The playoffs are upon us. I'm excited but I still have to get through two days of the 8 hour grind. Here is some randomness that helped me get through a workday last week. It was rejected by McSweeney's, but hopefully it won't be rejected in your collective hearts:
The camera is dead center on my face. If you need it, imagine my face as a young Charlie Sheen mixed in with some John Goodman, now add stubble and years of regret.
The screen is in black and white, and not two seconds into the spot, a voice comes over the speaker like an ominous nacho cheese dispenser you're not quite sure you can trust.
It is Uncle Abner, my family member who died while dealing with early onstage dementia.
"Bananas were not often found in my day--you had to be quicker than the others. Now they're everywhere. The market. The taco stand. The bank."
During this time my face remains stoic and guilt-driven; you know I've done something horrendous. I've let you down America. And I don't even know you.
"If you ever meet a woman named Teresa who lives off of 4th and Guadalupe, don't ever offer to lend your car keys. She's a magical robot who shoots missiles filled with black people."
Camera is still spot on my face. At this time you, as a viewer, may be getting tired of my face--however that tiredness subsides as you realize you can play connect the dots with the pock-marked scars left over from years of violent acne. You're able to make out a small Shetland pony.
"Sometimes I like to sit in the car and watch people. Sometimes the people in my head like to sit in their car and watch me."
You begin to wonder, while listening to the voice and watching the large face, why Nike would ever, in their right cooperate minds, produce such a piece with such an non-athletic specimen such as I. So, I list here for you oh skeptic, a non-comprehensive list of fathletes: Lefty, The Fat Version of Shaq, Lendell White, and the always voluptuous Sir Charles.
"Puppets frighten me. If I were to come back in another life, I'd like to be someone who burns puppets for a living. Or an apprentice to that person. To me, that's where the real joy in life comes from"
After several more minutes of the voice and my face, you begin to wonder what crime against humanity did this person commit? Did he forget to pay child support? Did he not send a thank you card for some special once in a lifetime gift? Did he bombard the innocent with Facebook updates about what he was eating? No, all I did was forget to separate the non dryer-proof clothes from the clothes my wife could not give a crap about. You'd think I had commandeered a time machine and slapped her in the face as a baby, giving her a complex that slowly built up over 31 years and exploded on the one day I attempted to do laundry so I could have some clean boxer-briefs. That's why you're staring at me. And that's why you're listening to Uncle Abner.
"There are literally snakes in this room I'm in right now. Big ones. I see them coming out of the ceiling. They're singing to me. It's an old hymnal but the words have been replaced with thoughts of cacti. I want to go home now."
Shot fades to black.