Today they'll use the "Young/Old Cop" routine to interrogate you.

You're sitting in the interrogation room of the police station. It's exactly what you thought it would be like, after a lifetime of watching movies and TV. You're still dressed in your work clothes, sitting in a hard plastic chair pulled up to a stainless steel desk. The one-way mirror continuously draws your attention away from the two policemen in the room with you, but you force your attention back and look them over again.

The policeman standing up with his arms crossed and brow furrowed looks to be in his early thirties. He occasionally paces around in stark contrast to his partner, an older cop with sweat stains dotting his uniform who sits partially slumped in another chair near the single door. Young Cop scrutinizes you while Old Cop distractedly brushes imaginary dust off of his pants leg.

Suddenly Young Cop lunges forward, planting his hands on the table in front of you with a slight whack sound that is quickly swallowed by the claustrophobic room you sit in. They're going to try to get you to talk.

Young Cop: "Confess, Tough Guy! We both know damn well you did it, and when I put you away I'll be doing this city a favor."

Old Cop: "Even if we do put 'em away, there's fifteen more just like 'em waitin' in line. I seen it again and again. After every bad guy, there's even worse guys waiting."

Young Cop: "Don't listen to him, Tough Guy. Getting scum like you off these streets will make the city a better place, it'll make a difference. Now, confess!"

Old Cop: "Confess if y'want." He sighs. "Go free if y'want. It ain't gonna matter. This city gets worse every single day. When I joined the force I had hope, I wanted to clean up these grimy streets.  But blood don't wash off concrete so easy..."

Young Cop: "Stop it! Look Tough Guy, he doesn't know what the hell he's talking about. I got a wife and a kid at home, with another one on the way. When I get you behind bars, I'll be providing a better life for them."

Old Cop: "I wanted a family once. I coulda had one. In fact, I was even engaged once...a pretty young gal, thought I was the greatest...for a time. She weren't no fool, though. She knew I was married to the force. When it all fell apart, I thought even though we wasn't gettin' married I could at least do right by her by makin' the city she lived in a safer place."

Young Cop: "Do you hear that, Tough Guy? Do you? This man here chose the job because putting trash like you away where you can't corrupt decent folk is that important. Confess!"

Old Cop: "She was murdered the day before our wedding. Killer never was found, neither. If only I'd known how pointless it all is I woulda put this place in my rearview mirror and married her somewhere quieter. Ain't never gonna know now if I coulda just maybe had one year of blissful love instead of chasin' scumbags and dopeheads like some impotent old bull."

Young Cop: "God damn it dude you are so totally not helping!"

Old Cop: "I'm too old to help. It ain't no good to no one. Too old to play the good guy and pretend that chasin' down the bad guys is anything more 'n a game. No matter how hard I fought crime, they still got her. They killed her."

Young Cop: "But I still have so much time, I know I can do better! Maybe I can help restore this city for the better so my wife and children will be safe in their beds at night! If I can just get Tough Guy here to confess, then in some way your fiance's death wouldn't have been for nothing!"

Old Cop: "It was for nuthin'. All of it were for nuthin'."

BLAM!

The gunshot is deafening in the enclosed space. The old cop sitting across from you drew his sidearm and pulled the trigger with his lips around the barrel without another word.

Young Cop: "Noooooo!"

Your ears are ringing and the room is spinning, Young Cop is frantically attempting CPR on the limp body of Old Cop as your vision blurs with tears, but it's too late. You feel your head violently rocking back and forth and realize Young Cop's face is now inches from yours and seething with rage. His blood-streaked hands clench your lapels and flecks of spit hit your skin as he screams in your face.

Young Cop: "DO YOU SEE WHAT YOU DID!? LOOK AT WHAT YOU ARE RESPONSIBLE FOR! BIG TOUGH GUY LIKE YOU BROKE HIS SPIRIT AND IT DOESN'T MEAN ANYTHING TO YOU. HIS DEATH IS ON YOUR HANDS! CAN YOU LIVE WITH THAT!? CAN YOU!?"

You can't. You just know you can't, it's too much. You break down and you spill everything. You tell Young Cop the truth. You rigged your cable box to get Cinemax for free. You just wanted to see the new hot season of the UK-based spy drama Hunted, may God have mercy on your soul.

Young Cop: "Ha! Works every time. Boys, call the morgue. And while you're at it, get this sorry excuse for a human being out of my sight and book his criminal ass. I'm outta here...I've got a city to protect."

Today, the Museum learns who fornicated Wax Patrick Stewart.

Say you didn't make it so.

You're standing in a neat line with the rest of your co-workers at the Wax Museum. The Museum air is frigidly cold, the thermostat being kept always at an arctic 67° due to the paranoid obsessive-compulsive command Hugo desperately maintains, despite the sculptor's assurance that the figures wouldn't melt below 99°. 

Hugo, the museum director, is pacing the front of the staff room with tiny quick steps, clearly trying (and failing) to contain his own impotent rendition of anger.

