Twenty days after that mole appeared the girl was dead
None of you will ever see me again. Last year I started investing heavily in Jimmy Dean sausages and now what am I? I am a millionaire. I've used my ridiculous personal fortune to purchase four acres of land in Burma, and have hollowed out the ground to serve as a vast personal estate slash maze of doom. If you're ever interested in trying your hand at the maze of doom, feel free. But there will be waivers to sign.
But what if I give up my subterranean Burmese temple and continue my life here, working for the government? Still you will never see me again, or at least not (probably) for the next two days. You see, Saturday morning I must go take a 4 hour test that will help determine the course of my future: the GRE. You're supposed to study for a month or something. I will study for the next two days, intermittently, probably between bouts of swearing and practicing my particular style of Middle Eastern yoga.
But Tim, some of you will say, why would you need to study? And I pat you people pretentiously on the head, and smile in an eyes-closed lips-pursed sort of way, and warm my face in the afternoon sun. Even I must gird my brilliance about me like a pizza-stained bathrobe and stare down the specter of standardized testing with some preparation.
Actually, this test is going to kick my ass. Have you seen this shit? Good God, man! Look at this! Look at it now! Scroll down halfway and glut yourself on the madness! You know what's going to happen? I'm going to get fifteen minutes into that math and then my brain will rupture like an old jello mold and I'll be back here on the blog, bitching, and then thirty minutes later I'll be passed out on the kitchen floor in an ever-spreading pool of Jaegermeister and urine and redbull and vomit. Great leathery wings will spring from my back, will tear through the thin fabric of my Goodwill shirt, and will flap me out into the night, through the living room window. I'll soar above the city, half conscious, sure that Dracula is spiriting me back to his lair. But really I'll just be flying to Urbandale, to take this godforsaken test.
. . .
Who drank with a Mormon last night? I drank with a Mormon last night. Can you call it drinking with a Mormon if the Mormon drank water? And if she showed up with her sister, who is not a Mormon but who is named for a rabbit? I think you can. I think you can.
. . .
I keep hearing about these silent readers, the ones we never think about. How strange! Listen, you quiet readers: we love you. We love you love you. Glue your face to the screen right now and we will hug the hell out of you, like this—yes, like that—and now get a little closer because it's time to dim the lights and Dave, why don't you put on that old Duke Ellington record, and Andy, light some candles that smell of pumpkins and hayrides, and NoVowels will roll out the futon and—I swear, we're just relaxing the mood, we're just making you feel comfortable. Now Monki will pour some gin into some vermouth into a bigass martini glass, or some vodka into some redbull, and Cricket will appear from nowhere and knead the tight muscles of your shoulders like dough between his fingers, and Ryan will tear off his boxers in terrible, frightening flourish—
. . .
Dave, did I dream it, or did you need me (or someone) to pick you up from a train station? This is fuzzy. Fuzzy.
But what if I give up my subterranean Burmese temple and continue my life here, working for the government? Still you will never see me again, or at least not (probably) for the next two days. You see, Saturday morning I must go take a 4 hour test that will help determine the course of my future: the GRE. You're supposed to study for a month or something. I will study for the next two days, intermittently, probably between bouts of swearing and practicing my particular style of Middle Eastern yoga.
But Tim, some of you will say, why would you need to study? And I pat you people pretentiously on the head, and smile in an eyes-closed lips-pursed sort of way, and warm my face in the afternoon sun. Even I must gird my brilliance about me like a pizza-stained bathrobe and stare down the specter of standardized testing with some preparation.
Actually, this test is going to kick my ass. Have you seen this shit? Good God, man! Look at this! Look at it now! Scroll down halfway and glut yourself on the madness! You know what's going to happen? I'm going to get fifteen minutes into that math and then my brain will rupture like an old jello mold and I'll be back here on the blog, bitching, and then thirty minutes later I'll be passed out on the kitchen floor in an ever-spreading pool of Jaegermeister and urine and redbull and vomit. Great leathery wings will spring from my back, will tear through the thin fabric of my Goodwill shirt, and will flap me out into the night, through the living room window. I'll soar above the city, half conscious, sure that Dracula is spiriting me back to his lair. But really I'll just be flying to Urbandale, to take this godforsaken test.
. . .
Who drank with a Mormon last night? I drank with a Mormon last night. Can you call it drinking with a Mormon if the Mormon drank water? And if she showed up with her sister, who is not a Mormon but who is named for a rabbit? I think you can. I think you can.
. . .
I keep hearing about these silent readers, the ones we never think about. How strange! Listen, you quiet readers: we love you. We love you love you. Glue your face to the screen right now and we will hug the hell out of you, like this—yes, like that—and now get a little closer because it's time to dim the lights and Dave, why don't you put on that old Duke Ellington record, and Andy, light some candles that smell of pumpkins and hayrides, and NoVowels will roll out the futon and—I swear, we're just relaxing the mood, we're just making you feel comfortable. Now Monki will pour some gin into some vermouth into a bigass martini glass, or some vodka into some redbull, and Cricket will appear from nowhere and knead the tight muscles of your shoulders like dough between his fingers, and Ryan will tear off his boxers in terrible, frightening flourish—
. . .
Dave, did I dream it, or did you need me (or someone) to pick you up from a train station? This is fuzzy. Fuzzy.
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