Congratulations Man Who Just Woke Up from a Coma that Started in the Mid-Nineties!

You’ll awake to the sound of your own heart rate monitor steadily pacing out a beep beep beep.  You’ll awake without knowledge or memory of where you were or what you were doing, just the vague impression that you should be worried about someone named Gary leaping at your head from a trampoline to swing a chair at your head.

You’ll mumble his name, “Gary,” as you try to swing your legs out of the bed to the floor, but the blankets wrapped around them will still your movement.  You’ll struggle against them but your legs, so atrophied from lack of use, will be worthless against their cloth restraints.  You’ll just lay there, furious, until a nurse finally comes in to check on you and discovers that you’ve been awake for three maddening hours, alone and without even the barest form of entertainment.

Later, you’ll hear the full story of what happened: how your friendly Wrestlemania re-enactment went awry, how you’ve been in a coma since 1996 and how this one nurse totally used you for sex and then got fired.  Then a social worker from the hospital will start going over how to help you put together the shattered pieces of your life.  Your friends will have long since forgotten you.   Your parents will be dead.  You’ll be a forty year old man who still loves wrestling and has latent homosexual tendencies that, had you been awake for the last decade and a half, you might’ve come to terms with that will still be very repressed in their current state.

You’ll beseech your social worker to tell you more about contemporary WWF wrestling.  He’ll calmly explain to you that for copyright reasons the WWF is now just the World Wildlife Federation and that wrestling now occurs within the purview of World Wrestling Entertainment, and that many wrestlers are now “out,” unlike previous wrestling virtuousos.

You’ll be dumbstruck at this last fact.  He’ll explain to you that wrestling, in addition to being good clean fun, constitutes a sort of gay softcore porn.

“The same way that Women’s Basketball is gay softcore porn.”

This will lead to another lengthy explanation of the nature of women’s basketball and its rise to prominence over the last decade and a half.  By the end your head will be reeling, you’ll no longer be wondering about your future or your ability to work at Arby’s again.  You’ll just be obsessively remembering the flutter in your heart that emerged each time you saw HHH on screen.  You’ll wonder, for the first time, what it really meant.

Congratulations Man Who Just Woke Up from a Coma that Started in the Mid-Nineties!

Congratulations on Remembering Where You Put Your Wedding Ring!

You didn’t want to lose it. That’s a fucking nightmare. You get home one night and bitch is all like “Harold. where’s your ring” and you’re all “I think I left it at your sister’s” and then you’re on your ass looking for a new job because your wife sent kiddy porn to everyone at your old job from your email. Then you start sucking dick just so you can have some more paint to huff and you end up working for some bunch of future fags because all that paint gave you the ability to see the future and I lost track of my train of thought somewhere in there.

Anyhow, today you’re going to realize, waist dip in a grave you’re digging down by the old mill, that you have no idea where the fuck your ring is. You’ll check your duffel bag, your car, the floor of the abandoned slaughterhouse where you killed the girl, and there won’t be anything anywhere. You’ll bite your lip and pout, imagining just what this will do to your marriage and, by relation, your career as a senator.

You’ll see for an instant the flash bulbs as those whorish reporters with their loud, raping eyes cry out their headlines, shrill and edged for your ears. “Impotent, hooker murdering senator divorced by implausibly hot wife, full story on page nine. It’ll be enough to make you want to choke the life out of a teen drifter.

But after a few minutes using the breathing exercises that the Dali Llama taught you you’ll think of all the places you could’ve lost it and then you’ll realize how foolish you’ve been. You’ll stop panicking, snap on a rubber glove and bury your hand in that hooker’s still warm corpse, carefully probing so as to avoid cutting yourself on any of her sharp, angular bones.

After almost ten minutes probing her many, many wounds and orifices you’ll pull your hand out and find, in your fingers, your ring, covered in viscera. You’ll laugh with joy as drop it into a ziplock bag for future cleaning and smile as you carefully re-dress the corpse for burial. Just like they say, it’s always in the last place you look.

Congratulations on Remembering Where You Put Your Wedding Ring!

Congratulations Crusade Participant!

Today you’re a dude in the Crusades. We’re not really sure which one, but King Richard will be there fighting Saladin and there will be a whole bunch of camels and horses and bleeding and shit and a lot of racial intolerance too.

You won’t be anyone important. You’ll just be a young merchant who works out of Acre. Your day will start pretty normally, with a delivery from Muhammad to restock your shop with silks. He’ll warn you that he heard from Muhammad (also a merchant, man that’s a common name) that Christians are advancing on the city, but you’ll brush him off and go about your day normally.

