

This chronic bigness has shrunk me. I am isolated and perplexed, wondering and wandering. I hope to regain my old form, the mannerisms, deftness, and accompanying spirit, but I fear the comfort within my own self is gone; a stranger who struck off into the void and got lost, leaving only memories in the form of breadcrumbs and miniature footprints.

I miss the ease of that persona. His life was simple, an unknowing existence of selfish convenience: what a way to go. But this little-big me is frightful and uncertain, fumbling and clumsy, yet chock-full of potential and adventure and the chance for the self within to catch-up with the expansive body. Maybe the gerth life truly is the life for me . . . God knows.

Season II

2009-08-13T17:28:00.000-05:00

Dear Readers,

Welcome those old and new to the ramblings of "Sundays In the Dark". So far, I am aware of a readership that stretches from Missouri to Africa, Tennessee to Michigan, Texas to somewhere far from Texas . . . somewhere nice (I have one of these posts coming about a recent trip to the Lonestar State and one title I am working with is "Is it me or did Mexico vomit?" . . .). And now we have no more readers from Texas, but that is okay, we will be just fine without them.

I have never really shared the purpose of this blog with anyone so I think this an apt time to do this.

1) I need an outlet or I might turn into a lunatic.

2) Hopefully it gets people reading . . . nearly always a good thing.

3) If it makes you chuckle, well, an even better thing.

4) Some pieces might even have some insights and truths about life hidden within . . . like pearls in the ocean. Pluck these out and if nothing else do what one does with pearls . . . share them with your grandmother, dead or alive (wait, that phrase "dead or alive" is used after bounties not grandmothers . . . I need an editor . . . and now we have no beloved grandchildren, but that is okay, we will be just fine without them).

There may be some more, but I am tired and well past my word count for today (it is the same as my daily push-up count: 4) and so I hope you all are well and if you aren't, well, how's your perspective doing?

Happy Sunday and Happy Reading.

Matt

A Note (before recess)

2009-02-01T22:58:00.000-06:00

SuperThoughts will be the only post this evening thanks in part to The Office. The hour-long spectacle cut my writing time, well, an hour short tonight, but it was well worth it: what an episode, eh?

But I did want to take a moment and thank my loyal readers. The two of you have meant so much to me.

Seriously, though, I do appreciate anyone who reads these posts, and I hope that occasionally these digressive arrangements muster a smirk (I am not nearly conceited enough to think they warrant much more, but if a laugh is occasionally loosed, well, all the better . . .)

I would especially like to note that one reader, a fellow I attended high school with, recently got a hold of me with a request for a story. This request will be released in a few weeks to coincide with baseball spring training, as it is a tale about a notorious ballplayer.

I welcome his suggestion and look forward to the fine-tuning of that piece, and likewise would appreciate any other feedback regarding future posts. Now I know most of you could care less what you read, but in the same manner that you might request a song or dish at a restaurant I am offering the same luxury: a chance to have someone else report back on a subject of your choosing. Free reporting and writing to any subject you choose . . . what a deal. Please realize that any journalistic merits regarding truth will not be upheld, and I will not complete high school or college writing assignments (without a fee . . . kidding . . . but seriously).

And that is it for this week. Hope you have a good one, and again, thanks.

Happy reading . . .

SuperThoughts

2009-02-01T22:49:00.000-06:00

Well, the game is over, and now, while they hand out awards and before The Office, I am going to, in no specific manner, jot some of my impressions from the big night.

Before even a single snap, I had to laugh at the world in which we live. The NFL wanted to really bring out its PLAY 60 initiative, one whose aim is to encourage young people toward 60 minutes of physical activity per day. Ironic. They chose to have several reminders of this lofty* endeavor and even had a youthful representative take out the game ball before the opening kick. This all taking place on a day which pregame begins at 3 pm, the game itself lasts a hearty four hours, and one is forbidden from diverting his eyes even during the commercials for fear of missing something (and this is valid: if I would have missed that Koala getting punched I would have been upset). I have been sitting on the couch for a quarter of a full earthly day, and I have an hour or so to go thanks to The Office’s special episode. But sure kids go play. If you get hurt just whimper quietly and we can nip over to the ER just as soon as the programming is over or maybe first thing in the morning. Okay? Thankfully I have no children for which to be a horrid example. And it is sort of a Catch-22 because to have any little ones I will have to get off the couch . . . a tall order. Perhaps, I could start small, say, 60 minutes a day.

