by Brad Rose
I’m not sure I’m in your time zone—if you know what I mean—but I’ve been resting comfortably, just like when I was in that hospital. I was down South last week. Beautiful. Just beautiful. The women down there—hard as hammers, some with Crayola-colored hair—but fortunately, that’s just how I like them. Short and firm, ready to split nails. A few were showing off more than their pompoms, too. I ended up interfacing with a couple of them. I guess they just couldn’t resist my magnetic posture. Some people think my slouch is the best thing about me. Of course, that may be just folklore. After all, this is the International Year of the Common Denominator. The internet says we’re all going to have more fun than a mosquito trapped in a nudist’s sleeping bag. But I warn you, you’ve got to keep your wits about you; the nearest exit may be the one behind you. Marge—bless her soul—took a few swings at me, yesterday. She does that whenever I roll in to town and she’s had a few of those fizzy, pink, girly drinks. Said it was nothing personal—just like in a real a boxing match. That Marge! She’s more fun than a barrel of piranha. Hey, who said anything about a blunt instrument? Fortunately, I had my brother’s Mitsubishi parked outside; had plenty of room for her in the trunk. I’d have hated for her to have to walk home barefoot, in her underwear. Like mom and dad used to say, it’s OK to break your own toys, but not anyone else’s.