Beloved Lydia Strom, Troupe 14:

Camp, am I right? I hope the hike is going well, or maybe it has already ended. Either way, your friend guaranteed to me that she’d give you this letter while you are pooping; remember to breathe, and if it comes out red, you probably had beets.

Fourteen days ago today was a fortnight ago, and that’s probably where that expression comes from. I’m glad that one of us gives back to the community by volunteering at a camp for inner-city youths, but more importantly that person is not me; I couldn’t be bothered, and poor people smell like soup meat. If there’s one thing impoverished areas of large cities are good at, it’s helping to guide impressionable youths into well-informed life decisions. Prostitutes help keep sexual deviants from attacking innocent women and children. Innocent men will continue to be attacked by sexual deviants everywhere. Who will champion the cause of the innocent man?!

I think now is a good time for you to think about what you’re gonna get me for my half birthday. It’s fast approaching, and I’m sure you haven’t given it any thought. Since I was born on March 31st (a date you no doubt have tattooed on a rarely visible part of your genitalia), my half birthday is June 11th (yes, that’s what it works out to; I can’t believe that you even had a second thought about it. WOULD I LIE TO YOU?!? God damn it stop doing the math!). My half birthday would be a great occasion for you to get that surgery we’ve been talking about; I’m getting tired of looking at those Caucasian eyelids.

I can’t wait until you get back so that I can tell you, to the various orifices in your face, how much I love you and how much I’ve missed you. I’ve found all these cool things to do while you’ve been gone, but it’s just not the same going by yourself to a weekend flea market combination sex bazaar. As you’re reading this letter, I’m still not eating meat and have probably resorted to consuming my own semen as a source of protein. No! It’s not “wrong”!!! I’m vegetarian, not VEGAN. Plus, if I consume mostly desserts, it tastes sweet, which is more than I can say for soy products.

I’ll let you go back to Astrocamp now, but remember that I love you. Mostly the parts I touch with my penis; keep your feet dry, and remember the bright one is your anus!!

Top-shelf love,
—Graham Chapman

Uh, good evening. Hi, hello. Yes. Well… this is awkward. Remember how I said that thing about how I was going to “shake this country’s foundation with a political change so powerful it would be damaging to the psyche to witness?” It looks like that’s not happening.

According to most major news outlets, and some of my more outspoken family members, I’m taking a bit of a beating at the polls. CNN is reporting that I now have “no paths to victory, or even dignity.” But really, who’s to say who “won” the election. After all, America, now that we’ve spent so much time together can we really go on apart? Have I not stolen your heart? Have I not frolicked jubilantly away with your minds? Can some ridiculous “vote” really determine who is or is not President? Maybe. My opponent certainly thinks so. But why don’t we all still close our eyes and pretend I won, if only for a minute? Mmm… yeah… yeah, that’s it. Fire the bombs, all the bombs… Hm? Okay, I’m back.

I don’t know. I’ve been thinking it over, and I don’t know what I could have done wrong. Did I smile too much? Is my hair too short? Did I wear the wrong tie? They told me you’d love this tie. YOU LOVE THIS TIE, AMERICA!

Let’s get real here folks. What the hell happened out there? I thought we were in this together. I came out here, I said all those strange things you love to hear. I did my part. You people are supposed to get off your sloppy butts and vote. EVEN IF YOU DON’T LIKE ME. That’s the deal! It’s not about what the people want, it’s about what I want, and what I can get, and— Actually, have we checked the stats recently? Am I still, I mean is he? Oh okay. Stay the course.

Look, I may have gone too far. Why don’t we start over? Hi. I’m running for president. Now, I sacrifice four more years of my dwindling life and you elect me this time, okay? I can change, America. I can be who you want me to be. I can be more who you want me to be than you even want me to be! That’s what I’m willing to do for you. Or this country. Or whatever. Whatever you want!

Oh well. Who among us has never lost a multi-billion dollar campaign against America’s first African-American-African president? He’s a strong competitor, and a strong man. No, please, don’t boo him. Oh, you’re booing me. I see.

