Today, you're going to deliver a baby on the bus!

Could be worse.

Today, you'll be riding on a bus when it comes to a sudden stop because a woman riding in the back has unexpectedly gone into labor.  You're preoccupied at the moment, because you're looking out the window at that short skinny girl that you have a crush on who is at that moment walking past your window (she's someone else's girlfriend though, what a shame).

Your thoughts are interrupted by the pregnant woman's exclamation that someone needs to deliver her baby for her, and everyone on the car will look at you because you’ll be wearing surgical scrubs. You aren’t a doctor. You’re just the guitarist in a Bob Marley cover band called No Woman No Cry.

You’ll explain that the surgical scrubs actually cost you a lot of money and you might not be able to afford to replace them if you get placenta all over them, but everyone will promise to chip in to buy you new scrubs.

‘We’ll all just feel better if the guy doing the delivery is at least dressed like a doctor,’ one of the passengers will say.

The pregnant woman will howl at a contraction and you’ll realize that there’s no time to argue.

‘Let’s go crazy,’ you’ll say before you get down on the floor and reach in between the woman’s legs to pull her soaking wet panties down from underneath her skirt.

Tell the woman to breathe a bunch of times, then tell her to push. Her vagina will get wider and wider and it will even tear a little bit. When the baby’s head starts to poke out of the woman’s vagina, place your fingers around it and pull very gently. Even though you don’t know the woman, it’s okay if you accidentally touch her on the vagina a little. Everyone will know by how much you argued about having to help deliver the baby that you’re not some pervert who only gets turned on by vaginas that have babies coming out of them. She knew when she got pregnant that one day someone she doesn’t know might have watch her vagina get really big and might have to touch it even. She never thought a whole subway car full of people would get to see it, but she knew there was a very small possibility.

Or at least an elevator full of people.

Anyway, the baby will eventually come out, followed by all this other terrifying stuff and it will look like a massacre happened. You’ll all take a vote on what to do with the umbilical cord and you’ll decide not to do anything about it because the only knives that are on the train will belong to some teenage gang members and they won’t be able to remember if they washed the blades after their last rumble.

Once the baby is wrapped up in newspapers, you’ll remind everyone that they’d better chip in to buy you some new scrubs.

‘These were twenty one dollars before tax,’ you’ll say. At first everyone will balk, hoping the guy with the briefcase will just give you the full twenty-something. But he’ll complain about an ex-wife and a daughter in college, so the others will all chip in and give you around eighteen dollars, which isn’t bad.

The mother will ask you your name so that she can name her son after you. Tell her your name is Kyle, even though it’s not. You don’t want some kid who was born on a subway to be your namesake, do you?

Alternatively, you could tell her your name is Adolf which would be funny if she goes for it.

Today, there will be a gripping moment at the Diner.

Parking lot handjob optional.

You're learning to spend some time alone. It's going well enough. You're finding that your thoughts can be good company, especially since you're always thinking about what it would be like to have two girlfriends, and the ability to teleport.

Tonight you went to the diner. For a coffee and a view of the street. You've been there for around forty minutes with a vision of falling off of the Empire State Building, but teleporting to the Denny's across the street right before the moment of impact, as your two smokin' hot girlfriends hop up and down and cheer you on.

Yes, it's a pretty regular 'ol Saturday night for you.

In your mind your drinking some powerade and giving an interview to a reporter when you shake the fantasy away to notice the mailman with a mailbag slung over his shoulder stopping in front of the diner to check the address. The mailman looks at the postcard in his hand

You look at your watch and see it's 8:53 PM. 

"That guy woke up late today," you think. The mailman enters the diner and speaks with the cashier.

You drift back to the Starbucks where you and your two girlsfriends, Julie and Lorraine are trying to coordinate your plans for the evening. Julie wants to see the new Twilight at 8, and Lorraine just wants to make sure the movie lets out early enough for you to meet her and her visiting parents for a drink at the hotel where her parents are staying. 

Then you notice the waiter is standing by your table and not refilling your coffee. You look up to see the waiter with a postcard in his hand.

"Are you Jimmy...uh..." the waiter checks the postcard. "Jimmy...Abbot?"

You are. "How'd you know?"

The waiter drops the postcard on the table. You pick it up and read.

Jimmy Abbot
c/o Zingo's Diner
Third Booth By The Window
333 Buck Owens Blvd
Bakersfield, CA

Boy, get down! Head to the tabletop! Now!

