Lucky You

“Lucky you.” What an understatement. That’s the cologne I was wearing today, and how right it was. I had just discovered that I had won the lottery, I had ran three red lights without being pulled over once, and my aunt had just gone blind. If you think I’m sick for feeling lucky about the last one, then you obviously don’t know my aunt. As I weigh the pros and cons of going into detail about my aunt, let me tell you a little about my self. I’m 6-foot-two, I am the master of two dogs (or they’re the master of me, one of the two), and I can fly. Not really, but wouldn’t that be sweet? I think so, yes. I work two jobs, one at the Circle K down the street, and the other a waiter at a small, out of the way restaurant-bar. It’s like Chili’s, but take away the fun family atmosphere, and while you’re at it, take away the idea of good-tasting food. We do have a pool table in the back, and two 20-something year old video game systems, both of which I am proud to own the top score on. Centipede and Pong, what happened to the oldies? Nowadays, there are only about three original games, all of which have ten to twenty sequels and prequels, and all of which seem eerily the same, save a new weapon to use, or a new car to drive. Maybe I should go back to college and get my degree in some technology based area, then I could hit it easy by selling the same game with a different title to millions of unsuspecting children, and in return make millions of their parents hard earned cash. But I’m getting ahead of myself; didn’t I just win the lottery? And more importantly, wasn’t I going to tell you about my aunt? After all, this story is supposed to be about her. Or at least, to an extent. After all, the narrator has to get some credit in this, right?

My aunt grew up just south of here, down in Yuma to be precise. She was to turn 46 next May, the youngest of my four aunts and uncles. She had been a lawyer until a bout of depression hit her about 7 years ago after she was unjustly charged with malpractice. After this incident, she decided to call it quits and be a stay-at-home mom with her daughter. I hadn’t seen my aunt for years until today. As is customary for all lotto winners, every supposed member of my family tree, whether true or not, had either called me or come to my front door, asking for a piece of the pie. As I tried to explain to a supposed third-uncle-twice-removed that I did not, in fact, get to keep all of the money and that there was a small detail called federal taxes, I got a call from my aunt. Needless to say, at this point in time, I was grateful for any excuse to leave that man. I wonder if he realized that he had referred to himself by at least a dozen different names.

My aunt was in trouble. She had unknowingly testified on tape that she had shot and killed the neighbors’ dog with a pellet gun. Her phone line was tapped by federal agents, and had been for about a year without her knowledge. I was to believe that the government had bugged her because she was one of many suspects being looked into for acts of terrorism. In other words, because they could, they had bugged her because her last name must have seemed even remotely suspicious, and her skin was just a tad darker than was acceptable. That damn Arizona sun, how dare it give people tans. I guess I can thank the Patriot Act for this. As I deciphered what my aunt was really trying to tell me (most of it was legal jargon that really served me no purpose, as I understand one word out of every ten), I finally realized that she was just another relative in need of some cash flow. That is, cash flowing from my pocket to theirs. As you may remember, my aunt had recently gone blind. Now, this incident occurred well before her “blindness,” which, as it turns out, only really means that she has to wear glasses (that wimp), but she was trying to play it off as that was the moment she knew she couldn’t see well. I guess she was trying to cover up the fact that she was illegally firing a pellet gun at her neighbors’ house and just happened to nail something, which, unfortunetly happened to be living at the time. As I thought her argument through, I decided two things: one, that she was a crazy lady who I would pay never to see again, and if that meant paying her way through court, then so be it, and two, that I really needed to change my phone number.

My aunt had always been a crazy lady, even from the stories my mother had told me. Evidently, she had a history of being in the center of odd happenings. Once, she swore on her neighbors’ dead dog (this was ten years ago, not recently…oh, the irony) that aliens had abducted her and that they had implanted some sort of mind controlling device into her. According to her, they had done it twice just to be sure they could control her. As if there was much to control. I’ve often stared at the sky, wondering why they had to bring her back. But that’s beside the point. She often used her implants to attempt to sway someone to agree with her. To be honest, I can’t remember a time when she didn’t use her implants as an excuse to think she could do whatever she wanted; I guess she was under the impression that just because she had implants meant she could get away with anything. When she was charged with malpractice, she claimed that the aliens forced her to purposely lose the case because they were closely surveying her client, and needed him to be in an environment with only men. I’ll stop there and leave the rest to the imagination. After she became a stay at home mom, she became prone to bouts of depression, stemming, as she says, from her implants. Many x-rays have been taken of her, and nothing seems out of place, no pieces of metal where they shouldn’t be, no sinister looking alien pipe bomb, nothing. And now, after I finally had thought I had gotten rid of her for good, here she was on the phone, asking for my help.

I may never understand why she came to me instead of, oh, say, someone who cared, but she did nonetheless. I have one theory that I believe to be true; I was the only member of the family who hadn’t changed their phone number. I now understood why, and instead of basking in their wisdom, I was stuck with my aunt while everyone else could enjoy watching me suffer. I could go into detail, straining my memory for the actual conversation that took place, but it would be much simpler and save a lot of time to just paraphrase it.

“I need your money.”

“Go to hell.”

See? I wasn’t lying. It’s a shame she got to me, though. After saying no in every possible way I could think of, even switching languages on occasion, she still persisted. Although it may not appear at the moment that I have morals, I can assure you that I do. However much I may have loved to disown this woman from my life, I can never seem to get myself to hang up on a relative. It just wouldn’t be polite. And then when the family gatherings come around every once in a while, they always hold a grudge, and all you hear from them is “why should I? You hung up on me” and “I can’t believe you hung up on your grandmother like that!” from the others. It’s just too awkward, so I try my best to be polite and stay on the phone.

“You’re not getting any of my money, go to hell.”

She finally played the sad card and stared to cry. There are only two things that I can’t stand to see happening. The first is a grown woman crying. The second is an empty fridge.

Given the circumstances, I felt I was obliged to lend her some money. After all, so far she had the only seemingly worthwhile cause. I told her I would send her a couple bucks and she said “damn straight you will.” Oh, how I love my aunt. In retrospect, I really shouldn’t have thought that was the last I would hear of her. After all, I still had plenty of money that she could weasel out of me. Haha. I said weasel.

Some months passed, and I was just starting to feel safe when out of the blue she called me up requesting I travel down to Yuma to help her case. As a proud employee of Circle K, I can honestly say that I am not overqualified for the job, and that asking me to help in a legal battle that required, above all, knowledge, was incredibly dimwitted of my aunt. I guess my aunt knew what she was doing, however, when as I arrived the first thing I met wasn’t my aunt or any relative, but a medic asking to take me to his office to perform tests. It turns out I was there to prove that being a moron was hereditary, as she tried to prove that I suffered from “moron-ism” just as she did. I don’t believe she actually called it that, but it’s so much closer to the truth than her term. Incredibly offended as I was, it turns out she was right: I was, by birth, a moron, and she actually had a case. Well, whatever the case, I was still a moron with a hell of a lot of money. Lucky you, aunt, lucky you indeed.