I really want to thank all of you for your efforts volunteering, and making this campaign possible. You guys are the best. Well, the second best, as we’ve discovered. I also want to thank my running mate for all that he’s done for this campaign. Besides my wife, and that electric dog-cushion I bought at Brookstone, he’s the best choice I’ve ever made. And I want to take a moment here to talk about my children. Look at them. There they are: idiots. I’m not even sure they’re mine.

Of course, I never could have made it this far if it hadn’t been for the love of my life, Susie. Wave hi, Susie. You see her, standing behind my wife? I’m sorry it didn’t work out, Sue. Things never seem to work out.

Now, to the future. I believe that the principles that lost me this election are still strong. But this is a time when all Americans need to come together — against our better judgment. So please, put down your comically-sized pitchforks and torches. (I see you with those torches.) The President is not a monster; ignore my campaign ads. Actually, can we take down this “The President is a Monster” poster now? Great. Thanks.

You know, I really didn’t want it to end this way. I wanted there to be a big rocket, or a parade with Buzz Lightyear and that Mr. Potato Man. Or with me as president. But not like this. I guess I’ve just always wanted to be the first non-black president after a black president, even when I was a kid. But such is youth.

In summary America, although I cannot be your President, I look forward to saying the N-word more often as a private citizen. Good night, and God bless America.

This morning I woke up, looked out the window, and wondered where this day would take me. Would it rain? Snow? Would Jesus come back and take me up to heaven-land? Would the science people finally teach a monkey how to dance? Would the bus driver be Vietnamese? Or would it be just like any other day? I wondered, but I can never be sure. I am the undecided voter.

Like any undecided voter, I can have trouble making decisions. I couldn’t get past the first screen in Pokemon, the one where you have to choose a name. My favorite drink is CokePepsi, which I make in a bucket in my backyard. My favorite color is invisible rainbow. Sometimes in the middle of a crossword puzzle, I just take my pen and black out all the cells. And I refuse to buy Reese’s Cups until they tell me which way to eat them.

Besides that, I’m your average American. I fear God: Any God who would give me free will is capable of terrible things. I’ve got two daughters, Loretta and Probably-Not-Loretta. I don’t get to see them much, which is okay, since I’m never sure which is which. I love McDonald’s. I like to go in there and order a Big Mac with Cheese, like a goddamn patriot. But then sometimes they ask me if I’d like to supersize that. That’s tricky business. So I just order a Happy Meal. You can’t supersize a Happy Meal. That’s what I’ve learned.

I don’t stay too informed on politics. I know there’s a white guy and a black guy. I’m not sure what I think about black guys in general, but this one seems okay. I mean, he is the president. The white guy seems pretty white. Suspiciously white.

Some days I can’t decide which shirt to wear, so I put them all on and call in sick. Then I flip through the channels on my TV, trying to make sense of it all. I just keep hitting channel up, channel up, channel up… wondering what it all means until I get tired or I see boobs. So jobs is my most important issue.

This president voting thing is one of the most stressful experiences of my life. I want to do what’s right for America, but mostly I want to vote for the guy who I could sit down and have a beer with. Probably the taller one. Taller people can drink beer better ‘cause they can see the wife coming. Hold on, do they both even drink? I’ll have to look that one up, once I get my computer set up. I’m still stuck trying to choose the photo for my user. The dog or the robot, the dog or the robot, the dog or the… No. Don’t start this again, Joe. You know where this leads.

I want to like the candidates, and usually I do. Except when the other candidate is speaking. I like it when they kiss the little babies, unless the baby looks like he’s enjoying it too much. Then I like it less. But even though they both seem to know how to kiss babies, I just don’t know how to feel about them. It’s like the town bum: Sure, he seems nice enough, with his nice, shiny shopping cart and his tooth-ish smile. But what if one day you’re having a chat with him and you look down to find he’s peeing on you? And what if he laughs at you and you go crying in to your wife but she already left you for Cousin Dan? Anything could happen.