You throw your nose to the table and wait for the gunshot. You turn your eyes up just in time to see a straw wrapper shoot past and float down onto the empty seat of adjacent booth. If you had not gotten that postcard, the straw wrapper would've slammed directly into the back of your head.

You sit back up and look behind you to find a little boy with a crewcut, the naked straw to his lips aimed straight at you. The boy's mother takes the straw from his mouth and motions for him to finish his hamburger. You go back to the postcard and read the rest.

Hope this helped kid.

Sincerely,

Tom Cruise

You check the postmark. It says "Hollywood."

Today, you're gonna get thrown out of Weinerschnitzel!

The black guy dies first.

Today, you'll find yourself completely unable to wait for lunchtime because lunchtime is when you get to talk to Sarah, the 17-year old girl who works behind the counter at Weinerschnitzel. 

Sarah looks exactly like Annie, a girl you were on a date with from high school who died on Prom Night. 

A bit of history.  Years ago on Prom Night, you were driving the car and you bet everyone in the car that you could make it across the train tracks before the train passed. 

No one in the car took the bet and they begged you to just take them to the Prom so that everyone could live out the night they had dreamed about throughout their teens, but you thought that by them being scared it would just make Prom Night all the more memorable when you sailed past the train tracks with only half a moment to spare as the train horn screamed in the night, already retreating behind you, with your laughter drifting out the car windows. 

Oh, you were all so young.

It didn't work out that way though, because everyone in the car died except for you.

Which is why you like ordering lunch from Sarah every day because it lets you pretend that the world stopped just minutes before you were all hit by that train, and it lets you pretend that Annie isn't dead, but that she's still 17 and she got a job at Weinerschnitzel.

Unfortunately you find yourself unwelcome in Weinerschnitzel and unable to enjoy a nice simple chili dog because eventually the manager stepped in front of Sarah and told you that you aren't allowed to eat lunch there anymore since every time you ordered something you followed it up by screaming "I'M SO SO SORRY!" and then lunging across the counter to try and hug Sarah and it scared his customers.

So tomorrow you'll head over to Fresh & Easy, where one of the cashier guys looks like Jared, one of your friends who was in the backseat.

Except more of a mexican version of Jared.

You can't wait for lunch tomorrow!

Today, a top secret spy mission at a top secret laundromat.

If you think about it, 
we're all spies...in the pentagon of love.

Your spy clothes had gotten a bit dirty during your last spy mission, so now you decide it's time to clean them. Accordingly, you'll slip on an outfit which you figure will help you blend in with the inhabitants of this city, then bundle up all your clothes and head down to the local laundromat.


Inside the laundromat, all will be it should be. Washers spin clothes about wetly. Dryers spin clothes about dryly. And the people just watch and hope for the best. There'll be no-one here who might recognize you, so you'll step inside and prepare for an ordinary afternoon of laundering.

You'll survey the laundromat for possible alternate exits but there won't be any.  Briefly, you'll consider the idea of establishing some sort of underground railroad to a top secret mountain stronghold but realize that you don't have that kind of time.

The mission calls.

Get some change from the change machine. You already have enough change, but a few people will be watching, and there will be no need to arouse suspicion about exactly how you have acquired the change.

Then you'll survey the scene as you walk over towards the washing machines - about twenty people of various sexes, age ranges and ethnic groupings - most reading or otherwise occupied.  I'll hardly be noticed at all, you'll think to yourself with a devious smile.

You'll notice a young mother and her child who are playing cards while they wait for their washing machine to finish. You won't be able to help but notice that there's no man with them ... and then you'll suddenly realize that nothing else will make a better cover.


"Hi honey and daughter!" you'll exclaim in a loud and natural voice, as you plop down your laundry atop a machine and stand beside the two. "Playing with that deck of cards I got you during my BUSINESS TRIP to New York two years ago, I see," you'll say with a bit of a wink.

The woman will stare at you blankly. Her daughter looks a little nervous.

Damn, you'll think, they aren't catching on.

Here's where you'll open your eyes wide and glare at them in a manner which will express the danger they are all in, and say, "So, how are you today, WIFE and DAUGHTER?"

"Who are you?" the woman will demand in a voice which is slightly too confused to be truly angry.

The daughter will put down her hand and begin moving towards her mother's arms. She looks as if she might cry.

"I am your husband ... a NORMAL, ORDINARY BUSINESSMAN named Lance Puttnam...HONEY," you'll say, taking a quick look over your shoulder to perform some minor damage assessment.

About a dozen people are now looking your way; some seemed concerned. This was getting a little tense.