My aunt had somehow found a loophole in the case, where I guess some of her information didn’t have to be entirely accurate. For example, she considered herself legally blind. Does that mean that she actually was? Of course not. One of her strongest arguments just happened to be my moronic state of mind, and how she couldn’t help some of the stuff she does because it just came naturally. In other words, she shot a dog and was blaming it on me, or so it seemed.

It turns out that after all of my money, she still hadn’t obtained the best lawyer possible. She had instead gone on a shopping spree so she could look good for her court case, and she was wearing surprisingly little for such a large spree. The lawyer obviously wasn’t on the same page as my aunt, as in one instance he called my aunt up to the witness stand. After staring at her for a few seconds, he snapped into place and reminded her that she was under oath. As one would imagine, she looked up and said, “I don’t see any oats.” He then proceeded to ruin any chance they had of winning this case. He asked her how many fingers she was holding up, she correctly answered 4. There goes the blind idea. Considering his options, he decided to give it one more shot. Obviously putting words into her mouth, he asked her, “Isn’t it true that you were still heavily medicated when this supposed shooting took place? And weren’t you under the impression that the dog was attacking you, which would give you the right to shoot it for fear of being bitten? And aren’t you allergic to dogs?” In a normal court, one would be sure to hear “your honor, leading the witness.” But in this case, the opposition knew who it was dealing with, and let it slide, knowing for sure that my aunt would blow it. Right they were, as, with a puzzled look, my aunt responded, “What are you talking about? You know I’m not on any medication! And that dog wouldn’t harm me even if it could get past that 8 foot high fence. What’s this about me being allergic to dogs? You know I’m not allergic to…oh, your honor, I was just kidding. I’m really on medication…” With a sigh, her lawyer sat down. The opponent had no further questions, and why would they? Not realizing the stand she sat in was equipped with a microphone, she quietly whined about them getting her hopes up with “all of this oatmeal talk.” It is my belief that it is this mistaken quote that led the judge to pity my aunt, and let her off the hook, for the most part. All she needed was a two thousand dollar bail posted, and a few hours of community service, along with agreeing to never pick up a gun again, and she was free. Oh, the sweet scent of revenge. Her and her implants were staying in that jail cell for as long as I could pretend not to have any money. Unfortunately, that only lasted for a few hours, but those hours were the quietest I had had in recent memory. In the end, I helped her out; put that under the list of “how I really do have morals,” please.

Not to break off on a tangent or anything, but I think now would be as good a time as any to speak highly of myself. Let’s start with this list: “how I really do have morals,” if you will. Once when I was sixteen and just learning to drive, I had the opportunity to nail a pigeon sun bathing in the middle of the street, but I didn’t. If you only knew how hard that was to do. When I was eighteen, I stole from the church charity pot. Ok, scratch that. I really meant to say that I borrowed money from the church charity pot, and had then given the borrowed money to the poor. The poor, of course, being me, myself, and I. What a coincidence, my three favorite people. At the age of twenty-one, I got so drunk that all that I remember from that night was waking up the next morning, and to be honest I don’t even remember a hangover I was so drunk. The year after that, I spent my long summer days in the mall, gluing quarters and pennies to the floor and laughing at people who foolishly tried to get twenty-five cents richer. I’m almost somewhat positive that I have other spurts of morality, but they refuse to come to my head at the moment. So I feel that it’s safe to say that I’m a pretty good guy, and definitely deserving of this lottery payout.

My aunt loved to fish. The previous statement is the exact reason why I deemed it necessary to relocate her. She argued, but after much debate, and a few thousand dollars changing hands, I finally convinced her to move to a place where she could fish. I was either thinking Minnesota or somewhere in Canada, preferably nearer to Quebec than Alaska. I almost considered leaving it up to her, but decided against it, as, after all, she was taking my money in doing this. I know what you’re thinking; you’re thinking, “I bet he sent her to Canada, that bastard.” If you were thinking this, then you were dead right. And I’ll ask you kindly not to call me a bastard again. If you weren’t thinking this, on the other hand, then…you get a cookie.

I have just realized that I never mentioned my aunt’s husband, or for you smart asses out there, my uncle. He, too, shall remain nameless, for fear of me spelling his name wrong, of course. Seeing that my aunt has been a stay at home mom, he took it upon himself to be the sole provider for three. There was no child; he rationally realized that his wife would be more prone to cost the price of two people than one. He tried the whole “working-two-jobs” thing but couldn’t master the concept of time management and often was required to be at both jobs at the same time. This overlapping forced him to have to pick one job and stick with it, and pray for the best. I constantly thank God that he chose the one that wasn’t being a…how to say, nightwalker, for plenty of reasons that shall remain unspoken. Instead, he decided to work full-time at Denny’s. And now you know why Denny’s has their reputation for horrible service.

For sentimental reasons, I prefer not to speak much about my uncle. For the most part, this is because of too many disturbing images I see in my head every time I mention him. For example: Yogi Bear having his picnic basket taken away, a cat in a ballerina outfit, and an empty grocery cart. Some things are just too horrible to think about.

My aunt’s flight was in a week, so all I had to do was find ways to stay busy so that I could avoid her. Is a little piece of mind too much to ask? Obviously it is, because she called at least twice a day asking me for, what else, money. As if I hadn’t already paid for her court case, her flight to Canada, her new home in Canada, and even her electric bill. Now she was asking me to spend even more money on some procedure that would rid her of, and I quote, “those alien vermin that stuck those there giant implants in of me.” Not too bright, if I do say so myself. And I do. So I will. Not too bright at all. The procedure was costly but if it was the least I could do to shut her up, I felt it was necessary. Unfortunately, the doctor performed the wrong operation on my aunt. In fact, he somehow managed to perform multiple operations on her in the same sitting. He started with taking out a kidney, then moved on to removing her tonsils, and finished with an autopsy. How he did that, I’ll never know, and would prefer never to find out. At least we now know she died for those three seconds because a knife cutting through her heart. What a thought, I never once would have guessed that stabbing a heart with scissors would render a person lifeless. Luckily, the doctor was a skilled stitcher…upper…. guy and stitched my aunt up like there was no tomorrow. He gave her a lollipop and we were on our way.

The irony of the situation was that after all of that, my aunt caught the flu from the doctor, who had forgotten to wear the proper medical attire. Turns out that you ARE required to wear clothing during a procedure, no matter how unconscious the patient is. And clothing includes gloves and those mask things that doctors cover their face with. Yes, hence the name masks. I heard it, too.

I woke up one night to heavy breathing over my bed. My aunt was staring down at me with eerily white eyes. In an almost supernatural voice, she asked, “Can I borrow some lettuce? I want a hamburger.” So, I blocked the questions of how she had gotten into my house, and more importantly, why she was eating a hamburger with lettuce, out of my head, and helped her to some mayonnaise as well. As if she were floating, she left my house in a strange trance. This was only the beginning of the strange occurrences involving my aunt.

