The other day, she got all mad at me over nothing, and with my paranoid, weedy ways, I became convinced that she was breaking up with me and I, well... I sort of accidently slaughtered her family. Then I guess I might have hung their heads on 16 foot long wooden posts that I tied to the stately metal of the Michigan Avenue drawbridge, in the heart of downtown and right during rush hour....
This is as bad as that time I drank all those cappucinos (like fifteen -- they were free... the vendor had been snitty with me so he was too dead to care). That time I became convinced that the FBI should check out M'.s Bin Laden connections. She did not like being snatched off the street, whisked away to some third world country that she never saw because of the hood over her body -- her only clothing in the chilly climate-- where she was drugged and beaten and interrogated for 72 hours straight. Afterwhich, she was told that if she ever talked about this, they would snatch her again and not let her walk. They were actually quite specific about what they would do, and had her sign three different pages, all too classified for her to read... the upshot of their threat was that they would keep M. alive, in a dank prison in Bogota, slowly shitting herself to death with dissentary.
Anyways... now, I knew that on a public stunt like this, the press would probably get wind of it so I needed a great disguise. I guess I actually might have called all the press, back when I thought that we were broke up. I didn't want her to miss the event, you know.
I do not think I have any fault unless it is this -- I acted too soon. My reaction itself was normal, and actually shows the dept of my love for her. That's what I'll tell her.
I had to disguise myself while I was down on the bridge putting her grandparents and parents and sisters heads all on the posts -- I pulled them all out of a big bag, where they had grown all juicy from the blood, shoved them on the poles, then taped them way up on high on the bridge. I had to scale a like one and half foot beam to get up there, to the hightest point of the looping metal arms of the four lane draw bridge.
I painted myself dark blue. With crayons. It hurt like hell, but it came off easy. Mostly. My night shaded skin melded just fine with the river when I dove in to make my escape. I retrieved my self-warming scuba pelt and air canisters,and swam back up to north the 78 blocks to the beach across from my house... in like twenty minutes or less... Don't like to brag, but it's probably the fastest ever... by far.
Oddly enough, their description of me is so far off.
I mean, this lady told the cameraman, "We all agree. It was blue guy with a tiny dick."
'Ha,' I thought when I heard this nugget, 'I will never be caught with them looking for a tiny dick.' I of course am big and I have no idea why they slander me? Probably just keeping my size back, so the general public doesn't know.
Channel Nine showed cops downtown making all the bums pull their pants down to see if they had a tiny blue dicks, and a couple did,but it turned out to be just from the cold, so they were issued socks to keep their weiners in.
Now, you are probably going to hear about this on the news, unless this too is one of those things the CIA is just going to hide from you, like who killed, slaughtered, and ate Andy Rooney on the CBS evening news.
M. will probably find out right away. I will hold my lying position as long as possible, of course -- long after it has just grown pathetic, as is my way. I will tell her that I am not now, nor ever was, painted in blue crayons, and furthermore, that I hate blue crayons so much that I have thrown all of mine away.
Oh, well . . . Got blood on my hands, a smoldering bong, one less mother--in--law, fewer people we have to cook for on Holidays... I kind of hope that M. is astute enough to see the positives in my slaughtering her family, though more than likely she isn't emotionally mature enough to take these little bumps in the road with a grain of salt.