Next point: 3D Glasses. Do many people keep these just lying about? What about folks at large gatherings, are there enough for everyone? They told me to get mine ready, gave me like six seconds, and then plunged into a worthless 3 minutes of visual commercial splendor, all shapes and colors, and I sat there void an entire demension and suitably irate. So tomorrow I am buying a pair of 3D glasses—nay goggles—and I am going to have them available at all times: just in case. I’ll squeeze that into my 60 minutes just after meeting and marrying a woman and prior to our procreation. No problem.

On to the next observation: Was that first Doritos commercial made in a tech savvy employees basement and then vaulted until its first playing tonight? In case you were at the fridge, it involved an annoying guy with a snow globe pretending the snow globe is a Magic 8 Ball: yeah, already stupid, right? Well, the annoying guy shows his annoying friend and then chucks the thing through a vending machine that only contains Doritos chips (nice realism, guys!) Then annoying guy B (sorry but another adjective really won’t do) throws said globe—which is wondrously back in one piece after its encounter with the vending machine—at his boss’s crouch. Worst add ever simply because it tried so hard and failed so miserably. I now officially hate Doritos and will not eat a single chip of that name for at least XLIII days (or a week, whichever comes first).

And we must talk about BRUUUUUUUUUUUCCCCCE!!!! As much as the black guy from the E Street Band tried to dress like Janet Jackson a few years ago—I mean it was the precise get-up—no boobs were shown in the making of this halftime show. But a few other things did stand out or slide across the stage on knees. Did anyone else catch this priceless moment? After belting, “Tramps like us, Baby, we were born to RUN . . .” The Boss slid toward the wing of the stage and provided a more forcible hit than any the first half had seen. He obviously over slid, maybe it was Superbowl adrenaline or steroids or something, but I guarantee the cameraman is worse for wear on Monday morning. It didn’t show the afflicted party, but a close-up of Bruce’s face showed a wry grin as if to say: “Boy, did I over slide. HA, sorry, Man!” The only guy who almost had a worse fate was the stagehand responsible for catching the guitar Springsteen let fly his way upon taking the stage. The poor guy, terror in his face, wrestled the axe into control, but it was a near fumble and awkward as catching a greased pig in the snow.

So that was awesome, and just when the Band was really rocking the house The Boss, his band mate, Steve, and The Ref had perhaps the corniest moment since Cat Stevens sang “Peace Train” with a calico kitten nestled in his Capri panted lap. Two legendary musicians talking nonsense about ‘extra time’, and just when the viewer is thinking: Hey, this conversation seems pretty phony . . . a goofy guy in officiating garb spazzes onto the stage and throws a flag for delay of game. At this point I threw a white flag, noting that I will hopefully visit Bruce during one of his four hour jam-fests and steer clear of him in short spurts.

My biggest disappointment in the game was not Kurt Warner’s loss or his oldest daughter’s wedding ring, but the ref that got nailed in the first half. It was the back judge, I think, the one who later called the safety on Pittsburgh. Anyway, he got dealt with at one point, the best part of any game, and he jolted right back up after the briefest of visits with the turf. It was nearly respectable and totally unfunny. Typically the ref has a way of comically rolling or losing flags and his hat or stumbling back to his feet like one coming up from a too-long spell underwater. Nope, this guy just bounced right back up like Keanu Reeves taking a punch in The Matrix.

And, of course, they brought out “Sully” and his flight crew before the game; the birds were watching (if you are lost on this visit an earlier post, or let me save you some time: Don't).

It was a spectacle. It was the Superbowl. And now, finally, I can visit the restroom. I will set my timer and add the duration spent there to my daily off-couch allotment.

*(by lofty I intend lackluster and slothful)

For the Birds

2009-01-18T23:07:00.001-06:00

I am saddened by our society. It disappoints me, as all societies let down those who are part of them and not complete dullards; now, I am not claiming intellect here, just not complete ignorance.

Honestly, though, with all the greed and malice slinking about, how can we really look around with hope, with any knowledge of truth? And each week it all worsens, the whole mess, the outrageous spectacle, and this week we have once more plummeted.

We have started another war we need no part of; one whose stakes are too lofty. And as we pile up or propaganda and endoctrinate the simple-minded with these lies, our enemy is mobilizing. They will come in force. They will come from the sky. They will come in the springtime.