“These wax figures TRUST us,” Hugo explains, finally breaking the silence. “They trust us to care for them, just as the respected public figures who lent their likeness to these wax figures trust us to not use their likeness for anything but to give the public an afternoon of diverting, slightly eerie entertainment.”

Hugo has clasped his sweaty hands behind his back, and tries to create what you're sure he feels is a suspenseful silence. Standing next to you, Eric covers his mouth and fakes a yawn in order to toss back an indeterminate number of percocet. He stiffens as Hugo resumes his address with a theatrical shaking of his head.

“Do any of you know what nearly every celebrity asks before giving their consent to add their wax replica to our museum? 

Janet opens her mouth to reply, only to be interrupted when Hugo whirls around to answer his own question.

"They ask," He wails. "HOW DO I KNOW THAT YOU'RE NOT JUST GOING TO HAVE SEX WITH IT?"

Some of the staffers drop their heads in shame. It doesn't feel good to know that the worst fears of a celebrity have been confirmed. That a celebrity put his or her trust in you and you dropped the ball.

Jon raises his hand and asks how Hugo knows that someone had fucked Wax Patrick Stewart.

“I don’t want to get into it,” he says. “Suffice to say, there were some indentations. What's more, is there were stains! Now the sculptors tell me they can fill in the....disruptions to Wax Patrick Stewart's figure. But first you must be aware that the stains carry DNA!

Someone gasps.

"Now...I don’t want to have to ask everyone to provide me with a DNA sample. We’re a family here and we’re supposed to trust each other. So instead, I’m just going to turn my back for 30 seconds. If the perpetrator who violated Wax Patrick Stewart will simply walk up here, lay their museum-issued vest and cummerbund on the table here and walk out the door...then there will be no further questions, no prosecution.“

Hugo turns his back. For thirty seconds, everyone on staff looks to each other, trying to see if the culprit will come forward. No one steps forward. When Hugo turns back around, the disappointment on his face is palpable.

You raise your hand with a question.

“Wait, why would anyone try and have sex with the figures anyway?” you ask. “When you take off their clothes, it's not like there are any orifices or holes or anything for you to put your...your..."

Instantly you feel two dozen eyes scrutinizing you. Hugo looks at you and pauses with his mouth open in an "O" shape, as he begins to speak.

Before Hugo can ask you how you could possibly know Wax Patrick Stewart or any of the other figures in the Museum have no naughty bits, you make a break for it. 

You hightail it out of the glass double doors of the museum, startling the throng of overweight tourists who have no idea that the reason there is one wax figure missing is because he is lying in the back room, decorated with your shame, glass expressionless eyes gazing at the ceiling.

You round the corner into an alley and drop your vest and cummerbund in a dumpster, and once you're certain you haven't been pursued, you will end up in the park miles away, hiding in the bushes drinking sprinkler water for three days as you wrack your brain to try and figure out just what the hell you're going to do with your life, now that your dream of being a Wax Museum guard have been shattered forever by one night of erotic bliss.

Today you're Couch Connie.

Your Dad ran a moving company and he was killed by a couch. It was being raised up to the third floor to try and get it through the window of an apartment because it couldn’t fit through the door. The cord snapped and the couch dropped right on your Dad’s head, snapping his neck. In an exploit the local news called "incredible in it's physical improbability" Daddy had tumbled down three flights of stairs into the street and his face was ran over by three taxis before a homeless person dragged him onto the sidewalk.

“He left the business to me,” you’re telling a customer. “And I’ve built it into a small local empire. I did it with hatred in my heart.”

The logo on your trucks reads “Your Furniture Killed My Daddy, And I Will Never Let Your Furniture Get The Upper Hand Again.” As Couch Connie, you promise that you will be in control at every point in the move. No one will ever see you or your team members hesitating or guessing at an angle or a width for getting a couch or an armoire through a doorway. You’re always ten steps ahead of your furniture. You’ve already carried their couch up the steps and around the corners and through the vestibule and into the living room before your customers have even finished packing. 

“It’s about not letting the furniture get the jump on me,” you’re telling your customer. “Like my Dad did.”

This is the point where you turn to the portrait of your Father that hangs over the register, the portrait is imposing and massive, to the point where the front teeth in your Father's smile are the size of  index cards and his presence dominates the room in it's 9 foot portrait.

“You were sloppy, Daddy,” you state plainly to the mammoth rendering.

The customers are getting uncomfortable.

“SLOPPY!” you shriek. “YOU!  WERE!  SLOPPY!  DADDY!”

You’re now sobbing uncontrollably. Spit is coming out of your mouth as you scream.

“HOW COULD YOU, DADDY! HOW COULD YOU LET A COUCH TAKE YOU AWAY FROM ME?! HOW? DID YOU WANT IT TO TAKE YOU AWAY? DID YOU NOT WANT TO BE WITH ME AND MOMMY ANY MORE? WHYDIDN'TYOULOVEUSDADDYWHYYY!?”

