Congratulations Socialist Mouthpiece!

"THE PROLETERIAT WILL RISE FROM THE ASHES OF THE MONSTROUS CAPITALIST STATE!" you'll shout into the face of your last friend as he starts crossing the street a few seconds before you.

"What?" he'll respond, nonplussed.  He'll be well conditioned to deal with your inane bullshit at this point, and his genuine concern for your well being will drive him to pause, turn, and face you with about a third of his body still in the street.

"THE NATURE OF REALITY IS SUCH THAT-"

Halfway through your diatribe about commodity valuations and their perpetual fluctuation, a car will race past your face and into the space where part of your friend is standing, sending him tumbling into the air.  You'll be so shocked by the event that you will, for a handful of moments, simply stand there, watching your friend's twitching form, watching the car drive away, watching bystanders rush to your friend's side.  It'll take you until the EMS people arrive for you to start spouting your insane bullshit about a philosophical perspective you, at best, just barely comprehend.  As they examine your friend, as they load him into the back of an ambulance, as they drive away, you'll shout at them: hollow phrases, oft repeated, rarely heard, intended to provoke in them not an evincing moment of understanding and revelation, but a sudden burst of violence directed at you, as if you spoke not to prove yourself right, but to prove the wrongness of all other parties.

Your friend will remain unresponsive throughout the ordeal.

Congratulations Socialist Mouthpiece!

Congratulations Missing Toe Buddies!

As car accidents go, you’ll get off easy.  The impact of the SUV will collapse the upper portion of the passenger’s side door and dashboard, pinning your leg and cutting off circulation to your foot.  When all’s said and done, you’ll learn that your big toe will have to go so that the foot, as a whole, can remain intact.

“Otherwise gangrenous infection would probably occur in the majority of the extremity,” your doctor will explain.  “You’d lose your foot, if not your entire lower leg.”

You’ll listen solemnly, quietly whispering your goodbyes to Fatty, as you call your big right toe, under your breath.  The surgery will pass without issue and you’ll wake up today, Saturday, next to a young woman covered in cuts and bruises, dressed like a rock star.

She’ll introduce herself as “Taryn or Betty, depending on where we are.”  She’ll smirk as she describes being dropped while crowd surfing.

“The fall wasn’t so bad,” she’ll murmur.  “Getting up was the rough part.”

When she asks you why you’re there, you’ll explain it to her nervously, purposefully avoiding looking at your foot, which will still be covered with a bandage.  Her smirk will turn to smile as you go on, until she’s finally laughing at the end of your story.  You’ll look at her, puzzled, until she removes her sock, exposing four toes and one stump where her ring-toe used to be.

“Welcome to the club,” she’ll delicately cheer, motioning as best as her injuries permit her.

This, of course, will be your story each time you tell your children how you became the air guitar champion you are today.

Congratulations Missing Toe Buddies!

Congratulations on Dying While Eating a Blizzard!

Today, after exiting the Dairy Queen in downtown Lindstrom, located just down the road from the world’s largest water tower in the shape of a Swedish teapot and just up the road from the famed downtown Lindstrom Swedish Bakery, you’re going to immediately eating the Blizzard you acquired.  It’ll be a custom creation, spawned by your own foul imagination: three kinds of cookie, paired with cookie dough in the thickest choco-vanilla swirl ice cream ever conceived.  It’ll be so good, so attention getting, that you won’t be able to put it down after taking even a single bite.

This means you’ll be driving with zero hands, since it takes two hands to eat a Blizzard.  And anyone who’s ever driven in any place knows that driving without hands is ill advised even under the best conditions.  In Lindstrom, near the Dairy Queen, it’s particularly ill-advised because of a conspicuous stop sign at a major intersection.  This stop sign will add to the challenge of pulling off a left hand turn without any hands.  Paired with an incoming freight truck, prepared to deliver thousands of to-be-pressed apples to Lindstrom’s bakery, it will make the normal exercise of turning and moving your car through traffic all but impossible.

You’ll die, spoon pressed into your mouth, Blizzard splayed about the car, about your body.  As you perish the paramedic who fishes your mangled form out of the car will hear your last words:

“Try…some…of…the…Blizzard…if you can…”

Then you’ll die, and go to a sphere of hell which is exactly like Lindstrom except the Dairy Queen has permanently closed and the apple tarts are all just so-so at the bakery.

Congratulations on Dying While Eating a Blizzard!

Congratulations on Throwing Your Latest Temper Tantrum!

Today after the fire department cuts you out of the twisted wreckage of your Honda Civic you’re going to be bawling like a little bitch.

“Oh god, oh god,” you’ll murmur into the floor.  “I can’t believe how close I just came.”  You’ll weep uncontrollably as the firemen put a blanket around you and walk you over to an EMT so he can check your vitals.  Once he’s done you’ll look at the car of the man who hit you.  There will be a hole in the windshield where he was ejected from his truck straight across your hood and on to the patch of pavement where his blood will still be soaked into the asphalt.

“WHAT HAPPENED,” you’ll declare to no one in particular before you begin weeping again.  The emergency response personnel will roll their eyes at each other.

No one likes a drama queen.

Congratulations on Throwing Your Latest Temper Tantrum!