Every morning at 4:00 AM I would wake up to the same heavy breathing and strange moonlit eyes. Each night, however, one thing was always different: it was always a different condiment that she was in need of. It was almost as if, dare I say it? As if aliens were in possession of her body, and…. EATING HAMBURGERS. What has this world come to? I’ve heard of body snatchers but this was ridiculous. I had my money set on my aunt just trying to get even more free stuff from me. In fact, I set my alarm for 3:45 AM one night and woke up to her disturbingly using my shower.

I often asked her why she craved hamburgers so early in the morning, but all I ever got was a blank stare, and a “must have been the aliens, those bastards, no wonder I’m not losing any weight.” My response was always the same: You can’t lose weight if you sit eating all day. Its something called exercise, and she should try it. Not that I’m calling her fat. I’m just calling her weight-challenged. And I think the weight was winning. Again, this is only coming from my frustration for her weaseling my money away from me. I’m sure if I had seen her without my money, she would look much more attractive. In a non-sexual way, of course. That’s just disgusting. And only legal in Alabama.

I often reflect on my childhood while I brush my teeth in the morning, and the one thing that always comes to my mind is how my school teachers always told me that I wasn’t good for anything, and that I would eventually become a failure at life. How right they were. I couldn’t even spend my own hard won money; someone else was for me. And she wasn’t even spending it on me! In fact, if I remember correctly, and chances are I don’t, she had spent about half of my money up until this point, most of it on irrelevant stuff, all of which was too pointless to waste space in my brain so I don’t recall any of it. That seems to be my life story, now that I think about it. And trust me, thinking hurts. A lot. I believe this is why I don’t remember anything important, like multiplication rules, or paralegal’s phone numbers; not that I find it irrelevant, but I just don’t have the brain capacity. My brain, she is too small. Or that funny looking doctor was right, and I really am a duck.

The day before my aunt was to leave for Canada, she was abducted for the first time. Not to state it bluntly, or anything. But yes, one second she was eating her pork rinds, watching Friends (she wholeheartedly believed she and Joey were soul mates), and the next she was gone. We found her in the top bunk of a barn just outside of town, wearing nothing but the farmers’ overalls. I guess the aliens must have abducted the farmer too; that seems like the only reasonable explanation. Her account of what happened on this mother ship went into incredible detail, from how it remarkably resembled one of those “flying things that fly through the air” to how realistic the “fake” toilets were. When asked what the aliens looked like, she pointed at me. Sweating profusely, I attempted to convince her that I was not an alien. I finished packing her bags, but she refused to go. That was the last thing I wanted, so I calmly drugged her with chloroform and finished packing.

The next morning had finally come, and all I could think was that in a few of the longest hours of my life, I would be free from my aunt for good. The hours took, well, hours, but I won’t bore you with the grisly details, just know that I made it out alive, and she barely did too. I took her to her assigned terminal, and bid her farewell, trying my best to keep my smile hidden until she had boarded. I then ran as if her aliens were after me, and I’m almost positive I made it to my car in under a minute. Give or take. Before anything could ruin my day, I turned my cell phone off to ensure no phone calls from my aunt. But what was there to do with half of my money left?

If only I could have foreseen what was to come once my aunt had left: it was now my turn to be abducted, almost as if it were some family circus, and once they were through with one member, they moved on to the next. The first thing I noticed about these foreigners was that they appeared to be quite…yes; I do believe they were homosexual… and that they all had big…. feet. As they showed me around their ship, I couldn’t help wondering why they made it an exact replica of an airplane, right down to the lack of soap in the bathroom stall. They then apologized, and I felt a sharp jab straight into my chest. Oh dear god, I was about to get my own pair of implants.

After the mysterious operation, I couldn’t help but look at myself in the mirror and think “hot damn, I look good.” I even had a sort of ego-inflation., one of those, “So this is what famous people must feel like” type of epiphanies. I was told the implants would help keep me visible from the mother ship, as they were equipped with sight and sound features. As my mind became clearer, I noticed that Queen’s “Bring Back That Leroy Brown” was blaring over the intercom. As I glanced over to my left, I found foggy looking creatures doing a jig to the oldie. And not just any jig, a full blown, Irish jig, all dancing in a line and everything. It was reminiscent of a mix of Stomp and Lord of the Dance. Eerily entertaining.

After they finished and provided me with an encore that reminded me of the stage production of Lion King, they took me home. I have got to say, those alien dudes were alright. I even felt vaguely smarter. Almost like I could use a big-boy word, like “esophagus” or something.

I awoke the next morning to a strange newspaper headline, one that would scar me for the rest of my life: “Man awakes to find self dead in refrigerator.” It is because of this that I now refuse to sleep in my fridge, no matter how hot it is outside.

Despite this startling headline, I had an eerie sense that something happened the night before that most likely shouldn’t have. Call it paranoia, call it anorexia, I couldn’t figure it out. It was three months later, while watching “The Price is Right,” that it came to me. I yelled “forty-two dollars!” for a crochet set, and it hit me: my aunt had something to do with this. Dare I call her? After spending so much time and effort, more importantly, so much money, would I dare call her? My heart said no, but my bladder said yes. Luckily, I didn’t have to debate much longer, as my aunt called me.

“Your uncle needs to borrow a couple grand; he needs to get his hair removed.”

This prompted me to ask what hair she meant, seeing as my uncle had been bald ever since Michael Jordan hit the game winner over Cleveland; not because he was a Cavalier’s fan, but because he had a chicken sandwich riding on Cleveland, and my uncle is not a man to take losing lightly. Especially when he loses a sandwich.

“If you’ve seen his back, then you wouldn’t have asked such a stupid question.”

…Shudder.

I figured since I had her on the line, I may as well ask her what the implants DID exactly. She asked me what implants I was talking about.

“The ones I made up to get you to give me all that money? Oh, honey, I thought you knew I was a liar.”

Well, that might not be EXACTLY what she said, but that’s the gist of it. And now, ladies and gentlemen, you have your explanation as to why I feel so much hatred towards my aunt. And her damn dog, too. Not really, I love her dog. It’s so cute. And fat.

Nonetheless, I was still fixed with my awkward dilemma. What do I do about these aliens, if and when (and trust me, they do) they come back? What would they do with this transplant? Seeing as I had no idea what I was talking about, I decided to do the only thing I knew how: I would run about and down the street naked yelling “THE CABLES GONE AGAIN” until someone would come give me a piece of pie. Just kidding. I’ve only done that once. Really.

My plan: wait it out. Kind of like Preparation H, but with more time to spare. I would sit on my couch, eat corn flakes, and wait for the aliens to contact me. Either that or die trying. To be honest, neither sounded too great. I’d prefer to live nearly as much as I’d prefer never to lose my shoes. And trust me; I’m a man who likes his shoes.

