Sasquash

I look out for myself and those closest to me.

I swirled the ice cubes around in my tumbler glass. They were worn round from the whiskey melt. Look, science is important, as is God, and don't get me started on Kraft Jet-Puffed Miniature Marshmallows, but how is it that a solid (ice cubes) can be melted by a liquid (whiskey)? All these nerds flying around in their hybrid cars could come together to form Nerdtron, the ultimate nerd conglomerate where all individuals unite to form one perfect individual--thanks Obama and Storkbama, president of the Storks--and they still wouldn't be able to open up enough text books to begin to find the answer to why a solid can become a liquid.

Don't doubt me--I did study an amount of science in my youth. I was quite a good student, too, the top of my class.* Yet, despite all that I know and all that I read, which is a pretty average amount by average standards--

Please please please help me. There's a man following me. I spotted him here and there all throughout the day. Every time I thought he was closing in, ready for the kill, I'd turn, quick as a cat.

Meow!

But he'd be gone. So I'd continue, skeptical, scared, surreptitious, and he'd be behind me, but I never could catch him.

As I sit here writing on this post in my fantastical bachelor pad in the Bahamamas, the sun is setting, and the light grows low. I turn on the lamp. He's here. I can sense him. 

Whoosh! I spun around super fast and made a whooshing sound because I'm super fast. 

There he is, caught, captured, spotted.

"LAPD, don't move!" I says. I've always wanted to says that. That's for you, Granddad. My Granddad wasn't an LAPD cop, but he also always wanted to says that. If he were here with me now, I'd let him says it. Cops are great and so are firemen. 

The shady dark man is frozen, just standing there. I pull out my gun. It's a pump action pistol, just like James Bond would use if he only had one gun to choose from but also no knives. I unload the whole clip into the man. He is dead. He must be. He has to be.

I step toward him, and he steps back.

HOW IS HE NOT DEAD?

Oh wait that's just my shadow lol.

--I don't understand how Storkbama was able to get elected at the exact same time as Obama. So much in common is shared by them Obama and Storkbama in common shared.

1. Obama's famous campaign poster reads, "Hope."
Storkbama's famous campaign poster reads, "Stork."

2. Obama launched the monumental and all changing Obamacare health plan.
Storkbama launched the monumental and all changing Storkbama health plan.

3. Obama is married to a beautiful and powerful woman.
Storkbama is married to a beautiful and powerful stork.

4. Obama got Osama.
Storkbama got Storksama.

5. Obama smokes cigarettes and is very cool.
Storkbama is a Zerg Grandmaster in Starcraft 2 multiplayer.

Someday, I plan on spending a day in a stork's shoes so as to learn more about what they do and how they are governed. Am I right to assume that just because Storkbama is their president they live a life similar to ours? Tune in next time but like not the next next time just another time, let's say tune in at a different time to find out THAT story.

*****

I guess if I really think about it it makes sense that these particular ice cubes melted a little bit. I spent the whole morning drinking whiskey out of that glass, and by the time the kiddy pool that I filled this morning with whiskey this morning was drained this morning, I suppose my ice cubes were allowed to melt a little this morning. In the AM.

"Who da ya think ya are, ya filthy animal?" I said to the businessman next to me at the bar. He had huge ears, a twitchy leg, and big buck teeth.

"I am a rabbit," said the businessman next to me at the bar. He had huge ears, a twitchy leg, and big buck teeth. Did I already mention that?

I turned to the the sexy lady on my other side at the bar. "Who da ya think ya are, ya filthy animal?" I asked. She had hourglass curves, skin so smooth it looked like glass, and a wide open mouth.

"I am a vase," said the sexy lady on my other side at the bar. She had hourglass curves, skin so smooth it looked like glass, and a wide open mouth. I feel like I've already told you this story. Did I tell you about this?

No, said the bartender. He was a large, tremendously hairy man with savage eyes. Look bub, you're toast and making a fool of yourself, so let me help you out. Use quotation marks again.

I jerked my head back up, as I was drifting asleep back into the scary scary dream world.

"Thank you, sir." I said. "I'll have another, while you're dishin out 'dvice."

"You've had enough non sequiturs for the night, pal."

"Fine, whatever." I tilted back my glass and slid the ice cubs into my mouth. I chewed with my mouth open. "You're not my dad."

"Yes, I am," said the bartender.

My glass shattered. I didn't drop it, I just slammed it as hard as I could on the bar's edge. "Wha?"

The bartender grabbed a bottle of gin and a bottle of vodka by their necks. "I am your father, Chris." He smashed the bottles on the bar. Glass went everywhere.

"I... I remember," I said. I grabbed a handful of decorative glass balls adorning the bar and threw them one by one about the bar. Each shattered in the exact same pattern, just like how every dumb snowflake is exactly the same if you stop being such a piece of shit about it.

The bartender gripped a bowling ball near his face, deep in concentration. Our sensei banged the gong in the corner. Sensei is wise. The bartender took his steps, lowered the ball, and swung his arm forward, like clockwork. At the moment of release, he held onto the ball and pummeled a replica glass Sears Tower, shattering it. The score was 8-0, skins vs. skins. "Daddy luv u, Chris," said the bartender.

The sexy lady was all like "I'm out man, this is too much!" The studio audience applauded. They loved it. The audience always loves the sexy lady.

It was pretty nice out, so the window was open. An owl fluttered to a halt, resting on the windowsill. I looked at the owl. Oh yeah, owl.

"Wait a minute, you're not my dad!" I said, raising my Nimbus 3000. It was a tremendous broom, but still, it didn't mask the fact that I lost my wand long, long ago.

"Don't say that, Chris. You're my boy." The bartender wasn't wearing a little hat but I think I would have liked that.

"My dad was killed by owls long ago," I said, holding back tears. I'm Mac Samson, the smallest man in the world, btw.

The owl faced the camera. "I'm out man, this is too much!" he said. The studio audience mildly applauded. They liked it OK. The audience always loves the sexy lady, and the owl is not the sexy lady. The owl flew away.

Steve Urkel flew into the other window, which was closed but super clean. He slid down it slow and squeaky like a cartoon character.

Steve Urkel everyone!

"Shit, then I'm not your dad," said the bartender. He became sad.

