The Obsessive Habits of Eighty People Who Decided To Get Sick And Tired Of Seeing Vonnegut Do The Commercials And Salinger Play Dead To A World Where He No Longer Matters Because All He Can Do Is Bitch Over The Ailments That Fame Has Brought The Latest Incarnation Of Howard Hughes: The Man Who Was a Character In A Disney Movie…
But I Could Be Wrong
or
57 Stories [Not] About [A Guy Named] Moe… And One More
or
No. 17
by: Paul B. Whitley

The last time I killed a person, it was an accident. This time… no mistakes.
Okay, I was joking, but I always wanted to start off my life’s story with some sort of a Snake Plissken-esque line. I was never the antihero type, let alone the hero type, but I’d like to think I was.
Who am I fooling? I’m a loser at a bar, hoping that I can run the line you take home for your sister to hear and say, "Wow! Who said that? I’ve got to meet him."
I know what you’re thinking: it won’t work. I know it won’t because I’ve been trying for the past five weeks and no one has come back to say "Hey, my sister wants me to give you her phone number." To tell you the truth, if it ever did happen, I wouldn’t call her. Who in the hell wants to go on a "blind date" with some guy from a bar? Furthermore, who would go out with a person willing to go out on a "blind date" someone knows from a bar? Exactly. Which is why I’m not at a bar, I’m at a hospital. You think she’ll buy it?
"Who?"
"Your sister."
"No."
"Why not?"
"Why would she? She doesn’t even know you. Hell, I don’t even know you."
"Maybe you’d like to introduce yourselves before we begin. How ‘bout you over there? Why don’t you go first? After he goes, we’ll just go around the room until everyone’s had a chance to speak."
"Alright. My name’s O.J., but I’m known as ‘Juice.’"
"My name is Hootie."
"We’re the Blowfish."
"I’m C. Dolores Tucker."
"I’m the man they call Vader."
"Al Sharpton, but you can call me Al."

ATTENTION!
MAKE TWO LINES! HAS BEENS TO THE LEFT! MEDIA WHORES TO THE RIGHT!
THERE IS TO BE NO CONGREGATION!

And that is how the world ended. Not with a bang. Not with a whimper. But when all of the churches died, the people died, too.
That is where he came in. The last man on earth. It was his dream come true. He had never been all that lucky in high school, or in marriage for that matter, but now that he was the last man, the babes were there to please him. He was the last ray of hope for the human race.
And that is where she came in. She was the last woman on earth and the last man was her ex-husband. She would rather die than procreate with that man.
Her parents were ignorant pieces of trash. They couldn’t read and neither could she. Perhaps that is why she isn’t narrating. She hated her parents with a passion. It wasn’t her fault she couldn’t read. It was her parents’. Because of them, her life is nothing more than a drug addiction thirsting for an overdose.
"I first got hooked on phonics two years ago. It’s been a struggle, but I think I’m on the road to recovery."
"How do you know you won’t go back?"
"I don’t, really. I’m just hoping for the positive."
"Well, your positivity is pissing me off. So, get away."
"But… but… but… I really like you."
"I suppose that we could go out on a date."
"Are you sure your parents won’t mind?"
My father let me know soon into this lifetime that I was his bitch, not his daughter. When I wasn’t feeling his violent wrath for not doing the things he told me to do, but never heard him say, he was granting me the pleasure of filling in for his dead wife, with the dead part removed. It was a wonderful life, if you go for that sort of thing. Perhaps, he would still be alive today if my sister didn’t get my place.
My sister’s a slut. Sure, everyone says that. Well, maybe not, but I’m not saying it because I’m mad at her. I’m saying it because it’s true. She gives it up to all who ask. Instead of pretending it’s the world’s biggest secret, why doesn’t she just make it a trade and go door to door selling it.
"Avon calling!" The all too familiar catchphrase didn’t just sound through the door, it burst through. Like a banshee, the pop age prophet of the commercial apocalypse announced her presence.
"Damn Jehovah Witnesses," he said as he filled up the bucket with water, "I don’t want to be saved. Why can’t they just let me go to hell?"
Our protagonist marches to the door. His weapon of choice is at the ready. The door opens. The look of surprise is one for film only. Some things just can’t be described. Well, they can, but sometimes, five pages can only be five pages.
She was drenched from head to toe. The weatherman had said that there would only be a light drizzle. Like a bastard, he was wrong. If that was her husband, she would know how to handle him. No self-respecting woman would have her husband misguiding the public into believing that a folded newspaper would be adequate protection from an office to a car in the rain when nothing short of an umbrella will do. It was wrong for this man to be on television. She should be there, giving the right information.
He was always wrong. That’s what his father said. His father was always right. Sometimes, his life here just had to be a mistake. Sometimes he believed that there was a family of losers out there with a genius son who could throw the football, be the MVP, and score an A on every quiz, test, and homework assignment. Someday, those two sons would cross paths. That smart ass would get the ass beating for a lifetime. If only he could fight, he’d knock him out.