The customers are moved to tears with you. You barely even know they’re there anymore.

“WHYYYYYYY DADDY? WHYYYYYY?”

You've bitten your tongue, it hurts and though it takes a minute you gradually recede back to a less manic state. You blink the tears away and turning to the customers, you raise your arm high and slam your fist down on their moving contract. 

The wife of one of your customers starts to tell you blood is dripping off of your chin, but you cut her off.

“As God as my witness,” you snarl through gritted teeth. “I will tame your furniture. I will be its master during the entire course of your move. Your furniture wants to be damaged to prove that it cannot be subjugated to human will. I will make very clear to your furniture that on this matter, it is very mistaken.”

Your customers sign their contract, and then the three of you hug and cry together. 

Today you're going to take a road trip with your beloved family!

It's summertime.  You have two weeks off from working in the small state farm outlet where your Dad is an agent and pays you 7 measly dollars an hour to type and to rub his temples when he gets a migraine.  Your husband has been laid off from the Callahan Brake Pad Factory.  Your son Jack got kicked out of day care for stealing cigarettes from the yard attendant and you're afraid if you leave your daughter alone at the house for more than an hour she will without a doubt lose her virginity.

Time to get your snot-nosed brat kids into the back seat and your husband in the front and hit the fucking road.

“WHY ARE YOU DRIVING SO FAST? IT’S THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT! WHERE ARE WE GOING!” your kids and husband will shout. Tell them to shut their goddamn mouths or you’ll drive through a guardrail into a gulch and kill them all.

“Road trips are supposed to be spontaneous,” you explain once they’re all silent and shaking with fear. “We’re going to drive and have dangerous adventures until something about us CHANGES.”

First stop is downtown Cleveland, where you'll pull into bars and pick fights.

Later in New Orleans you'll visit the grave of a voodoo queen.  Legend has it if you draw three red x's in chalk on her tomb she will grant you a wish.  Your wish is that you were dead.  Your husband stoops down, draws three x's and stands up, loudly proclaiming "I wish that the Packers would make the playoffs" with his eyes closed.

You erase your old set of x's, draw three new ones.  You'll wish your husband was dead.

Your daughter sexts her boyfriend the entire time, while your son urinates on a gravestone that reads "Beloved Aunt."

From then on you stop reading street signs and point the car in random directions.  Somewhere on the eastern seaboard you transport crystal meth and pick up hitchhikers who remember seeing the ghost of Freddie Mercury and you come to the aid of a crashed crop duster, managing to rescue the pilot before his plane bursts into flames.

You drive for four more months, and when you pause to celebrate your daughter’s fifteenth birthday and your son’s ninth by the lip of the grand canyon, you all finally agree that you've each discovered something about yourselves that has changed you forever.

“I hate the road,” your daughter says.

“I hate America,” your son says.

“I hate anyone who isn't caucasian,” your husband says.

“I want to spend the rest of my life in a tree,” you say.

Your husband hoists you up into a tree then he and your two kids wave goodbye as you climb higher and higher. Your husband says he’ll come back in a few months with divorce papers, but that he’s glad you’ve discovered yourself, and that you won’t be in his life to drag him on another awful trip like this one ever again.

Today you'll leave What's His Face!

"Don't forget the ice cube trays, bitch."

You've just received word that Jacques is still alive all these years later, that when his car went off that cliff he wasn't in it, that for one reason or another he needed you and everyone else to believe he was dead.

“Guess we need to get a divorce,” you say to your second husband, Robert.

Robert won’t be happy. “You don’t have to go back to him! He’ll understand that you thought he was dead and moved on.”

Tell Brad you didn't move on. You thought you did, but you didn't have a day go by where you didn't have to consciously push Jacques out of that little space he occupies in the back of your mind.  Tell Robert he’s a really sweet guy and he’s pretty great in the bedroom department and you've had a fun time these six years during which he helped raise your kids as his own, but he’s no Jacques.

“But you don’t even know why he faked his death,” Robert will say. “For all you know he didn't even care how his death affected you. For all you know he left town and traveled far away and faked his death to get away from you.”

Explain to Robert that that might be the case, but now that you know Jacques is alive again there's really no reason you should pretend not to be completely bored of Robert any more, and that you're out like disco.

“Tonight! What? You’re just going to…Ow!”

Apologize for dropping your suitcase on his head while trying to get it out of the closet.

Robert will switch gears and start to tick off reasons on his fingers why you should feel guilty.

“Sorry Robert,” say. “I’m just in a hurry. Want to try to get Jacques to see me naked before he changes his mind again.”

Robert will be exasperated. “You’re supposed to be conflicted about this kind of thing! You’re supposed to be searching your heart to find out if you still love him or if you having mourned him and married someone new has effectively closed the chapter on that part of your—”

“Sorry, not conflicted. Jacques is alive! Thanks for subbing in as my husband for a while!” you’ll shout from the window of your car as you speed out of your driveway, laughing at a text Jacques had sent to you a few seconds ago.