Lucky for me, I was contacted shortly after the “I Love Lucy” marathon, which spanned 8 and a half, commercial free hours. It’s almost as if…dare I say it?...they were watching it too, because I received a phone call immediately after the finale.

It said, and I do not lie: “Attention. Do not blow your nose for the next 42 seconds. Thank you, please hold.” This was followed by an opera singer hitting the high E for 42 seconds. She actually went flat for 3 of those seconds, but who am I to judge?

When the phone connected to what I assumed could be none other than Fonzi, or the mother ship, I suppose, I was immediately redirected to “someone who could further satisfy my questions.” Whatever the crap that meant. I’m nearly positive this is where I contemplated playing myself pong. Luckily, I was saved by a “service representative named Steve” who enquired why I had called them. What? Last I checked, they had called me. And why is an alien named Steve? Why not Bloooga or something funny with tongue clicks? Sadly, this is what I actually said, not what I was thinking. I was actually thinking “I wish I could play pong right now.” I really should think before I talk. Steve got mad and threatened to send me to time out if I didn’t pay attention and be a good boy. I wanted to be a good boy, so I listened. He told me I was scheduled to be uploaded ( did I hear that right? I’m still not sure) to the mother ship in 0200 hours. Why aliens use military time, I’ll never know. All I knew is that I had to get packed, and fast.

So many choices, I’ll never know how I packed in time. I took the first duffle bag I could find and stuffed three pillows and a towel into it, you know, just in case. Then with the left over room I carefully laid in my beloved shoe shiner, two china dolls, and my checkbook. It just felt like that was what was needed, and all I know is that I still regret not bringing my juicer. It took me awhile, but after Saturn I started to crave orange juice, and nothing the aliens could come up with would suffice.

When I was first beamed up, I was greeted by a familiar face; I think it was the one who reminded me of Simba in The Lion King. I guess he was king of more than just a lot of animated lions. Good for him. It couldn’t have hurt him to take a shower now and again, though.

His face bothered me. It wasn’t that it reminded me of a lion getting ready to eat its prey. It was that I had seen that look somewhere before, I just couldn’t place it. But now is when the pillows came in handy. You see, these aliens had a strange anatomy. Their chairs looked more like the roof of a cave than that of an Earth chair. Three pillows and a towel worked just fine. For dinner, they served me guacamole and cucumbers. This is where the shoe shiner came in handy. I threw it at the cook and nailed him square between the eyes. That’ll teach him to mix guacamole with cucumbers. The two china dolls, you ask (and I think it’s clear by now that even if you didn’t ask, you’re going to find out anyway)? Well, let’s just say it gets lonely up in the cold depths of space.

So this brings us to my hypothetical question. Would it still be correct to say “up there” when referring to space while one was, in fact, in space? Wouldn’t it be more correct to say something along the lines of “outside” or “that big freakishly black thing that will eat you alive”? Just food for thought.

After dinner was over, I was led into the small room I had been to only once earlier, the room that was extremely reminiscent of an airplane cabin. We walked to what should have been the cockpit, only to discover not a disco lounge in its place. It was here, I discovered, that the important business would be carried out. They cut straight to the business.

“We need to borrow some money.”

Damn. It. Damn it all to hell. I knew that’s where I had seen that face before. I had seen it sneering from my aunts face at all angles, and I had hoped to never see it again. They wanted money. How could I be so stupid? But the better question was: what was the exchange rate of earth dollars for them? To be a millionaire on Earth was to be what on Jupiter? Nice future SAT question. The answer, by the way, is C.

Either way, some group of aliens now requested a large sum of my money. I can only imagine where they found out I even had so much money. Of course: my aunt. Her next house will be square in Hell.

But more importantly, how much did these aliens want? I carefully asked the question.

“Three hundred million space dollars.” I only say space dollars because I’m not quick enough to think of something witty to name space dollars. Nonetheless: Holy crap. That is a bucket load of money that they were asking. Hesitantly, I asked the current exchange rate.

“One earth dollar to every one hundred million space dollars.” Holy Space Ghost, I wasn’t just rich, I was universally rich. I gladly wrote them I check for three dollars, and relaxed for the first time in twenty minutes. I’m happy to say that I finally spent some of my money for my own pleasure after that. I watched kangaroos box on some star outside of Uranus. I saw what the creators of Star Trek could only imagine a foreign battle ship would look like. I then proceeded to buy my first pair of space pants. Those five minutes were the happiest I’d almost never been.

You see, it appears that the space money exchange rate fluctuates even more grossly than that of Earth’s Italian currency. The exchange rate changes every 33 minutes, like clockwork. One minute I’m a millionaire, the next I’m as poor as a school teacher. Problem was, we had 4 minutes to cash the check before we risked a huge spike in the exchange. And with that, I say God bless the space donkey. I’ll leave that to you’re imagination.

While cashing the check, I also threw in ten dollars for myself. I now had seven hundred million space dollars to play with. Let’s just say, I now own not only Earth, but Saturn, Mercury, and half of the sun. It’s like my own parking garage.

Now that the aliens had what they needed from me and had let me have my fun, they returned me to my palace. Shack. Shut up.

Deciding it would be to drastic an event for me to unveil to the world that aliens do, in fact, exist, and that we are all millionaires in space, I flipped on the television and caught the end of the second “I Love Lucy” marathon. Life was good. And then she called.

“Darling, aunty needs another favor. It seems I’m not allowed to practice law here in Canada either….”

Phone: disconnected. Result: priceless.

I finally took the liberty of changing my phone number and setting the old one to a strip club’s answering machine. What a shock she’ll get the next time she tries to call me. At least they’re all rich at those clubs, too.

Realizing I had no energy left, I face planted onto my now-interstellar pillows and slept as though on Nyquil for the remainder of the night. Little did I know that my sweet, sweet dreams would soon be interrupted at 6 AM by the sound of my obnoxious cell phone ringing. The number wasn’t familiar, so I hesitated while I flipped it open. “Shalom.” Nothing. Any guesses on who it was? Any at all? No? None? Well you’re no fun.

My grandfather replied on the other line twenty seconds later. Smooth, gramps. Still can’t figure out how to use the phone. After explaining three times which end to speak into, and two times how to set the VCR timer, I was startled by his sudden and urgent request to borrow some money. Why else would a relative call me? It’s the norm nowadays. His seemed legitimate, though. Something about a heart murmur or something. I wasn’t really listening, my favorite song had come on the radio and I was singing to myself. I’m not a bad person; I just really liked that song. What song was it again? I don’t remember… must not have been that good.

After confirming that it was in fact money that he needed, not a donkey, I resolved to pay for half of his surgery now, and half later. You know, this way in case the surgery went bad, he would never know if I paid the second half. You have to think ahead in these situations.

