CL - L = jC

My buddy, pal, amigo, homey,
brother 'till the end
seems to always ruin
all the time in which we spend.

He blats about a troubled past
i've tried my best to mend.
All he is is chutes--no ladders
Why is he my friend?

Br'er Tactics

Happy usually did not partake of such artless acts. Whiskey Wednesday withdrew our wicked and wild wingding. Jameson and Cokes were only three clams a piece—so we participated until not even the most lavish of lady licks could liven our lessened libidos.

We trotted toward town. A call from Kathy in his hands and a Camel smoke in mine. I am promenading perfectly, and he is uttering ugliness. Apparently Kathy is a bitch.

Passing by the padlocked swings, the roundabout still turning, we spot the lagomorph. Happy gives chase and I chastise. Drunken tears ebb. It is agreed that rabbits and human beings can only coexist without chase.

I went home because that is where my bed resides. I tumbled in and used it well. Happy contemplated mistakes as he reached into the middle drawer for a pen. The note was an apology and was aimlessly endorsed with a salt-stained scribble.

Hello, Lagomorph.

My attempt here is to apologize…for the malarkey I pulled yesterday. I am hoping that you might accept it…the apology that is. We left some veggies out for you. Did you smoke them out? Faford set them on the porch right by the pile of uncollected community newsletters. To hell with the community, right? Ha-ha! Wait, wait, I know, I know. To this, you can conjure little laughter. Is it that you hold this neck of the woods very dear to you? Well, regardless of what you think, that is where it is headed. Hell that is.

To my point:

I will cooperate to find peace. One day there will be no chase, and trust will be discovered. This is a start. This is my hand reaching out. You waggle and quiver, yet I assure you there is no race today, and there will certainly be no pursuits in our future. From the bottom of my ticker, I am truly sorry.

All the best,

Happy

6s

The sound (assuming that there was a sound) cracked an iffy grin across the face of the world's richest man. He slithered out of his well-built and rather expensive shelter up the narrow tubing and shot his hand upward, blindly fingering the vault for its handle. The hinge on the vault snapped like a worn guitar string and a rush of sunlight ran through a thin crack in the shelter's lid. The world's wealthiest gentleman worked himself up to his feet and nonchalantly observed the world's newfound expanded emptiness (nonchalantly because he knew what to expect. The only thing that was “blown away” was the conglomeration of all living things (minus one Thomas S. Eiselberg). As he ambled down the street, he decided it would be nice to have a drink and something to smoke. Eventually, every third footstep triggered something else, something else he must have (as if inheriting the entire world was not enough).

Missed Days

Here's a little something I had to do to excuse some absences.

I had to write hyperbolic stories accounting the time spent...not in class.

Enjoy, youz guyz.

``````````````````````````

A Monday

It had to be a Monday. It seems to always be a Monday. I woke up freezing despite the layers of blankets I covered myself with the night before.

I fell out of bed and glanced over at my alarm clock. I realized that I was extremely late for class. Extremely late and I had to give a lecture today. I felt a bomb go off in my stomach, but it was a good bomb. I wasn't feeling anxious or nervous. I was straight up excited.

Only one thing comes to my mind after a rush of unadulterated excitement—brushing my teeth.

It's natural.

So I stumbled like a drunken zombie into the bathroom and squeezed some minty shit onto my tooth comb. I ran some water over the brush and let it serve its purpose. A 45 degree angle. Back and then forth. A couple tiny circles here and there. Then the voice came.

"Hey Keegan! C-c-c-come down here. You have to help me!"

I nearly swallowed my brush. This was some Stephen King's IT shit, and I didn't want to end up like those kids. I wanted to run but I only came closer to the sink hole. That's when I was snatched.

The hands came out and rolled me out into a thin cylinder. I was pulled with an incredible force. Down I went into the abyss.

I awoke in a dank, dark room. There was no furniture, just a large framed picture of this gaunt and garish green face hanging above a floor that was covered in wet garbage. It was the most frightening thing I had ever seen. Suddenly, the face in the picture squirmed to life, falling out like Play-Doh from a Fun Factory.

Just as the shape popped into my limited vision, I realized who it was. It was Samuel L. Jackson. He got real close, gave me a firm stare—fiery yet friendly—and he bellowed:

“Nice to meet'cha, m-m-m-mutha fucka! “

“You, too. I didn't know you stutter.”

“Sometimes. Now help me pick this shit up!”

So we cleaned the room until it sparkled like the stars. We talked about Snakes on a Plane and how it changed my life, and by the time we finished our celebratory 40 oz malt liquors, I said it was time to go. Samuel clapped three times and summoned The Supernatural Earth Ladder. I climbed toward the ceiling, blew him a non-gay smooch, and opened the hatch at the top only to find myself in another land, on another Monday.

