Today's entry of "Strange and Crappy Short Story Bonanza" is pretty bad. Well, okay, worse than usual...
Hello, Mister Shakespeare, Shakespeare wrote. Hows it going? Oh, thats right, Im you, so I know its going fine. Im writing this to you because my therapist says it would be good for me. When you put thoughts to paper it creates a physical entity to focus on. Abstract forms can attack you without you even knowing it, apparently. Like a ghost or something. The only way to fight a ghost is to either become a ghost, too, or to give that ghost a corporeal host body. (And if youre going to do that, make sure the body is tied up. But expose the genitals. Its fun to kick ghosts in the groin. Trust me! *wink*)
Anyway, the family is doing fine, too. My wife is old and my children are young. I am just me, though. Its funny how you dont feel your age until you get to that stage where your past comes back to give you kidney problems or impotence. When I was in my twenties, I didnt have enough life to create diabetes. So I did as I pleased, blissfully unaware that all those cheeseburgers and one-night stands would make my forties a nightmare. Not a trapped in a small room filling up with water nightmare, though. More of a realized I forgot my David Bowie tickets at home twenty minutes before the concert starts.
Im not sure what to say to you/me. I know what youre/Im thinking, after all boogah boogah boogah! Hahahaha. Scared you/me, didnt I? I know I scared myself just now. So youre/Im probably scared in the future as you/I read this.
Wow. The future. I wonder whats going to happen then? Will I be alive or dead? If Im dead, how will I be able to read this? And if Im alive, will I give a crap about my past self? Right now I dont care for my early period, the years before my thirteenth birthday or whenever. Waiting for your balls to drop gets to you after a while. Thirties kinda sucked. I wrote some plays and fathered some children, but otherwise just sat around and drank ale. Id actually like to be twenty again. I had a lot of acne but not as much as I used to have. I miss having a lot of acne. Its fun popping zits and causing tiny eruptions on your face, like God composing a symphony of volcanoes.
While acne was fun, it was nothing compared to dreaming. Dreaming about the future, about everything I would create, about the fame and adulation Id acquire, and of course about all the tavern wenches Id rent a room from. Hehehe. (Better hide this from the wife. Shes still sore about putting my you-know-what in you-know-whos you-know-where after our sons baptismal.) But now that Im here, in this future transformed into present, I look back at all my work and all my deeds and wonder if I shouldve done more. You know, written more plays or befriended more people or or even taken a different career path. Why didnt I become a banker or a soldier? Would I have had a better life if Id taken that gig as a court jester? I met the fellow who eventually took that job, you know. Turns out the queen has a weakness for men in make up and funny shoes. But the reason the job was open in the first place was because this weakness had executed the last twelve jesters. Uh, indirectly, just to clear that up. Crap, is it still not clear? Well, the king had them beheaded. There.
If I had written more plays, what would they have been about? Why didnt I think of them back them? Hell, why didnt I think of my current plays when I was younger? If Id written them then, I wouldve had more time to write other plays.
I cant blame anyone but myself for my number of plays. I couldve spent more time writing and less time pursuing women or playing poker or something. But then I would be kicking myself for having spent too much time working and not enjoying life. Hopefully, my life was a fine balance of work and play. Thats all one can ever hope for in the end. I sure am glad I never took up smoking.
When I meet God, Im going to try to talk Him into starring in my latest work. Ive never seen Him act, but the main role has few lines so theres little chance of Him bombing. I did this partly because Id sure hate to be the critic that wrote negatively about Gods performance. Eternal damnation for you, blasphemer! Whew! Not that critics dont deserve eternal damnation, mind you, but I would still feel guilty.
Hmmm I dont seem to have accomplished anything. I was supposed to talk about my feelings here. Im a little depressed over my dog, Othello, dying, you see. He was such a good dog. He didnt know how to sit, but he could fetch like nobodys business. Hot dang, could he ever fetch. Haha! I just had an idea. Im going to write a serious play and title the main character after my dog. Everyone would be like, Wow, this is great! The main character sure is powerful and has lots of depth and goes through so many strong emotions and talks so eloquently and theyll be talking about my dog! HA HA AND ILL BE THE ONLY ONE WHO KNOWS! I am so funny. I shouldve written more comedies. Or titled more characters after animals. Wish Id thought of that years ago. Hamlet shouldve been called Sir Bark-A-Lot. Haha.
Anyway, my therapist says my dog is representative of my sons. Im afraid that theyll die, he says. He also says that my work has allowed me to assume the role of God, giving and taking and controlling the lives of so many people, but that this power wont save my family. I guess Im afraid of this. But who isnt? Seems like it would be a pretty common fear. He might as well tell me I have a phobia of being questioned by the Inquisition (which I do; Im not fond of things entering my rectum, especially when those things are heated spikes). Everyone fears the Spanish Inquisition. Except Eric Idle, of course; whos excluded from being part of everyone after his role in that bloody Bay of Pigs fiasco proved he lacks anything resembling a soul.
My soul is eight hundred feet tall and can breathe fire, I bet. It just gets tired of being seen all the time, so thats why my body is short and bald. But my soul has flowing blonde hair laced with pirates. And my fingernails are quilts made from the scalps of mountains Ive defeated. And no one knows what my blood is because I never lose a battle but they all suspect my heart beats pure grain alcohol mixed with root beer and diluted water.
Whelp, dinners ready. Were having beef stew, so Im going to hurry off now. Ill write more later I bet. Its what I do, after all hahaha. In parting:
My soul can totally kick your ass.