1… 2… 3… 4… 5… 6… 7… 8… 9… 10…

HAPPY NEW YEARS!

"Hey, Einstein!" She is always so coy in her understanding of my mistakes.
"I can’t believe you fucked it up again!" I loved her subtlety.
"A countdown means you go backwards. What is this? The Dexter Manley Institute of Mathematics?" She could be so cute.
When that bitch of a wife is gone, I’ll get the car, the house, the lawnmower, the dog, the cat, the blender, the kids.
Damn!
When those damn kids are gone, I’ll get the peace, the car, the house, the lawnmower, the dog…
"Spot! Spot! Get your ass over here now!" That damn dog. He’s never around unless you’re eating. And even then, he never listens. I remember the time I couldn’t hear. What a hell! Somehow, a ball of wax just got stuck in my ear canal. Anytime something gets stuck, I have to laugh. I don’t care what it is, it’s a funny thing to see. I don’t believe for one second that no one else thought that Baby Jessica thing was funny for one second.
So, we’re stuck here. I don’t know how it happened, but the events I have told you leading up to this point should be a great help in getting aid to us. All I can do is hope that our prayers are answered and that we are rescued Of course, what I’d really like to know is how did Gilligan get us here in the first place?
Do we have any more questions, class… please?
Why isn’t Miss America gay?
Any other questions?
"Not today." She pushed him away. For a grown man, he hadn’t quite grasped the concept of "no touching." Maybe it was just him. Maybe she is irresistable. It would explain her last five rapes. That was it. Not only could he not keep his hands off her, but no man could. Every time she said she was raped, it was a testament to the power that was her. Yes, that was it.
"Ladies and gentlemen, that is a lie!" said the sleuth as he prayed that his plan would work. The villain fled like that of any Captain Caveman Adventure, but this one got away. The plan didn’t work.
I had the perfect plan. All I needed to do was get rid of those kids and then Charles and I could be together. When I rode off into the water, I killed my children. I didn’t want to, but shit happens. It happens all the time. Bummer, huh?
And in other news, Princess Di is dead.
OH MY GOD!!!
"Jesus for sale! Jesus for Sale!"
"Is that all you’ve got?"
"I’ve got some hamburgers."
"I won’t eat it. Get away."
She’s a good child. I’ve tried her faith several times, but she’s still holding true to her hunger strike. Of course no one knows about it which cancels out the purpose. But she does have her beliefs. I don’t necessarily agree with them, but it’s a free country, you know. I, for one, would never protest the impending cancellation of Party of Five, but I’m not her, am I?

And now for something completely different.

Yes, we’re here with Mr. Seven Teen discussing his new story. First off, can I call you ‘Seven?’"
"That’s a whole other story."
"Okay, then tell us Mr. Teen, what do you think of your story and the response it has received?
"Well, Connie. Can I call you Connie?"
"My name is Marie."
"Okay, Connie. I think the story is a load of crap."
"How so?"
Okay, so that was nothing more than a bad joke, but everything gets so overplayed these days. I’m sure that if I went to the trouble of stealing something you had never heard of, I would be considered a genius for writing this, not a hack who knows how to juxtapose phrases. Then again, I’m just the guy who does greeting cards. I suppose that I could’ve ended up a ladies’ shoe salesman, but I didn’t. What are you doing?
"I’m going to fight for Uncle Sam," my son said so proudly. I knew that when he got drafted, he wouldn’t be coming back. A mother knows these things. It’s a sixth sense. I wish I didn’t have it, but I knew that he was dead the moment he burst through that screen door."
"This one over here?"
"Yes, that’s the one."
"What do I do with it?"
"I don’t know. Just get it the hell out of here."
"I’ll never understand why you’re getting rid of these."
"A man only needs so many lava lamps to live the bachelor life proper."
Guys like that are losers. Money isn’t everything. I am a woman. I don’t need to be showered with wealth I can earn all that I want by myself, thank you. If I wanted to, I could just get rich by shaking my ass at the world.

For the small annual fee of $$$75$$$ per household we will prevent any and all unwelcome smells from coming your way.

