Watching the WNBA
Please. Please. Please hire me at a veterinarian’s clinic. Hire me, and send me to the back with a syringe and vat of barbiturates so I can Euthanize puppies all day long. Not sick puppies. Not deformed puppies. Not unwanted puppies. Perfectly healthy puppies with absolutely no problems at all. Puppies with families that love them. Puppies given to little girl’s as birthday presents. Put me back there and make me look into these perfectly cuddly pets’ soft amber eyes as I pump them full of death and coldness. Please. I beg of you. Let me do this instead of watching the WNBA.
Sitting next to a fat guy on the plane
I wish I was drinking in a bar. I’d get so drunk that I’d wake up with my shoes and socks gone, surrounded by broken glass. Eventually I’d walk across the ground, shredding my feet to the bone. But then I’d get out of that room and realize I was on a slave ship to Shanghai. As I emerged from the lower deck I’d be bull-whipped by a small, screaming Chinese woman. I would take my place next to a sickly old man. With every row he would turn and cough warm, bloody bits of phlegm onto my ear, causing an infection.
Waiting in line at the phone store
I’d rather be in a simpler time, maybe the early 1800s in Colonial America. I’d be traveling west with my family, because there is no money or food and we’d need to find some gold. I’d have about six kids, although two of them have dysentery and likely won’t make it to the next town. Also, my wife died during the last childbirth. As we finished our long trek, we’d come to the top of a precipice, where we see lots of rabbits to eat. Unfortunately, a band of wild natives would surround us and scalp us. They’d have a big fire and music that night to celebrate.
Salvaging dead work
I’d rather watch Andrew Dice Clay and my mother have sex.
Watching the Seahawks play football
I’d love to have Fran Drescher give me a haircut. While I was trapped in the chair she could talk to me about the producers of The Nanny not giving her enough creative reign. I’d tell her jokes and she’d laugh, really hard laughs, as she carelessly buzzed moles off of my dome. She’d give me relationship advice and soliloquize about the dwindling otter populations. And when she was done, we’d have anal sex.
Talking about advertising at a bar with some guy
I wish I was in a Wal-Mart somewhere in Texas. I’d be strapped to a cot next to a line of female Wal-Mart employees, all of whom are menstruating. The women have just exercised for 15 minutes, which doesn’t seem long, but all of them are well over 250 lbs. and therefore sweating and panting heavily. One by one they come up to me and empty their menstrual fluid into my ears, alternating. Left, right, left, right. I’d scream and the mother of them all would stuff her maxi-pad, which has been hardened by multiple uses, into my mouth.
Staying at the Viceroy
I’d prefer to have six lepers perform Brazilian jujitsu on me in a cage match. The leper’s skin would slough off as they contorted around my body, and pinned my face to the cold hard mat. The combination of their choke-holds with the lifeless stench of their flesh would make me pass out; and lord knows what they’d do to me as I lay unconscious.
Reading an email chain
Right this very moment I wish a custodian was defecating on my corpse. A very overweight custodian. A custodian with a love for southeast Asian carnival food, despite his irrepressible IBS. And after the custodian wipes his ass with my shirt sleeve, I want him to call his morbidly obese wife over and begin making love to her on top of my dead rotting carcass.
Listening to a pompous director
I feel like ripping my dick off and throwing it in the woods. There, a badger, also named Brock, which is ironic, will find my disembodied penis and gnaw on it for several minutes. But for some tragic reason my nerve endings will still be firing; so as the badger gnashes and chews off bits of my rotting foreskin, I will still be able to feel the miserable pain.