Hello, Mister Shakespeare, Shakespeare wrote. Hows it going? Oh, thats right, Im you, so I know its going fine. Im writing this to you because my therapist says it would be good for me. When you put thoughts to paper it creates a physical entity to focus on. Abstract forms can attack you without you even knowing it, apparently. Like a ghost or something. The only way to fight a ghost is to either become a ghost, too, or to give that ghost a corporeal host body. (And if youre going to do that, make sure the body is tied up. But expose the genitals. Its fun to kick ghosts in the groin. Trust me! *wink*)
Anyway, the family is doing fine, too. My wife is old and my children are young. I am just me, though. Its funny how you dont feel your age until you get to that stage where your past comes back to give you kidney problems or impotence. When I was in my twenties, I didnt have enough life to create diabetes. So I did as I pleased, blissfully unaware that all those cheeseburgers and one-night stands would make my forties a nightmare. Not a trapped in a small room filling up with water nightmare, though. More of a realized I forgot my David Bowie tickets at home twenty minutes before the concert starts.
Im not sure what to say to you/me. I know what youre/Im thinking, after all boogah boogah boogah! Hahahaha. Scared you/me, didnt I? I know I scared myself just now. So youre/Im probably scared in the future as you/I read this.
Wow. The future. I wonder whats going to happen then? Will I be alive or dead? If Im dead, how will I be able to read this? And if Im alive, will I give a crap about my past self? Right now I dont care for my early period, the years before my thirteenth birthday or whenever. Waiting for your balls to drop gets to you after a while. Thirties kinda sucked. I wrote some plays and fathered some children, but otherwise just sat around and drank ale. Id actually like to be twenty again. I had a lot of acne but not as much as I used to have. I miss having a lot of acne. Its fun popping zits and causing tiny eruptions on your face, like God composing a symphony of volcanoes.
While acne was fun, it was nothing compared to dreaming. Dreaming about the future, about everything I would create, about the fame and adulation Id acquire, and of course about all the tavern wenches Id rent a room from. Hehehe. (Better hide this from the wife. Shes still sore about putting my you-know-what in you-know-whos you-know-where after our sons baptismal.) But now that Im here, in this future transformed into present, I look back at all my work and all my deeds and wonder if I shouldve done more. You know, written more plays or befriended more people or or even taken a different career path. Why didnt I become a banker or a soldier? Would I have had a better life if Id taken that gig as a court jester? I met the fellow who eventually took that job, you know. Turns out the queen has a weakness for men in make up and funny shoes. But the reason the job was open in the first place was because this weakness had executed the last twelve jesters. Uh, indirectly, just to clear that up. Crap, is it still not clear? Well, the king had them beheaded. There.
If I had written more plays, what would they have been about? Why didnt I think of them back them? Hell, why didnt I think of my current plays when I was younger? If Id written them then, I wouldve had more time to write other plays.
I cant blame anyone but myself for my number of plays. I couldve spent more time writing and less time pursuing women or playing poker or something. But then I would be kicking myself for having spent too much time working and not enjoying life. Hopefully, my life was a fine balance of work and play. Thats all one can ever hope for in the end. I sure am glad I never took up smoking.
When I meet God, Im going to try to talk Him into starring in my latest work. Ive never seen Him act, but the main role has few lines so theres little chance of Him bombing. I did this partly because Id sure hate to be the critic that wrote negatively about Gods performance. Eternal damnation for you, blasphemer! Whew! Not that critics dont deserve eternal damnation, mind you, but I would still feel guilty.
Hmmm I dont seem to have accomplished anything. I was supposed to talk about my feelings here. Im a little depressed over my dog, Othello, dying, you see. He was such a good dog. He didnt know how to sit, but he could fetch like nobodys business. Hot dang, could he ever fetch. Haha! I just had an idea. Im going to write a serious play and title the main character after my dog. Everyone would be like, Wow, this is great! The main character sure is powerful and has lots of depth and goes through so many strong emotions and talks so eloquently and theyll be talking about my dog! HA HA AND ILL BE THE ONLY ONE WHO KNOWS! I am so funny. I shouldve written more comedies. Or titled more characters after animals. Wish Id thought of that years ago. Hamlet shouldve been called Sir Bark-A-Lot. Haha.
Anyway, my therapist says my dog is representative of my sons. Im afraid that theyll die, he says. He also says that my work has allowed me to assume the role of God, giving and taking and controlling the lives of so many people, but that this power wont save my family. I guess Im afraid of this. But who isnt? Seems like it would be a pretty common fear. He might as well tell me I have a phobia of being questioned by the Inquisition (which I do; Im not fond of things entering my rectum, especially when those things are heated spikes). Everyone fears the Spanish Inquisition. Except Eric Idle, of course; whos excluded from being part of everyone after his role in that bloody Bay of Pigs fiasco proved he lacks anything resembling a soul.
My soul is eight hundred feet tall and can breathe fire, I bet. It just gets tired of being seen all the time, so thats why my body is short and bald. But my soul has flowing blonde hair laced with pirates. And my fingernails are quilts made from the scalps of mountains Ive defeated. And no one knows what my blood is because I never lose a battle but they all suspect my heart beats pure grain alcohol mixed with root beer and diluted water.
Whelp, dinners ready. Were having beef stew, so Im going to hurry off now. Ill write more later I bet. Its what I do, after all hahaha. In parting:
My soul can totally kick your ass.