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| Sometimes I Wish I Didn't Have Eyes |
| Warning: Do not attempt to use without pants. |
Have you ever been fisting a pregnant girl and accidentally punched her fetus in the eye,
prompting said fetus to C-section itself out of her abdomen and bite off your nose? I have, and
it turned out that it wasn’t really my nose. It was a nose-shaped tumor on my face, so
strangely enough, that fetus saved my life. But that’s neither here nor there. The other day I
went for a Sunday drive, because I was hopped up on lithium and thought it was 1924. It was
a beautiful, sunny day. The smell of fresh cut grass hung in the air. I thought nothing could go
wrong until I saw a sight that made my lunch run for the exits: an old man, riding a bicycle,
wearing nothing but a Speedo. Wearers of biker shorts have always made me a tad
uncomfortable (try having a serious conversation with someone while they’re pointing a crotch-
level bulge at you), but this was ridiculous. And nauseating.
I wasted no time in deputizing myself as a Guardian of Moral Decency. Using my newfound
authority, I aimed my car right for the geriatric banana-hammock enthusiast. My plan was to
smear him all over my windshield. Suddenly, I realized my plan had a fatal flaw: running the
guy over would bring him closer to me. And surely, old man ass-splatter on the windshield
would wreck the re-sale value of my car. I couldn’t let that happen, since I’d just spent the last
of my paycheck on racing stripes and a spoiler (okay, I lied. I made the spoiler myself out of
cheesecake, but then I ate it). At the last second, I swerved and went off a bridge into the river.
As I sank to the bottom, I thought about how close I’d come to getting an eyeful of nylon-bound
crotch. Even though I was sinking ever deeper into a sea of Styrofoam cups, old tires, mud,
and a small amount of water, I was happy. The alternative would have been unbearable and
sweaty.
The river seemed to close in all around me. I attempted to find ACDC’s “Highway to Hell” on
the radio, as I swore to my guinea pig on his deathbed that I’d go out rockin’, but all I could find
was Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believin’.” All of a sudden I didn’t stop believin’. I realized that
despite being filled with Speedo-sporting, bicycle-riding old men, the surface world wasn’t such
a bad place after all. I had to get back to it.
Using the power of my mind, I directed my fist to break the windshield. After a few mighty
blows it shattered and I swam to freedom. Okay, I lied. I didn’t swim. The river was so thick
with garbage I walked most of the way to shore.
When I got there, the old man in the Speedo was waiting for me, straddling his bike and
moving slowly back and forth. As he started to ask if I was okay, I projectile-vomited all over
him. Now that he was wearing something other than form-fitting spandex or whatever the devil
they make Speedos out of, he didn’t seem as intimidating as before. He seemed so small and
vulnerable. I began to regret my ill-advised attempt to commit vehicular manslaughter.
Suddenly, a Ford Excursion careened off the road and slammed into the old man. The driver
tried to hit the brakes, but it was no use. Car, driver, and Speedo-wearing cyclist all hit the
water and sunk into the river. Looking around and seeing no other spectators, I stuck my
hands into my pockets, pricking myself on the used hypodermic needles I hide in there in case
I ever get searched by the police, and walked off down the street whistling a happy tune.
Okay, it sounded more like a steamboat with emphysema, but you get the point (especially if
you try to search my pockets, asshole).
As I left the carnage and too-small garments behind me, I couldn’t help but feel like I’d
accomplished something. What that is I have no idea. I’m just glad I have car insurance.
prompting said fetus to C-section itself out of her abdomen and bite off your nose? I have, and
it turned out that it wasn’t really my nose. It was a nose-shaped tumor on my face, so
strangely enough, that fetus saved my life. But that’s neither here nor there. The other day I
went for a Sunday drive, because I was hopped up on lithium and thought it was 1924. It was
a beautiful, sunny day. The smell of fresh cut grass hung in the air. I thought nothing could go
wrong until I saw a sight that made my lunch run for the exits: an old man, riding a bicycle,
wearing nothing but a Speedo. Wearers of biker shorts have always made me a tad
uncomfortable (try having a serious conversation with someone while they’re pointing a crotch-
level bulge at you), but this was ridiculous. And nauseating.
I wasted no time in deputizing myself as a Guardian of Moral Decency. Using my newfound
authority, I aimed my car right for the geriatric banana-hammock enthusiast. My plan was to
smear him all over my windshield. Suddenly, I realized my plan had a fatal flaw: running the
guy over would bring him closer to me. And surely, old man ass-splatter on the windshield
would wreck the re-sale value of my car. I couldn’t let that happen, since I’d just spent the last
of my paycheck on racing stripes and a spoiler (okay, I lied. I made the spoiler myself out of
cheesecake, but then I ate it). At the last second, I swerved and went off a bridge into the river.
As I sank to the bottom, I thought about how close I’d come to getting an eyeful of nylon-bound
crotch. Even though I was sinking ever deeper into a sea of Styrofoam cups, old tires, mud,
and a small amount of water, I was happy. The alternative would have been unbearable and
sweaty.
The river seemed to close in all around me. I attempted to find ACDC’s “Highway to Hell” on
the radio, as I swore to my guinea pig on his deathbed that I’d go out rockin’, but all I could find
was Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believin’.” All of a sudden I didn’t stop believin’. I realized that
despite being filled with Speedo-sporting, bicycle-riding old men, the surface world wasn’t such
a bad place after all. I had to get back to it.
Using the power of my mind, I directed my fist to break the windshield. After a few mighty
blows it shattered and I swam to freedom. Okay, I lied. I didn’t swim. The river was so thick
with garbage I walked most of the way to shore.
When I got there, the old man in the Speedo was waiting for me, straddling his bike and
moving slowly back and forth. As he started to ask if I was okay, I projectile-vomited all over
him. Now that he was wearing something other than form-fitting spandex or whatever the devil
they make Speedos out of, he didn’t seem as intimidating as before. He seemed so small and
vulnerable. I began to regret my ill-advised attempt to commit vehicular manslaughter.
Suddenly, a Ford Excursion careened off the road and slammed into the old man. The driver
tried to hit the brakes, but it was no use. Car, driver, and Speedo-wearing cyclist all hit the
water and sunk into the river. Looking around and seeing no other spectators, I stuck my
hands into my pockets, pricking myself on the used hypodermic needles I hide in there in case
I ever get searched by the police, and walked off down the street whistling a happy tune.
Okay, it sounded more like a steamboat with emphysema, but you get the point (especially if
you try to search my pockets, asshole).
As I left the carnage and too-small garments behind me, I couldn’t help but feel like I’d
accomplished something. What that is I have no idea. I’m just glad I have car insurance.
Comments? Email me at Admin@SurlyTaco.com
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