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Now available for preorder:
The San Francisco Panorama.
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The origin of this wound shaped like a lollipop on my inner thigh. What is our purpose here on earth? And if that is too complicated, then something far simpler. Like, just for grins: Why are X-Treme snacks so goddamn tempting? The whereabouts of my Superfly Borsalino slouch hat. That murder of what's-his-name by the guy who escaped from that maximum-security jail, he committed a horrible crime, the details now elude me. I simply must catch him. This is important to me, and it's the reason that I'm now asking you this question: This bottle of cherry pop, it's been here all week. Who owns it? And this cookie? Chocolate chip? Anyone? A little help would be dynamite, thank you. A few years ago, there was that bank robbery. Millions of dollars was stolen, as was jewelry, gold and other valuables. A security guard was injured, as was an innocent bystander. This thief was eventually caught and brought to court, but the case ultimately hinged on me showing up and testifying on the prosecution's behalf. My brain is now throwing blanks: Did I ever show? (Note: Check with innocent bystander. Still in hospital?) My skin is so pink. Too pink? Sometimes when it's late in the afternoon and no one else is around, I like to touch my pink skin and pretend that I am a baby gerbil. Might this somehow hurt my chances with my neighbor, that brunette with the bizarre limp and the exploding-sunflower tattoo? I grow nervous, yet remain cautiously optimistic. O, dear Lord in Heaven, how should I conclude that novel that I have been laboring on, lo so many years? Perhaps with the half-breed, caught between the worlds of high-finance and amateur exotic wrestling, at last meeting up with the pet giraffe from whom he has so long been estranged? Or should he, after much and careful thought, become that dentist specializing in root canals? Help me, dear Lord, you are my only hope . . . you and that thick-waisted prostitute that I met a few hours ago purchasing that bucket of smelts at the illegal seafood shanty down by the docks. Perhaps she, too, could be of some help. That guy who punched my partner in the face, spit at me, attempted to drive over the both of us with his car, only to then return and try to slash us with his razor-spiked billy club. What the hell was that guy's name? And was he ever put away? Investigate. I am high on believin' and always have been. Why? The whereabouts of my fake License to Jam. The one written in crayon. And purchased from that kind, shirtless gentleman in Times Square. What was the rationale for this jumpsuit that Mother had me wear this morning? Attention Mother: Getting really tired of red jumpsuits. (Sarcastically) Okay? There was a serial killer and he was very dangerous. He was in the news, perhaps the worst human monster that this state has ever seen. I remember this lunatic very clearly. He had a dangerously large head, and a brand on his cheek of an exclamation point. If there is enough time between this very minute and when I retire, I would very much like to look for him. I wonder where he will be hiding? Will 15 minutes be sufficient? How about 20? Attention fellow law-enforcement professionals: again I ask you, what's up with this cookie? Oatmeal? Cinnamon? And this bottle of cherry pop? Any owners? Need an answer here people, that would great, much appreciated. White chocolate? Anyone?
OTHER McSWEENEY'S STORIES:
I Grew Up Near the Cottages of the Famous, Part Two: Emily Brontë By Ned Morgan Ask a Former Professional Literary Agent, Part XII, Beginning With Another Fascinating Selection From My Memoirs-in-Progress By John Hodgman The Nine Partners Boarding School Class of 1989 Loss of Sexual Innocence Walking Tour By Keith Bunin What's Funnier? By David Kolbusz Daryl, My Best Friend By Ben Greenman |
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