Robert will go inside to find your kids packing their things. “You’re not our Dad anymore! You’re just Robert now!”

Robert will go into the bedroom and try to get used to just being Robert now, just being Robert now that Jacques is alive again.

Today, you'll go to a pool party.

Welcome to our Ool Party.  Notice there's no P in it.  Please keep it that way

You knew about it all week and you waited and you waited but finally Friday night came and you never got the invite to the office pool party that you were desperately waiting for.  You waited by the water cooler when Mark walked by, hoping he would glance at you and a light bulb would go off above his head and he'd say hey why didn't you RSVP on the Facebook event calendar that you're going to the pool party?  

And you let your pen slide off your desk and onto the floor when Sharise walked by so that she would stop and pick it up for you.  When she handed it to you, you said thanks and looked right at her so she would be forced to acknowledge you and when that happened she would suddenly realize she had totally forgotten to include you in the mass office memo.

Neither Mark nor Sharise ever said anything about the office pool party.

So the next day you'll drive your Sebring out to Sharise's house and climb a tree in the front yard to watch all you co-workers splash around in their bathing suits, enjoying their time without you like you never even existed.  Laurie is wearing a yellow one-piece and she's laughing so hard at something Aaron said that she's bending over and holding her stomach with the hand that isn't holding her Grey Goose martini.

From your vantage point, you'll see your co-workers swim and tan and drink fruity drinks and sneak off to make out under the shade of the very tree in which you're hiding, and the whole scene will make you feel incredibly alone.  So alone that you'll start to cry, and you'll cry loud enough that your co-workers will hear you and they'll run to the base of the tree and set it on fire.  

The flames will rise, forcing you into an impossible dilemma; either you leap down to safety where you will doubtlessly be humiliated for coming and spying on a party which you were not invited to, or you stay in the tree and slowly burn to death on its branches.

You'll stay in the tree and burn to death on its branches.

Today, Cosmopolitan is going to spell it out for you!

Top ten ways to make your boobs extra-pointy.

He’s been working a lot. Cosmo says when he works a lot it means he might be working on loving someone new.

He’s showering a lot. Cosmo says when he showers a lot it’s because he’s washing off the lingering scent of someone new.

He’s constantly singing love songs out loud without any cause for a love song to be sung. Cosmo says if he spontaneously bursts out into love songs it’s because those love songs are songs he has to sing when he thinks about someone new.

He occasionally shows up covered in mud. Cosmo says when your man shows up muddy it’s because he had to dispose of the bodies of the people who witnessed him giving all his lovin' to someone new.

He bought seven new cars. Cosmo says a man has no reason to buy a lot of new cars unless he’s going on long moonlight drives with someone special, someone young, someone fun, someone who is anyone, anyone at all, anyone at all but you.

He has crabs. Cosmo says there ain’t no other reason for a man to have crabs unless those crabs hopped to his pubic hair from the pubic hair of someone who isn't you.

He’s been spending a lot of time in his super-secret second apartment and according to Cosmo, a man should spend an average of no more than two nights a week in his super-secret second apartment unless he’s using that super-secret second apartment to spend super-secret time with someone secret and new.

He can sometimes be found with his penis inside the vagina of another woman. In the immortal words of Cosmopoliton, “There is simply no reason for your man to store his manhood upon or up inside the womanhood of a woman who, for all intents and purposes is not you, unless your man is interested in the womanhood under the operation of a woman other than you, AKA a woman who happens to be someone new.

He has a shoehorn.  You read in Cosmo that shoehorns are luxury items that a man uses to facilitate the process of applying footwear to his feet.  It goes on to say that why would a man be in such a hurry that he would feel the need to eliminate the precious seconds that is required of one to actually bend over to put on a shoe and instead use a tool to do so if he wasn't using those extra seconds to be lying on his back in someone else's apartment with some other women that isn't you sitting on his face?

He says he met someone new. If Cosmo is correct, a man never says he met someone new unless he’s decided that you are someone old and there’s another one, a different one, a one who in your man’s eyes is someone who alleviates that “I’m scared of not mattering anymore” feeling, a one who can only be described as someone new.

Since your man meets all ten criteria, it’s time to tell him that you wish him well but you understand that the heart cannot be tamed, girlfriend.

Today, you're going to live (however pathetically) in the moment!

You and Marcy's husband Roy are staying behind because you both have leg injuries, while Marcy and your husband Jake go hiking through the snow to try to find food and hopefully a ranger who can find a way to get you all down off this mountain. 

And the only cure for cabin fever is?

“They could be gone for days and they might not make it back,” Roy will say, limping around the cabin. “We should start having sex now.”

“How can you—”

“Oh spare me!” Roy shouts. “The longer you play this game of being the loyal, loving wife grateful to her husband for risking his life for you, the less sex we’re having.”

“But they’ve barely just left,” you say. “Look, I can still see them. They’re waving.”

