Glue Ghost

I was full-blown nauseous in the taxi on the way to the airport yesterday. The stench inside the cab was obscene. It smelled like a mixture of sweat, rendered lamb fat, and Nick Nolte's pussy. My interpretation of the stink's origin goes something like this...





...Greasy-haired Turkish man with red rimmed eyes awakens on a cold tile floor, naked. A collapsible poker table sits in the corner, with a brand new box of 64 crayons at its center.

The Turk grunts and tears apart the crayon box, devouring all 64 crayons. A multicolored glaze coats his teeth. He pulls a timer out of his bare ass, and sets it for one hour. He ties a shoelace to the timer and slips it over his head. He walks outside, finds an abandoned taxi, and smashes the driver's side window with his elbow.

Once inside, he sits in the backseat and thinks. He daydreams about lopping the heads off of beautiful geese with a machete at a large family picnic. Women and children screaming. Dogs shitting. Fathers frozen in horror as The Turk writhes in the grass, bathed in goose blood, grinning blissfully.





His thoughts are interrupted by loud beeps from the timer. He pushes a button to silence the beeps, pukes a psychedelic rainbow of melted crayons all over the interior of the taxi, and flees back to his dismal lair.

...2 years later...

The Turk has been getting his shit together. Night school, new clothes, and a part-time relationship with soap. One night, on his way home from class, he spots the crayon-puke cab parked on a curb. It hasn't been touched in the 2 years since he defiled it. His spew is now dried, cracked, and crusty, though the smell is the same. He gazes upon the kaleidoscopic mess. The word "opportunity" flashes through his mind over and over.





He picks off as much of the caked ooze as he can, and sprays the interior down with Febreze. The taxi starts by itself. The radio starts playing the Reading Rainbow theme song at full volume...

"Butterfly in the sky
I can go twice as high
Take a look, it's in a book
a Reading Rainbow.

I can go anywhere!
Friends to know
and ways to grow
a Reading Rainbow."




And then he drove me to the airport.

Kobe Beef Curtains

I'm experiencing a surge of post illness positivity right now. All the gremlins have left mein digestive system, and I no longer feel like a garbage bag full of catfish. My brain is rejoicing. I don't know if it's an endorphin kick or just the relief of not having to treat my body like a tender foal, but I feel damn good.

I conclude that this positive mood is a gift from some celestial force that's telling me, "Hey there, my special little treasure. It's me, Glappy! You've survived another illness, and I've decided to reward you. Boom! This is what joy feels like. Pretty nice, huh? Don't get too comfy though, because it's not gonna last very long. Go on, eat up while it's still fresh, ya fat bitch!"





Onto another topic...

...I've been thinking about how completing a marathon is now a socially acceptable goal for boring people, and how it's considered to be an admirable endeavor. What a crock of boxcar taco tits! Contrary to what your glue-sniffing cousin says, lung pain isn't "fun". Those aren't smiles on people's faces at the finish line, they're the physical manifestations of torment and regret.




Unless you're training to outrun the apocalypse, I don't see the point. What's the upside, anyway? Epic blisters? Bloody armpits?

And for the people dedicating marathons to their dead relatives, I have some bad news - it isn't going to make your uncles breathe again, claw their way up from the grave, and give you Christmas presents. Even if they did, the presents would just be boxes filled with dirt. Dead people don't give good gifts, which is why I want to be buried with an anchor around my neck to prevent me from reanimating and going to birthday parties.





One more thing...




Smell ya later, my special little treasures.