You’ll go about your business normally until a bunch of fires start and some huge rocks start to fall out of the sky on and around your shop. You’ll poke your head outside to make sure it’s not just you and, sure enough, the entire fucking city will be in the process of being pelted by rocks and flaming arrows. You’ll run back inside to save some of your favorite silks and a picture of your favorite camel (you’re really fucking weird) and you’ll be crushed to death by a flaming piece of rock launched by an illiterate young man from Wales who was pressed into service in order to pay for his excessive legal fees after he stole several pigs from a neighbor.

He’ll be pretty psyched that he gets to launch flaming rocks at people, and he’ll be happy at the thought of killing people who disagree with him in general, especially after his incredibly unfair hearing, but he won’t actually think that you might have been a person with your own life and beliefs. That would probably bum him out, and he’ll be doing his absolute best to keep his spirits up because he’s going to be helping to load and launch heavy and occasionally incendiary rocks for like, five straight days, which is kind of going to suck.

Just not as much as being crushed.

Congratulations Crusade Participant!

Congratulations on Winning at Life!

Tonight you’re going to win at the board game Life.

Twenty minutes later your wife will decide to leave you, after you refuse to stop humping your brother-in-law’s head.

Following this incident you should probably see a therapist and come to terms with your inadequacy issues. That might make you a little bit more bearable to be around when you accomplish even a small thing.

Congratulations on winning at Life, though, douchebag.

Congratulations on Your New Car!

On Thursday you’re going to purchase a new car. It’ll be your first new car ever, a Mazda Protégé purchased with money from the economic stimulus package. It’ll be an absurd misappropriation of government funds for personal gain, and you’ll relish every penny.

Oddly enough, however, when you get home and start checking the car out you and your wife will discover several bodies in the back. Panicked, you’ll call the dealer and inform him that your car was, in fact, used as it, like most used cars you’ve purchased over the years, was filled with corpses.

The dealer will be very apologetic, but will insist that the car is new and that his company maintains a stalwart “no backsies” policy. As such he will offer a slightly better finance package, but will steadfastly refuse to exchange the car for another model.

You’ll be furious with him, swearing for a solid minute and a half, but as a car dealer who sells mostly to shady, overpaid investment bankers with little moral sense and less courage he knows that you’ll give up soon enough.

Sure enough, after two minutes of shouting your voice will start to crack and you’ll hang up, already assaulted by vaguely homoerotic thoughts which you feel would somehow threaten the car dealer as much as they threaten you. You’ll yell at your wife across the house that that faggot car salesman wouldn’t offer you a new model and she’ll roll her eyes as she shouts back that that’s just too bad.

Frustrated, you’ll call your mafia contact, Tony, and he’ll send a few guys over to deal with the bodies. Then you’ll have awkward unsatisfactory sex with your wife and go to sleep.

The moment your eyes close your head will be filled with tortured dreams. Your every nightmare will come to light, every forbidden thought aired to your colleagues. Your father will live once more and your mother will be out of the home and cooking for you in your kitchen.

You’ll wake time and time again, screaming, into a new nightmare. When dawn finally comes you’ll be soaked through t and your wife will be above you, concerned.

You spent the entire night screaming and eventually she had to move to the couch just to get some rest. When you didn’t wake up at six and start screaming about Jews she thought something might be wrong, so she came up and dumped a bucket of water on you.

That day you’ll call the car dealer once again, complaining of the nightmare visions which accompanied your recent purchase. He’ll simply laugh menacingly and inform you that his dealership cannot be held responsible for any paranormal activity experienced by the purchaser. Then he’ll hang up.

You’ll be too unnerved, after the horrible night and his unearthly calm the previous day, to call him back. You’ll just go about your day as normal, driving to work in your new Mazda. The day will go by without incident, an eerie way for events to proceed given the previous night. It’ll all be horrifyingly mundane, that is until you begin your evening commute.

You’ll be shocked when, during the ride home, Abraham Lincoln’s image appears in the rear view mirror. You’ll turn around and see nothing, but when you look in the mirror again he’ll be there, sitting cool as a cucumber in your backseat. Then he’ll speak in a stenorian voice that shakes your very being.

He’ll tell you that you’re a terrible man, worse than a war profiteer. He’ll tell you that all you’ve done in your pathetic little life is pursue material gains and that he has returned from the afterworld to render vengeance for the fraud you’ve committed against both the people and government of the United States. But he’ll call it the Union.

Then he’ll smile grimly as you scream no, informing you that the rest of your brief life will be spent in the most profound mental anguish imaginable and that you’ve always been gay.

This will break your fragile little mind and you’ll hurry home to start weeping on your wife’s dress. She’ll roll her eyes and try to calm you down until its bed time. Then she’ll head to the couch, assuming that you’re going to scream all night again.