"How is your concussion anyhow?" say, and peer at the back of her head intensely, desparately. "I forgot that you accidentally HIT YOUR HEAD ON A BOAT WHILE WATER-SKIING last week," you'll say in a voice that is simultaneously forceful and pleading.

"I think you're confusing me--"

"I'm NOT confusing you HONEY, YOU are my WIFE and SHE is my DAUGHTER," you'll  exclaim in response, half to the woman, and half to the other customers. "I am an ORDINARY BUSINESSMAN NAMED LANCE PUTTNAM."

Now the daughter will start to cry and the woman will gather the girl up in her arms. A few of the other customers will began to mutter and point. They won't look happy.

Damn, you'll think to yourself, I've blown my cover again.

Now, reach into your utility spy belt, toss off three nerve gas grenades and slip on your personal breathing apparatus with one swift, fluid movement. The room will quickly fill with mist. The other customers will slump to the floor and shake a little before becoming still.

You'll set down the thermonuclear device and leave to try your luck at Starbucks.

Today, you won't let just ANY little nervous breakdown deter you from sending Mama to Goldfish Heaven!

The Porcelain Gates

You've known all of your adult life that is was thanks to your Mama that you developed the aspirations to become the devoted Professor of Biology that you are. Truly, there was no finer instructor in all of the residing state colleges in all of Vermont. Parents and students alike sang your praises and your unquestionable aptitude in every aspect of your field from evolutionary theory to chromosomal research. Sometimes it seemed that you could hear barely perceivable kudos emitting from the jars full of formaldehyde in which the frogs and baby pigs resided, waiting for that eventual day that they would receive the honor of being vivisected by capable students under your noteworthy gaze.

Mama was so encouraging, so easily approachable with any situation or problem. You still remember the time that she escorted you to the Junior Spring Fling Formal in High School after Marsha Littleton ditched you as her date in order to attend the same prom with the Obsessive Compulsive "Special Needs" student that she coached in Speech Class every wednesday after school.

On the way to the Formal in your Mama's purple '81 Toronado, you smiled and thought about how you rather preferred going with Mama instead of with some bubblegum-chewing hussy that would stoop so low as to go to Formal with a 15-year old korean exchange student possessing the irresistible desire to hoot like an owl every time somebody turned a light switch on or off.

Really, you were better off.

Mama told you to ignore all the teasing that you encountered when walking into the Vista View Room at the Radisson Hotel, telling you that all these bumblefuck teeny-boppers couldn't find prettier dates if they had been pedophilic doctors specializing in eating disorders.

And when "Livin' La Vida Loca" pulsed out of the speakers later that night, Mama and you took the dance floor and Cabbage-Patched your asses off like it was 1999.

Ever since then you have taken Mama's word as gospel.

But you never knew your worldview was to come crashing down all around you until now, standing at the front of your 10:30 AM Biology 3 course, with the entirety of the class erupting in cruel laughter.

Somewhere in your brain you are transported twenty-six years back in time. You are nine years old and your goldfish Boris has just hit the proverbial dust. His tiny little golden body floats placidly in the water as you hover over his bowl and turn the water to salt with your tears.

You remember standing by the toilet as Mama held Boris by his back fin and committed him to eternal rest into the toilet bowl with a tiny plop.

"But Mama, if Boris is going down into the sewers, how is he going to float up the sky into Heaven?" You inquire through your tears.

Mama hesitates before speaking. "Sweetheart, little fishies have their own Heaven to go to. And everybody knows that the only way to Goldfish Heaven is through the sewer pipes that run under our city and empty out into the promised land for every good little fishy."

You nod, and sniff. "So if Boris swims through the sewers to Goldfish Heaven, did my kitty Leonardo dig his way to Kitty Heaven through the hole in the backyard?"

"Quiet, honey. It's time for Mama's afternoon snack," came Mama's reply, as she rummaged through the liquor cabinet.

You snap back to reality. Your students are still laughing at you as you fondly rhapsodize about Goldfish Heaven, and your #1 student Stanley Wu is looking at you with pity as he stands with an expired Artie in his palm, the goldfish that is your lab mascot.

Finally you burst into tears and run out of the classroom toward the only place where you can get a grip on yourself; the retirement home where Mama is now housed.

At the Home, an emotional reunion takes place. Mama is unresponsive in her coma, but you know that on some level she can hear your voice, feel your palm on her forehead.

Mama always listens.

"I only hope that you can go to someplace as nice as Goldfish Heaven, Mama," you sob as you jerk the plug out of her life-support machine.

That evening you are apprehended by the authorities as you slog through the sewers underneath the city, but even before the White-Coats gag you, you don't mention Goldfish Heaven even once, because no one understands like Mama.