I studied his face. Brown, crazy eyes, a thick beard, long hair pulled back into a ponytail, a wide nose, and facial hair all over the rest of his face. Also, he didn't speak any English. He only spoke in roars and growls.

"Are you Sasquatch?" I asked.

"No," said the bartender.

"Hmmm..." I hmmmed.

My gaze shifted down, away from his face, but I definitely wasn't going all the way to his crotch. His neck was bald, and not even a neck at all. It was just a skinnier part of his torso. His skin was yellow and smooth, like a gourd. He had no arms and no legs, just his lightbulb shaped body.

"Are you Sasquash?" I asked.

A bell started dinging and lights flashed as confetti and balloons fell from the ceiling. Vanna White came out and shook my hand. She looks so good, can you believe she was born in 1957?

"That is correct!" said Sasquash.

*****

We dined on squash soup and chatted late into the night. Vanna has so many great stories and I proudly endorse Wheel of Fortune.

*No I wasn't.

The Mouse Dangerous Game

Winning comes with no warning.

*****

Twas a beautiful day in the park and I simply was the happiest of little men! "I chance prance about the square!" I sang out loud!  I sang it to the toon of Hum Diddly Dum! It went like thees!:

I chance prance about the square!
I chance prance oh hoo I dare!
With a hum dee dee dee doo,
And a hum diddly dee dum too,

This here is my declaration,
Of my feel good celebration!

And other lyrics!

Oh how I was a happy happy boy! Well, the size of a boy, except much smaller! What a great little day for Mac! That's meeeeeee!!!!!

And as if my happy little self of a choo choo train weren't already hoofing and poofing steam full speed ahead on the choo choo track, I remembrant a tasty tasty treat, tucked snug in my wee little satchel!

Twers a fresh bag of Kraft Jet-Puffed Miniature Marshmallows!

This madeth me even happier, so happy that I ejaculated another happy happy song! Twent like theees!:

Elephant, elephant, won't you take my call,
Elephant, elephant, I'm the prettiest prince of all!
Oh did you forget, that today is the day?
When we all sing Elephant! Oh we are gay!

And other lyrics!

So I choo choo chooed and I choo choo chugged back over to the anthropomorphized bench that I asked to watch my leetle bag! He was British!

"Ello govna!" screamed the bench! He really had no volume control!

"Hello my dear good bench! Hazah!"

"Hazah!" said the bench!

"HAZAH!" sayeth me!

"HAAAZZZZAAAAAHHHH!" rackity-bracked the bench!

"HAZAPOH!" I said I said I said!

"IT'S HAPPENING" SAID THE BENCH!

I waved my hands above my head like an inflatable armed man outside a car dealership! Rainbows shot from my fingertips into the sky! Fifteen planes stalled up above!

And with that, the bench had a horrible, horrible seizure. He died right there, yes that bench did die.

As I opened the bag of Kraft Jet-Puffed Miniature Marshmallows, a small flash of gold caught my bag. There, in the bag, was a ticket. A shiny golden ticket.

I opened the ticket. Crimped edges housed a smooth gold inside. Stamped into the center was a message:

Congratulations on this find! Please join me at (REDACTED) this weekend to collect your prize and have your wildest dreams come true. Please call my butler Osmond at (REDACTED) at your earliest convenience and he'll take care of the rest!

I folded the ticket and put it in my pocket. I also redacted the location and number to protect the privacy of those involved. One simply can't be careful enough nowadays what with all those weirdos and crazy people on the internet. I do know the details of the redacted information and can assure you that they were listed on the ticket. Otherwise how else would I have been able to get a hold of Osmond or go to where I went which I'll tell you now?:

***

No one is as productive in sweatpants as ninjas are. I find that interesting. Whoops, sorry, I suppose you're waiting to hear how my ticket redemption went:

***

It went pretty well, all things considered. Oh, details. Right. It went like this:
***

I never saw the episode of Home Improvement where we finally get to see the neighbor guy on the other side of the fence's face. I think about that from time to time...

Now I remember! I didn't see that episode because that was the time I was away on this secret island meeting a lavish rich man to redeem the golden ticket I found in the bag of Kraft Jet-Puffed Miniature Marshmallows. That's a wild story. It goes like this:

***

"Welcome to the island, Mr. Samson," said Osmond the butler as he held open the door of the private airplane. It was a small, single prop engine plane, only able to fit four people on it. It was the biggest plane I'd been on in my entire life, and I've been on one other plane.

I hopped out and onto the tarmac, apparently at just the right time, for I narrowly missed being pushed by Leroy Doubledown, the fat Texan who also won one of the three golden tickets.

"Wichita... Ten-four... Yippee... Coyote..." I guess Leroy could have said. He didn't say that, but I don't remember what he said, so it'll have to be good enough.

Misty was the last person off the plane. She had bright red hair, wore short jean shorts with red suspenders, and had overly emotive eyebrows which sat on top of her hair, because she's an anime character.

"We didn't talk about it on the plane," conveniently for exposition's sake said Leroy. "I'm a wealthy oil tycoon. What do you do?"

"I train water Pokémon," said Misty.

Close-up of my head, slowly facing the camera. "What a surprise," I said, nailing my lines and really showing how much of an onscreen shining star I am.

"Please, follow me to meet the man of the hour, the richest man in all of New Mexico, which is obviously not where we are now to anyone hearing this story at a later time, the one, the only... Doug."

*****

(Half a page is ripped out)

Looking at Doug as he stood before us in his brilliant officer uniform, it was no surprise that he was the marvel of a man that he was, especially considering the incredible castle I so brilliantly just described.

"Flip flappin' flam flam" said fuckin', uh, what's his name? Leroy. Whatever.

"Don't forget to take the yarn," a badass talking skeleton could have said but he didn't because he wasn't there.

"Sir, your custom edition turbo golf club," said Osmond, handing Doug a driver.

Doug shifted his weight, stared down the ball, wound back, and hit a hole in one from five thousand yards away.

"Adolescence is perpetual in 2015," said Misty.

"Squirtle!" said Bulbasaur. Misty lost Squirtle but honestly who gives a shit.

"Pig slop in my butt crack" said the fucking Doubledown guy to, like, General Patton but with a chicken's face.

"Balk balk ba-galk," fucking whatever.

(Mac reenters the room. )

("Who the hell are you?")