But you won’t. Tonight you’ll be silent, laying awake in your bed waiting for the horrors to come. This is how you’ll die, horrified in your bed, praying against sleep, murdered with an axe by Abraham Lincoln’s ghost.

Congratulations on your new car, asshole!

Congratulations on Taking the LSATs!

You’re hardly the first person to take the test who doesn’t really have any business being there, but they’re usually stoners or college students with political science degrees. Homeless people generally can’t afford the test fee, and even if they could they’d find better things to spend it on, like whores.

But your father’s on his death bed, and you wanted to show him that you could’ve been something if he hadn’t turned you into a gay with all his “college education” and “physical contact,” so you’ve spent the last six month saving your nickels and you’re going to take that test come hell or high water.

Even getting to the testing center will be quite an adventure. You’ve been banned from the bus following a public urination incident, you can’t flag a taxi, and you only have one foot. But after a series of events culminating in you carjacking a young mother you’ll reach the test center with just enough time to complete check in.

You’ll sit down and power through the test, distracting the other test takers with your furious work ethic, occasionally verbal outburst, and terrible smell. You’ll finish in a quarter of their time and, sure enough, you’ll have scored in the 90th percentile. Turns out you’re some sort of homeless genius.

You’ll make the mother, who was lot less terrified after she found out you were just taking the LSATs and not buying crack, drive you to your father’s death bed, where you’ll wave the scores in his face. He’ll just smile and say “I always believed in you, son.” You’ll call him a faggot and pee in the corner of his room.

As a joke you’ll submit one of your free scores to Harvard, with your return address listed as “under the 205 overpass on Powell.” You’ll be shocked when a letter carrier arrives with a letter of acceptance from the esteemed university, along with a set of financial aid options.

Thus will begin your amazing career as the world’s first homeless lawyer. You’ll still be homeless, but you’ll own one suit that you’ll wear to trials, and you’ll actually be really good at your job. You’ll specialize in intellectual property law.

It will be a good life for you, and you and your best friend One Tooth will be drinking only the finest Thunderbird and sleeping in your new personal storage unit for years to come.

So congratulations on taking the LSATs. Easily the best choice you’ve made in a while.

There will be a major motion picture about your story made without your permission in the near future, by the way. Get your lawyerin’ shoes on, Wally. It's what you were born to do.

Congratulations On Your Recent Acquittal!

Congratulations are in order! Today you’ll be found not guilty on all counts by a federal appellate judge!

As a fully exonerated businessman, your first act will be to hire a prostitute to fellate you in the back of your Mazda Protegé (with the trial you’ve fallen on hard times). This will be a huge mistake, as though you were under indictment for tax fraud, of which you were totally guilty, the feds were still itching to get you on anything they could and, surprise surprise, hooker was a plant.

Now, don’t panic. This can go one of two ways.

The key thing to do is ask her if she’s a cop. She’ll say no. She’s seen the movies too, and she knows she has to tell you if she is, but she’s not a cop. She’s a federal agent, and those fuckers can do whatever they want. So here’s what you do.

After the cop question, ask her what she thinks about the Patriot Act. She’ll launch into a spirited speech about how it finally grants federal investigative bodies the power they need to end the remarkable corruption affecting our world. She’ll talk about how without it scumbags like you would run free, and the United States would become little more than your personal piggybank. Halfway through the speech she’ll know she’s been made, but she’ll be so excited she won’t care.

By now, she’s going to be moist, so all you’ll have to do is lean over and cut her off mid sentence with a kiss and you’ll think her name was Wally West she’ll be on your dick so fast (you have some really weird fantasies, by the way).

Now, this is where you have to make a choice. If you call her the next day you’ll have to risk your marriage with your wife, who you’re already cheating on with your mistress but this will make things a lot harder. Expect to have a really hot three way or a painful separation later this year if you choose this route.

If you don’t call her she’s going to go back to her bosses with the evidence and say you went for it hook line and sinker. Since you never actually paid her for sex she’s just going to get a rape kit and drop some of her own money, cash, into their hands just to see your wham bam thank you ma’am ass burn. And you’re going to end up with a ruined marriage, no chance of a hot three way, and potential rectal damage from your brief stay in county.

Look, this one really isn’t that hard. Just call her. She’s totally hot and even though you’re a repressed homosexual with a bevy of fantasies about DC Silver Age super heroes, it’ll be a fun ride. You might even get a shot at every dude’s fantasy (TWO CHICKS AT ONCE!!!) which would be your fantasy if you hadn’t blocked out your best friend touching your dick as a kid and you loving it.

So just call her. Oh, and congratulations on your recent acquittal. It was sort of a travesty, but hey.