Obviously, most of you know exactly of what I am speaking, and those of you who don't likely belong to the lovely confederacy of dullards I alluded to earlier. You march along unaware, well your time is near, and this will hopefully open your eyes; believe me, if I do not, they will.

This weekend a plane crashed and the United States of America openly blamed the birds. I don't know if it was specifically pigeons, seagulls, or albatross who were cooked by the biased media, but the lack of specifics will likely only serve to further the numbers of the bird coalition that will rise up and then swoop down against us.

The 'bird strike' as it was deemed was no such thing. And I am aware that I am treading some pretty dangerous ground and perhaps will not be a free man much longer for it, but I must make my stand before my wings are clipped.

The group of birds were merely cruising south for a bit of respite from the frigid northeastern climate. The poor fellows and gentlefowls were minding their own business and flying as a peaceable group, as is the norm with the avian kind. They had flapped out of Canada and were on an all nighter to South Carolina. There they were hoping to catch the red eye, along with some bread crumbs, en route to Cancun.

One of the dearest of the flock, a youthful, and naturally somewhat careless, member, swooped graciously away from the congregation: he had to relieve his morning niblets and didn't want to splatter on any of his fellow flyers. He was looking forward to lightening his load but never got to rejoin his mates in a leaner state. Only a few feathers were left as he was picked off by a heinous 85,000 lb bullet shot by an American airline. Not a tear was shed by this lone bird's comrades because it all happened so quickly and at a lower altitude; they didn't know what happened to their now incenerated friend. But they do now; we told them.

And not only did we go public about the massacre, but we disgraced the entire winged community (I wouldn't be surprised if dragons come out of hiding after this debacle). We blame the bird for our misfortune--which took no human life. Then we audaciously make a hero of the man who piloted the plane to safety. And this, perhaps, would be fine--give Captain "Sully" his due--if we would go ahead and honor the life we took. How about a memorial for our young friend, who now looked like he has spent a decade in the deep fryers of Hell. If we had properly honored him and apologized to birds everywhere for our intrusion into their domain and what it has caused, then all would have been fine; they are a congenial enough sort.

They have ignored for years the hunting we do. They have merely shrugged when we laughingly explode their pigeons with rice after our wedding ceremonies. They tolerate Popeye's and the others. But they will not stoop for this.

Have you seen Alfred Hitchcock's "The Birds"? He is the next Nostradamus--except his predictions are not blanketed on every even year and every-other odd year and vague enough to be true or maybe next time or maybe he meant tomorrow . . . yeah, tomorrow. No, Mr. Hitchcock was very clear: the birds will attack. They will be merciless. They will peck to kill. They will beak at our forlorn society with terrifying fervor.

But even old Al's predictions were tame compared with what might ensue when the weather warms. The little birds will come first--sparrows and hummingbirds and the like--and they will test us out. They will spy and examine our defenses. And then the crows and vultures and hawks will form not a flying "V", but intricate formations that spell "DIE" and "RESPECT THE BIRD." Do you know how many birds it will take to shadow your parks, your home, your church with "RETRIBUTION HUMANS!" Millions. And, I hear, they are developing a 'stealth' bird for any necessary spaces. The penguins will come by sea and nothing Morgan Freeman can say will halt their malice. Many I have talked to think the eagles will join America. They are fools. The eagles are so tired of being the laughing stock of the avian community: "Your their pets, squawk, squaw," the other birds taunt them. The eagles want retribution. The ostriches will not come. Their heads are in the sand and not the clouds--the Switzerland of the bird community. But the rest will be here.

Ready yourselves. If our government will not act and our media will not try to remedy our peril, then it is every man for himself. Remember the bird flu? This will be like the bird cancer. I am constructing a bird costume for myself and working on my Birdish (it is a complex language but can be mastered with dilligence). Everyone will have different schemes but this is mine: blend in, move south during the winter, and back north in the summer. I will behave like a squawking retired person who is covered in feathers and donning rubber beak. The flying part will be more difficult but if a guy named 'Sully' and a bunch of stupid birds can do it, how hard can it be?

Dis Goes Out Tah . . .

2008-12-07T23:01:00.000-06:00

Since I accidently turned Storm in the Key of G into a manifesto, it will be my only post this week (if anyone actually reads these things anyway). So since this won't be an actual post I would like to say a few things for those I know read this rubbish--my reasoning: rappers get shout outs, why can't I?

Jay- sometimes it is fiction man, don't get all worked up. The monkeys, though, those were real. Sorry about your tools, but relaje, amigo.

