Never again, helmet. Never again!
âDo we need to-â He started up again, but luckily at that moment Gladstone had clambered up onto the horns of Satan and was doing his best Teen Wolf impression.
âLook at me! Give me all of your attention! Iâm the Teenage Wolfman!â It was not a very good impression. âIâm snowboarding on a station wagon like in that movie with Kirk Cameron!â
âGod you are so old! Everything about that was wrong and I hate you for it!â DOB screamed up at him, shoving the statue with all of his short-guy rage. The mooring lines gave way, and the whole thing came crashing to the floor - Gladstone piggy-backing the Caffeine Devil all the way down to Hell.
Red Devil Caffeine Pills: When you really need to just MURDER THE DAY AND FUCK THE CORPSE.
We finally arrived at the columnistâs table. It was an opulent spread bedecked in rare furs and set with crystal goblets. Some terribly bored and obviously well-paid skanks were sprinkled liberally about the booth in various states of repose, and in the center of this debauchery, on a black granite dais, sat Editor in Chief Jack OâBrien, his hand-carved wooden throne lined with seal fur. I went to shake his hand, but was roughly shoved aside and sat down.
âYou do not talk directly to Jack,â DOB hissed in my ear, âunless you want one of two things: a paycheck or a savage dick-beating.â
I spent a good deal contemplating the latter, wondering if it was an intense beating focused exclusively on the genitals, or an intense beating performed with a penis wielded somewhat like a chain flail. I decided not to risk either and stay quiet. An eager, well-kempt young man flopped down next to me, utterly beaming with earnestness.
âHey guys!â said Bucholz, grinning widely in his overalls and idly chewing on a piece of straw. âIsnât this exciting?! We might finally have a real story to tell about the Cracked writers getting together! Not just those fictional adventures!â
"Back home in Canada, we drink milk straight from the cow!"
âSh-sh-sh-shut up, Bucholz.â DOB snapped, somehow managing to stutter a âshâ sound. âNobody would believe anything that happened here, anyway. Weâve lied and embellished t-t-t-too often.â
âYeah, no youâre right,â continued Swaim, âthis does seem a little unbelievable. Itâs like another weak premise for one of those stupid stories.â
DOB began to shift uneasily.
âWhat if this isnât real?â he whispered conspiratorially. âWhat if... what if weâre
ââ¦youâre finally getting it, arenât you?â I smiled knowingly at DOB.
âGetting what?â All color drained out of his face.
âYouâre finally seeing the thin veil that separates reality from fantasyâ¦ and how easily torn it can be. Are you ready, Daniel? Are you ready to see how deep this rabbit hole goes?â
I held two hands out, palms up. On one rested a blue pill; the other, a red.
"What these? Nah, I always carry the reality bending pills on me. Why do you ask?"
âChoose one, Daniel. The blue pill will take you back to the reality youâve always known, and this will all become a distant memory. But the red pill? Take the red pill, and the veil will be lifted. You will see reality as it truly is.â
With trembling, hesitant fingers, DOB reached out and plucked the red pill from my hand.
âSwallow it and see the truth,â I told him.
âThatâs what I told your mom last night,â he whispered reverently, and downed the capsule. He wandered off in a near-religious trance, ready to see the light.
âWhat was the red pill?â Swaim asked me.
âAnd the blue pill wasâ¦â Swaim started.
âAnother Quaalude, yes,â I finished.
âSoâ¦ why do you have multi-colored âLudes in your pocket?â
âBecause itâs Tuesday, man. âLude day!â
âAnd the colors?â
âWell, itâs a party ainât it? Iâm just being festive. Taste the rainbow, guy!â
Quaaludes: Taste thr rsinboooooooooooow
âGood god,â Swaim swore. âIâm going to need 18 drinks if Iâm making it through a night sitting next to you. Whereâs that bar?â
Shit! I had nearly forgotten about them--the two holiest words in the English language: "Open" and "Bar." God, look at them together. Theyâre like poetry. Say them out loud; donât they sound beautiful? The lilting cadence of music plays in and out of their syllables. They are a minor incantation of joy, working real magic into the cynical science of this world whenever they are spoken truthfully. Open bar! Open bar! Openbar! Openbaropenbar!
I felt as if in a dream. My legs seemed disconnected as I floated over to that shimmering isle of spirits. I was here! I had finally reached it! My god, do you know what Iâm going to do to an open bar? Iâm going to make love to it so passionately it might be a war crime. They will write epic ballads about this night. Generations from now, they will sing of it in hushed voices around the campfire and the tale will be passed from father to son. This is oral history in the making! This is how legends are born!
âBourbon, please,â I told the barkeep. âThe best youâve go-
It is now, apparently, Wednesday. I am typing this from what I believe to be Mexico, in what I sincerely hope is not a shallow puddle of human blood. There is something in the bathroom, and I am hoping with the desperate fervor of a Pentecostal that it turns out to be a woman, but from the sound of it, I have doubts that it is even human.
Please, if youâre reading this, I need you to do three things for me: First, call a doctor and ask if youâre supposed to move if you think youâre missing a kidney. Second, call Cracked and ask somebody if Iâm fired. I mean, Iâm pretty sure Iâm fired, but itâs nice to have validation. Finally, while youâre on the phone with them (and assuming by some miracle that Iâm still employed) tell them Iâm calling in sick today.
You can pre-order Robert's book, Everything is Going to Kill Everybody: The Terrifyingly Real Ways the World Wants You Dead on Amazon, or find him on Twitter, Facebook and his own site, I Fight Robots, and if you do, can you bring saltines and a steak sandwich? Shitâs getting real over here.
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