His procedure was scheduled to be the next morning, which means that he was either completely positive his antics would work and I would give him the money, or he really did have a plan B involving a donkey. And knowing my grandpa, he had plans down to G. Once, in grade school (after walking fifteen miles through the snow), he was faced with a school bully. He invented nearly 20 plans on how to deal with this monster, the most noteworthy ones being to boomerang him to Mars, stick ex-lax in his milk and lock the bathrooms (my personal favorite), and to glue his shoes to a giant rock. Naturally, he went with plan J: Run. My grandfather was never good with confrontation; he would always choose to run if given any opportunity. And if he could run away with a donkey, you better believe he’d do it.

My grandfather was a simple man. He believed in God, himself, and an occasional polish sausage. I say this only because he believed himself to be none other than just that: a polish sausage. You see, he was neither senile nor retarded; merely delusional and crazy. He blamed it on ‘Nam, although it would have made for a better excuse had he ever been enlisted in the army. Even if he had ever been to Vietnam. But alas, he was just a poor crazy old man. An old man who believed himself to be the almighty sausage. And, on occasion, the president of the United States. But that’s a story that we won’t get in to.

Every Wednesday night, my grandfather would stay up late to listen to his daily dose of radio gossip. Little did he know he was actually listening to the Yankees game, and “Ruth” and “Aaron” were not lovers, but baseball gods. After the game was over, he would make himself a cabbage sandwich on rye and drink a gallon of whisky (he was 1/624 Irish, so he believed he had the divine right to drink himself silly at least once a week). As if following some methodical procedure, he would consequently pass out on the kitchen table, and awake the next afternoon with a mouthful of waffles and an ear full of syrup. Literally. This could possibly have something to do with why my grandfather was in need of a risky medical procedure. Maybe the doctors would drain him of all of the alcohol consumed over his lifetime. Or maybe they would stick a toaster in his chest on accident. That’d be cool.

Seeing as I was the lone donor (of cash) for this operation – no insurance company will ever be willing to risk this procedure (not even…Geico) – I was invited to be inside of the examining room while the procedure took place. I tried to casually laugh it off, but after hours of protest, it appeared I was more than just a special guest. Due to a payroll mishap, 50 percent of the doctors were on strike, while the other 50 percent were living luxuriously in their mansions. Because of this, I was needed as what is known as an “insert fancy medical doctor name here.” I honestly can’t even begin to remember the name after what I saw in there. It was a life scarring moment, and will forever be lodged in my brain. Or maybe that was the peanut I sucked up my nose when I saw them cut open my grandfathers chest with a pizza cutter. I was asked to hold the IV tube down due to a lack in supplies (most notably tape and…well, any medical tools). With my other hand, I was asked to microwave dinner. Forget how unsanitary this sounds for the moment and remember that there were no seats available, and my grandfather was not, I repeat NOT, unconscious or medicated at all. Looks like I paid for the coach seat, crappy meal and all. I had to admire him though, he seemed to be doing surprisingly well for a man watching his insides be cut up by a pizza cutter. At least it wasn’t a box cutter, who knows where those things have been. The rope holding his hands together was uncoiling and I knew it. Unfortunately, I had no hands (or feet, for they were busy controlling the room temperature via moving fan) free to stop this travesty.  I could not stop his nails gripping into my forearm, and I could not keep the IV sustained in his arm either. I was screwed twice over- and usually that’s a good thing. This had to be the worst operation since I tried to bring my dead goldfish back to life by using shock therapy. Only difference was this was costing me a fortune, where the fish ordeal only cost me 25 cents. I do miss Skippy, though.

Despite my horrific semi-details of the operation, it actually went surprisingly smooth. My grandfather lived, though in no part thanks to the doctors. Halfway through the experiment, my grandfather up and left. He pulled the IV out, put his pants back on, and walked straight out of the room and into the hospital. Smart man, the hospital would have made more sense than a hostel to me, too. Stupid phone book and it’s “I’m so smart because I’m alphabetical” attitude. To celebrate his new found wisdom, although I found no new wisdom present as he was now actually missing more of his brain than before, we went to an Irish pub. We toasted to everything from septic tanks to pelicans, and eventually drank ourselves straight into the ground. We both awoke the following morning overlooking the most beautiful sight I have ever seen. It would be a privilege to see this sight if not but once more in my life. The site was this: A completely and utterly packed refrigerator, full of not one, but two perfectly shaped hams, gallons of chocolate milk, and cheeses I had never imagined before. My initial thought was that I had died and gone to heaven, but it did not take long to realize that if there was a heaven on earth, this was it. Unfortunately, my bladder got the best of me, and I stumbled to the zoo’s bathroom. Zoo?

My grandfather and I had mistakenly traveled to the zoo in our drunken slumber, and had actually spent the night in a chimpanzee cage. The warden must have thought us to be monkeys, as he fed us as well. I’m taking that as a compliment. Despite our massive hangovers, we managed to sneak our way through the zoo and out back to the pub from the night before. This adventure became a routine for the next week, until, believe it or not, my grandfather turned into a seagull and flew away. Or maybe that was my drunken haze and my grandfather died. One of the two I’m sure is bound to hold some truth.

Hitching a ride back home was not nearly as hard as paying the elephant in peanuts. Although grateful, I still hold firm my belief that I was overcharged. That damn elephant took the longest route possible to get me home; I live five minutes from the zoo, but he managed to take an hour.

Now that I was home again, the first thing I did off of pure instinct was checking my phone for messages.

“You have fifty-one new messages.”

Looking at my caller ID, there were only three phone numbers that left those messages. I scanned the calls and picked up the one from my doctor. Ok, so my grandfather really did turn into a bird. Good for him, he deserved it. The other two phone calls were from my brother-in-law, who, to save time and effort, will henceforth be known as “that bastard,” and some salesman who actually had the nerve to leave me a voice message attempting to sell me a vacuum. That bastard left me 49 messages, 48 of which pleaded his case for my money, and the final one asking if I knew the phone number to his local pizza delivery station. Of course I did, but I would dare not tell him; it was my little way of getting some revenge. Ha! No pizza for him.

I allowed him five minutes of my personal time to “encourage” me to give him some money. Unlike my crazy aunt or my now-bird-grandfather, that bastard’s proposal was simple: he wanted to own his own coffee shop. The catch was, he lived in Seattle, and there was only one coffee shop there. And that coffee shop now spanned the globe, so he needed his shop to be able to compete. That little detail was left out until I agreed to hand over the money. To skip to the conclusion and lay it bluntly, have you ever heard of “Mark’s Incredibly Cool Tasting Coffee Shop”? I didn’t think so. And now you know why he is that bastard.

Now done with that short chapter in my life, I relaxed on my old bed and allowed myself to literally sink into it. Gasping for air, I managed to find a straw and lived breathing through it for the next two days until my pet canary died. It was then that I decided to stop playing the charade and get out of my bed. What a surprise, I had missed three phone calls.

