Dwight D. Eisenhower in
Black See-Through Panties

by A Candy-Colored Clown They Call the Sandman

Today, Charlie (the piece of lint next to the water glass on my nightstand) warned me that Sharon Stone's left ankle will soon be cryogenically frozen against her will. Instead of letting this worry me, however, I will distract myself by deep-frying my pancreas in a pot of Wesson Light Vegetable Oil. This procedure becomes somewhat tedious, though, especially since I am using Sears Craftsman tools in lieu of medical instruments, so I instead I decide to watch CNN Headline News.

The first image to assault my eyes is former president Dwight D. Eisenhower dressed in a lacy red halter-top with black see-through panties beckoning the viewer to call 1-900-SAUTE-ME. After that, a commercial touting the benefits of a new anti-flatulence cream, ("applies directly to stomach, no messy pills or liquids to swallow!") was followed finally by the news. I immediately noticed something disconcerting about the perky newsanchor: her hair appeared to be falling off in clumps every 10 seconds. After 4 minutes, she was completely bald. Fortunately, the national weather forecast came on rather abruptly, warning residents of the southwest to expect "Mickey Rooney-sized hail" the next day. In sports, a spokesman for the Baseball Owners Commission announced that sharp, double-edged metal spikes would henceforth be inserted into official league baseballs in order to boost stadium attendance and television ratings. A Miami police official described the automobile chase that ensued after controversial superstar outfielder Darryl Strawberry was arrested for setting fire to a daycare center which housed the daughter of his crack-cocaine dealer who he recently dismembered. After being released on his own recognizance, Strawberry apologized and promised New York Yankee fans a great season of baseball when he rejoins them next week.

After turning off the TV, I amble downstairs and notice a dog with the head of a Dachsund, and the body of a St. Bernard, playing my piano and crooning 'Imagine' by John Lennon. I begin to wonder if the hospital released me too early. I run back up to the bathroom to take my medication, and along the way notice that my stairway banister is a writhing boa constrictor. As I fumble through the medicine cabinet, my peripheral vision picks up a figure seated on my toilet. I cautiously turn in that direction, and notice Max Baer Jr., dressed as Jethro from the Beverly Hillbillies leering at me and grunting. I scream and run back down the stairs out of the house where I almost knock over the mailman, who for some reason today is dressed as a 19th century milkmaid. I grab my mail out of his hand, sprint down the block, and stop under a huge elm tree to catch my breath. I rip open my daily Publisher's Clearinghouse letter which says that I am a finalist and that Ed McMahon will personally perform a colonoscopy on me if I mail the enclosed material back within 7 days. I slowly shuffle back toward my house and notice that my neighbor has transformed his cozy 3-bedroom ranch into a maximum-security prison. I peer through the barbed wire around his yard and see his three children dressed in numbered blue uniforms breaking up concrete slabs with pick-axes. Their father stands guard on the patio deck above them wearing dark sunglasses and a cowboy hat, with a megaphone in his hand. I decide to hurry away before I'm noticed.

As I re-enter my house, I wipe the sweat from my brow, and the skin from my entire forehead sloughs off into my hand. I collapse onto my couch and notice that I am wearing an unfamiliar pair of Nike gym shoes. Suddenly, a 350-pound moustachioed Brooke Shields bursts through my door and demands her shoes back. I stammeringly try to explain that I don't know how I acquired them, but she knocks me to the floor with her hairy, beefy forearm, rips the shoes off my feet and lumbers back outside snarling. I run upstairs, rip off my clothes, and hop into the shower, where, much to my horror, is a reptilian creature with Angela Lansbury's head. I run out of the bathroom naked, with her croaking over and over, "Know what you say, say what you know. Know what you say, say what you know." I dash into my bedroom and spot Jack Klugman lounging seductively on my bed wearing what appears to be an ostrich. Suddenly, he points at me and lets out an alien 'Invasion of the Body-Snatchers' yell, and melts into a pile of feathers and green goo. I manage to salvage some feathers and ostrich-skin, which I quickly wrap around me into a makeshift loincloth and jump out of my bedroom window screaming.

9/13/97

[Writers] [Birdhouse]