[Editor’s note: This editorial is a continuation of a previously published opinion piece entitled “There are so many lizards on the sofa!” In the preceding editorial, The Sundial implored the author to mail any additional information to our publication. The author appears to have heard our call and submitted the following, which was received January 1st, 2021, written nearly illegibly in crayon on a series of gum wrappers. After two weeks of deciphering the narrative, we present it to you here in its original prose.]
So there I was, lizards still up my ass and a bloody, naked Methhead Rodney still on the floor. And now here we are a year, some months and some change later, and I have not moved one single inch. Rodney’s starting to stink. And what’s this I see on the TV but Carson Daily looking like an absolute snack. Oh god, I think. Oh shit, it’s MOTHERFUCKIN’ NEW YEARS MOTHERFUCKIN’ EVE! I gotta throw a party AND clean up all these lizards!
So I go to the cupboard under the sink to get my emergency Mr. Clean — which I use for drinkin’ and washing up — and what’s there but my dead-ass cat. I immediately ralph in the cabinet because it smells like tuna and dead cat — and boy do I HATE tuna! Great… yet another thing to clean… or perhaps yet another little cupboard snack. Anyway, I gotta get someone to clean up this mess so I chuck my cat into the middle of the kitchen as lizard bait and hop over to my landline to phone a friend. There’s only one man who can help me now: PTSD John. I knew PTSD John from way back when we served together at Lolly’s Ice Cream Barn during the summer of ‘76. He was a mean ol’ bastard, but he was a kind and attentive lover. He tells me he can get here in less than 2 minutes because he’s fire chief now and has the entire department at his disposal.
Then, like clockwork or the world’s fastest Domino’s delivery driver, PTSD John shows up, muscles rippling and two AK-47’s drawn. PTSD John slams open the door, marches into the living room, takes one look at the sofa, and says “Wow. There are so many lizards on the sofa!” He was always so perceptive and witty. “Well,” he says, “I guess it’s time to get smart…Petsmart.” So PTSD John starts shooting the fuck outta these lizards, the corpse of Methhead Rodney, and my goddam cat and I’m starting to think that I’m not getting my security deposit back.
I hide back in the kitchen and take a sip of my Mr. Clean drink and wait for the carnage to end. PTSD John turns back to me, looking triumphant when suddenly he eyes the label of my Mr. Clean beverage and starts freaking the fuck out. You see, ol’ John served with Cleany Boy in Kosovo. Here’s what happened:
John, back before he was PTSD John, was guarding a neighborhood in Kosovo — the jewel of Eastern Europe — with Bill Clean. They were looking for insurgents, but what they found was betrayal. Clean was in charge of uniform inspection that day, and John had just finished scarfing down a Snickers bar when inspection time came. John had this chocolate schmutz all over his face and Sergeant Clean had seen this from a distance. Now he was ready to pounce. Long story short, he made a crack about John that stuck with him forever. He called him Poopy Teeth Shit Dude, and the name stuck, just like the chocolate and caramel to PTSD John’s pearly whites. You see, the chocolate looked like shit, so when it stuck to his teeth, it made him look like he had poopy on his teeth. And to reinforce the scatological element of the nickname, he added the word shit, then tacked dude right onto the end.
[EN: Of the gum wrappers numbered 1-37, numbers 28-32 are entirely scorched, and therefore we can only guess as to what might’ve happened between the time of reminiscence about PTSD John’s past and the rest of the tale.]
And when I woke up from my vomit-snack-induced black-out, I realized something was wrong — the entire building was on fire! Had John, in order to distract from his poo-related embarrassment, really gone this far? Fate is a cruel harlot. I stopped, dropped, and rolled my way to the phone and dialed 911. On the other end, I heard a familiar voice answer.
“Hello, San Bernadino Fire Department,” said a man with John’s voice, who was probably John. “Is someone having a wittle bitty emergency?” I was, but I wasn’t going to give John the satisfaction of knowing that he was the sole being responsible for the third-degree burns beginning to form around my ankle weights. (I always wear ankle weights to impress the people I meet on Match.com, just so you know.)
“No, everything’s good here,” I say. “How are you today?”
“Oh, you know, living the dream,” PTSD John replies. “Gotta put money in the bank somehow, am I right?”
“Yes,” I say. “You are right.” I hoped he felt reaffirmed.
“Welp, gotta go. The grind never stops.” John chuckled as he ended the call, the first time I’d heard him laugh in years.
I was a little sad when he hung up the phone. The truth is, I missed him, and I really needed help since I was getting crispy as an onion ring from Applebee’s, our favorite dinner-date restaurant. The thought of rekindling our friendship filled me with adrenaline, and before I knew it, I was grabbing Methhead Rodney by the head or maybe the leg, I couldn’t tell which, my dead cat by the tail, and charging out the door. I didn’t know if I’d be able to bust through but I did know one thing: I’d always have Methhead Rodney and my dead fucking cat at my side.
[EN: We admire how tender and well-structured this new narrative is. I truly do cry every time I read this, and I hope to know what happens next. Though, perhaps the beauty comes from not knowing. All this editor knows is, I should really go home and spend time with my wife, who drives me freakin’ crazy (am I right, fellas?), and my thirty-four-year-old son, who will never find a job if he keeps dressing like a freaking weirdo. No matter how disappointing and unpleasant they are, at least they don’t start fires in the house and ruin the security deposit. At least we can all enjoy a delicious meal of boneless chicken wings and crispy onion rings from our favorite neighborhood bar and grille, Applebee’s.]
Written by Sue Veneers and Dan Druff