Birds chirped outside my window, waking me. They were as loud as cannons. Most things are much louder to me, considering how small my ears are, but even so, these were the loudest birds I had ever heard.
My heart pounded in my chest. I was scared. Birds always scare me. They're just flying up in the sky or sitting on ledges. Watching. Judging. Hungry. Horny. God, I've seen birds do some stuff.
I was once out in Colorado, hiking the Rockies. I'd always heard how beautiful they are, but in person, the Rocky Mole Hills are something else. They're beautiful, majestic, and seem to go on forever.
I had a long day on the trail, so I set up camp early that night. As I gorged myself on a baked bean, comfortably seated on a Kraft Jet-Puffed Miniature Marshmallow, I saw a bald eagle perched on a tree in the valley below. It was like he was king of all the purple mole hills majesty. He had so much wonder and so much power that I only barely noticed his toupée. I probably wouldn't have even been able to tell it wasn't real if it weren't completely the wrong color.
I heard a slight groan. The mechanical roar of engines. It grew louder and louder. Dust clouded in the distance. As the engines crescendoed and the dust dustcendoed, I saw motorcycles. Ten motorcycles. Tens of motorcycles. Tens of thousands of motorcycles. There were fifty-eight motorcycles.
It was the Biker Mice from Mars.
The Biker Mice from Mars cruised through the valley. They rode past the base of the hill and out of sight, gone forever.
But then they came back, backpedaling in reverse but really fast. They were probably going over 100 mph backwards, which is quite impressive because their feet were doing a lot of work to keep balance.
Then they did an incredible trick that pictures can not capture and words can never describe. It was a wheelie.
"Wow, those are some very impressive mice," said the baked bean. "If I were a mouse, I probably would have to ride a three-wheel--"
The eagle took flight and soared down in front of the mice. All fifty-eight of them stopped dead in their tracks. The eagle closed his wings, tall and proud.
The mice squinted.
The eagle squinted a little harder. His toupée was askew, but I don't think he noticed.
The eagle adjusted his toupée. He had noticed.
The mice revved their engines.
The eagle clawed the ground.
The mice released their brakes and raced toward the eagle.
The eagle just stood there. He took off the tip of his wing which is actually a glove and reached into his pocket. You can't really tell without touching one, which is quite rude, but eagles have jean pockets built right into their eagle sides. He pulled out a tin of Long Cut Wintergreen Copenhagen and packed a lip.
"Oh my gosh that eagle looks like he could hit so many home runs I want to have sex with him," said the baked bean. I was sick of the bean's commentary, so I rolled him over so his face was in the dirt. He sure wasn't talking then!
As the mice came upon the eagle, all of their bikes were suddenly gone. They had disappeared. The eagle was gone, too. The mice were also suddenly all wearing business suits instead of biker clothes.
The bald eagle had stolen their identities. Just like that.
But it wasn't the chirping birds that scared me. What the hell happened to me last night? I opened my eyes to a squint. The sun shined through the curtains. It was unbelievably bright. My head throbbed like Marlon Brando. I reached for my face, but I couldn't feel it.
My face was gone.
In its place was a pillow.
I actually had just missed my face with my hand because I was so disoriented. After a quick recalibration--pillow, to knee, to throat, to weiner, back to pillow again, pillow to weiner, weiner into pillow repeatedly --I found my face. It was swollen.
My throat was dry and I had a weird taste in my mouth. I licked my teeth. They were gritty. I could feel something stuck between my front teeth. It was prickly. I pulled it out.
It was a cricket's leg.
I remember. I threw the leg into the garbage can, kissed the picture of Lenny Kravitz beside my bed, and remembered...
Bulbs flashed like lightning bolts on Mount Olympus when Zeus can't find the remote but is still trying to change the channel from the couch. Sweat poured down my face like skittles when I pour skittles down my face. People cheered and booed like an audience at a boxing match which they were.
Michael Keaton stood in the center of the ring wearing a black and white striped shirt. He grabbed a microphone, which descended from the ceiling because they do that in boxing matches. Michael Keaton is such a great guy.
"Ladies and germs..." said Michael Keaton.
That's so funny, I'm delighted Michael Keaton said that, I thought.
"Fighting to the death..."
I don't know if that's a joke! I thought. Let's see if it is.
"In the west corner... The smallest man in the world... Maaaac Saaaaam-sooooon!"
The cameras stopped photographing and the audience was quiet. They were all changing film and taking a drink of water at the exact same time.
"And in the east corner... He whistles... He bristles... And he's sharp as a thistle... Jiminy Cricket!"
Jiminy stepped forward and raised his gloves. He was jacked. It's hard to tell from the movies because for whatever reason they draw him instead of just filming him, but Jiminy Cricket is a beast. He has abs all over the place and on top of his abs are biceps. His neck is chainmail and his face is very attractive. He's a very strong and very handsome cricket.
Michael Keaton beckoned us forward. He brought our gloves together and made them touch. "All right boys, I want a clean fight, except one of you has to die because it's a fight to the death."
Jiminy did that laugh that only Jiminy does. He waved at the crowd and jumped, clicking his heels. Man I sure do love Jiminy!
The bell rang. Jiminy put up his gloves. As we danced about, I noticed that his heart was literally on his sleeve. It seemed strange, but I don't want to pass too much judgement on an American treasure.
I punched Jiminy Cricket on his heart and he died immediately. It was super easy.
As his body sizzled into steam and his spirit came out as Casper the Ghost, who is also adorable but not nearly as loveable as Jiminy Cricket so I wasn't interested in getting to know him so I told him to scram, all that remained was Jiminy's arm. His delicious cricket arm...
As I brushed my teeth, it all made sense. First, crickets are made of chocolate, so I ate Jiminy Cricket's chocolate arm and got the boney part stuck in my teeth. Second, I didn't get hit once, so the reason my head hurt so much and why I was so disoriented was because I got super drunk at a bar after the fight. Third and finally, the reason I was so randy for my pillow was because I didn't go home with anyone from the bar. I never do!