Brain Poops

Sometimes, when I’m outside having a smoke, I dream about a zombie apocalypse.

My night-owl sleep schedule dictates that the hours I unusually spend outside fall during the latest points of the evening. The silence of the night is deafening. The stillness of the world around me is inescapable.

Right around the time the stillness of the night starts to register in my brain, I imagine a cadre of the undead rounding the corner to my cul-de-sac.

Their entrance is signaled by the foul stench of the dead wafting over the Spanish tiled rooftops of my pseudo-suburban neighborhood. I can hear the grinding scrape of exposed leg bones as they are dragged across the pavement, leaving a gory trail of bone fragments and tattered skin.

I picture freezing in place, hoping that they somehow have developed the visual acuity of a Tyrannosaurus. But my body can only remain still for so long as the lit cigarette smoke drifts up into my nostrils and eyes.

One zombie notices the smell of tobacco and fear emanating from my frozen figure. Its change of direction is followed blindly by the others in the horde. By now, I’m exuding fear and sweat the way an atom bomb exudes warmth.

Then I fart.

They begin a frenzied run¹ at me, mouths agape like sharks at a fat seal daycare. I panic and bolt into the garage-side door which serves as the entrance to my attic apartment. (continue reading…)

Sometimes I daydream that I’ll go in for an interview at some random place and Bob Barker would jump out with his twizzlerdick microphone and exclaim “That’s right! You WON! How does it feel to be my dicksweater, bitch?”

And I usually imagine looking rather confused as he approaches me, weilding his microphone like a battleax of the ages.

It isn’t untill the first swatting hit from Bob’s microphone that I realise shit just got real. With a poorly executed sweep kick, I twist my ankle and go down on one knee. Bob lands on his adamantium hip and suffers only a “really quite nasty bruise I got there, right? Blurple, I think.”

But Bob can’t get up. He is old and riddled with miniscule microphone grip arthritis (MMGA - a condition characterized by extreme pain within the grip area. Incurable, untreatable, excruciatingly painful). With his eyes welling up with old-man tears, he comes to grip with the cycle of life and it’s inevitable process, finally finding peace with the world and his part in it…

Just as I land a crushing, well-placed kick to the groin with the enthusiasm and speed of a Brazillian soccer player and the burning desire to see if I can split a man in two via that damned sensitive region. And, in a run-on sentence, I might add.

Yeah… Sometimes I daydream.

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