11-30-05, 7:42 p.m.
Just watched back-to-back reruns of "Mad About You" over at the Schmeckle's. I hate that show, but they like it because of the wallpaper. Linda offered me a potato. I shook my head "no" because I was desperately stifling a colossal fart at the time. Boris kept yammering endlessly about his lifelong goal of creating a recipe for meatloaf that turns into a machine gun, but I was distracted by the twins, Vestibule and Sashweights, who were chewing on my ankles the entire time. There was a knock on the front door. Linda answered it. It was Patrick Warburton. He started to say something, when suddenly the fart exploded from my anus like a howitzer and blew him into the street, where he was run over by a pickle wagon. Linda silently closed the door and then fell over backward into the china cabinet with a tremendous crash. Boris leapt to his feet to give aid but tripped over one of the twins and plunged headfirst into the 52" Toshiba Theaterview television screen, which was presently displaying a panoramic view of Dennis Franz' huge, hairy ass. The twins released their viselike jaws from my ankles and ran screaming into the back bedroom. Moments later I could hear the sound of a cow and some monkeys being pummelled, but this was immediately drowned out by a CD of Raymond Burr singing Little Richard songs at full volume. For at least the tenth time that day, I imagined a naked Raymond Burr. How did that poem go? I asked myself. Oh, yes...
[i]Milk, and cheese, and chicken eggs
Milton Berle, and Seth Green's legs
The smell of Raymond Burr's behind
Go swirling through my fevered mind.[/i]
I smiled at the recollection, and suddenly everything was okay. I got up, walked past the carnage, the corpses, the horror...and into the cool, dusky evening air. I watched as the police peeled Patrick Warburton's flattened body off the pavement, some of them surreptitiously pocketing a few of the errant pickles that still lay scattered here and there. I mentally instructed my legs to transport my body to the nearest EZ-Mart, where I purchased a package of notebook paper to make paper airplanes with during Boris and Linda's funeral. Then I went to that funny-smelling hair salon at Wal-Mart and asked for a "Merv Griffin." Seeing myself in the mirror afterward, I became Merv Griffin. So I took out my driver's license, crossed out my old name, and wrote "Merv Griffin."
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Legend, oh legend, the third wheel legend...always in the way.