Today, you're going to piss in the wastebasket!

A bit ornate, but let's not be picky.

It's not that you mind the uncomfortable sensation of your kidneys filled to bursting, but try as you might to think about the mundane aspects of life like grocery shopping, crying in the shower, or lurking on your ex-girlfriend's facebook...you're simply unable to put leaky faucets and waterfalls out of your head. 

How many times have I been drunk, you think to yourself.  Not just drunk, but so drunk that I would lay in bed the next morning and have a serious debate with myself about whether I should actually GET UP to pee, or whether I should just go in the bed?

Your prostate feels like an overripe honeydew.  DEW.  SHIT.

You ponder thrashing around limply in your pathos, but quickly decide against it.  This is the interesting part.  If your life were a movie, this is where the score would consist of plucked violins, maybe a hesitant xylophone overture, as you put your virtual thinking cap on.  The camera would zero in on your squinted eyes as you formed your devious plan.

You make a few hops sideways on the futon, closer to the edge.  This is harder than it seems as you are mainly kicking your legs for the momentum, and the sloshing of your bladder makes you groan.  Thankfully it is morning and you are in a state of semi-arousal, so you think you can just barely manage to arc the stream of urine across half of the bedroom and into the awaiting wastebasket in the attached bathroom.

You're going to have to push.  It might hurt, but this is the point of no return.  You take a deep breath and-

It's...BEAUTIFUL.


Your stream is powerful, the world is just.  The wastebasket in the bathroom nearly topples, but your aim is true.  Unfortunately pressure does not last and the finishing touch offends the white carpet, but just...barely.  This might not present a problem.

If you can find a way to get out of these handcuffs, the girl you met last night at Sizzler that lashed you naked to her futon might not get back in time to find out you pissed all up in her business.

Good luck!

Today, you'll say goodbye to your son.

Those crazy rock n rollers.

They're in the driveway waiting to take him away to the life of rock n roll.

"Let me talk to them," you'll say.

Go outside and approach the coolest one in the band, the one with the longest feathers dangling from his ear ring.

"Do you all do drugs?" you'll ask.

The rock band member will think for a moment, then say yes.

"When you do drugs, will you keep an eye on my son to make sure he doesn't do too many?"

The rock band member will shrug and say he guesses.

"I assume there are girls in that van," you'll say to him.

He'll raise his hand for you to high-five him. You'll do so, hoping to raise your credibility.

"Any of them dead?"

The rock band member will shrug and say he ain't no doctor.

"If my son ever has sex with a girl and she dies, will you help him get rid of the body?  Help him drag the body to a dumpster and wipe off any of his DNA that might have gotten on her?"

The rock band member will say they have an agreement. You have sex with it and it dies, it's your responsibility.  It's the rock n roll code.

"So you believe in responsibility," you'll say to him. "That makes me feel more comfortable."

The other band members will stop playing air guitar and air keyboards so that they can set fire to your rosebushes. Watch the blaze rise and know that there's nothing you can do. 

There's nothing you can do.

"Rock n roll," you'll say. 

"Rock n roll," the rock band member will concur.

Turn to your son. "You're 14 now. I can't tell you what to do anymore. This seems like a rock band you can trust. I give you my blessing."

Say goodbye and hug him to your chest. His fishnet top will get caught in the buttons of your shirt. You and your son will laugh. The last time you'll laugh together, because rock n roll is going to change him.

Rock n roll changes everybody in the end.

Today, you're going to buy beer for a teenager

They're never too young.

 Today when you go to the liquor store, a teenager will approach you at the entrance and he’ll ask you if you can pick up a six-pack for him and his friends.

“We’re all underage,” he’ll say. “But we wanna get drunk and have the time of our lives.”

Say, “Well, you will need alcohol you’re right about that.”

“Is it as awesome as they say?” the kid will ask.

“I’ve been drinking 42 years now,” you'll tell him. “It just keeps getting better every single sip. Sometimes, when I get drunk enough, the world looks so beautiful I have to shut my eyes to keep from crying.”

“Wow,” the kid will say. “Please mister, help me see what you see.”

Tell him, “I want to kid, but how do I know you won’t sell me up the river?”

“Pardon?” he’ll ask.

“I know how you kids work,” tell him. “If you get caught doing something bad, like drinking beer or cheating on a test, you grab the nearest adult and you accuse him of trying to bang you. All of a sudden you’re the victim and you get accepted early admission to college while I go to jail on a kiddie raper beef.”