(A gorilla on a skateboard looks up from the computer with a guilty face.)

("Get outta here!" said Mac.)

(The gorilla  runs out.)

(The gorilla runs back in. He forgot his skateboard.)

*****

"Delicious roast duck," said Leroy. NOW we're back to the good stuff.

"Are you enjoying it?" asked Doug. He leaned forward, smirked, and drummed his fingers together.

Misty and Leroy exchanged a look. "Yes, of course," said Misty.

"Good!" said Leroy. "For this is the last meal you shall ever have!"

"What?" said Misty, alarmed.

"Yeah, what she said," I said, slouching over in my chair while crossing my arms and turning my hat backwards. So fuckin sweet.

Doug clapped his hands. "It's time, Osmond!" Doug reached under the table, pulled out a small box, opened it, and revealed a large red button. He pressed it.

Holes opened up in the floor beneath Leroy, Misty, and my chairs. We all fell into the holes, fell into darkness.

*****

(There's coffee stains all over the next few pages. What a slob.)

I held my breath so as to hear better, though my heart still pattered away in my chest. One of the dogs sniffed at the base of the tree stump I was hiding inside. He paused.

Please no, I thought.

The dog tilted his head up and howled.

No no no, I thought. Not like this.

The other dogs came to the stump. After a moment, they all continued on, noses to the ground. I let out my breath, relieved.

I peeked my head out of the stump. I was back near the castle finally, but all alone. After what happened to Leroy, Misty, and Bulbasaur, I couldn't believe I was back. I couldn't believe I was alone.

I studied the castle walls. They were forty feet high, solid stone, and a really nice shade of green. I just can't get over how nice that green looked. Doug must have a great designer.

Thwarted from this angle, I climbed out of the stump and scampered to the other side. As I ran around the wall, a break in the base of the bricks caught my eye. A hole! It was only a few inches high and maybe half as wide. Just my size. I scurried into the hole, back into darkness, but this time on my terms.

Thud.

I fell back onto my butt. I had run into thick glass.

The jar tipped up, righting itself.

Doug peered down at me, smirking that smirky smirk again.

"Well, well, well, looks like Mr. Sneaky has been caught."

"It's Samson," I said.

"Oh my gosh, I'm so sorry! I thought it was Sneaky! My apologies!"

"That's OK, I guess," I said.

"Anyway, how have you been liking my little game?"

"Honestly?"

"Honestly," said Doug.

"It's horrible. Leroy, Misty, and Bulbasaur are all dead. I would have been too, had I not just barely dodged the swinging axe, made my way around the lava pit, and evaded the dogs."

"Which one is Bulbasaur again?"

"He's the grass starter Pokémon," I said. "Kind of sucks, no one picks him."

"Right," said Doug.

"Now please, for the love of God, let me out of this jar!"

"OK," said Doug. He then let me out of the jar.

We sat at his kitchen table, eating milk and cookies on a break. "Before you can go, you must play me one more game in order to win your freedom," said Doug.

I raised my finger over my mough. "One second, I'm chewing," I said, mouth full of cookie. I am also eating cookie now, one second.

(pause)

Cool I'm all done now.

"What is it? What could I possibly have left to prove in to get out of this nightmare?"

Doug got up. He walked his index and middle finger like a little man along the table toward me.

"Oh, nothing you couldn't handle--"

The little man standing between me and Doug wasn't a little man at all, it was just Doug's index and middle fingers! He snatched me up and brought me near his face, near his smirk.

"Please, no!" I said, struggling to try and get free.

"Oh, yes. Very much," said Doug.

I went limp, exhausted.

"Mousetrap!" said Doug.

*****

After a few rounds of the delightful family game for ages 6 on up, Doug won, and the tiny plastic cage fell on to me.

"Trapped again!" I said.

We laughed and laughed and laughed.

*****

I'll never forget Doug and all of the amazing adventures we had. I still think about him whenever I play a game. As I roll the dice, which is so God damn hard to do because I'm the smallest man in the world and a single die is the size of my head, my mind drifts off to Wonderland, from Alice in Wonderland. For I know he's far, far down that rabbit hole, but one day, I hope to get my friend Doug back.

My New Mobile Home

Home is where the heart is.

After my Papa was eaten by the very same owls who made my Mama their owl queen, I was raised by a band of otters. They were my best friends, my wisest counsel, my family, my otters. Like every young pup though, I eventually had to leave our underwater casino anti-steampunk philanthropic culinaryish literary hot-but-like-just-the-right-amount-of-hot free lunches included have-a-tv-but-it's-almost-never-on-because-we're-either-doing-something-so-interesting-or-just-enjoying-each-others'-company den, a den I came to know as home. My most cherished memories and also so many funny funny funny funny things happened in that den. It was like Mr. Bean in an episode of The Simpsons funny, so it was funny but also something I learned a lot from.

Like this one time, Homer became the food critic for the local newspaper, but he abused his power after a while even though he really just loved food, so he became kind of mean with his reviews, which angered all of the restaurant owners, and Lisa was actually the one writing the reviews the whole time so when Homer got greedy and mean she stopped helping so the reviews sucked, so as if that wasn't bad enough for Homer the restaurant owners just got even madder cause his reviews were still mean, so they tried to kill Homer with this poisonous pastry that also had way too much butter for a person to digest in it, but before Homer could eat it, something I can't quite remember happened so he didn't eat the pastry and the lesson was that you should be honest and modest, but with otters.

