This is like a dog trying to crap a peach pit

I was trying to pitch a sitcom yesterday at Pixar about Norwegian church burnings, and the reception area had this huge bowl of Up-themed promotional anal beads.  “Tax write-off,” said Rayat Beherduk, my screenwriting partner.  (I don’t know as much about Black Metal, and every time I try to call Ray and ask him a question, he goes on a four-hour long tirade about why Stacy Keibler hasn’t done porn yet.)  I did not care about the toys, but I would have killed for anything containing caffeine; I’d been awake for at least 60 hours, and had long since exceeded the monthly purchase limit on pseudoephedrine as legislated by the Combat Methamphetamine Epidemic Act of 2005, on all four of my fake driver’s licenses.  It would be a tough meeting, never mind the fact that Pixar’s new trend of animated snuff films that are in the pipe for the 2014-2015 movie season would probably make our pitch a moot point.  (Their tentpole feature for 2014 is a film about a pair of talking hamsters that obsessively masturbate to the Faces of Death movies.  Don’t worry, parents – it’s got the usual overloaded Pixar moralist plot in there, too.)

It all started ten years ago — or was it fifteen? — when I was trying to overclock this shitty AMD motherboard, and because Bill Gates managed to get some bullshit local legislation banning “overclocking precursors” so people would have to buy more crap computers, I had to go to this anal bleaching clinic in Renton that sold crystals and thermal paste on the down-low.  I’d taken some bad acid that week, and everyone’s faces looked pixelated and blurred, like the genitals in a censored Japanese porn.  I often think I have Prosopagnosia, or the inability to recognize faces, although it’s more likely that I’m just lazy and/or hate everyone.

“You a cop?” the guy at the cash register asked me.  Like I said, I couldn’t see his face, but based on the pixelation, either he suffered from Neurofibromatosis, or he was a Rumer Willis impersonator.  “You DEA?  Postal inspector?”

“No, I’m cool,” I said.

“Not a fed?  IRS?”

“No, seriously man.  Fuck the police.  I own the first Body Count album and everything.”  I produced my MiniDisc player and scrolled through the music playlist to show him I had the original Ice-T album, without the deleted “Cop Killer” track.

“Okay man, you’re cool.  Here’s the deal: I’ve got ten pallets of Hunter ceiling fans.  Palmero, 52-inch, five blade.  Brushed nickel with maple blades, single light fixture.  They can move 6707 cubic feet per minute.  No serials or warranty cards, but I’ve got to move these fuckers.”

“Christ, from the way you were talking, I thought you had some rocket launchers or something.”

“You should have been here last week.  I had ten hot Russian 9K38 Igla Man-portable air-defense systems.  You could shoot down a jet going 1,300 MPH at a distance of up to 17,000 feet with one of those.  I sold them on this new web site called eBay.  Remarkably first-rate payment! Correspondence was exceptional. Superb buyer. A++!”

Early eBay reminded me of the cut-rate flea markets my neighbor Angus used to drag me to every weekend.  That part of the country had a large man/alien hybrid Mennonite population, who ran these illegal swap meets in the burned-out remains of public schools, which had largely been shut down and firebombed by the Indiana National Guard for not mentioning Jesus enough during science classes. When I was abducted by aliens a decade later, I asked them about their proclivity to rape and impregnate Mennonite women, and their leader telepathically told me “maH rur be’pu’ tlhej raed’aeusnnta’jhiy ihdhueeerr’unhr ehdhihss”, which I later found out means, “So your girlfriend rolls a Honda, playin’ workout tapes by Fonda / But Fonda ain’t got a motor in the back of her Honda”.  (I’ll write more about that alien abduction in a future post.)

Anyway, these flea markets were filled with broken 8-bit computers, illegal silencers for large-bore firearms, books on how to live without a refrigerator and make nutritional soups out of earwax, and bootleg Chinese dildos based on seventies horror/drama films (The Omen, Amityville Horror, Rosemary’s Baby, etc.)  I never bought anything, because allowance money was tight, and I was holding out for either a Honda Mini Trail Z70 minibike or a discount PDP-11 minicomputer, especially since the 32-bit VAX-11/780 was displacing the older Q-Bus based systems.  I never found either, but once eBay came online, I spent many man-years at my job as a dermatological technical writer cruising through the lists of obsolete computers, beaten motorbikes, and lightly-used competitive enema equipment, instead of writing about topical medication for dermatophytoses.

“Do you think we could ebay these fuckers?” Rayat said, examining the glass container of cartoon-themed adult toys.

“There’s probably a huge amount of overlap between people who buy every damn Pixar thing they see and people who shove large pieces of plastic up their ass,” I said.  “But security took all of our bags on the way in, and they’ll probably frisk us on the way out.  These fuckers make the TSA look casual.”

“Well, here goes nothing,” Rayat said, unbuckling his pants.  “Now let’s get this thing on the hump – we got some flyin’ to do.”

And that, my friends, is why we both ended up with our rectums full of plastic Carl Fredricksen replicas.  They’re mostly clean now, though, so please check out my eBay page after I get these things posted.


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