To hell with that “Crazy Electronics Salesguy” crap. I don’t care if you’re New York’s Crazy Eddie or LA’s Crazy Gideon . I don’t care, because whoever you are, I guarantee that you’re not actually crazy, it’s all just an act to sell some crappy electronics! Oh yeah, I’ve figured you out. I got your number.
So, you crazy fakers, you can smash as many VCRs on your head as you want, I can smash three times, no TEN times more VCRs on my head than you can! Wait, VCRs? Yeah, I’m WAY nuttier than you! I’m so whacked out of my gourd that I’m still smashing VCRs on my head. You think you’re so crazy because you cut the price on an already overpriced vacuum? I can sell fifteen of your crappy HDTV sets for 99% off, go home at night, whip a neighbor real good, stick a ginger root up my ass, make love to my bathtub, fall asleep and walk back into work the following morning at 7:59 for a new shift of sales! That’s how messed up *I* am in the head.
You’re not so crazy, you stupid electronics sales guys.
From the perspective of my two cats, I am not unlike Kim Jong Il.
They understand that I am their incontestable president and national father. I am their tyrant, protector, rule-maker and chief source of anxiety, fear and comfort. I am their militaristic expert, number one celebrity, popular legend and mythological hero. I am imperious, larger than life and I exemplify perfection as the sole provider of their shelter, food and emotional contentment. They worship the ground upon which their supreme leader walks and they clamor to snooze where I have once been seated. They are blessed to receive any scraps that might fall by my feet. They are dependent upon me for their health and happiness, sing my praises and follow me blindly without dispute. For should they ever dare question me they surely imagine a grave penalty, a punishment that would reverberate through the empty streets of their idyllic facade of a country.
As they have never been permitted to leave their homeland, and as they haven’t spent too much time reading western imperialist newspapers, I allow these poor blessed creatures to continue to believe that I am all of these things, for it satisfies and amuses my megalomania as a pet owner.
However I’m sure that nobody dares to walk on Kim Jong Il’s head at night, claw his face or track cat litter into his bedsheets…
Everyone has fears. I know I do, and I’ve categorized them according to a triple tier system.
On the first tier, I have three main fears — three big, dominant fears.
1. Fear of getting dumped
2. Fear of getting fired
3. Fear of getting evicted
Those are my three core fears and they’re pretty good ones. Those are big, rational, life-changing fears. I don’t feel guilty at all.
Then I have a second tier of fears. These are lesser fears, but they are still rational fears, I think. Some of them though are a little embarrassing, but I could tell anyone about them and they’d probably understand, even if they weren’t afraid of the same things.
My third tier of fear involves all of the things that I am irrationally afraid of, and that I am genuinely embarrassed to admit to.
Getting bitten on the toe by a mysterious pelican while I’m swimming in the ocean.
Someone hearing me poop.
Being held-up by an armed gunman while I’m at a urinal.
Being accidentally seduced by a gay man.
Getting bitten on the anus by a mysterious pelican while I’m on the toilet.