I Like Fish on Sticks
The pet store was selling them for
a dollar ninety-eight
two used Kleenexes
four limited-edition Jar-Jar Slushie cups
apiece. I thought this was odd since they were normally
a couple thousand
five bucks and change
-three- used Kleenexes
only available to those who had the Anakin Slushie cup
way cheaper than that. I decided not to look a gift
Iludium Q-36 explosive space modulator
sporkin the mouth so I bought 200 of them. I like fish on
I took my 200 fish on sticks home. I have a big car. I let one of them
jump up and down on the seats
wave to passing cars
play 'Revolution 9' repeatedly on my tape deck. His name
was Sigmund. He was kind of
scared of alien abduction. In fact, none of them were really
bright. They kept punching themselves in the genitals. I laughed. They punched
me in the genitals. I stopped laughing.
I herded them into my room. They didn't adapt very well to
their new environment
the idea that Elvis was dead
a constant diet of sporks and Spam
being assimilated by the Borg
my penchant for defenestrating everything in sight. They
would screech and hurl themselves off the couch at high speeds and slam into
the wall. Although humorous at first, the spectacle lost its
halfway into its third hour
at 10:00 when "The Price Is Right" came on
in about ten seconds
after a few days
when I realized I was just hallucinating the whole thing
under my bed.
Two hours later I found out why all the fish on sticks were so
willing to clean my room for me
scared of the dark
xenophobic: they all died. No apparent reason. They all
just sort of dropped dead. Kinda like when you buy a
can of spam
little brotherand it dies five hours later. Goddamn cheap
fish on sticks.
I didn't know what to
poke with a stick. There were 200 dead fish on sticks lying
all over my room; on the bed, in the dresser, hanging from my bookcase. It
looked like I had 200
dead fish on sticks.. well, what else would it look like?
dead traveling salesmen.
anvils I tried to flush one down the toilet. It didn't work.
It got stuck. Then I had one dead, wet fish on a stick and one hundred
ninety-nine dead, dry fish on sticks.
I tried to pretend that they were just
passing meteor showers
more of my imaginary friends. That worked for a while; that
is, until they began to decompose. It started to smell
like that Chinese restaurant down the street
I had to pee but there was a dead fish on a stick in my toilet and I
didn't want to call
a psychiatrist, even though I need one
my mommy. I was embarrassed.
I tried to slow down the decomposition by freezing them. Unfortunately there
was only enough room for two at a time, so I had to change them every
time the doorbell rang
four hours, not to exceed six doses in a 24-hour period.
I also had to eat all the food in the freezer so it didn't
eat me first
stage a kitchen coup
complain that I wasn't paying enough attention to it.
I tried to burn them, but little did I know that my
left pinky finger
award-winning collection of antique matchbooks
I had to extinguish the fire.
Then I had one dead, wet fish on a stick in my toilet, two dead, frozen fish
on sticks in my freezer, and one hundred nintey-seven dead,
alien-human hybrid clones offish on sticks in a pile on
my bed. The odor wasn't improving.
filled with chocolatey goodness
terrified of lava lamps
sure that the men in white coats were out to get me
a loyal fan of the "Watching Paint Dry" channelat my inability
to dispose of the dead fish on sticks and I really had to
use the bathroom
return to the mothership
kill the Pope
hurl myself out the window
eat some Spam. So I went and severely beat one of the fish
on sticks. I felt better.
throwing them away
praying to Spam
sweeping them under the carpetbut
the garbage man said the city couldn't dispose of charred
the aliens wouldn't let me
the voices in my head told me that it would be a bad idea
I have this odd urge to live
I couldn't find my spork. I told him I had a
rare degenerative illness
little brother I didn't want anymore. He couldn't take it
either. I didn't bother asking about the frozen ones.
I finally arrived at a solution. I
gave them out as Christmas gifts
marketed them as a cheap energy source
hurled them at the mailman
vaporized them with my Klingon disruptor.
My friends didn't quite know what to say. They pretended to like them, but
I could tell they were lying.
Hey, look! A blue car!
A man named Jim lives in my lava lamp.
The celery stalks at midnight!
Ingrates. So I
punched them in the genitals
shipped them off to Australia in a cardboard box
beat them with a stick
sold them into slavery
ran and cried.
I like fish on sticks.
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I like getting mail. Hint, hint.