You motion for Roy to come to the window and wave back to them. Roy slaps you.

“Dammit you need to think realistically,” he shouts. “If we wait to have sex until we’re sure they’re dead, we might be too weak to even feel sexual, not to mention we’ll be trying to come to grips with the reality that our spouses have died somewhere out there in the snow, possibly never to have their bodies found by anything but packs of hungry wolves. Think you’ll be up for boning with the image of your husband’s limp body being shredded to ribbons by bloodthirsty wolves on your mind?”

You concede that no, you would not. Neither would Roy, he says. He loves Marcy way too much to cheat on her while her body is being eaten by animals.

“And supposing we do wait,” Roy continues. “And when we manage to have sex we find out we are the perfect mates for each other, that the sex is the best we’ve ever had. But, oops, we waited too long and we’re too dehydrated and hungry to have sex a second time. Almost more tragic than if we’d never had sex at all! We’d die regretting that we waited, regretting that we stood on formality instead of grabbing as much erotic opportunity from what little time we had left.”

You’ve spent too much of your life regretting things. Roy is right. You love Jake, but waiting to be sure he’s dead before you have sex with Roy is just another instance of you living as if tomorrow is some kind of guarantee.

You take off your clothes and Roy enters you for approximately 30 seconds before Jake and Marcy burst into the cabin with a half-dozen park rangers. The rangers had been hiking up the mountain when they bumped into Jake and Marcy having frantic sex against a snow bank around 200 feet from the cabin’s front door.

Today, love in an elevator.

You know how every great once in a while, you'll be going about your own business when all of the sudden something or other happens and you stop and go 'wow, I'm going to remember this moment forever'?

Yeah, you think about those a lot.

Today your going to walk into your apartment building at the asscrack of dawn still wearing your clothes from last night.  You fell asleep on the couch at Bella's boyfriends house after fighting off the drunken advances of some guy named Lance.  You swear an oath to yourself to never date anyone named Lance.

Anyways, you've also sworn off drinking and you have a grocery bag full of pastries and greens, with which you are making a celebratory healthy breakfast to put your most likely futile plan of sobriety into full effect.  The heels you're still wearing from the previous night make you wobble a little as you breeze through the glass doors to the lobby just in time to see the elevator door start to slide shut.

There's someone in the elevator.  "Wait!"  You call out.

The someone sticks his arm in between the elevator doors and they bounce back open, chivalry ain't dead yet.

So you'll clomp your way in and dump your little big of silly crap on the floor.  It promptly spills out half the contents; a bag of pita bread and some hummus, a cantaloupe, and something you think is a quiche but weren't sure.

"Looks like your representing the cuisines of about 8 different cultures this morning," the man remarks.

You smile and make a show of rolling your eyes.  "Yeah well."

There is a pause as both of you wait for a follow up.  You sigh.

There's someone else in the elevator.  It's a small boy, about 3 years old.  Seems a bit hyperactive.  You watch as he dances his way over to the button panel and whangs the heel of his palm against it, lighting up every floor.  You look at his Dad to gauge his reaction but he is busy picking up dates and water cashews and packets of semi-exotic herbal tea that you will probably never drink.

You open your mouth but before anything comes out the hyperactive little boy crows joyously and hammers on the emergency stop button.  The elevator lurches to a sickening halt, sending pistachios and raspberries everywhere.

"Oh, shit!  Dodger!  No!"  The man says.  He grabs the boy lightly by the arm and gives him a swat on his rear.  If this punishment had any disciplinary effect, Dodger's face failed to register it.

You look him over.  He's wearing the tiniest plaid shirt you've ever seen and has the smallest checkered vans on his feet.  Dodger pops over in front of you, and you see that this child is never going to be a beauty.  His brown eyes are flecked with gold but they are too close together, a shock of orange hair rests on the top of his head like a brush fire, and jug ears poke out of the side of his head like the handles of pink fleshy teacups, but you look at him and you still love him.

For lack of better things to do as good 'ol Dad gets the elevator going again, you crouch down in front of the boy, cover your eyes with your hands and then you take them away and you say Boo.

The boy squeals high-pitched laughter and hops up and down with his hands flapping loosely at the wrist, making you wish that anything could make you that excited.   You're having fun so you do it again.  And again.

"Dodge, leave the nice lady alone," says Dad.

Neither of you stop.

It isn't until the doors have been standing open for a few seconds that you realize the elevator has arrived at your floor.  Dodger is shrieking with laughter as you collect yourself, a big cheesy grin smeared across your face.  You pick up your swearing off drinking breakfast bag and stand up, barely registering how the man is just standing there regarding you with a bemused expression.  There's a pregnant silence again.

Ok, you tell yourself, now I just feel stupid.  You say bye to Dodger as he dances around your feet and you get off the elevator, your face a little heated.

You've gone four steps out of the elevator and down the hall to your room when Dodger's Dad speaks up from behind you.