Lisa-congrats on the newest addition. Games this Christmas. Games.

Cody-you are downstairs right now. and as creepy as this sounds i am watching you read my blog. you smile; i smile. you grimace; i smile wider.

Nate-cut your hair, shave your 'beard.' Christmas is no time to look Jewish (no offense to Jewish people, of course, a gorgeous people group. just not too festive this time of year).

Leslie-thanks for the advice . . .

Johanna and Josh (and baby)-I'll see you this weekend.

Jonathan-i don't think you read this nor do you have time, but your blog got me started on here. you are the best guy i know, doing the best thing i know, and you will be in my prayers this holiday season.

Brice-your three-pointer the other night, well, it moved me.

April-i heard you read this stuff. i don't believe it, but if so, i'm glad to be here with you and wish you well.

Kerrie- t-minus five days until you see the 'not-so big guy'. salute him for me.

Evan-see you in the springtime.

Mom-love you (and could you make sure the washer is empty . . . i'll be there thursday).

if i missed some of you, let me know, but do so harshly and with conviction. if you have anything you want cover, i would love to accomodate my readership: let me know via comments or email.

Merry Christmas to all (and hannakuh to Nate).

2008-11-23T19:42:00.001-06:00

"Well, I Do Have that Hammer . . ."

2008-11-09T20:54:00.000-06:00

Okay, so I have a problem. Yeah, you keep your smart mouth shut, Dear Reader, for I know you piped up with an Obviously or sarcasm-soaked Really?. Here I am pouring out my heart juice and being greeted with ill-timed cynicism. The problem, though, now that we have had our little grievance, is the stickiness of my brain. Think of the most asinine stories or ideas you have been subjected to and rest assured that they have entered my head, tried to pass on through as if it were a normal functioning mental zone, and been caught in my brain’s unrelenting tractor beam, which sucks up all things useless and dwells upon them like guys with mustaches study art at the Louvre or children’s soccer practices. These tidbits cannot be shaken and cause me to spend nights seizuring rather than sleeping in my bed. And true to form, the other night a friend of mine introduced a topic that is morbid, and if taken with the right grain of salt—a jagged one—darkly comical.

So apparently in a small Southeast Missouri town lived a man and his wife. I don’t know much about the couple, though a flock of theories have replaced sheep in my nightly practice. What is known for sure, however, is that this particular sir and madam were pretty hard up. Again, anything more than this must be conjectured upon. The situation had ditched bad in a dumpster and swapped it out for a solid dose of macabre. Life had smacked them around and they were looking to counter.

Well, what happened? What did they do? To answer your concerned plea I could tell how they got shift work, worked long hours as hard as they could, scraped and saved, and eventually turned their meager pay into golden investments and are now contently becoming overweight whilst counting their money and sipping Cristal in the Caymans. That would be nice and allow me a restful eve.

Or this story doesn’t have to follow a Dickensian plot line and instead take a beat from the hip hop world. Our desperate tandem felt caged by society’s bureaucratic boundaries and used their scant government assistance monies to front a fledgling drug running ring. They were being grinded down by the sandpaper world and only their elemental and animalistic selves were left; like empty eggshells with pockets full of cocaine and happy trigger fingers to boot. It would be sad as the pair is gunned down when encroaching Big Eddie’s turf with a watered down product and wire tap, but at least it would have all the merits of normalcy, albeit a somber medium, and would afford one the luxury of discarding it when met with the comfort of a tender pillow.

Hundreds of other possibilities have clambered about the well-trod paths of my mind and I’m sure more will follow; they have left me without choice . . . .

So without two dimes to rub together, our hero and heroine sit down at the ironing board, with which I am replacing the dinner table for dramatic effect, and I can only imagine they had quite a discourse. During the discussion, I’m sure a logical, insightful affair, an unhealthy portion of alcohol was consumed. They passed the iron (they sold their cups in a sidewalk sale—it was a sidewalk sale because they had rented out their lawn to dog trainers and had sold their garage in a previous garage sale . . . this is a speculative digression, however)—back and forth and swigged their formidable liquor through the little sprayer typically reserved for the most finicky of wrinkles, then refilled it and guzzled until Reason had had enough and silently doffed his cap and went on his way.

This is the point in the perplexing tale at which they came up with a plan. It was a simple scheme, and one that has unfortunately been plotted before, but hey, I suppose they figured they would get original when it came to detailing the endeavor. Basically, they decided Death was the best way to avenge a Life that had soured.