On election day, I’ll probably walk into the polling booth with a blindfold, a marker, a magic 8-ball, and a picture of both candidates. I’ll look closely at the photos, trying to look through the candidates’ eyes, into their very souls. As I stare deeply into those souls a calm might come over me, and I might see the surface of a giant lake, big as the ocean. And in that surface I might see a reflection of myself: cold, shivering, alone, afraid of the world and all its endless possibilities. So many possibilities, each as likely as the next, and all so terrifying and uncertain. Then I’ll know why she left me, why she took the kids, why she lives with Dan, and how she puts up with his stupid hair, all parted to one side (and not the other side). I’ll see the emptiness in myself, and for an instant I’ll be only a ghost, floating above the world, never truly touching anyone or anything in it. Then I’ll blindfold the marker, smash the 8-ball against the wall, eat my ballot, and head for the hills.

God bless America, land that I may or may not love.

1. Couch cushion
2. Public toilet seat
3. The mall Santa’s embrace
4. A spot in the pool
5. Wool thong
6. A banana
7. Salem in the 1690’s
8. Rectal thermometer
9. Rectal suppository
10. A banana (rectal)
11. Penguin at Coachella
12. My feelings for the mall Santa’s embrace
13. Pants

My grandfather is an asshole. First of all, he died. That was a dick move.

I mean, what kind of selfish bullshit is that? He could have waited a few more days. Or a month. Or a year. He could have at least waited until I got married, and had kids and all that shit.

Okay, here’s what he could have done: he waits just until I have children, and they graduate from college, and get married and have kids. He and I buy a small house in South Florida. We get along alright, but sometimes we argue about whether we should keep orange juice or grapefruit juice stocked in the fridge. It’s no big deal. Slowly we grow older together. We watch black and white films and play old records, which we can barely hear.

One day we go out on a fishing trip. We get disoriented in a heavy fog and begin boating in circles. We lose all hope of finding the shore, and cling to each other in fear. We tell each other deep secrets: women we loved, family members we always hated, which girly songs we liked but told everyone we didn’t. We realize the ridiculousness of the situation and begin to laugh, coming to terms with our own mortality. Just then we’re swallowed by a giant whale, like the one from Pinocchio. We are never seen again.

I mean, that’s the way I want to go. Why wouldn’t he want that for us?

Last week, I was watching a piece of pornography in which a beautiful young lady was engaged in sexual congress with several men. As a quick aside, I’d like to point out that no less than three races were featured in this video; that has nothing to do with my story, but it’s just really refreshing to see that kind of diversity. Come to think of it, pornography has always been light years ahead of the rest of cinema when it comes to giving different races equal screen time. 
 
But what I really want to talk about is something the young lady said toward the end of the video -  I know, I know, who makes it all the way to end of porn? I mean, does porn even have closing credits? If it does, then I would file that phenomenon under ‘tree falls in the woods with no one there to hear it.’ So, when one of the men was ready to climax, he pulled out, as climaxing men are wont to do, and began to ejaculate on his shared partner with much fervor. The young lady, no doubt a seasoned professional, anticipated his intent, and microseconds before he let slip the dogs of love, she heartily exclaimed, “Ohhh fuck yeah! Gimme all that cum! Cum all over me. Feed me that cum, feed me that cum, feed me that fucking cum. Cum all over me! Yeah.” I assure you that quote is accurate, down to my use of punctuation.
 
Now, this is something I’ve seen dozens, okay hundreds, of times before, and usually, her “Yeah” would have immediately been followed with my own enthusiastic “Yeah!” as I heroically finished my business with one foot firmly planted on my desk and one hand triumphantly pointing up to the gods. But not this time. No, this time I was struck with a thought that is simultaneously ridiculous and so logical that it requires, nay demands, critical analysis. I stood there, frozen, thinking to myself, “Why on earth does she want all this cum?” And trust me when I say there was A LOT of it. There was something like four or five dudes there who, from the looks of it, all had a healthy breakfast. So I certainly couldn’t attribute her insatiable appetite to the threat of some kind of cum-shortage. And I know that she was aware of her potential supply as she’d already displayed her command of arithmetic when she referred to the number of penises (more than one) that were at one point inside of her.