“But mister I wouldn’t…”

“Now you wouldn’t,” tell him. “But what about when your parents and the police and your faggot guidance counselor are all hovering over you telling you that it’s gonna go on your permanent record? What’s to keep you from telling ‘em all that you didn’t even ask for it, but some pervert outside the market offered it to you if you’d show him your pecker? My momma didn’t raise no fool, kid. Well, ‘cept for my brother.”

“Was your brother falsely accused of child molestation?” the kid will ask.

“Nah, he fucked those kids, for sure.  But I ain’t him! And I ain’t gonna fall for it," you'll answer.

“Mister,” the kid will say. “If you buy me this six-pack, if you introduce me to the beautiful world contained within those six aluminum cans, it would be impossible for me to betray you. How could I betray the man who opened my eyes to such a lofty panorama?"

The kid will have a point.

“You ain’t gonna tell nobody that I tried to rape you?” ask him once more. “You SWEAR it?”

“I swear,” he’ll say. And you’ll believe him. Not because you’ll think him honest, but because you know the truth found in a sip of alcohol. That truth is bigger than you, than that kid, it’s bigger than all your worries and all your cynicism. It’s big enough to hold a little faith.

“What kind you want?”

“I heard Steel Reserve is real good,” the kid will say.

“You heard right,” you’ll tell the kid.

Then you’ll go inside and buy him his very first glimpse of the perfect endless sky.

Today, you're going to stare at a phone.

"GI, you buy?"

"Jesus jumped-up Christ!  Stop it, you two!"

The two guys in Famous Stars And Straps T-shirts look over at you from the pool table at the other end of the bar, where they have been trying with minimal success to balance a pitcher of Coors Light on the tip of a pool cue.  One of them mutters 'cunt' and the other one giggles.  You roll your eyes.

You glance at the phone as you run a towel over the surface of the bar.  What the phone looks like is it's black.  What the phone sounds like is silent.

"Did I ever tell you that I had a sexual act named after me?"

You look over at Richard.  "In Vietnam, right?"

What Richard looks like is old.  His skin is made up of dry, cracked leather and you have never seen the top of his head beneath the army cap he always wears.  Richard's left leg was blown off below the knee by shrapnel in the war.  He has a prosthetic leg but apparently it's quite painful to walk on, so he ends up usually carrying it under his arm and hops back and forth to the bathroom.

Richard has been coming to the bar you work at during the day from 3:00 to 8:00 everyday since you started 3 years ago.  Richard is your best friend.

"That's right, Vietnam."

You smile and pull your hair back into a ponytail.  "Tell me all about it."

Richard takes a sip of his White Russian between nicotine stained lips.  It's obvious he enjoys this as much as you do.  "Well it's simple really.  I was on MP duty and I decided to get myself a whore."

His stories are most commonly centered around the bustling prostitute situation in 'Nam.  "Wait," you interrupt.  "Is this the one about how you didn't realize you were fucking on an anthill until it was too late?  Cuz I've heard it already."

Richard shakes his head.  "No no...this is a different one.  Anyway, so I take her into the chopper, right?  I lay her down on these flak jackets and she takes this questionable looking condom out of her little peasant dress and tries to grab my junk.  So I say no, no, mama-san.  Richard-san in the mood for some spelunking, and I go down on this little broad faster than a broken elevator.  And she's screeching and hollering and basically making a scene until I finish, wipe my mouth, and go back out on MP duty.

"Right," you reply.

He takes another sip of his drink.  "Then my buddy Harris decides he wants a go at here, and when he goes into the helicopter I just hear what sounds like an argument.  You know, what an argument would sound like when two people who don't speak each others languages try to argue.  But I just minded my own business and he comes out with all his clothes on and storms off.  I asked him what was wrong and he says that I am one sick motherfucker.  He says that the little vietnamese mama-san wouldn't let him fuck her, but she demanded that he gave her some "Richard-San."  Then she pointed."

Richard points downward in the universal gesture for "gimme some head."

Your listening, but your staring at the phone.  "That's classic, Richard."

He looks at you.  At the phone.  "So, he's not calling, eh?"

"Is it that obvious?"  You sigh.

"It was only a couple of dates, right?"

"Yes, but-"  you prepare to give a complete diagnosis of what the situation might be, why he won't call, why you want him to call, etc etc etc.  However, before you can, Richard interrupts you.
"Becca, it's a certifiable fact that the more you stare at the phone, and the more you try NOT to stare at the phone, the more the phone will stare right back at you in complete silence.  They are selfish, unfeeling machines that have no concept of how insanely inappropriate it is to not ring when you want them to."