"You know, when he grows up he's going to fall in love with a girl who looks just like you, and he's not going to have any clue as to why."

You turn around.

The elevator door is closing fast as he leans out to say, "But I will."

Today, you're going to cruise for some trim!

Go figure.

For the past week you've toured all of the retail and food establishments in your neighborhood and you've decided the wine store has the highest fucktential, which is a word you made up that means potential for fuckatude, which is another made up word, though you didn't make that one up (your Dad used to use it before he had a heart attack in Sizzler). Anyway, the wine store seems to have a lot of fucklihood. Fucklihood is a way of describing a place that is fuckamentally sound, which is a way of describing a place that looks to be ideal for those interested in forgoing modern medicine and instead experimenting with natural fucklistic healing. Basically, the wine store looks like a pretty good place to go if you're looking for a little bit of true love and undying devotion. Just kidding, the wine store's a good place to try and get yourself effed.

Go down there today and hang around in the French wines section. When a nice piece of trim rolls up and pretends to be reading the wine bottles when what she really wants to do is read the "YKK" on your zipper, just pick up an expensive bottle and let her know what you wanna do with it.

Say, "I want to drink this entire bottle as fast as I can."

She'll ask, "Why?"

Manufacture some tears. Then say, "Not be me for a while I guess. Just (pause for a second) ....kind of wanna erase me."

She'll nod. "I know what you mean." She'll pick up her own bottle. "I like buying bottles of wine because I like the suspense of wondering whether I'm going to finish the entire bottle before smashing it into pieces and slicing open my wrists with one of the shards."

You'll both just stand there, your heads bowed as tears flow from all four of your eyes onto the floor.

The wine store owner will come over to the two of you and say, "I could tell from all the way over there that we seemed to have a fuckuation back here, which is a fun word for situation of fuck."

The wine store owner will lead you both to the stock room, wrapping his big beefy arms around your shoulders, then he'll make the two of you have sex for him at gunpoint. It will ultimately feel a little fuckapointing.

Today, you're going to kill your cheating whore of a wife!

Sancho makes house calls

Today you come home from work at five o'clock like you do every single day and you open the front door and the house is so quiet and so still like it always is. Your wife is in the basement again.

You know better than to go and knock on the basement door, but you do anyway and the only response you get is her shouting for you to stop intruding on her private time, and that if you want any type of goddamn dinner cooked, then you'd better be patient.

The words cut you like the blade of a razor, and you can feel faint sting of a tear from the corner of your left eye. She's been cheating on you in that dingy cellar, all this time. It was right there in front of your face. You put your briefcase down in the foyer of the home that you bought when you were married ten years ago, when you promised to love and cherish each other forever and forever and forever, and your left hand creeps up to the pocket of your sports jacket to the revolver you "borrowed" from your brother's gun case a couple of days ago, all the while wondering what in the hell you were really going to do with it.

It's solved. You step in front of the mirror, assume a wide legged stance, and you brandish the gun at your reflection. You tell your reflection that your sick of the lies, your sick of the deceit, and that you've known all this time that the reason she comes out of the basement every day smelling of too much perfume with a huge grin on her face is NOT because she's doing her 'arts and crafts'.

You tell your reflection the reason she comes out of the basement looking and smiling like a teenage girl is because that hotrod of a poolboy is down in that basement with her every single day, and you've known all this time about the infidelity.  Your going to finally do something about it.

You lower the gun and point it at yourself in the mirror and you go click.

Click.
Click click click click.

You smile at yourself, then you feel sick.
You load the pistol.

Before you can chicken out, you stomp across the hall and down the stairs to the basement door. You raise one penny loafer-clad foot and and kick hard, and you go through that basement door like an X-ray through wood.

Inside, you stop, lower jaw falling against your chest. This is definetely not what you expected. Your mouth tries to move, to form speech, and finally you find the words as you stare back into your wife's shocked face, her eyes wide open with alarm.

"You're shrinking heads in the basement of OUR home?!" You roar.

Your wife flinches as if stricken. "Jim, I..." she stammers.

"You know how I feel about voodoo!"

"It's NOT voodoo!"

"I can't believe this is how your spending your time, hunched over these herbs and spices, instead of banging the poolboy, like I thought you were!"

You see her eyes flash with a righteous indignation and she puffs out her chest. "Well, maybe if you paid more attention to me instead of working day and night, then I wouldn't need to have a shrunken head museum under the house," she replies matter-of-factly.

Your distracted for a moment by a huge bubble that percolates out of a giant cauldron on the workbench. "This is hardly sanitary."

"Don't you lecture me, this is my calling, and anyways you weren't supposed to come in."

You sag visibly, like an animal taking a bullet.  You are about to argue, but suddenly it dawns on you that you don't have the heart. You miss her desperately. You take a step closer to her. "Honey, what happened to us?"

She looks down, pushing around a pebble on the ground with one of her toes. "I don't know. Ever since Tommy died in that silo explosion, we just...drifted apart."

