The world’s most powerful sports fan is dying on his couch after being shot in the lung by the most interesting man in the world (known to his slightly less interesting contemporaries as Randy). Randy grabs a massive fistful of trail mix and sits cross-legged on the burgundy carpet.
“I once gave Jerry Mathers a tongue bath,” Randy announces to the sportschildren as he reaches for the remote control with his mind. He pours the trail mix down his gullet and changes the channel.
It’s that damned Moses movie again. You know, the one with Björk parting the sea of pistachio ice cream with a stale baguette. That silly RoboPharaoh rap montage. They always show this crap this time of year, just like the lady at Falafel City always fucks up your order. The smell of overdue library books and decaying school buses so thick and stringy in the air you can twirl it on a fork like spaghetti.
Old World Style sauce spiced with imitation oregano and memories of sitting on my great-great-granddaughter’s crooked gravestone in the shade of a giant yarn tree, sharing a strawberry-scented joint with my high school gym coach and discussing our favorite aspects of sand dunes in hushed tones.
“Sandsurfing in the Emerald Desert will really blow your top,” squeaks the coach before exhaling a perfect cube of milky smoke. The cube floats effortlessly over the wet grass, and the top twists off and dissipates in the breeze. A soft blue light emanates from within the box.
“Go on, take a look,” says the coach, and a grin spreads like a stain under his thick beard.
I peer over the edge slowly. It’s a dollhouse, or more like a doll living room, and a lousy one at that. A Ken doll lies on a cardboard couch, with dried barbecue sauce smeared across its chest. A nude Barbie with the sneering head of one of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles sits on the floor, its legs broken and folded, facing a cardboard TV set. A few Lego men are glued haphazardly to the floor.
“Why?” I ask, but I know before I turn around that he’s already gone. See, there he goes, that old coach, receding into the pixelated yonder. He left behind one of his ratty flip-flops. “You always hated me,” I call out to him.
“You know why,” comes the distant reply, and he disappears forever. He’s right, of course. I turn back and gaze down into the impossible box.
Randy laughs at the TV as Björk throws down the Ten Commandments. “Classic!” he hisses through chocolate-smudged teeth. The sportschildren are huddled in the corner, praying for any nearby deity to intervene. At last, a great light beams down from above, a great voice booms, “Which Ninja Turtle is this anyway?” and a great blue hand with obsidian fingernails descends into the room.
“But the pizza isn’t–”
Those were Randy’s final words, ladies and gentlemen. “But the pizza isn’t.” Now there’s something to chew on next time the desert calls out to you. Here are some other notable last words:
“WaveRace 64″ -Ulysses S. Grant
“I said curly fries” -Pope John Paul II
“Jello Biafra is a dick” -Lee Harvey Oswald
“Cabbage patch” -Jim Morrison
“Time is but a window, death is but a door; I’ll be back” -Bob Dylan