"Well, I don't do that all the time," you say.  "Only when it's from a certain number."

"I could give you some advice, but I don't think your evolved enough as a human to take it."

"Try me."

He winks lecherously at you.  "Make tender love to a tired old alcoholic who still has 'Nam flashbacks."

You sigh, then turn around.  You pick up a sharpie and look at the paper on the wall.

On the paper under where it says "Number of Times Today Richard Has Requested I Make Tender Love To Him" are 8 vertical slashes.

You add a ninth slash.  Richard giggles into his white russian.

Later that night as Richard is bunny-hopping to the bathroom, he topples to the ground and lands on his colostomy bag, spewing its contents all over the carpet.  But your too occupied to notice, still staring at a phone that won't ring.

Today, that old man you tied to a chair and burglarized will leave you his all his earthly possessions..

Magnanimous, the old bastard was.

Today a lawyer is going to come to your house and read you the will of that lonely old guy you robbed six years ago, the one who came into the bedroom while you were rooting through his dresser drawers and scoping out the jewelry situation. You tied him up and he started talking a mile a minute while you were there. He asked you all sorts of questions about the modern world and you answered him honestly from your street-smart point of view. He found your candor refreshing and he talked on and on, not even seeming to mind that you were upending his bedroom, just as long as you continued to engage him. Before you left, he called you a wise and honest young man and he thanked you for your time. Then you stuffed one of his socks in his mouth, shoved the chair he was tied to over on its side, and took off. You were never caught.

The lawyer will read, ‘To the straight shooter who robbed me six years ago and was more honest and direct with me than all the yes-man assistants I have ever employed, and who was far more endearing than anyone in that terrible family I failed to raise, and who in my final years gave me a glimpse of what it is to truly grasp and grab for an existence, I leave everything.’

You’ll jump up and down, waking your baby. Unfortunately, the family will contest the will for years and years. You’ll be front page news for a very long time with everyone wanting to know what you and the old man talked about. You’ll keep it to yourself until you’re given a huge deal to write a book called, ‘The Old Man and The Burglar.’ You’ll recreate the night in that book, throwing in lots of fabricated details about you telling the old man what it’s like to grow up in the projects and the old man teaching you about the sacrifice people like him made for their country during World War II. You’ll write scenes in which you and the old man cry together, and one scene where you even share a lingering kiss on the lips, your tears intermingling for the briefest of moments.

Your memoir of the old man and the burglar will be a huge hit, and you’ll be glad you chose not to tell the real story about how the old man only asked questions about whether modern girls were taking it ‘in the pooper’ and how long it took before they let you ‘put in the pooper’ and whether ‘the pooper’ feels as good as he’d always dreamed it would those 91 years he spent on this Earth.

Print the legend.

Today, your going to have a duel to the death with your crippled son.

Blasphemy in the Sky

Your sitting in the kitchen with a baby in each arm when you have an epiphany. You are miserable. This isn't the life you dreamed of when you ran away from the moral cesspool of sin that was Los Angeles and settled in Utah and met Jebediah. You had plans for your life, but now your coming to the realization that succumbing to the irresistible charm of Jeb and his bitchin' hat was your ultimate downfall.

Tabitha is sweeping around the stove. She's Jeb's Third-Wife. The only time you ever feel anything remotely resembling pleasure is when you exert your feeble seniority over her as Second-Wife. Whenever she gets too close to you,you'll snap at her like a bobcat. She'll whimper feebly and go into the living room to sob into her apron. God, you hate her.

Tabitha hasn't even had her first child yet, yet you secretly look forward to the day when she realizes that after giving birth to two sets of twins and one set of triplets, her vagoo will have all the comfort and visual appeal of a tractor tire.

Your musing over this when Jeb walks in and takes off his hat. He immediately walks over to his pipe-stand and fills his bowl with tobacco, lights it up.

Puff, puff, pass sucka. You shake your head as if to dispel the thought. Sometimes you can't get L.A. out of your mind.

"Jeb."

He turns around, holding the pipe to his chest.  This is his 'regal' stance. "Yes, my wife?"

"I'm tired of being your second-wife, Jeb. You don't appreciate me! I sit in this house all day and clean and cook while First-Wife plays bunko!" You heft the two babies to try to reposition them as you speak.  After an hour, nursing twins simultaneously feels like holding two boulders that like to yank on your breasts.

"It's your duty as set down in the word of God, my wife. We are building a new world from which all the heathens will take inspiration and repent their sinful ways."