"That wasn't my fault!  Our lives were changed that day, all because of one condemned silo.  Why do you think I've been working day and night since?  I won't rest until I rid the world of all silos!  ALL OF THEM!"  You slam your fist down on the workbench. A couple of shrunken heads hop off the bench and onto the floor.

"Dammit Jim, be careful!"

"Sorry, I just miss him so damn much sometimes."

"Honey...listen, I was going to save this for our anniversary...but I think now is the time."

Your wife bends under the workbench and carefully slides out a small box. She holds it in both hands with a measured caution, as though it held diamonds, or cocaine. She offers it to you, her eyes glistening wet with trace beginnings of tears.

You take the box from her and put your hand on the lid. You look up at her and she nods. You lift the lid and gasp.

Inside is the shrunken head of your Mother. Her hair is the consistency of boiled wire, and the skin is mottled and fossilized by chemicals you'll never in your life be able to name. Delicate black stitching adhere the lips shut, and the eyes.  Looking at the dried relic, you're struck by the realization that it will stay this way forever.

"It's....it's....beautiful," you hear yourself say.

"You know how her grave was dug up a week after her funeral and the cops thought it was the damn Sicilians, avenging the honor of their family by robbing your sainted Mother's grave? Well, I have something else to confess. I robbed the grave of your Mother to shrink her head, put it in a box, and rekindle the passionate flames of our love."

"I always thought it was weird that Sicilians would want to desecrate her grave. My Mother was Puerto Rican," you reply.

"I know, honey," your wife whispers. "I know."

You put down the box and make love among the heads.

Today, you're going to whisper the secret wisdoms of life to your unborn child!

Caption unnecessary.

It's Saturday and this afternoon you're going to walk into the living room where your wife is watching Hell's Kitchen and crying.  You'll get down on your knees and place your hands on her stomach, getting your mouth close enough so that your breath creates a small damp spot on her skin. Then you'll tell your baby the truth.

“Hi little baby,” say. “It’s dark out here. It’s confusing and you have to watch people you love destroy themselves. You have to watch people you don’t even know destroy each other.  You have to watch terrible television and you have to watch yourself forget who you were supposed to be.”

“Eric.” your wife will say.

“Shut up,” tell her. 

Then to your baby, “If you're lucky you'll get about 80 years, or unlucky depending on how you look at it. You’ll love some people and you’ll trick yourself into thinking you’re in love with some people when really you just want them to take on the responsibility of making your life matter to something besides your pets. There’s alcohol and drugs out here. Alcohol is great until it gets bad. Drugs are terrible until they get worse.”

“Jesus Eric,” your wife will say.

Ignore her. “Fucking weird how a lot of us get by. When you find out you like to be choked when you come or you need to be called Betty, it’s weird enough to take you out of the rest of it so it works. Taking yourself out of the rest of it without killing yourself, that’s the secret to life. You might pull it off through sheer, unparalleled accomplishment that lifts you up above the screeching desperate hordes, or you lurch down into a darkened basement and huff paint. Same deal. You claw yourself up and away from the mess the best you can.”

“We’re late,” your wife will say.

“You shouldn’t make it to your 30’s without feeling like you’ve destroyed at least one human being simply by entering their life. Never go to raves and never read Anne Rice and never start a gelato or hunting blog."

You look up.  Your wife has tuned you out and is back to the TV.

"When you realize how ruined your parents are, you’re invited to bestow upon them one brief pitying glance, then just make polite conversation with them until they die.  Somewhere in the middle you may attempt to express to them how sorry you are for being the source of their pain and high blood pressure and endless nights laying awake in bed staring at the ceiling, but you give up because there's no way"  

"After enough decades you'll reach back and count the knives in your back left there by friends or family you swore you'd be buried next to, and you'll shrug and resume paying overdraft fees ."  

"I do not apologize for bringing you into existence. No one apologized to me, so why should you be special.”

Your wife will start to move away. Tighten your grip on her stomach and finish up.

“It sounds bad but it’s all there is. Just come out here and cause as much damage as you can. Also, sit by lakes occasionally.”

Let go of your wife’s stomach and get dressed because you've got to go and buy her a fresh box of nicotine patches.

Today, your High School got together and named you Boyfriend of the Year!!!!

These geezers are obviously jump street.

But that wasn’t one of the categories in the yearbook questionnaire.

“Screw the yearbook questionnaire,” Jenny the yearbook editor says. It’s a surprise to see her so devil-may-care, because Jenny is all about the yearbook. 

“We'd be damned if we graduated without you being recognized. Your love for Marie is an inspiration. We’re all going to look for men in college who treat us the way you’ve treated Marie.”

Just spit it out.

“Marie and I broke up.”

They all gasp.  Somewhere on the other end of the room a pencil clatters to the floor.

“This morning,” tell them. “I decided that there’s absolutely no point in being her boyfriend if it’s not going to earn me any awards or accolades. 

