October 14, 2013

This time tomorrow I’ll be smooshed up against myself in the back of a white Range Rover as it flips and rolls silently across the black desert. This time yesterday I was frantically shoving baklava into my face on a heroin dinner date with Scott Bakula. This time today I’m a melancholy off-duty park ranger, staring out my grimy kitchen window at a postal worker who’s about to experience this year’s new and improved strain of rabies.

I’m so busy! Every one of my moments is as sharp as the diamond blades of Odin’s lawnmower. My time is so valuable it would make Jay-Z vomit in the basement. Yo ho ho, it’s the Grab-N-Go life for me, sister. Outta my way, weatherman, you parenthetical Antichrist with the asterisk mouth! I get my forecasts ground into my brain with a Bluetooth laser hamfist full of HD potato wedges. But round off those temps to the nearest ten, I don’t have time for ones. I’ve got golf to cancel and a bloody kilt to leave on the side of the road to ruin. If it doesn’t fit in my cupholder, I’m not fucking interested.

I recently saw my neighbor crying in a cul-de-sac. She was drenched in snot. I didn’t know what else to do so I laid on my car horn for about forty-five minutes and shouted some very un-Catholic epithets through my crispy breaded teeth. It made me late for soccer practice, and I don’t even have kids (no time!!!).

I only eat pre-packaged food if the wording on the packaging is yellow-orange and italicized, and involves some iteration of the word “go.” No “go,” no go. Gotta go. I even go in my sleep. Go. Grab. Go. Grab-N-Go!

O. J. Simpson! Now there’s someone who knew how to Grab-N-Go. He won the Heisman, for crying out loud. I couldn’t quite see into that Bronco, but I like to think he was enjoying a Gogurt in there.

I love handles. They make things easier to grab and pull toward my person as I go to my very urgent appointments at the hairstylist and the nosestylist and the cephalopodiatrist and the Apple store and the apple store and the

I can feel my insides corroding, oxidizing, foaming, burning me up. Even more so when I’m on an airplane, or reading fine print while on an airplane. It’s like I gargled with a lava lamp. My Handi-Pak wife says I should go and see a doctor, but doctors don’t have handles. Do they?

I haven’t exhaled in three months. Oh! A coupon for 27¢ off Totino’s Pizza Rolls!!! Perfect for grabbing and going! If only I had time to cut the coupon from this… this thing…

Lord, baby Jesus, come grab me from this cruel, slow and inconvenient world. Can I bring my iPad with me to paradise? Hello?

This passage sponsored by Beatty’s Poorly Defined Sponge Cakes. “Your Tongue Will Writhe in Agonizing Flames of Deliciousness!™” Now in hyper-convenient wrapperless Grab-N-Go servings, because what kind of loser actually has time for cellophane? And by Hillel Slovak, “I Used to Be In the Red Hot Chili Peppers But Then I Died of Drugs™”