Or this other time, Mr. Bean was taking this exam, and there was like a few minutes before the exam began, so he was looking around anxiously, then he saw that the guy sharing a table with him had like a few pens laid out for the exam, so Mr. Bean pulled out a few pens and laid them out, then the other guy laid out more pens, so Mr. Bean brought out way too many pens, and the other guy was all done, but then Mr. Bean had like a little clock with hands guy toy that he put on the desk, and he also had a little soft plastic cop kinda guy action figure that he put on the desk, and he also had a Pink Panther action figure that he put on the desk, but the Pink Panther had like a moveable tail, and his tail was between his legs, so it looked like he was standing there with a super huge pink boner, but it wasn't a super huge pink boner it was just his tail sticking through his legs forward, and Mr. Bean was super embarrassed about it, so he fixed the boner so it was just a tail again, and then the exam started, and Mr. Bean was all confident going in because he studied a lot, but then it turns out he had studied exclusively either trigonometry or calculus I can' remember, but the exam was the other one of the two that he didn't study, so he tried to cheat off of the other guy at his table, but that guy didn't let Mr. Bean see his answers, so Mr. Bean dropped his pen under the desk to look at the guy's answers, but the guy blocked him again, so then Mr. Bean flat out grabbed the other guy's answers, but the other guy snagged his answers back, so Mr. Bean was all defeated and cried out "Mommy" then put his head on his hands on the desk, and then we saw the clock, then we saw the clock like 45 minutes later to show that time had passed, then the exam proctor made an announcement where he said that there was like five minutes left and something about if you did the calculus side as opposed to the trigonometry side, so Mr. Bean lifted up his head, then Mr. Bean opened up his exam envelope again, and Mr. Bean found the exam that was the other type of math either trigonometry or calculus I can't remember but it was the one he did study, so he started taking that exam and doing really well, but then believe it or not his pen was dead, so he tried a bunch of the many other pens he brought, and none of those pens worked, so he stole the other guy at his desk's pen, and that guy tried to protest but Mr. Bean didn't care because he had so much test left to take in like probably a minute at that point, then the proctor said that time was up and to stop writing, but Mr. Bean kept writing, so the proctor repeated that everyone had to stop writing but a little more aggressively this time, and Mr. Bean kept writing, so the proctor said quite sternly stop writing, so Mr. Bean looked up as if he wasn't looking at the exam well I guess he wasn't if he was looking up but he was still writing even though he wasn't looking at the exam I know how he did that it was really impressive, so the proctor just yelled at him, so Mr. Bean threw his pen to the side, then that silly alarm clock guy toy went off, and on top of it all Mr. Bean couldn't get the alarm to stop, but with otters.

Also, the Pink Panther action figure didn't have a super huge pink boner in the otter version. Otters just have regular huge pink boners.

Where will I live? I thought as I looked back at our underwater casino anti-steampunk philanthropic culinaryish literary hot-but-like-just-the-right-amount-of-hot free lunches included have-a-tv-but-it's-almost-never-on-because-we're-either-doing-something-so-interesting-or-just-enjoying-each-others'-company den. It was the only real underwater casino anti-steampunk philanthropic culinaryish literary hot-but-like-just-the-right-amount-of-hot free lunches included have-a-tv-but-it's-almost-never-on-because-we're-either-doing-something-so-interesting-or-just-enjoying-each-others'-company den I had lived in, the only real underwater casino anti-steampunk philanthropic culinaryish literary hot-but-like-just-the-right-amount-of-hot free lunches included have-a-tv-but-it's-almost-never-on-because-we're-either-doing-something-so-interesting-or-just-enjoying-each-others'-company den I had come to love, the only real underwater casino anti-steampunk philanthropic culinaryish literary hot-but-like-just-the-right-amount-of-hot free lunches included have-a-tv-but-it's-almost-never-on-because-we're-either-doing-something-so-interesting-or-just-enjoying-each-others'-company den I could ever see myself living in.

I mean sure, I had seen other underwater casino anti-steampunk philanthropic culinaryish literary hot-but-like-just-the-right-amount-of-hot free lunches included have-a-tv-but-it's-almost-never-on-because-we're-either-doing-something-so-interesting-or-just-enjoying-each-others'-company dens like ours, but they definitely weren't nearly as nice or inviting of an underwater casino anti-steampunk philanthropic culinaryish literary hot-but-like-just-the-right-amount-of-hot free lunches included have-a-tv-but-it's-almost-never-on-because-we're-either-doing-something-so-interesting-or-just-enjoying-each-others'-company den as our our underwater casino anti-steampunk philanthropic culinaryish literary hot-but-like-just-the-right-amount-of-hot free lunches included have-a-tv-but-it's-almost-never-on-because-we're-either-doing-something-so-interesting-or-just-enjoying-each-others'-company den is.

And that's not to say that there aren't other underwater casino anti-steampunk philanthropic culinaryish literary hot-but-like-just-the-right-amount-of-hot free lunches included have-a-tv-but-it's-almost-never-on-because-we're-either-doing-something-so-interesting-or-just-enjoying-each-others'-company dens out there that are as nice of an underwater casino anti-steampunk philanthropic culinaryish literary hot-but-like-just-the-right-amount-of-hot free lunches included have-a-tv-but-it's-almost-never-on-because-we're-either-doing-something-so-interesting-or-just-enjoying-each-others'-company den as our underwater casino anti-steampunk philanthropic culinaryish literary hot-but-like-just-the-right-amount-of-hot free lunches included have-a-tv-but-it's-almost-never-on-because-we're-either-doing-something-so-interesting-or-just-enjoying-each-others'-company den is, just that it's not the same underwater casino anti-steampunk philanthropic culinaryish literary hot-but-like-just-the-right-amount-of-hot free lunches included have-a-tv-but-it's-almost-never-on-because-we're-either-doing-something-so-interesting-or-just-enjoying-each-others'-company den as our our underwater casino anti-steampunk philanthropic culinaryish literary hot-but-like-just-the-right-amount-of-hot free lunches included have-a-tv-but-it's-almost-never-on-because-we're-either-doing-something-so-interesting-or-just-enjoying-each-others'-company den is.

So if you live an an underwater casino anti-steampunk philanthropic culinaryish literary hot-but-like-just-the-right-amount-of-hot free lunches included have-a-tv-but-it's-almost-never-on-because-we're-either-doing-something-so-interesting-or-just-enjoying-each-others'-company den, I'm sure it's a lovely underwater casino anti-steampunk philanthropic culinaryish literary hot-but-like-just-the-right-amount-of-hot free lunches included have-a-tv-but-it's-almost-never-on-because-we're-either-doing-something-so-interesting-or-just-enjoying-each-others'-company den, but you have to understand that your underwater casino anti-steampunk philanthropic culinaryish literary hot-but-like-just-the-right-amount-of-hot free lunches included have-a-tv-but-it's-almost-never-on-because-we're-either-doing-something-so-interesting-or-just-enjoying-each-others'-company den is simply not my underwater casino anti-steampunk philanthropic culinaryish literary hot-but-like-just-the-right-amount-of-hot free lunches included have-a-tv-but-it's-almost-never-on-because-we're-either-doing-something-so-interesting-or-just-enjoying-each-others'-company den. I think that you get that, though, because anyone who lives in an underwater casino anti-steampunk philanthropic culinaryish literary hot-but-like-just-the-right-amount-of-hot free lunches included have-a-tv-but-it's-almost-never-on-because-we're-either-doing-something-so-interesting-or-just-enjoying-each-others'-company den has a certain only-people-who-live-in-an-underwater-casino-anti--steampunk-philanthropic-culinaryish-literary-hot--but--like--just--the--right--amount--of--hot-free-lunches-included-have--a--tv--but--it's--almost--never--on--because--we're--either--doing--something--so-interesting--or--just--enjoying--each--others'--company-den quality that makes them pretty well-rounded and reasonable.

