This here bringer of the pooper to the fun party

Apologies in advance to Mr. Hamilton

[Today’s guest post is from the author of one of the most profound Twitter feeds on the Internet, Josh Allen, aka Batman. Mr. Allen’s websites include Fireland, The Knowledge for Thirst, and The House of Wigs. He is also a frequent contributor to The Morning News. Mr. Allen has agreed to pay for the ambulance ride to the hospital my father will be taking after reading the following post, entirely with the dollar bills he’s collected in his Union Jack thong.]

H: Hey, fat stuff.

J: Who is this.

H: H to tha ARM, bringing the HARM. Née H to tha HAM.

J: I don’t have any bail money.

H: C’mon, you know what I need.

J: I don’t have any—what’s it called nowadays. I don’t have any man poon available for purchase.

H: I need the content, baby. Like the old days? Mama needs a guest host while she drags this party to Florida.

J: Oh you’re summering in America’s Stretch Mark? Give my best to the tard they feed gin and dress up as Finding Nemo.

H: I thought it was high time Leta learned the ins and outs of the cocaine trade, and while we’re gone, see, we’re going to need some content. Preferably about me. Something nice. Something my readers can print out and pin to the cubicle wall next to their sonogram.

J: Heather, you have taken every precious moment that we’ve shared and cut it open and splayed out its tender parts for the whole world to comment on and then forget five minutes later.

H: Right, I need another one of those. Gimme that juice, nephew.

J: The picnic by the creek next to the lake. Our talks about Glenn Close. Huffing model cement and believing anything is possible. Falling asleep in each other’s arms in the alleyway behind Check 2 Cash. These memories have all been stolen from me and shoved down the gaping maw of the internet.

H: Maybe some old love sonnets from that Reebok box waaaaay in the back of the closet?

J: I destroyed those in a private ceremony, as you know. All that remains are some very classy boudoir pictures of you that I made with MacPaint.

H: Whatever, let’s post those.

J: Madam, those are sacrosanct. But.

H: Yeah. But. Here we go. Let’s have it.

J: There is one moment that is still mine, and mine alone. And I will share it with your … fans. But in return, you must promise to give back the locket I gave you that very special evening at Chili’s Too in American Fork.

H: Right. The … locket.

J: [sighs] In the shape of a chicken, your second favorite animal? Because I couldn’t find one in the shape of a “Sleestak,” whatever that is? And inside is my prom photo with the girl’s face cut out? And a lock of my back hair, which you always said was the “macho-est” kind of hair?

H: Oh that locket.

J: I’m going to give it to someone who will appreciate it. Perhaps my mother, or the girl at the free clinic who I’m pretty sure is into what I’m dishing out.

H: I’ll send the locket or its approximate cash value to you tomorrow or next week sometime, or in the fall.

J: OK. There was this one time when you made me put on your wedding dress and try on all these different kinds of lipstick? Just as a goof, not anything weird?

H: Oh yeah! I wanted to see which color would look best for the big day but they were all so terrible on you I ended up eloping.

J: Well you said something to me then that I’ve never forgotten. You said: “Josh, you’d make the saddest little transvestite in the world, but I hope you’ll always be my sad little transvestite.”

H: What a nice thing for me to say to somebody!

J: Well, I want the world to have it. It’s gotten me through some tough days at the TCBY.

H: Perfect, Jigga, as always. Now I gotta jet. Melanoma calls!

J: Let me give you my new address for the locket. It’s a little confusing because the crawl space under my therapist’s office doesn’t technically have a number—

H: Hanging up now!

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