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.
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.
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.
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.”
“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-”
“I'm a dog.”
“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.
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.
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...?
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]