I cautiously dialed the extension to my voicemail. Luckily, the first two messages were wrong numbers; one asking for a man named Shirley, and the second was a lost hiker trying to call for help. What a moron, if he had enough time to dial my 7 digit phone number, why was 911 so hard? People these days, no respect.

The third message was, unfortunately, for me- or more precisely, for my money. It was even addressed to it. The message didn’t start out with the normal “Sorry I missed you,” but rather” Money: I need you.” The voice was unfamiliar, so I assumed it was a “long lost cousin” seeking money again. I’d reached the point where I would pay them to stop bothering me. Maybe the word had gotten out. This voice sounded different, though. As if the money could actually hear him. But that’s blasphemy, money can’t hear you. It can only pleasure you.

The rest of the message was contagious enough to take notes on, and if I hadn’t spilled my root beer all over it, I would recite it for you. The basics were as follows: The mystery man needed the money, and it needed it now. It was some kind of emergency and only the money could save him. I laughed it off, and have regretted it ever since. Not because of what happened to my money, but because the laughter was what caused me to spill my beverage in the first place. I want it back, oh how I want my root beer back.

Casually walking away from the speaker box, I noticed something unusual in my giant heap of money (let me explain: the bank refused to let me continually borrow such exorbitant amounts of money, so I had two options- either leave it all in for a long time and reap the benefits of the interest rate in the future, or not leave any of it and take it in cold hard cash now, and enjoy it in the moment. Needless to say, I chose the latter, and it now sits in a heap in the corner of my kitchen). The money had clumped together, held tightly by mystery goo that I knew to be none other than my aunt’s secret ingredient for duck soup. Thinking this to be a strange event, I made myself a sandwich. After I finished eating it, I returned to the money. It appeared to be taking a more human shape, as only money can. It sprouted legs before my eyes, and stuck a carrot on its face to resemble a nose, I would assume. But I’ve been wrong before.

The money slowly stood up and, as if reading for the first time, slowly asked “may….I….use….your….phone?” Although my instinct told me to say no, I nodded unconsciously. Maybe it was the fact that my money had just turned in to a person, or that I now realized how tasty duck soup sounded right now. Either way, the money made its way towards the phone and dialed what I could safely assume was his mother. After all, isn’t that what YOU would do if you had just been created again by duck soup? I know I would.

The money had actually dialed the number of the mystery caller from my voice mail. It asked where to meet him, and wrote down the address on its arm. It then proceeded to walk out of my house. My money, my millions of dollars, had just walked out of my house. Jesus, could I do nothing right?

I followed the millions of dollars down the street and into 7-11, where it bought a hotdog and slushy. Unable to reach into its pockets to retrieve the money to pay for this, money man cut of his middle finger and handed it to the vendor, who unraveled it and thanked money man and begged it to come again.

We continued down the street, and it was then that I decided to catch up to money man and decode what was going on. I warily asked him if it knew that it had walked out of my house. He said yes (I assume it’s a he for…obvious reasons). He then told me the reason that he had been made out of goo. My winning the lottery all those months ago was not an accident. It had actually been rigged, set up, so that I would be the sole benefactor of the millions. Why? Because I was the only one stupid enough to not leave it in a bank. They somehow knew that was a classified moron. Damn aunt. Damn duck soup.

It turns out that the so-called “prize” money was not actually cash, and if it had ever been tested, would have failed the test and been called counterfeit. It was actually made out of metal, something I should have noticed a long time ago. It needed a liquid to form its body together, and my aunt’s stale duck soup was the closest “liquid” available. Its purpose was not to have me spend it all, but to protect its creator, who, by the sound of it, was now in trouble. One thing struck me odd, though. If he were in peril, why would he be able to answer his phone and have a conversation with my money?

As we turned the corner onto Marvin Gardens, I noticed something peculiar. There was no one running around on the streets, not a soul in sight. But then I opened my eyes and realized I was mistaken. We crossed the street and entered a brilliantly blue building that was surrounded by a giant moat. Odd. We swam across the moat and dried off as we entered the building. I looked up at the entrance way and noticed an eagle that appeared to be looking at us. Little did I know, but that would be the last time I ever glanced at the front of the building again. Because when you leave a building, you don’t really turn around and look at the front again. Not unless you’re bored or something, I guess.

The intoxicating smell as we entered the building brought back old memories, most which involved none other than duck soup. Ah, the good old days, back in college when I could eat duck soup all day and not have to worry about a thing until I realized that I had missed all my classes for the day. Good times, good times.

The smell was bad, yes. But what it came from was far worse. Metal money composed of duck soup will do that. Note to self.

We walked to the front desk, and the bellhop nearly fainted. After I cut the cheese in his face, he awoke with a start, and immediately took the cheese away from me and made me relinquish my knife. He led us through a long hallway surrounded on either side by pictures of pokemon. Don’t ask me how I knew, cuz, ya know, I never played it. Yeah. Anyway. At the end of the hall was a damp door that must have been at least two years old. Man, this guy needed to dust. We knocked three times, and the bellhop ran away like a little school girl does after being asked harmlessly if she would like a piece of candy. I took this as a good sign, and knocked again. In the middle of my knock, however, the door swung open and I nailed a midget on the head. My bad.

In the center of the room sat a bald man who must have been at least forty. Poor guy, bald already. No wonder he’s so lonely.

He asked us kindly to take a seat, and I kindly replied that there were no seats available. The three seats in front of him had stuffed bears with tea cups in front of them. Embarrassed, the lonely man tried to explain that he gets shy around guests, so he practices with these “clients.” Whatever floats your boat, doc.

He had the midget place the “action figures” back in their eerily elaborate dollhouse and again motioned for us to sit down. He advanced to ask us if we would like any beverage- he pronounced it “beaver-age”- or appetizer. After the duck soup machine ordered a Diet Coke, I declined. Oh, what the hell. I want some duck soup.

After waiting for a good two and a half minutes for our delicacies the bald man asked if we would like to watch the “telly” with him. Ignoring this strange change to a British accent, I slapped my hand on what I thought was the desk and, after groaning in pain after realizing it was my knee, demanded to know why we were brought here. The bald man sighed and said that he didn’t remember inviting me at all, and I was subsequently thrown out of the room. Luckily, I remembered to bring my trusty spoon with me, so I was able to stick it to the door and remember that I needed a glass cup, not a spoon. Seeing as I was without my semi-trusty glass cup, I followed the midget to the kitchen to retrieve a glass cup. I walked back to the door and placed the spoon on my head, then placed the cup against the door.

I was able to hear it clearly, and, after much confusion, realized that the other door was wide open, revealing a bald man and a duck soup money man. You win this round, doctor.

After placing my sun block on select locations, I walked triumphantly back into the room. Giving a bizarre look, the bald man continued with his story. Unfortunately, all I managed to hear was “And that is why I need your help.” If only I wasn’t so easily distracted by all the shiny things.