You register an almost incoherent sound of disbelief originate from Jenny's throat.

 "...Wish I’d known you were planning this.”

You hang your head and let your hair fall mournfully over your eyes.  They all start talking at once, and after lots of shouting and bickering it’s agreed that you should call Marie and ask her if she’d like to give it another chance.

“Will you take back the award if I don’t?” you ask.

On the spot, an impromptu caucus is formed and the resolution is that no, you can keep the award regardless since it was based on your performance as boyfriend during the school year.

“Then I’m good,” you say. “Time to focus on numero uno, if you know what I’m saying.”

You point your thumb at yourself just to make it clear.  

“Fine,” Jenny says. “But just so you know, having given you this award, and then watching you behave this way, it’s really not going to help us in our future relationships.”

And it won’t. Everyone, every single person in that room, will get at least one divorce in their lifetimes. 

Except for you. You’ll be dead next year.  Xanax overdose.

Today, you're the world's most repulsive and racist crime fighter!

Bigot.  You should probably take this down from your cubicle

When you show up to work today, your boss will tell you that you have to train the new guy.

"He’s just like you," your boss says.

"Almost like your clone," your boss’s right-hand man adds.

"You guys should get along just fine. You’re practically the same person," your boss says.

So you go to your desk and you find the new guy sitting on the floor next to it. He’s eating pudding out of a plastic container and it’s all over his face. When he finishes the pudding container, he throws it at the back of someone’s head then laughs very loudly.

"You’re the new guy?" you ask. "I’m supposed to train you."

"Thank God you’re not black," the new guy says.

This is where you march right back to your boss’s office.

"What do you mean he’s just like me?"

"You don’t see the similarity?"

Look back over at the new guy. He’s now in a desk chair and he’s got his pelvis arched up under the desk, clearly massaging his boner with the desk’s underside.

"Okay, maybe a slight resemblance," you state. "But I’m not racist."

"Yes you are," your boss says without looking up from the documents he’s reading.

You decide to go back to the new guy and learn more about yourself.

"It’s hard to believe licking my own sweat off my arms still tastes good after so many years," the new guy says. "You’d think my changing chemical makeup might have altered the taste after a while. Or it might have been affected by the alcohol and amphetamine I swear out of my pores on a constant basis. But nope. It’s still my favorite meal."

Here's where you send out an email to the entire office, apologizing for your behavior in general. You promise to try to be easier to tolerate.

"Can I access the kind of pornography where it looks like someone is being victimized on this computer? Or do I have to use my iPhone?" the new guy asks you.

"tiedupandscared.com isn’t blocked yet," you reply. "But we’d better start training soon."

"Let me just finish this threatening letter I’m writing to someone I want to rape," he says.

You wait patiently.

"Okay, finished. Just have to drip a little of my blood at the bottom here. Aaaaad, let’s get to work."

You're amazed by just how bad the new guy smells. You send out another email, telling everyone in the office that you now understand why your seated alone by the window and that you will try to rectify the situation.

It’s all getting too much to bear. You kind of want to train the new guy and then resign so you can start anew someplace where people aren’t already so familiar with your repulsive character. There’s just so much you have to change about yourself.

"Before we start training," you say to the new guy. "I want to thank you. You’ve taught me so much about myself already."

The new guy leans in. "I’m an undercover agent with the FBI. This office is a front for a human trafficking ring. You’re the only one here who isn’t in on it, so I made sure they’d pair me up with you by appearing to be compatible to your personality. Help me bust these scumbags."

You shake his hand. He wipes his hand with an anti-bacterial napkin after you let go. Then you begin your brief tenure as the world’s most repulsive crime-fighter, all the while thinking, "I may be awaiting trial for masturbating next to patients’ beds in a burn ward, but at least I’m not running a sex slave ring."

Today, your cup done runneth over!!

Because baby rhinos are cuter than baby humans.

Your new next-door neighbor lady has a baby.

“You fuck someone for that?” ask her.

She’ll look at the baby and say, “Yup.”

You can tell she’s remembering the night she made the baby and thinking about the damp, flawed but seemingly endless expanse of beautiful skin on the man she banged to get the baby so you give her a minute.

You pretend to look at your phone. You pretend to laugh at a text that isn’t there.  "Ha ha," you say..

“He still in the picture?” ask her.

Your neighbor lady will shake her head no. This is where you offer to be the father-figure to her child.

“Eighty bucks a week,” say. “I’ll teach it street smarts, how to use tools and how to shave, what dignity is and why it’s important, and shit you can do to keep from paying taxes.”

The neighbor lady will say, “Seventy.”

Shake on it, then as soon as she pays you that week’s fee, hold her baby and let it rest its sleepy head on your rock-hard pectoral muscles.

“Don’t you worry,” say to the neighbor-lady while holding the baby. “You made the right decision. Your baby’s gonna grow up to have a nice life, now.”

Your neighbor-lady will start to cry until you tell her to shut up.

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.