So then what was it? What fueled her desire for all this cum? I mean, it is just semen we’re talking about, right? Am I missing something here? Because I’ve dealt with my fair share of it before, and I can safely say that it inspires very little in the way of awe and wonder. And the way she said, “Gimme all that cum” just smacked of intent. Honestly, what did she think she was going to do with “all that cum?” Invest it in the futures market? Use it to build a ship in anticipation of the upcoming apocalypse? Its only real use didn’t really apply considering the chosen form of transport. I suppose I got my answer when she started rubbing what I guess you could now call “her semen” all over her breasts and stomach. Okay, well that’s cool I guess, but I’d go ahead and keep her inside if she thinks that’s going to make a suitable substitute for sunscreen. 

Once I realized that was all she was going to do, I must admit feeling a bit let down. And what was all this “feed me that cum” nonsense? Her mouth came nowhere near it! But even if she finished every drop, would I really have been that satisfied? What’s the motivation there? Was she hungry? There was nothing in the narrative to suggest that. Well, then was she just dining for taste? This I would find difficult to believe. While I’ll admit semen isn’t the worst tasting thing in the world, I can’t really see it becoming the next cupcake or anything. But, then again, people really seem to love cilantro despite my claims that it tastes like feet. Oh, before I move on, I’d just like to quickly address the gentlemen in the picture. Guys, maybe instead of just feeding her your cum, it wouldn’t kill you to help her make her own. You know, give a man a fish and all that.

After putting in all of this thought, I realized that I really wasn’t making much progress. It was at this point that I started to think of the young lady as an actress, and not as the character she was portraying. I thought, “Well, perhaps her motivation came from her direction.” I suppose it’s perfectly reasonable that she was told to demand the cum. I imagined a snippet of unused film in which you can hear her yelling, “Line!” to which the director responded with that thunderous plea for jizzum. But this would imply the line serves some purpose. Considering that the main purpose of porn is to cater to men’s desire, it occurred to me that someone, the director in particular, thought that it was something men wanted to hear. I thought about that for what I would call a considerable amount of time. Do I really want to cover women in my semen? More importantly, do I want women to want me to cover them in my semen? I know evolution tells me that I should want to spread my seed, but I never took it that literally. Should I be going out under the shadow of the night and depositing batches of hot semen on park benches and fire hydrants? Maybe this is what Batman was really trying to do before he kept getting interrupted by crime.

Is the idea that I should be so desirable that women just fucking need my seed? I don’t know, that sounds a little greedy. I mean, most of the time I’m just looking for someone to see a movie with. Or maybe it’s not me per se, but my sperm specifically. Like, yeah sure, I might not be much to look at, but just rub a little bit of my nasty on your stomach and you’ll be making babies in no time! 

So there I was, in the midst of a stormy sea of conflicted thoughts in my head and what was by now a doughy, misshapen mass in my hand. I guess there’s a certain suspension of disbelief that’s needed when watching any film, but there was something that kept me from making that leap of faith. Was it shitty writing? Maybe she kept flubbing the real line and that was the best take? Did I just misread the whole damn thing? I should probably go watch it again.

My brain is an idiot. Not a normal idiot, but the idiot that other idiots make fun of, in their own simple way. My brain will often unabashedly tell me things that no person would ever tell a friend for fear of ridicule.

A couple of days ago I was at a K-Mart and I saw a young woman in a wheel chair. My brain said to me,

I want one! That looks fun.

To which I replied,

Brain, you are a stupid piece of shit.

Sometimes my brain believes that it has discovered things: new facts about the universe. It might come up with formulas relating things, like

Peanut butter sandwich - Peanut butter = Bread

or

Black person + White person != Mexican person

I know that already, brain. You don’t have to tell me.

Other times my brain will ask me questions.

Where does your fart go when it stops smelling?

What do you have to have sex with to have a monkey baby?

Why do you have to keep your penis hidden at work?

Even the smallest child would know the answer to these things. Even a half-retarded chimpanzee that has been purposefully trained backwards in all matters could deduce the answer to these problems.

I wish my brain would stop making such stupid comments to me. Think before you speak, brain. Get some self-respect, for God’s sake. There are plenty of other organs competing for my attention that aren’t so full of shit. Including intestines.