Upon leaving the bald man’s abode, I asked the money thing, who was now beginning to rot, what the plan was. First, we needed to get some tuna. Second, we were to then take half the can of tuna to Detroit, where we would feed it to a homeless man named Roberta. We would then fly to New Mexico with the other half, preserved in a bowl of frozen fried rice, and sell it on e-bay as the real can of tuna that Jesus used to slay the mighty dragon of Babylon. With the money gained from the dragons’ expense, we would rent a room at the closest motel and watch three hours of TV. If you’re asking yourself “what the BEEP does this have to do with anything?” or “What the BEEP is the point of this thing?” then you are as clueless as I. And if, by some chance, this all makes sense to you….then I am not worthy. Following the three hours of television watching, we were to fly to Paris and meet up with a Mexican man named Pueblo, who would then give us the next directions. Luckily, Pueblo was listed in the phone book, saving us countless hours and skipping straight from point A to point G. Pueblo told us that we were to buy the bald man a ham sandwich, or “jambon” as the French say, and place it upside down on a bed of strawberries. Upon eating this bed and its sandwich, the man would be one step closer to freedom. What he was not free from, I did not know. So I asked him. Turns out it was his mom.

To cut a horrifically long story short, we did what he asked and got plenty of confused looks along the way. The bald man ate the sandwich, gave the strawberries to his mother as a parting gift, and was on his way.

As he rode off into the sunset, I was left with nothing but a large taxi bill and a cold, moldy, duck soup infested lump of metal money. So I did what comes naturally to me. I ate another sandwich.

I decided I would try and deposit it in the bank, you know, for kicks. Regrettably, most people nowadays deposit their earnings by checks. When One is to walk into a bank with a giant sack full of money (I found the sack in the gutter, what luck!)  One might as well try and rob the bank, too, because it won’t be much longer until One is being interrogated by the chief of police. It turns out people are suspicious of large sums of cash being carried around carelessly. That’s right; they thought I was either a drug dealer, a hit man, or a cactus. Personally, I wouldn’t have minded if they mistook me for a cactus, but I was unlucky once again. The police asked where I had gotten the money. I replied honestly, that I had won it on the lottery. After doing an identity check, they confirmed that I was indeed who I said I was, which was both reassuring for them and for me. They then asked why the money was stuffed in an old sack and surrounded by what looked like duck soup. For this, I had no logical explanation, so I responded with “Why shouldn’t it be?” and that got them thinking. While they were still thinking a few minutes later, I regrettably let out a sneeze. Being courteous, the sack of money blessed me. I thanked it, and a few minutes later it dawned on one fat police man that the money shouldn’t have blessed me, and it in fact shouldn’t have talked at all. Quick one. They probed me further, curious as to why my money was blessing me. Searching through the back of my head for a good answer, the best I could find was “Because the Yankees lost.” I guess it was a good answer, because before I knew it they were smiling and patting me on the back with “damn right they did!” Sweet. The last question was brought into light only because, well, the money was brought into the light. A shimmer broke through a crack in the sack, and this forced an officer to actually examine the money with his hands. Wiping away the slime, he discovered that the money did not bend like normal money. In fact, it didn’t bend at all. Adding this up in his head, he finally announced that this wasn’t even money at all, but some sort of “metal…thing.” Good job, Sherlock.

I attempted to look just as surprised as the next policeman, but I was quickly investigated further into why my money was metal. I tried my Yankee’s quip again but they didn’t buy it this time. I needed a better excuse, and fast. Something told me a bribe was out of the question, so I answered with the same excuse I had used since I was a tiny lad. “He did it.”

I pointed squarely at the fat man, and they immediately cuffed me and read me my rights. Unfortunately, I really didn’t understand what they meant, so I spilled the entire story. After hours of interrogation, I was finally left to rot in my cell. It now occurred to me that I was glad I had paid my taxes the previous year, because DAMN those prisoners lived in style. They each had their personal television, air conditioning, everything that I would have bought if my money had been real.

My hearing was for the next morning, so I had some time to get acclimated to the prison process. I hid for the next four hours under my bed, and when it came time to get out, my roommate had returned. He told me I had nothing to worry about, that because I hadn’t been sentenced yet these guys were in the same position as me. Only difference was, they were too big to hide under their beds. Or so I needed to believe.

My hearing came an hour late, but by the time it was over I had been sentenced to four years in prison with a bail set at two million dollars. For some reason, they had formed enough incriminating evidence to put me away on fraud, conspiracy, and two counts of disorderly conduct. Where these charges came from, I may never know. All I do know is that if my money hadn’t reformed itself out of the water dispenser at the station and ripped its right arm off and used it as bail, I may still be in there.

As we walked out, hand in hand, giddy as two lions on a Sunday afternoon eating ice cream from a bowl half filled with tarter sauce, it occurred to me that I hadn’t changed clothes since this whole ordeal started. In fact, I still had some tuna in my pocket. And it was getting stale.

Luckily I happened to know just the way to get rid of stale tuna and its smell. We traveled to the far reaches of the behind of the nearest supermarket and warily cried out “free tuna.” Immediately, two hobos and a scrappy dog came from under cardboard boxes in search of the free fish. I took off the tuna can out of my pocket and divided it equally among the two hobos and let the dog lick the remnants of the can. Grateful as they were, they could not return the favor. They offered me their dog. Although morally wrong, I snatched at it. It was so cute, I couldn’t resist. After a reminding cough from my money, I realized the error in my way. I broke off moneyman’s nose and gave it to the hobo’s as a payment for the dog. Disgustingly, they handed it back and said “Even I won’t eat this.” I realized it was still in the shape of a nose, so I flatted the money out and they realized it was no nose, but rather 20 hundred dollar bills. They reached at the money and, after realizing myself that it was in fact 1900 dollars more than anticipated, grudgingly let go. At least some of it would go to some good.

As we were leaving the alley, I heard what can only be mistaken as a genie in a bottle. I say mistaken, because it really wasn’t. It was actually one of the hobo’s screaming voices. Thinking they were in peril, I started to run. Away. No way was I going to lose 2k and possibly more. Turns out they wanted to give me something else. It was the dog’s bowl. Oh yeah, I had a dog now. What should I name it? Him. Her? Only one way to find out. Him, definitely a him. I shall name him Burrito. The mighty Burrito.

Walking out of the alley once more, I heard a loud bark. It freaked the crap out of me and I almost took a swing until, once again, I remembered I had a dog. Burrito. Good name.  Anyway, young Burrito was hungry. Unfortunately for him, I had dropped his bowl in my horror. As I bent down to pick up the bowl, I noticed the corner of a piece of parchment sticking out of the cracks. I broke open the bowl and pulled out the old parchment. Unknowingly, I had just discovered a treasure map of some sort. I know, I know. Just when you thought it was over.