"Yes, well I didn't know building a new world order would involve my nipples getting chewed off daily by all these damn babies."

He looks at you strangely. "Don't say words like that."

"Oh? Does that bother you? Nipples? NIPPLES!" You scream.

He recoils in horror.

"I..I had dreams! I was going to be a Sky-Writer! I was going to fly an airplane write great big words in smoke in the sky, love letters, birthday wishes, movie promotions!"

He flinches again, as if struck. "My wife, Sky-Writing is-"

"The Devil? Everything is The Devil to you, Jeb! Well, maybe there's a devil IN ME!"

You burst into tears and run out the front door, the fact you still have two babies attached to your breasts flees from your mind. You bang one of the babies heads on the doorjamb as you escape and he falls to the floor with a resounding thump.  He screws his eyes shut and tiny shrieks of pain echo throughout the house, but soon the only sound you hear is the wind in your ears as you sprint towards the highway, towards fate.

The baby named Ethan that you dropped will grow up to know that the reason he can't figure multiplication tables and walks with a limp is because his devil of a Mother abandoned him to run off and write blasphemy in the sky, and when he's old enough he'll come looking for you, his eyes full of red unspeakable hate and his bum leg dragging behind him in the dust.

Prepare yourself to duel to the death with your crippled son.

Today, you're going to dance on the ashes.

This morning when you get up you’ll feel a hundred pounds lighter.  You’ll tour the old house, taking time to stop in the dining room where you played trivial pursuit with your daughter at the dining table.  When she was teething she chewed the entire left edge of the table, and you run your fingers along the gnawed flakes of wood and you remember. 

 In the backyard is the tree where you and your fiancé carved your initials inside of a bulbous heart with the sharp spiraled edge of a wine cork.  The wine cork broke near the end and you had nothing to open your last bottle of pinot noir, so you broke it over the railing near the door and watched her for the next hour to make sure she didn’t get any glass in her mouth.  There’s a shard of glass just out of view behind the step as you go back into the house but you don’t notice because you’re remembering.

You go through the kitchen and into the foyer, your nose is crinkling at the smell of kerosene.  There’s some road flares balanced on the umbrella stand.  You pick them up almost as an afterthought, because now you’re thinking of the birthday party where you stumbled home with your future brother in law and he utilized the stand as a receptacle for the violent regurgitation of the eight flaming dr. peppers that he had pounded in the past three hours.  Then you’re out the door and you’re forgetting.

The road flare will come to life with a foopf noise and tiny white spots will obstruct your vision at the sudden burst when the magnesium and strontium nitrate combine to create a chemical reaction in your hand.  You let it roll down your palm and off the edge off the fingers, like you were blowing a kiss.  Watching the flames dance down the sidewalk on its cushion of kerosene and ignite the bushes and the base of your old home is galvanizing, and you taste electricity in your mouth, feel it in your stomach.  You found a way to erase it all, you think.  Looking around you almost feel like someone should say something, but this is not a movie, there is no one there, you’re alone.

The flames chew away for a long time before you hear sirens in the distance.  This makes you think of sirens, and the siren’s song that led you to where you stand now.  I’m sorry I listened, you say to no one as the supports for the porch topple.  The windows burst one by one, and through them you can see furniture, your furniture, left to burn like forgotten guests.  

The sirens are getting closer now.  You close your eyes for a second, then open them and see what you once had is as good as dead, the cinders and smoke the only evidence it ever was something to begin with.  Red and blue lights begin to play along the shadows of the trees down the street and you start walking, but you don’t look behind you to see how bad it got.  You already know that you’ll be back sometime, because you’re going to dance on the ashes. 

Today, you'll visit this room one last time.

These walls will miss you when you're gone.

You've been gone a long time but still, in this room, you can stop and listen to the past. Your blood and your sweat were soaked up by the carpet under your feet and now even though it's years later you can hold your breath and listen to yesterday's ghosts murmur and shift behind the walls. 

Now, as a rule, walls live pretty dull lives...but these walls miss you immensely. The walls think you are extraordinary. 

Your life, as it played out scene by scene in this room, was nothing short of art to them. Seriously, nothing really that great never happened in this room. I mean, there weren't any double-homicides going on in here, no explosions either. But did you know that the walls still talk about that one day when you swallowed enough pills to fill a pharmacy and chased them with a full handle of vodka? If they had seats, the walls would have been sitting on the edge of them, waiting to see what would happen next. 

But the next morning you just woke up and vomited for hours and hours. The walls were so fucking bored that day. 

