My Best Attempt at Pretending I’m Tripping On LSD

Seriously, what is that bitch at the Conoco gas station so damn happy about? I asked her if she could give me change for a twenty, and she said, “YES!!! YES I CAN!! HOW ABOUT TWO FIVES AND A TEN?!?! YES! !! WOULD YOU LIKE A BAG?!?!”

Somebody needs to cut off her Prozac supply, and I’m just the man to do it. I’m like John Woo. I’m like Quentin Tarantino. I’m like Grandmaster B. I will direct and orchestrate a mad rush at her like a police officer after a classic car during quota day.

I’ll pull a bag over her head and strangle her, and it won’t even be a Conoco bag. It will be a Kwik Mart one, so that even her boss will feel disgrace when he finds his worker strangled by another convenience store’s plastic bag.

Then I’ll steal a carton of cigarettes and a Colt 45 and leave. Later, I’ll cough uncontrollably trying to smoke the cigarette, because I don’t know how. Then I’ll throw the booze against the wall, because I’ll realize that I have to work in the morning.

I’m very sensible.

Then I’ll steal a Ford Fiesta and drive it into the river. Into the river. Into the river! INTO THE RIVER! SHUT UP! I HATE MONKEYS WITH HATS! I HATE MONKEYS WITH HAAAAAAAAAAAAATS!

Let’s calm down. Let’s make a sandwich. Wait. I have a sandwich maker. I will use that.

“Hey, you! Sandwich maker! Make me a sandwich!”

It’s not working. Where’s my scarf? I can’t go out without my scarf. The purple one. Who cut the cheese?

I need a polio vaccine. Where the hell’s my polio vaccine? Where’s my Banana Boat suntan lotion and my Tampax “heavy day” pad? This is ridiculous.

What’s that, reader? You want Burl Ives to narrate this column? No? Okay, you win. He’s dead anyway, y’know. So I was just kidding. Go to hell.

What’s crawling up my skin? Is it a leech? Is it a beaver? Is it polio? Ahhhhh! AHHHHH!

Mom? Mommy? Don’t hit me with those OshKosh B’Gosh corduroy pants! I’ll have lines on my face. Lines, I tell you! Corduroy does that! No one understands me! Ack!

Is it time to sleep? I can’t sleep until it’s time to sleep. I can’t sleep with you looking, either. Stop looking at me as I try to sleep. I’ll hate you to death. I’ve done it before. I hated Steven Goodspeed to death. He was sorry. Now he’s dead, and he smells like Alfalfa. Sprouts-wise, that is.

But hey, that’s how it crumbles. Cookie-wise, that is.

Where am I? I didn’t do anything stupid, did I?

ACK! ACK!!! ACKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKK!!!

Pardon me. What? No, I’m not high. I’m high on life. I’m wasted on life. I’m completely plastered on life. I am highly inebriated on life. I’m so high on life, you’ll have to hold my hair while I vomit from it.