I obviously can't just go back to our underwater casino anti-steampunk philanthropic culinaryish literary hot-but-like-just-the-right-amount-of-hot free lunches included have-a-tv-but-it's-almost-never-on-because-we're-either-doing-something-so-interesting-or-just-enjoying-each-others'-company den, I thought. It would be way too easy.

"Hey, Mac," said Billy the bullfrog from his Chicago blues themed lily pad. He was our neighbor. He was pretty nice, but honestly, after living by him all those years in our den, he's kind of a nosey fuck. "Where are you going?"

"It's time to leave the den. I've got some growing up to do." I said.

"But you haven't grown for years. You're the smallest man in the world, Mac," said Billy.

Jesus Christ this fucking frog fucker sucks, I thought. Nothing against frogs I don't mean this to come across as frogest, it's just that he particularly sucked and I don't know what else to call him besides frog stuff. I'd love to push him off his pad and not even throw him one single Kraft Jet-Puffed Miniature Marshmallow to float on. "I just have to go," I said.

"But where will you go? Where else will you find another underwater casino anti-steampunk philanthropic culinaryish literary hot-but-like-just-the-right-amount-of-hot free lunches included have-a-tv-but-it's-almost-never-on-because-we're-either-doing-something-so-interesting-or-just-enjoying-each-others'-company den like this underwater casino anti-steampunk--"

Before he could finish running his frog mouth, Billy was dead. Major Chip Hazard, the main figure from the movie Small Soldiers, had strangled Billy to death before blowing his own brains out. Chip was next to Billy the whole time but I forgot to mention that because I was so focused on how much Billy sucks. I guess it worked out fine because Chip was a bad guy.

I guess that's what you get for living ON a bachelor pad, I thought. I smiled, excited, and looked around. "Crap, I just thought that awesome pun. I should have said it out loud," I said.

"Well, what was the pun?" asked Todd. Todd was our other neighbor. He's a turtle. He was sitting next to me. I like Todd.

"I thought 'I guess that's what you get for living ON a bachelor pad,' referring to Billy being a frog and how the lily pad was his home and how a lily pad is like a bachelor pad for frogs," I said.

Todd tilted his head side to side, considering. "I don't think that that was that funny, but I honestly also don't think that that was that unfunny. Kind of too soon to make it considering he died like probably fifteen seconds ago, though."

"That's fair," I said. "Hey, Todd, can I crash with you for a while?"

"Yes," said Todd. "I have a margarita machine and I'm headed to Coachella. You can ride with me. But know this: I can't stand music festival girls. So annoying."

So I lived with Todd the turtle in his shell for a while.

The Milky Way Galaxy

There's nothing like the feeling of taking your shoes off at the end of the workday.

I have a friend named Willard who goes so far as to wait until he's completely alone to release his barking dogs, sometimes hours after he punches out for the night. If someone wants to meet up after work for a beer or to go bowling, he stays in his foot hats, which is a very famous and popular term for shoes as of right now. One time I even saw Lard--that's his name for short, you'd think it would be Will but the world is Pandora's box of hell so the moment you think you're going to pull out an apple bam it happens, you're elbow deep in the box and never come out, that or you get two apples which is hardly anything to complain about!--take a shower in his boots, just because I was still there and he was saving it for when he's alone.

"Why don't you just take them off?" I asked.

"Not time yet. Please pass the luffa," said Lard.

"I'll do ya one better," I said. I stood up on the shower stool, reached as high as I could, and gave Willard the back scrubbing of a lifetime. It's incredible how much people neglect to exfoliate their pores, but hey that's what friends are for. Friends and dogs.

"Speaking of which," said Lard, "Pitbull, I think we're all set for the night, you can go whenever you want."

"The bigger they are the harder they fall," said Pitbull.

He then gave me a flick and I fell onto the stool. It wasn't that hard, though, because I'm as small as they come. It was as if someone had tipped over a Kraft Jet-Puffed Miniature Marshmallow.

"OK, that's enough you only-speaks-lyrics-exciting-Miami-son-of-a-bitch," said Lard.

And with that, Pitbull pressed all three buttons on his Casio F91W digital sports watch at once. His suit coat became slicker, his collar popped, and his head became freshly shaved. "This is the last twenty dollars I got, but I'mma have a good time ballin' or out," said Pitbull. I'm only 95% confident the last bit was 'ballin' or out,' to be honest. He always sings that part in a fast Miami way so even though I don't really know what he's saying I'm definitely having a good time. Pitbull then pulled out a twenty dollar bill, fed it into the breast pocket of his jacket, which was one of those dollar slots from a vending machine, and turned into a rocket ship. He flew into space and ripped a hole in Willard's bathroom wall.

But Lard still didn't take off his boots. That's how good it feels to take off your shoes at the end of the day.

*****

This is a universal feeling known to all of man throughout all of time.

The earliest primal cavemen used to sit on a cold rock at the end of the day, all hunched over and whatnot, look around with their crow-magnum brow, shrug, and say, "Wow now that was a long day my fellow cavemen I'm beat let's eat!"

