Kelsey Grammer with kitten's head attached to penis
by A Candy-Colored Clown They Call the SandmanIt's not that I minded a stinking drunk and bedraggled Kelsey Grammer showing up unannounced on my doorstep at 3 a.m., white powdery residue lining the outside of his nostrils and encrusted vomit coating his cheap suit. But, I really didn't appreciate the fact that he wasn't wearing any pants and had the severed head of a kitten attached to his semi-erect penis.
Nevertheless, I invited him inside for some badly needed coffee. As we approached the kitchen, I turned to ask him why he chose my humble abode for his late-night pit stop. Before I managed to pose my query, he tumbled forward and fell face-first into my coffee table, spraying razor-sharp shards of glass in every direction. I looked on in dismay as he struggled to his feet, shimmering bloody glass raining from his balding head.
"Three out of four dentists surveyed recommend Trident for their patients who chew gum," he croaked, before reaching into his mouth and ripping out molars by the handful and flinging them at me.
I ran to the phone, punched in 911 and was greeted by Pat Boone crooning a hideously off-key lounge rendition of Judas Priest's "Eat Me Alive." I slammed the receiver down and sprinted down the hallway toward the garage. I flipped the light on and was at first delighted and then repulsed by the sight of a nude Kim Basinger, sprawled across the hood of my lime-green Yugo, pouring a bottle of Evian water directly onto her exposed brain, via a baseball-sized cavity on the top of her head. I screamed and turned to run back into the house, but I was blindsided by a toothless, rabid Grammer leaking fountains of blood from his head and mouth. He caught a glimpse of an ecstatically oblivious Kim Basinger and pounced on her, whereupon she started screaming.
"Show me the money! Show me the money!" she cried. "I want to buy Vermont!"
I struggled to my feet and ran out of there, leaving a cacophony of shrieking, gurgling, and slurping noises behind. Feeling defeated, I went back to the living room to clean up the mess and was startled to find Olympic gymnast Kerri Strug, decked out in full Alice Cooper makeup, including top-hat and white suit, preparing to do a backflip off of my couch. She grinned at me.
"Endorse me, you son-of-a-bitch," she chirped in her famous chipmunk squeak. "Or the kid dies."
As I tried to figure out what she meant and what she was doing in my house, a red Toyota sport-utility vehicle came crashing through my picture window, its front end coming to rest on the couch, crushing Strug amidst a symphony of crunches and squeals. Out of the truck swaggered a heavily intoxicated Oksana Baiul clutching a fifth of Jack Daniels. She wobbled toward me unsteadily, wearing figure skates and a dirty, ripped-up Olympic costume, riddled with large brown stains.
"That was a perfect 9.2, if you ask me," she slurred. "That slut Kerrigan should keep her pie-hole shut. Now, what does a girl have to do to get a drink around here?"
I backed away from her and ran toward the front door which was unfortunately blocked by a large black rapper in full hip-hop gear, with a blood-stained silver and black shirt which read 'STINK-E-BOYZZ.' He leered down toward me, the light glinting off of a single gold-capped tooth filling his large mouth, and then fell forward with a crash, landing at my feet. I ran outside just as a pink Cadillac sped off in the distance.
I breathlessly lurched my way toward my neighbor's house and saw a 6-foot cross, propped up and blazing on his lawn. I pounded on his door and was greeted by what appeared to be his German Shepherd wearing a white sheet with the eyeholes cut out. Instead of barking, the animal began addressing me in Andy Rooney's voice.
"Did you ever notice all the air they pump into a new bag of potato chips to make it look fuller than it really is? Do they think we're that stupid that we don't know that this 'air' is really the final expelled breaths of actress Toti Fields, and has been stored for decades in a hermetically-sealed vault in the basement of the Smithsonian Institution?"
As I brushed past the shrouded, babbling canine to search for my neighbor, I detected the distinct scent of Delta Burke's sweaty panties with just a hint of Danny DeVito's chopped-liver induced flatulence. Entering the kitchen, I spied Alan Alda wearing nothing but an apron, hunched over a pot on the stove, stirring away, intermittently humming and reciting snippets of recipes in a lilting, sing-song Julia Child voice.
"First, you take the pancreas. Lightly bread with unbleached flour. Then, you remove the pineal gland and add just a tincture of the organ's fluid to the spleen. Remember, be careful not to overdo it, or you may wind up spasming and convulsing violently, while foaming at the mouth and expressing a sudden unhealthy interest in the poetry of Rod McKuen."
I ran out of the neighbor's back door, unsure about my next course of action until I noticed flames leaping from the roof of my garage. I hurried to the scene and was relieved to see that the fire department had already responded until I realized that the sole firefighter on the scene was Robert Downey Jr., who had attached a small tube leading from the firehose into a vein in his arm. He was making growling noises and violently slapping at his arm in between swigs of gasoline he was chugging from a nearby canister. As he pulled the tube leading to his arm tight with his teeth, he muttered incoherently.
"Come on baby, I know you're here somewhere," he mumbled with a grimace. "Damn, that was my favorite vein. I named him Todd, after Todd Bridges."
Suddenly, my garage exploded with a deafening roar knocking me to the ground. I looked up and caught a glimpse of Kelsey Grammer and Kim Basinger flying above me, embraced in a lock of passionately violent intercourse, leaving behind a vapor trail of Cheers cast members and Baldwin brothers. Before passing out, I wondered if my boss would mind if I called in sick in the morning.
9/13/97
[Writers] [Birdhouse]