That’s right ladies and gentlemen, all we’re asking for is that you take the time and pledge your support for this story. It doesn’t take much. Just as little as a few cents a day. We don’t often interrupt this lousy programming, but this is really for a not so worthwhile cause. If everyone makes a call and pledges, we can continue to bring you this story programming as only PBS can. And in doing so, you are not only helping us, but you are also tainting your neighbors and your chidren and your neigbors children and your children’s neighbors. When you contribute to PBS, you are doing more harm with your chump change than you could have ever imagined.
‘So what do you think about all of this imagination going around america? Go ahead caller."
I, personally, have never had to wear a strait jacket. I know I shouldn’t be boasting, but I’ve done some crazy things in the psycho ward. Ever see 12 monkeys? Well, that wasn’t based on me, but I did see a zebra one time.
She hated her parents. They didn’t understand what they were putting her through. She didn’t ask to be black and white, it was just a curse someone gave her. She didn’t have a particular preference of what she should’ve been instead, but she didn’t want a compromise. One or the other. That’s how it should’ve been. If God really loved her, he would have given her two green parents or something like that.
"For the last time, I’m off the ‘erb."
"So, now what’s the addiction?"
"Slippin’ mickies."
"Why?"
"Because we like you."
"Get out of my face, you hippies."
"But if you share your love, the world will be a better place."
Raise your hand if you believe in fairy tales.
"I am almost sure there is a meeting today."
"No there isn’t."
"I am positive we have a meeting today."
"I believe you are wrong."
"I believe I am right about this."
I believe that world peace will save humanity from destruction.
I believe in fairy tales.
Did someone mention fairy tales? I am selling them half off today. Want some?
No.
How about some peace?
No.
Lies?
No.
Truth?
"I am sure he is out there."
"Well, he could be, but how do you know he isn’t in bed at this time of night. Most kids are, you know."
"But I know my son, and he is always missing this time of night."
I wish my parents would shut up once and for all. I want them quiet. I need my sleep.
It is 1:09 a.m. Do you know where your dreams are?
Jack has the perfect wife, the perfect children, and the perfect life. What is wrong here? Jack’s going to hell. That’s right folks, Jack hasn’t repented to the Lord our George for doubting the power of the great buck. While we were out bowing down to the almighty dollar, Jack was wasting life with foolishness.
You don’t need independence. You don’t need self-esteem. You don’t need absolute happiness. You need money. With money, the perks just keep on comin’.
With little more than a stomp and a yell, she was gone from my life. Sure, I’ll regret it, but for right now, I’m enjoying the peace. It feels good to be a free man. I am a bachelor once again. The ladies will wait no longer. Where’s my black book?
"You talkin’ to me?"
"No, your wife."
"Oh, sorry. Honey, the man in the dress wants to talk to you."
Yes, the Jones’ family secret to having full, rich hair is to wash it once a week. Of course, I can tell you that now. I’m bald and the secret is nothing to me anymore. You’re not my competition. Not here, at least. So, what brings you to the Bingo Hall, anyway.
"The man outside with the dress told me that all I had to do was ask and I’d get free sex."
"I assure you, sir, the Radisson is no such place."
"Well, could you just check on it for me?"
"Excuse me, I’m looking for Moe."
"Wrong story, pal."
"Alright," he said, prepared to plead a losing cause, "so I’m not original, honey. But it could always be much worse. "
"How so?" She was in her typical no nonsense mood.
"I could be an over aged rock star on the verge of death because his previous attempts at recapturing the spotlight failed, leaving him with only the alternative of a drug overdose."

[Insert Laughtrack Here]

Wife: Oh honey. (characters embrace)

[Fade to black]

I wish that the bartender was as good with the entertainment as he was with the drinks. What a joke. I come to the bar to get away from family, and what does he shove down my throat? Some shitty ass sitcom about a loser with a bitch of a wife and a smartass kid. If I’ve got to watch this crap, it could at least be something real… like "The A-Team."
"Hey mack."
"What?"
"Cut that crap off."
"No way, mister. (southern drawl)

[Insert Laughtrack here]

"You know, Mickey Rourke is starting to look old."
"Yeah, I was just thinking that."
Well, that you are. Satisfied? I don’t know where else this can go, except down. Not that it hasn’t already been there. If you got lost while reading this then someone did their job. Or did they? I could go on with the crappy cliches and pop culture ripoffs, but I have more pressing matters to concern myself with. Like being an industry whore, killing world leaders, or acting under the name of Buck Naked. It all just depends on how you look at it.
Look harder.
I still don’t see it. We’re going too fast. Where is it?
"Quick Mr. Teen, before we go off the air, tell us: what do you have to say to all of those out there who have taken the time to read your works?"
"That’s simple Connie."
"Marie."
"Okay, Connie, it’s simple: {BEEP} the reader."

Warmest Regards,
Rev. Jackson Q. Johnson, Esq.
Stilettoes, press-on nails, and a bucket full of balls.