Then all of the cavemen would get up, do a fifteen minute cavemen secret handshake, and play pickup baseball for hours, well into the wee hours of the night. That's why so many of the early New York Yankees back in the '40s, '50s, and '60s were so good at baseball, it's because they grew up together playing baseball in the same neighborhoods. That and they were pretty thickly Italian, just like the God damned cavemen. Also, I'm talking he NINETEEN '40s, '50s, and '60s as a comparison. Back when cavemen were playing baseball after work in the EIGHTEEN '40s, '50s, and '60s, the Yankees were only OK. The Mets were much better back then. I wonder what the cavemen playing baseball would have thought about Darryl Strawberry if they could have seen him? Not only was he a tremendous threat at the plate, but he was also a Met AND a Yankee. Johnny Damon didn't even do that and he was arguably the last great caveman baseball player. Not to say that some young Italian isn't out there right now, killing the ball like it's a bee in a breadbox, just that until I'm proven otherwise and for all in tents' sixth purposes, Johnny Damon is the last great caveman baseball player.

After they'd play baseball, the cavemen would finally sit down and have a few Schlitz beers. Then they'd down some Yuenglings. Then, and only then, the cavemen would shave the tops of and pumice stone the bottoms of their feet. Cavemen didn't wear shoes everyone knows that.

But why is this a universal feeling known to all man throughout all of time?

Did God put it in us?

Go ahead and ask yourself that question. Did God put it in us? It sounds so hilarious. I'm going to say that sentence exactly like that at a party sometime. It's not that naughty but I'm always hungry for a little trouble tehehe.

Did our parents teach it to us when we were little babies breastfeeding?

No.

And if you didn't breastfeed you're a monster.

To answer this question, one must travel to the center of it all.

*****

"Hey Will, when does Pitbull usually come back from space?" I asked.

Willard was cleaning his ears. "Don't call me Will, that's not my name. It's Lard." Willard then put his button up shirt, chaps, pistol holster, and spurs back on. Willard is a full time cowboy out in the old west. So you know he cherishes taking his boots off at the end of the day that much more, because cowboy boots are the coolest of boots when not worn by wealthy white girls or suburban Nashville country singers. "Usually in a day or two," said Lard.

("There I got it right, are you happy now, you rootin' tootin' son of a bitch?")

("Yes, and I acknowledge that your anger is coming from a different place not meant to be aimed at our friendship.")

("Man, you're a really good dude, Lard. Can we hug?")

(-We hugged-)

"Poop dee loop," I said. "I need to get to space like now."

"Trying to figure out the origin of why it's so excellent and almost orgasmic to take off your shoes at the end of the workday?" asked Lard.

"Yes! Wait do you know? Just tell me."

"Nope," said Lard. "You might be the smallest man in the world, but that doesn't mean you can't take a big journey into space to find out for yourself."

"Man, you're so wise. Stoic? Is that the word?"

"Not quite," said Willard. He then pivoted, drew his pistol, and shot Black Bart dead right there. Yes, thee Black Bart, the most feared villain in all the old west.

"I'll use it in the right context one of these days," I said. "I'm off to space."

NASA doesn't hire that much anymore and all of the spaceships from Space Jam are out on rental, so I had to go to my next best option...

"The all new Ford Galaxy," said the slimeball car salesman. He made a whistling noise between his teeth whenever he pronounced an S, which was disappointing because he hadn't said any S's yet. "It am a great car, beautiful." Still no S's, that sucks. So I got out of there, no more car lot. It's like he was trying to screw me out of an S.

That's it! I thought. The old pinewood derby car kit I had back at my house!

I had the plastic wheels, the little plastic cage, and all of the tools, but I was missing one thing. Wood! I thought long and hard. Wood, where can I get some wood in a pinch?

My pillow winked at me from my bed. She was horned up good.

"Not right now, pillow!"

No, not wood, I need... I visualized Pitbull putting the twenty dollar bill into his jacket pocket vending machine slot. A vending machine, that's it! So I went over to the vending machine in my room--which I have because I'm awesome being the smallest man in the world doesn't mean I can't be awesome--put in a dollar, and got my favorite candy in the whole wide world.

No, the whole wide galaxy.

A Milky Way.

I ripped off the wrapper, which was exhausting because it's like taking the sheets off a bed for me, man, threw my pinewood derby kit on it's chocolate covered caramel nougat goodness, and was good to go. My own custom Milky Way Galaxy.

*****

Lights on earth do not glow or shine like they do in space. Everything is so surreal, so different, so cold, so there's-no-noise, so you've seen movies you get it. I turned the key, shutting off my car. There's no idling in space that's why the air is so clean. As I floated closer and closer to the actual center, it appeared before me.

The monolith.

As dark as night and as enticing as a Bond girl during the movie, not after, Bond girls usually have sadly downward careers after that, this was the most God-like sight I'd ever seen. It was perfect.

At the center of our galaxy is a custom black Air Jordan baseball cleat. Michael Jordan is wearing it, beautifully garbed in a Chicago White Sox uniform that's Bulls colors and sleeveless.

I rolled down my window and leaned out. "Michael?"

"There are many names for who I am. What I am. Most call me God, others call me Dad. What it is doesn't matter, for a name is just a name."

"MJ I have to ask you why--"

"Is taking your shoes off at the end of the day a universal, transcendental, timeless feeling of euphoria and pleasure?" said Michael Jordan.

I nodded. That's a physical sign for yes, baby!

Michael smiled. He took a drink of what I thought was a magic bottle but just turned out to be water all along.

"The reason why, which is also the meaning of life, is--"

Pitbull thudded into the side of my candy bar car spaceship. His rocket boosters were all out of juice. He clutched his arm. It was broken and stabbed. Yes, both.

"What the hell--"

"You have to get me out of here!" Pitbull was gasping for air, duh, obviously you can't breathe in space because the air is so clean--you'd know that if you turned your rocket boosters off every once in a while, Pitbull. Sheesh!

"Why?" I asked.

"I ran into the real king of Miami out here in space."

"LeBron?" I asked.

"Lol," said Michael Jordan. Michael gets it.

"No, Will Smith!" said Pitbull.

I thought about it for a second. "Yeah, I can totally see that."

"We gotta go now!" said Pitbull.

"Hey, don't you only talk in lyrics, Pitbull?" I asked.

Michael Jordan agreed.

"I'll write it later! We have to go now!" Pitbull reached into my car and started it up.

"Michael, I have to know!" I said, trying to resist Pitbull's unbelievable swag. But it was too strong. We were headed back out of the center of the Milky Way before I knew it. I looked into the rearview mirror, sad. Michael was practicing free throws. It was breathtaking.