Don't worry about that though, what you should know is that the walls have been talking, and they compiled a list of the five most interesting things they ever saw while you lived in this room. Here they are:

5. You, climbing drunkenly in through the window with blood gushing from your head.

4. You, wearing a towel, pretending to be a magician.

3. You, trying to mitigate the symptoms of a panic attack by repeatedly banging your head against the bookshelf.

2. You, having sex with another person on the desk.

1. You, lying awake in bed, in the dim light of early morning...staring at someone who is still asleep.

These walls are going to miss you when you're gone.

Today, goddamn if you aren't gonna have some mediocre sex.

Do not attempt without blind wingman.

Today, what you're going to do is go out late at night and find yourself some pretty little thang, only just 21.  Or maybe 19.  She'll be wearing gym shorts at the bar, and she's mincing around the vomit by the pool table in her flip-flops so as not to taint her feet.

You're gonna go up to her and hand her a long island iced tea (which you have already sneezed in, as payback in the event that she shoots you down) and state; "Listen baby, I'm not normally this sort of fella, but I'm gonna regret it forever if I don't come up to you right now and tell you that if you and I were squirrels, I'd bust a nut in your hole."

Right here is where you'll raise one eyebrow, what you think of as your "cheeky grin", but unbeknownst to you it just appears like someone poked you in the eye.  Luck is in your corner though, she's way too hammered to notice or to retain standards of any kind.  She'll rip the drink out of your hands and pour it down her gullet like a champ, then the two of you will scramble out of the bar so fast her boyfriend won't even see you leave.

You and your little love dumpling will proceed to your studio apartment and the both of you will have sex so completely forgettable, and so not even worth the mess, that it makes you want to go home and slap your Mama!

Today, you will be kidnapped by Ted Nugent.

"I smell fear"

At some point today, you will gradually emerge from a blackout. You are disoriented, slightly vertiginous, your skull pounding, the room barely in focus. This confuses you. Then, moments later, you hear the sound of a lone man's booming voice shouting, "IT AIN'T ROCK-N-ROLL IF IT AIN'T LOUD!!!" With that, everything will suddenly become clear. That's right, you have been kidnapped by Ted Nugent.

The most important thing to remember now is not to panic. Ted Nugent is a physically powerful man, yes, probably stronger than you, and likely armed with at least a Bowie knife, a velvetine bag of enchantments, saltpeter, nanotechnology, and a lightweight crossbow...so do not try to take him down. Doing so will only end this on his terms.

Knowing the identity of your captor is crucial to your escape. First, this knowledge eases your state of peril, helping to dissipate some of the terror associated with believing your whereabouts are a complete mystery. That earned calm buys you time to plan an exit strategy. And this is where a little patience can really pay off.

Since you've been kidnapped by Ted Nugent, do not make your move until he starts playing "Wang Dang Sweet Poontang." This opportunity might not present itself until late into his set, possibly as an encore, and may require enduring several mawkish, remedially patriotic ballads. Empty your mind, and sit tight. Wait for it. Now, when Ted Nugent wonders, loudly, if there's "any sweet poontang in the audience," do not answer. THIS IS A RHETORICAL QUESTION. It is not for you, no matter how sweet you believe your poontang to be. Instead, use the question as the starting gun to your crawl to freedom.

Slowly, and with caution, proceed to the nearest EXIT sign. If you can't see any signs – if there's a burlap sack over your head, for instance, or if your eyes are bound by a Damn Yankees bandana – just follow the scent of venison chili. This aroma will lead you toward the exit. On the other side lies the relative safety of the Kentucky State Division Three Invitational Chili Cook-Off that has organized Ted's concert. Do not exit yet. Wait a moment longer.

When Ted Nugent unfurls a giant Confederate flag in the middle of "Wang Dang.." – that's when you make your move. The crowd will be on its feet, saluting the flag, and you can use their natural cover as you inch toward the exit. THIS IS EXTREMELY IMPORTANT, and will remain the decision point standing between you and your liberation. If you leave too soon, TED NUGENT WILL KILL YOU WITH A FLAMING ARROW.

However, if you hold your position until the Confederate flag comes out – and it will come out – you will be able to stay low, letting the audience block Ted Nugent's sight line. Ted will not shoot at his fans, because he knows they will, in all likelihood, shoot back. Exploit this weakness to your advantage.

On the outside, use your environment as social camouflage. Grab some chili – the good kind, made by the Klan. Then, proceed to the parking lot, hotwire a Chevy (DO NOT HOTWIRE A FORD!), and drive to freedom. For Ted Nugent, the hunt never ends; for you, thank God, it just has.