The tragedians were to kill themselves, but Romeo and Juliet had nothing on these lovebirds. No, they decided poison and a lurid embrace were clichéd and instead opted for the elegant and underrated use of a hammer. The woman volunteered first and enlisted her husband the task of hammering the life out of her with it. I do not know if he used the flat or spiky end, nor have I a clue if it was steel or rubber. All I know is that something fishy was going on because after trying to kill a woman who was volunteering and likely leaning into the blows with a rather solid construction tool, Prince Charming was unable put the nail in the coffin.

Matrimony had prepared the couple for this, though. They apparently realized—after who knows how many thuds—that things weren’t working and a change had to come. So they regrouped, filled the iron, and went back to the black drawing board. This suicide never looked so tremulous on Lifetime: Television for Women. But determination defeats failure and a hammered in head any night, so the couple decided on a new path: one which was driven on by their automobile and ended at a largish utility pole. My friend was retelling this epic from a newspaper article which didn’t recall how fast they were going at impact, where they ended up, if they had slipped up and buckled in, but it did give the good, or in this case heartrending results, that the only causality involved was the 1993 Ford.

Our merry tandem is now recovering in a local hospital. I’m not sure how their spirits are about the disappointing events and the failures of the big night. I want so badly to question them, though. I don’t know what I would ask first. Somewhere along the line I would definitely inquire why they didn’t rob a bank. Get caught and prison is free, get shot and YOU win, get away with it and the financial woes vanish faster than your will to live did. I would also ask if they had ever seen a bridge or train track or interstate. I would ask them what was next and if their will to live had been renewed. I would see if they needed a nurse and if they still loved each other. I would babble and babble and then when my questions began to slow or they grew tired, I would give them $10 for a new hammer with which to build a new, less calamitous life, leave the room, and go take a nap.

Just Say No to Voting

2008-10-26T19:28:00.000-05:00

I just want to take a moment on this Sunday evening to remind everyone that the election is just nine days away. Please be sure not to vote. That is right, I said it. Don’t vote. If you must go to your polling place to fulfill some sad urge to belong, please only use your visit to spread your apathy around. And then when Wednesday rolls around and Obama or McCain is seen on the front page take heart in knowing you had nothing to do with any of it. Wear your “I didn’t Vote” t-shirt more proudly than those flaunting their pretentious oval “I Voted” stickers. When Barrack supporters are high-fiving in the hallways of your school or workplace, join in the fun: “Yeah, all right. You all did it! You did!” Likewise, should J-MAC slip into the oval office, celebrate it with those around you: “Way to go guys! Good vote everyone, nice work.”

And then should everything unravel, either way, you can always voice your dismay: “I DID NOT vote for that guy . . . yikes.”

Now I know the majority of the three people who read this will be upset. They will say I am un-American, an idiot. But you have to question this whole voting rage. Veterans and hippies are all begging me to vote: conservatives and liberals, abortion doctors and Baptist ministers, blacks and whites . . . something is going on here. The only other time this much of our nation has agreed on anything is the recent concordance that Rosie O’Donnell is crazy—just plain nuts.

Which brings us to celebrities. From Bruce Springsteen to Beyonce, every publicist in America has his or her client spouting political ideology. The foreign ones, too. At the close of SNL last night, Coldplay frontman, Chris Martin, finished “Yellow” and chanted “Barrack Obama” into the microphone. Sir, you are from Britain—what’s your game?

I don’t trust all this agreement. I feel like I have stumbled into a Care Bears movie, the part where they are still zipping down cloud slides and singing in Care-A-Lot. It is all wonderful and, of course, a song ensues about how happy all of us bears are and how well we get along. Amidst all of this intoxicating joy a bear hunter in a black suit, with an “I voted” sticker over the right breast, shows up and opens fire. All you colorful bears will be gone, leaving only me, hiding behind a cloud sculpture of Mao Zedong, the bear hunter and Chris Martin. And we will rule, cutting taxes for people we like the best, fighting only the good and noble wars (as deemed by movie directors we like the best), and making sure that no nation under our direction will ever wholly agree on anything. You are all welcome in joining me in hiding, and then when the time is right we will re-emerge en masse. All I ask in return for this heads-up is that once we do come out that you will promise me your vote. The bear guy doesn’t scare me too much, but early polls show that Chris Martin has a lot of supporters.