"I hate you, Pitbull," I said.

"No you don't," said Pitbull.

"I know."

*****

Why does it feel so damn good to take your shoes off at the end of the workday?

Somewhere, far, far from here, Michael Jordan is shooting free throws. He's on an incredible streak of consecutive shots made, probably like a billion, but he doesn't even know it, because each shot is such a joy for Michael. His workday might be over, but he's still wearing his Air Jordans, hard at work, yet hard at pleasure.

Taking your shoes off at the end of the workday feels so good because you're finally done for a bit, able to let down your hair and be yourself. The key is to never have to really take your shoes off, because what you wear should be so comfortable and so you that it's like you're not even wearing shoes at all.

Michael Jordan knows all the secrets to life and is the master of the universe.

Dickie Dunkin

My fingers were so cold that I could hardly take off the gloves I had fashioned from the remains of my last Kraft Jet-Puffed Miniature Marshmallow. It was one of those colds that made the world seem still. Frigid tundra stretched in every direction for miles. This was the spot, this was where he was.

Frost filled in the font indentations on the slate tombstone, but the words were still somewhat distinguishable. I scratched away what little ice I could before having to put my numb hand back into my makeshit Kraft Jet-Puffed Miniature Marshmallow glove. I didn't clear off much ice, but it was enough to read the inscription:

When The Weather's Hot & Sticky, There's No Time For Dunkin' Dickie...

*****

The sprinklers had just turned off, leaving a mist in the air above the lettuce and other vegetables. It was a healthy looking produce section, at least as healthy as non-meat produce can look.

Two women reached for a squash at the exact same time. Their hands touched like two earthworms coming out of the dirt after a rainstorm. Chickens love earthworms, as do fish. In grade school Jordan Thomas ate earthworms at recess. He went on to win the state championship in the 100 meter dash. That's why they wrote that popular book Eat, Pray, Love. "Get Rich or Die Tryin,'" Curtis Jackson always says. He's 50 Cent, even though he's worth at least like a bagillion dollars. The women made eye contact as they withdrew their hands.

"It's such a small world," said the woman in the polkadot pants and spaghetti strap top, holding her shopping basket just above her waist.

"It certainly is, Debra," said the woman who I went ahead and assumed wasn't named Debra, although if she was that would make their having a hay day about simultaneously touching a squash make at least a little sense. She was wearing a yellow sunhat, a polkadot top, and spaghetti strap pants.

Debra set down her basket. She put a hand on the other woman's face. "It's a small world, after all," said Debra. Debra took the other woman's hat off, put it on her head, and smiled. The other woman smiled too. Debra tilted her head slightly. The other woman did the same. They gazed into each others eyes as if they were black holes. The women leaned closer and closer, as if to kiss.

Then Debra slapped the other woman and walked away.

Small world, they don't even know, I thought. I closed my eyes and sank a little lower in the hot tub, letting my arms rest perpendicular to my body atop the pool ring I was floating on. It was so warm and thick, that sauce. A bubble popped on the surface, getting clam chowder in my eye. The crockpot was the perfect temperature for a good soak. I needed it, too, having seen just how small and just how cold the world really is.

A gigantic metal hand reached under me. Panicked, I slipped out of the donut I was using as my floatie and dived down. I held my breath and waited, then came back to the surface.

It was a ladle. Not-Debra slopped some chowda into a cup and put a cap on it. There was a red handprint on the side of her face. She touched the warm cup to the spot. A tear dripped from her eye onto the cup.

"If only it were a pumpkin," she said. She wiped her eyes with the shoulder of her polkadot shirt. You could totally see her vagina because her pants were made out of spaghetti straps. Woh! She lowered the cup from her face. "If only it were a pumpkin..."

"It wasn't," I said. She looked down at me. She was still sad, but also a little confused, probably because she couldn't figure out why she wasn't chilling in a clam chowder crockpot. But that's her life not mine I can't make that choice for her these are just the things I do with my own tremendous life. Boizonga! Zerp zerp zerp. Barook!

"Don't you get it? Look around you," I said. Debr-isn't looked up. There were piñatas and streamers and balloons everywhere. It was a combination party store grocery store, and a very spicy one at that. A cha cha! Reba McEntire!

She nodded. "I think I get it now."

I was standing on the rim of the crockpot running in place in slow motion. It was very good acting and definitely looked like I was actually running, just in slow motion. The best part was when I made it look like I slipped and fell like at the pool, even though I totally wasn't. Oh my gosh it was some really good physical acting.

"It's too hot and sticky in here," she said.

I was half bummed because she missed out on my unbelievable routine and half happy because she connected the dots. "Take what you can get," said, uh, no one!

"No time for dunkin' Dickie," I said. There was a carrot floating in the chowder. Carrots kind of look like fingers, I guess. "No time at all."

*****

Come October, most people are plenty done rollerskating. The weather's changing, the season's changing, and most people are plain tired of having to constantly unbuckle the belt around their head to take the pillow folded over it off because helmets are just a social construct invented by rich people named "Mom and Dad." As most people are hanging up their 4x4 shoe trucks, something is a little different.

The sun still rises early in the morning but seems a little farther away. The wind blows less casually. The clouds are fatter and lower. Finally, when autumn is truly set, the dew stops. The grass is wet, but it's a different kind of wet.

Frost.

People don't plant pumpkins--pumpkins plant themselves. They do it sometime spring or summer then come fall when the frost crisps their orange skin, some old coot goes out to the patch and snatches them up for a pie making orgy.

It didn't always use to be that way, though. Back in the good old days, a brave man used to rollerskate the whole land. He was like Johnny Appleseed, except real and without such a dumb fucking name. Johnny Appleseed? Good luck with that one you Daniel Boone wannabe. This man had the grooviest sunglasses and flowingest hair in all the land. Some say he grew it out every year just to cut it into a glorious mohawk every winter, but that would never happen nowadays because no one rages anymore. His name was Dickie Dunkin, and one thing was for certain: he loved to rollerskate. And also he planted all of the pumpkins. He also was a tremendous painter and a hell of a tuba player. Those five things were certain.

Dickie would rollerskate all the world's soft fertile patches laying his seed. Then no one would see him all spring and summer, no matter how hard they looked. Admittedly no one looked that hard, but still, they didn't see him. Then, when summer would roll out and fall would skate in, leaving a fresh frost on all the land, Dickie would skate back and harvest the pumpkins.

