I shaved the heads of all my seven children. This made it far easier to tattoo them, and I’m not a tattoo artist so I appreciated the advantage offered. On the head of my oldest son I tattooed the name Tyler. On the head of my oldest daughter I inscribed in the flesh the name Helena. On the head of my third born I wrote the numeral 3, and so on from there because I had not gotten around to naming the rest. The process took a long time and they were all late for school, so I beat them with a wooden spoon and sent them to their rooms. It was only a matter of hours before each had gelled and could be served to my guests guilt-free.
A clatter at the window; my buddy Rabe had come over to invite me to shoot bee-bee guns. He’d shot the sill as a prank, the scamp. I snuck out the window, leaving my guests to figure out how to eat the gelled children all on their own. Rabe snorted like a pig and danced in a circle; he was happy to see me.
A group of scarecrows was standing around doing nothing, like a bunch of fags. We ducked down behind a couple bails of hay and took aim, shooting the scarecrows all over their tatty bodies. They didn’t do anything about it, like a bunch of fags.
“I got a idea,” I told Rabe.
“What’s the idea, geniustein?” he asked as if he didn’t believe I had an idea at all.
“Let’s recruit these fags for our baseball team,” I said, and Rabe seemed to agree that that was an idea, so we went to work sticking baseball cards into their clothes, filling them out with these collectibles mixed into the hay, their vital essence. Once they had become baseball players, infused with the vital essence of the cards, they started running and pitching and hitting. But they refused to join our team. They said we had nothing reasonable to offer them and refused us, like a bunch of fags.
“Shit, it’s time for my vitamins. I got blood poisoning on my father’s side,” Rabe said and evaporated. I held my breath because I didn’t want to inhale him. Having your best bud in you is disturbing and I vowed never to let it happen to me again. Once, my pet mouse Sylvain Sylvain crawled into my kidney during surgery. The veterinarian was frantic to find him because if he didn’t finish his surgery Sylvain Sylvain might die. But he didn’t die; he simply fused with me in the way some sports fans eventually join their teams. When I thought about it I’d try to push cheese into my urethra as a treat and root for the local sport’s team, which was now accepting scarecrows. Rats!
“Damnit, it’s time for supper!” I had to rush back to my house, which was now at the store buying pirated VHS tapes of the origin of the universe. He was hungry for supper, the little rascal, and ate up almost every inch of food I had to offer. “Just like babies, these houses,” I informed a homeless man defecating in the aisle of the store. “You don’t want to waste your time on them, unless you like babies. And who does?” The homeless man, who was probably Portuguese, ignored my words and handed me a sausage of indeterminate variety. I watched the pirated VHS tape frantically for a clue about the sausage’s origin. After much scientific analysis, I determined it was a Portuguese sausage and retrospectively labeled the man a Portuguese. Was this a mistake? I wondered about it for quite some time, while I rolled my house back to my property.
The local meteorologist observed my strange journey. “I’m all mixed up!” he said and laughed, enjoying the trip quite unseasonably for a weatherman. When I finally got my house home I checked the National Security Meter and found that Portugal had not declared war, so I was safe in my assumption the homeless defecator was a true Portuguese. I was generally fairly safe, even though the weatherman kept trying to set fire to my belongings. Luckily, my belongings were severely retarded. So the flames licked what was left of the house’s supper. “Don’t get too greedy, now, you rascals!” I told them. The flames spelled out the words to a song yet to be written about my death, seriously fucking with my head.