Wednesday, November 25, 2009

Different Worlds

My roommate once asked me how much money I would have to be given in order to get a tribal or barbwire tattoo that would be clearly visible for the rest of my life. We were on completely different pages. He was thinking of a 5 digit number. I was thinking bajillions of kahtrillions. "You wouldn't get barb wire around the bicep for $10,000? That is such a lie and you know it." A moment of ponder and then I gave my reasoning:

The moment that tat is complete we have created an alternate universe for myself. Let us call the original universe 'A' and the new universe that I sport my new tattoo in universe 'B.' In universe A it is theoretically possible that I be sitting in a Starbucks, to get out of the cold because fuck coffee, when I lock eyes with a girl who could be an angel minus the wings and halo. She drops her eyes into her mug, uneasily strokes her hair to the side, and tries to hide a smile. But I see it and head over. It turns out shes in med school. She wants to be an internist to really help people.

Three years from that chance encounter and we're happily married. Two kids arrive. Iggis goes on to discovering a way to relate mathematical ring/field theory to the genome and the world is changed forever by her work. A child with a genetic condition is never born again. Signog, on the other hand, goes on to win 6 French opens in his astonishing career before retiring to persue humanitarian goals.

As for myself? Well, my mind is in such a perfect place that I spend four years writing a book. Upon its publish it is lauded as one of the greatest accomplishments in modern philosphy and literature, a feat stamped by a Pulitzer Prize. The New York book review will write of my thoughts..."Its strange that Siggi explores the theme of Utopia only briefly in his masterpiece for I imagine that in a world where everyone reads this book...that would be a true Utopia."

As it so happens, everyone does just that. It will be 674 years from that date before a human being sheds a tear. Then Dumisani Mwagoda will slip on the second to last step of her home in South Africa twisting her ankle. She will secreate 2 ounces of human tears. 0.75 ouces will be retained in a jar and put into a museum in Stockholm with a caption reading "A glimps into a diffent world."


I head into a Starbucks and take off the coat I bought with the ten thousand dollars my roommate gave me. I sit down when I lock eyes with a girl who could be an angel minus the wings and halo. She drops her eyes into her mug, uneasily strokes her hair to the side, and tries to hide a smile. But I see it and head over. She's about to tell me she goes to med school when she sees the ink on my arm.

"...I'm sorry. I...left some eggs boiling at the apartment."

I will never get laid again. The only girls that will come near me make me cough from the amount of spray in their hair. Also despite their orange skin I cant get past the yellow glow of their teeth.

My friends will go out with me for a while. With ten grand I can make it rain afterall, but soon the funds will be dry and everyone will notice that I'm the one driving away all the attractive females. I'll head out to the clubs alone for a few months until a few popped collar dudes with gelled hair notice my tat and invite me into their tripod. It will only take a week for them to discover I'm a phony when I inadvertently do a 5-5-5 pump. Apparently its 5 down pumps then 7 mid pumps for each of the days it took to create the earth and only then can you bring it to god with five more pumps. What was I thinking?

At some point I'll get Aids, not from fornication of course, but from a dirty needle. With nothing left I have obviously turned to drugs. After a few months of living on the street I find myself in a confession booth for the first time in my life. The priest assures me god will forgive all my sins. So I tell him about how I hang around the middle school since tweens are the only attractive girls that don't have the sense yet to know instantly how much of a loser I am. P.S. I have Aids.

At this point the priest kicks down the door and strangles me to death. Despite scratch marks on his face that match my nails and two witnesses, another priest and an altar boy, the judge will rule that it was self defense. A reporter will ask my mom what she thinks of the verdict and she will say that if the priest hadn't done it she would have. When asked the same question my dad will say that he too enjoys Clint Eastwood films. The reporter will then ask "What?" and my dad will say "Huh?" (Gravity, space-time, and my dad are universal constants that cannot be altered by any sense of reality).

Then I will be buried in the back of that same church with a tombstone that simply reads "With Glee We Let This Asshole Depart to a Different World."

For ten thousand dollars I will drink nothing but Moxie for a year.
For a million dollars I would read the Twilight Saga, watch all the movies, and star as a regular cast member in the TV show on the CW for six entire seasons.
For a billion dollars I would become Dr. Phills personal assistant for 5 years.
For a trillion dollars I would eat a live baby. Then spend half of it scientifically reconstructing that baby from my stool. Then using the other half to cure cancer.
There is no amount of money I will accept to get a tribal tattoo. Period.

Rare Interviews

It took two weeks of effort on my part but I finally managed to get Stephenie Meyers on the phone. I told her I was from the Sun's book review staff and just wanted to ask her a couple of questions. She was at a hotel on a promotion tour for her new book, a love triangle with aliens involved. She sounded bored so she agreed to do the interview. And here it is:

Me: I'm so glad you took time out of your busy schedule to talk. With New Moon in the theaters it must be hectic.
Meyer: Yeah. It is.
Me: So I'm just gonna get right into it. Your writing, your books, your ideas.
Meyer: Sure.
Me: Okay then. Do you know what sentences are?
Meyer: ....
Me: Hello?

Thanks for wasting my time, Steph. Well, I had to fill the page with something so I called Taylor Lautner. I told him I was from Rollingstone and I had some follow up questions about the interview we just did with him. He said he was "teasing his hair" and "working some reps" in a tanning room but he could squeeze me in.

Lautner: So my manager says there's some confusion about my interview. **grunts**
Me: Yeah. We think you may have misspoke. Swapped some words around in some of your answers as some sort of subconscious slip and just wanted to check in before we published something that was wrong.
Lautner: Oh. What did I say?
Me: Well Neil asked you about the love triangle and you said "I personally love Jacob and Bella's relationship, and how they began as friends. They are so much more open, and can tell each other anything. And Bella and Edward's relationship, it's always tense. It's always serious."
Lautner: I don't see anything wrong there...
Me: Really? Cuz we rewatched the movie over here at Rollingstone and thought maybe you had Edward and Bella mixed up.
Lautner: What? How does that even make sense?
Me: Well. You know. Every time Edward is on screen you take your shirt off...start sweating...get all heated up...howl.
Lautner: What?!?! Thats cuz...Man, fuck this.
Me: Hello?

Damnit. How do reporters do this shit?