That's why it's called Thanksgiving.

But as time went on and people grooved less, they forgot about Dickie. Dickie planted the seeds and pulled the pumpkins still, but it just wasn't the same. There were too many wars and way too many sports scandals. Plus hippies were going rampant and even though he sounds exactly like a hippie, Dickie wasn't a hippie. So Dickie rollerskated to greener pastures, infinite icy pastures.

*****

But When The Frost Is On The Pumpkin, That's The Time For Dickie Dunkin

I buckled the belt around my head, keeping the pillow bent over it in perfect makeshit helmet fashion. It was a cold that made the world seem still, but not too still to rollerskate.

A Mouthful of Cricket

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!

Started From The Bottom

Growing up is hard.

It’s been especially hard for me, considering I was left far, far behind–or rather below–by all of my friends around my third birthday.  That is when I stopped growing.

My name is Mac Samson. I am the smallest man in the world.

***************

I was born in a small town in New Hampshire, the 5th smallest but 1st freest of the states. My Papa was a shoe cobbler and loosely Jewish. He was Jew-ish. My Mama was a baker. She made mini chocolate chip cookies, or as we always called them, pretty big chocolate chip cookies. I don’t remember much else of my parents, for they lost me when I was but a boy. Actually I lost them. Well, it’s a two way street of loss. None of us are together anymore. Here, just:

We were out for a family walk along a beautiful stream on a pristine granite day. That’s what we New Hampshireians call good days, cause there’s a lot of granite in our state and we like that. As we rounded a bend, Papa carrying me on his shoulders while Mama rode Trotty, our family miniature pony, we came upon a pack of owls. It was daytime, so the owls were very angry because they were not asleep. Papa set me down and stepped in front of Trotty. He puffed up his shoulders as big as some Kraft Jet-Puffed Miniature Marshmallows and said, “We yon’ wan’ no yrouble here, ya Go’ ‘yamned Owls!” (Papa spoke like all older New Hampshireians, sometimes replacing D’s and T’s with Y’s and sometimes just not saying D’s and T’s at all).

The owls, drunk with rage from owl insomnia, looked down at my Papa and said, “Who?”

Knowing the danger these barn-loving birds of prey posed, Papa stood strong, like the tiny Christmas tree from A Charlie Brown Christmas. “Dis is Papa Lenny Samson, the mos’ fearsome cobbler in all of–”

Papa’s head was gone. The owls had heard enough, so they ate his head.

They did eat his body, too, but they ate his head first.

Mama screamed. “Run away little Mac, run as fast and far as your very small legs will allow you to run!”

Mama gave Trotty a smack and charged at the owls. The owls were quite quick, though, so they easily dodged the slowly-accelerating pony. Trotty’s heart exploded from the minor hyper-exertion. His body dropped, flinging Mama from her custom-designed little saddle. She flew through the air like a butterfly, or maybe more like a baby bird, or like a bit of lint in the wind. I’ll never forget how beautiful she was in that final moment, free and magical, just as the queen of Tinker Bell’s people should look.

Yes, Mama was queen of the fairies.

As she soared higher and higher into the sky, inch by gigantic inch, the owls took flight. They snatched her up into their talented talons and flew away. “I’m sorry Mac! By fairy law I live with the owls now! I am their queen!” I squinted to try and see as the owls vanished into the horizon. “I’ll probably never forget you, my son! I’ll try not to anyway!”

A feather gently fell to the ground. It moved exactly like that feather fromForrest Gump, except different because there was no music and also because my mama was gone and my papa was eaten by owls and my pony was dead thanks to pony heart failure.

I picked up the feather and walked to the stream, for some reason unable to cry. Why me? Why owls? Why now?  The feather was soft like the dress sock I used as a sleeping bag. Maybe some things are just too big to understand. I dropped the feather into the stream and watched it float away, acting like I was thinking about where the feather would go next on its journey but actually starting to realize how insane everything that just happened was.

I cried. I am so small, so young. I am all one. “Alone,” I said out loud, correcting my thoughts. My tears fell into the water and pattered like abnormally small rain. I shivered. Maybe I’ll just cut open Trotty and sleep inside him like in Star Wars, I did not think then but have since added for detail.

A soft touch brushed my cheek. I looked up. It was the feather. A very cool looking otter wearing a bandana held the feather. “What’s wrong, big guy?” the otter asked.

“Big guy?” I choked a sob.

“Yes, you are a big guy. For sure one standard deviation above your average male otter.”

Two other otters stood behind him in the middle of the stream. One was wearing a monocle and a top hat. He smoked a cigar and had a grey curly mustache. The other otter was a girl. She had long golden hair and otter boobs. Just like my Mama.

“My dad was eaten by a pack of owls who then took my mom to be the owl queen,” I said.

“Holy shit!” said the otter.

“Leave him to die, we have financial investments to make in the spirit of otter capitalism,” the monocled otter said.

“No,” said the female otter. “He shall be one of our own.”

The cool otter with the headband gave me a thumbs up then we high fived. He helped me down into the stream with his strong paw.

“Well, if you’re going to live with us, then you have much to learn,” said the monocled otter. He had Alan Rickman’s voice. “First thing’s first, breathe underwater.”

“I can’t do it. It’s impossible. No mammal can,” I said. It was late June, by the way.

“No. No mammal’s tried,” said the female otter. She had Julie Andrew’s voice. “Except otters. And now, you.”

The headband otter put his hand on my shoulder and winked. He was by far the coolest otter, and no doubt would be in the top 5 coolest people in the world. I’ve never met Jeff Bridges or Eddie Murphy so I can’t say where the otter officially ranks.

***************

As my favorite rapping male duck (who’s also Jew-ish) says, “Started from the bottom now we’re here.”

Where are we? Who are we? Where was the bottom? These are questions we all ask are selves. “Ourselves,” I said out loud, correcting my thoughts.

As the smallest man in the world, I am still at the bottom. I started at the bottom and expect to some day die at the bottom. But until then, I will do my best to live at the bottom, the biggest bottom I can.

My name is Mac Samson, and I am hear. “Here,” I said out loud, correcting my thoughts but also verbally affirming myself.