People are saying I’ve lost my edge, that I’m no fun anymore. They whisper in the bushes that I’m yesterday’s news, the clown inside of me revealed, born naked and dyed-in-the-wool stupid. Well, I’m not a mental patient anymore, nor am I embroiled in an international conspiracy to get former friend John Boehner deported to Guantanamo Bay. NO, my wife and I aren’t bitter that we had to languish in captivity and suffer torture at the hands of our own countrymen under false pretenses—no. Forgive and forget, that’s my motto these days. Eat, pray, love. Nawmsayin? Ah. We have fun.
Monica’s under house arrest at the moment for aggravated peacock assault. They charged her with “depraved heart murder,” which, wow, dramatic much? I didn’t know lawyers could be so literary. Luckily I greased some wheels and shuffled some paperwork around at the courthouse in the dead of night and got her sentence commuted to someone else, I hope an actual murderer but maybe also just someone who hasn’t paid their parking tickets in years (guilty! Heh. We have fun). So I’ve had my feathers full taking care of my dear, most beloved wife, though I’d be lying if I said she wasn’t a teensy-bit cranky lately. Lack of physical exertion and formerly repressed memories resurfacing in the middle of the night have left us with lots of broken glass, heirlooms destroyed, bodily fluids and excretions deposited in improper places. But we’ll make do.
I’ve struck upon a new idea, a franchise: Kentucky Fried Minions. Hear me out: those little yellow abominations with the overalls and the goggles? They’re actually pretty yummy. Bennington brought home a couple last night, said he found them “at the library,” whatever that means.
I was suspicious at first, especially since they were leaking all over our hardwood floors, but goddamn those ‘lil freaks tasted so good. A little bit of plantain, notes of espresso and lime, but mostly juicy red red meat. See that’s the thing you don’t expect: you look at the minions and you think, oh, that’s a walking banana. Or, oh hey, I bet they have cream filling inside. Not exactly: once you remove the sizable rectal cavity and fecal cube, you’re left with a quality cut that could pass for prime rib in any cosmopolitan American restaurant.
I’m thinking of taking a few shanks into Boston this weekend and hawking my wares, as they say. Bennington and I will probably nab a few more minions at construction sites and Home Depot parking lots along the way, and we’ll have ourselves a ball, a real boys’ weekend. Monica will be fine at home, I hope—I’m taking all my “custom medicine” with me, so no pilfering for her. Besides, she can always reach me by carrier pigeon, and she can text, call or telegraph me. Honestly, #RelationshipGoals. Fall back if you disagree.
Okay I’m off now. Not bringing any guns this time, just my baseball bat and a picnic basket. Smiles for miles.
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