``````````````````````````

Another Monday

So it was still Monday, but it wasn't the same Monday. Turns out I was in Michigan somewhere. I found this out because this sign said “Hey, You're In Michigan!”

I got a ride home from this dog wearing sunglasses. I hopped into his Geo Metro and he gunned it onto the interstate. We were Illinois bound.

He was a pretty righteous dude. He kept the conversation going and constantly offered me smokes, even after I told him I had my own. After about fifteen minutes of highway driving, Dog (the dog with the sunglasses), started laughing and leaned over to whisper into my ear.

“Hey I gotta tell you something.”

“Yeah, Dog?”

“Ha ha it's sort of embarrassing.”

“Oh, come on, Dog. You can tell me anything. I'm your best friend in the whole wide world.”

“Well, I suppose you're right. You see, Keegles, I'm-”

“Yeah?”

“I'm a dog.”

“...and?”

“Dogs can't drive cars.”

“Oh yeah! Ha ha!”

So we crashed. The car flipped in rapid cartwheels. We flew straight off the road, directly into the Time Warp Vortex. I held Dog's paw. I screamed “OH SHIT” and he barked and whined until we finally came to a quick stop. A startling stop.

Like a snapping guitar string.

Dog was gone. Not dead gone, just gone gone. I stepped out to find Stevenson Hall right in front of me. It was 10:30a.m.

Monday.

I had 30 minutes to blow, so I grabbed the zipper on my jacket and started making sweet zipper beats. I pulled up and down to imitate a turntable.

Wicky-wicky-wha.

Chewy-chewy-chewy.

(Turntable noises)

Before I knew it, it was Tuesday. I missed class again.

----------------------------------------------------

This is supposed to be a Wednesday

So yeah, I zipper beat boxed 'till Tuesday morning. Or was it Tuesday night?

Anyway, now it's a Wednesday. Or...?

Huh.

All I know is that whichever day it actually is, it was definitely...probably somewhere in between the...three (?) when I got the call that made me miss class. Let's just say it was Tuesday night, 11:50p.m.

After all the gangster-ass zipper zippin', my phalanges felt raw and itchy. So I soaked them in some mustard. Three or four minutes later I was feeling like 12 bucks.

I was feelin' awesome!

I went into the bathroom and washed the mustard cruds off. I made sure to shout down the sink hole at Samuel L. He didn't respond. He was probably doing some light reading or watching Becker. Sam loves Becker. As I was drying my hands, the phone rang. At first, all I heard was a sniff. My buddy was whiffin' and sniffin' and he wanted to know why my hands smelled like mustard.

“Still? I must be using the wrong soap.”

“What are you using?”

“I'm not sure...I honestly don't know how it got there. It sort of just appeared next to the faucet one day. Hold on, let me check. Hmm. The logo dissolved. It's a mystery.”

“Well what color is it?”

“I don't know.”

“Well pick it up and look.”

“...Yellow. It's yellow.”

“Dude that must be some classy soap. I bet it's Zest.”

“Oh, man! It's got pubes on it!”

“Ew! SICK! Put it down!”

“I am! I am!”

“Now, is it a bar of soap?...or is it like the gel shit with the pump?”

[...and so forth]

Shut up and eat your booger sandwich, pussy.

This is an unfinished work of creative fiction I farted out.

---------------------------------

Shut up and eat your booger sandwich, pussy.

I really wanted to tell my roommate to stop picking his nose. It's not something that usually bothers me, but I was eating a salami sandwich at the time. I've never developed any strange correlation between salami sandwiches and nose-picking before, and I hope I never do. Salami is the king of meats, and I would prefer that its greatness not be tainted with syrupy booger-thoughts.

And hey, It wasn't the actual picking of the nostrils that made me want to puke in my soup. It was the fact that he was flicking the little bastards around the room. If I was unfortunate enough to come into close contact with bit of my own nasal crust, I would probably just wash it off or feed it to an animal, but the thought of becoming acquainted with a foreign snot ball sends shivers down my spine.

Maybe one landed on my sandwich!

What if they're all over the floor?... and I step on some? ...and when I go to take my socks off at night, I get snot residue on my fingers?!

I had to tell another roommate about my dilemma.

“ Hey, Ryan. Austin is picking his nose and flicking his booger crumbs all over the floor.”

“ Hmm. Stop being a pussy.”

I took his advice and ate the rest of my sandwich.