I was there the day the county dumped all the arcade games into the lake. Let it be known. I can tell it cause I saw it. We spent all friday night driving throughout Macomb County, going to bars and pizza holes and party shops and the back alleys of closed down banks. We took up every single video arcade game in an upright cabinet, a table top unit and even those electronic dart boards. Just ripped them out of the walls. We left the claw games. The FEMA men gave no explanation on those. Then we pushed them onto this huge barge. Lined them up. And before pushing off, we powered up all these gazzoline generators. At least 50 of them. Lined them up near the back. And then they had us plug in all these video games. We looked like a floating goddamn carnival. After about 18 minutes travel I...
Wonder if there are any local Piano Drops this weekend. Piano Drops, you ask? That’s a family friendly event involving the dropping of perfectly good church and saloon pianos off tall abandoned buildings and/or bridges. If you pay extra someone on staff will take a Polaroid of you and the family in front of the impact zone and get the lift operator to sign it.
Even if he’s illiterate.
Compared to the U.S. Canada has One-Fourth the rate of clown violence.
The skill I'm proudest of is my ability to be mistaken for staff at various retail stores by fellow customers. It's always at the top of the résumé. I do nothing out of the ordinary. Maybe it's my respect for the shelf-item organization scheme, maybe it's an odor I cannot smell. Something about my face leads people to seek my assistance in locating the discount tool boxes or in seeing if we have the Pineapple Tablecloth in size XXXL in the back. The temptation to misuse this power is great. Too great. Sometimes I'll scribble out little vouchers granting them 90% off any item they can fit in their mouths. Other times I'll help them stuff single rolls of toilet paper under their shirt and point them towards an imaginary back exit. If I'm in a really foul mood, I'll march them through the...
Lately I’ve been frying up old Super Nintendo game cartridges and eating them before bed. Like grilled cheese, I use plenty of butter and often eat it with little else beyond three liters of Grape Faygo. The butter combines with the natural flavor of the cartridge plastic to create a pleasing, smokey taste and accompanying each bite is not a crunch but a sound effect noise from the game in question. Usually it’s the jumping sound. But my God, the nightmares. Granted I’ve always had terrible nightmares throughout the night, but this meal produces a unique horror. I wake up with my teeth clenched down hard on my tongue and claw marks up and down my arms. And grease paint everywhere. There’s nothing healthy about any of it. There’s also nothing that says I have...
It's late. You're up working crosswords. Everything's quiet. You're sure you're alone. You look up and see a banjo player seated across from you. He's not dead. He's not a ghost. He's just sitting there with a straw hat, suspenders and a banjo in his lap. He's not playing. You look down at the crossword puzzle book, then up again. There are two banjo players sitting across from you. They are identical save for hair color and mustache arrangement. Neither is playing. You offer them assistance. You offer them water. They say nothing. You set down the book and rub your eyes. It's been a long week. You haven't been eating well. That last clue, 17 Across: How they do it in Iowa, just won't solve itself. You look up. There are 43 banjo players in the room with you. None are playing. Deep breath...