Before I start the tale of my journey to Boston and the heart of the nation, Kentucky, let me first enlighten you of my dog, Burrito. He was a blond dog, rising to my hip when on all fours, and to my chest when on two legs. He was either an Australian shepherd or a bull dog; I’m still not sure which. He answered to everything from Burrito to LALALALALALA. Or maybe it was just any noise loud enough to rouse his attention. This dog was lazy, and it was also no coincidence that this dog was the source of the treasure map. Who would suspect the dog of two hobos living behind a supermarket? Surely, not I. But unwittingly, I uncovered the map. Unfortunately, this story is not about the dog. So if I don’t mention him again for awhile, it is not because I have forgotten about him, but because of some other top secret reason that I cannot disclose.

Onto the map. This map was your ordinary, run of the mill treasure map. Except, of course, that it was written in crayon. Despite this, I still followed the directions to the fullest. Not only was there a harsh map of the United States, but also directions on where to go and what to do there. It was almost like I was to do a task at each place, as if doing a countrywide scavenger hunt. No worries, I would do it, and I would do it all right.

The first task was to fly to Boston, which, according to this map, was on the South West coast of the States. I was to fly there in under 6 hours, or I was to be punished by attending a Red Sox game and cheering for the opposing team. The clock would start when I boarded the plane. Up for the adventure, I went to the airport immediately and bought my first class ticket to Boston. I boarded the plane at the Phoenix Sky Harbor airport at approximately 7 pm. Following lift off, there was turbulence and the pilot announced we would have to fly around the impending storm in order to stay in the air. This would probably add about a half hour to the flight, making it a 6 hour flight. We landed in Boston’s Logan Airport with two minutes remaining on the clock. As I raced off, I glanced at the clock on the wall. It was now 4 AM. I had completely forgotten about the three hour time difference. But maybe the creator of the map had too! Nope. In parenthesis following the first task was, in bold letters, “It must be six hours from your original destinations time.” I took this to mean that I was three hours too late despite thinking I was two minutes early. Feeling defeated, I asked the nearest patron who the Red Sox would be playing that night. Praying for the Devil Rays, I got the Yankees. Now I was feeling defeated and dead. Yes, dead. Cheering for the Yankees at Fenway is worse than committing suicide. It’s treachery. It’s….well, it’s bad. Even worse is going on free egg night.

Per instructions, I was forced to cheer for every Yankee hit and every Boston miscue. I believe I finished the night getting egged more times than a murderer on death row would if walking to the electric chair while members of the paparazzi stood there with eggs. I got egged everywhere. Had I still been in Arizona, I could have made omelets for the entire stadium just by standing in the sun. I could have been a walking omelet. Although that sounds kind of cool, so disregard any anguish I may have exerted toward the thought. But at the moment, I was covered head to foot in egg yolk, and the game was nearing an end. Finally.

After I cleaned up- I had to shower three times to get the egg off of me- I looked at the next direction. I was to fly to “The heart and soul of America.” I had always assumed this to be Pennsylvania, so I flew there first. After discovering that Pennsylvania was only the liver, I went to Los Angeles. Turns out Los Angeles is only the foot. Or something like that, I don’t know Spanish. I flew to three more locations, and finally ended up in Louisiana. I’m not sure what that is, but it was there that I finally learned that the heart and soul of America is Kentucky. Who’d have guessed?

After asking for the colonel at every fast food joint and getting nothing but a small whimper from a young cook, I looked at the next direction. I was to give the dog to a hobo named Jerry, whom I would meet behind the nearest Jack in the Box. Assuming it would be magic for him to know where I was (turns out there’s only one Jack in all of Kentucky), I went without asking questions. Not that I would get any answers.

Jerry was there, of course, waiting. Something told me he lived there. Probably the sign saying “Jerry’s place.” Yes, it was definitely that. I handed him the dog, who I now realized required food. I bought him a taco, and as Burrito ate the taco I talked to Jerry. It’s a shame I don’t remember what Jerry said, he really was a genius.
The next task was for me to fly back home and buy an ostrich ranch. I did. Nothing exciting. I think moneyman caught a cold though, but it’s hard to tell when you’re made of duck soup.

My final task was to memorize every line in Rocky Horror Picture Show. Thinking this odd, I did it while questioning my mentor’s motives. The final note under this was to go to the midnight showing and to bring a microphone (the speaker would be supplied); I was to then go to the front, plug it in, and recite the movie for all to hear. For good measure, I was also required to dress up as a transvestite.

Under the final direction was something at one time, but over time the crayon had smeared and it was now unreadable. It wasn’t long before I discovered what it said.

I showed up at the showing as told, dressed as told (but you tell NO ONE, alright?), and plugged in my microphone. Tonight’s showing must have been a bad night, because there were only three people present. Two were making out in the back row, which turns out to be very awkward when you’re not even sure what sex they are, and the third’s eyes had just brightened up and was smiling at me. His smile was almost eerie, but also somehow comforting. But in a very disturbing way. It appeared that I was the one that he was looking for, and as he stood up to introduce himself, I noticed that the seat print didn’t move even after he stood up; he had apparently been waiting a long time for me. He introduced himself as Zygon, but his friends called him Steve. I called him Zygon. He told me that he had written that map years ago when all he had was a crayon and a piece of parchment. Still unsure of his motive, I asked why I had flown across the country and back to do pointless things. Laughing, he couldn’t believe that I had actually done all of that. It turns out the smear at the bottom once said “To avoid doing the above, meet me at the midnight showing of Rocky Horror Picture Show in Arizona.” Yes, that would have helped to know. Still hesitant, I asked why we were alone in this theater- the lovers had moved to a different movie. He told me that it was the only place where no one would look for him. Apparently, he had once booed the Red Sox at a Sox- Yankees game…

Comforting.

Hoping for a bright side to this, I asked if there was any reward, any treasure, anything at all that I would get for following his outrageous steps. He shook his head, then looked at me and changed his mind. I can’t help it if I was doing the “puppy dog face.” He told me that if I were to clear his name on the street, he would give me my reward. I figured this wouldn’t be too hard, so I accepted.

How wrong I was. The first person I went up to slapped me as soon as I said “Zygon.” The next ten did something of the same sort while throwing in some profanity here and there. It took awhile, but I finally convinced some people that he was under a spell and that, blah blah blah, it wasn’t his fault, blah blah blah, he had to do it. Whatever I said, it worked, so I went back to Zygon looking for my reward. He reached deep into his pocket and I feared the worst. He finally pulled his hand out and reached his fist out to me, motioning for me to open my palm. He then dropped a key chain in it. Figures.

After punching him enough to make me feel the least bit better, I left him for the transvestites and left to go back home. Ah, home. Would I even remember what home looked like? It hadn’t been that long since I had been there, and I’m sure by now my water and electricity had been turned off.

What a surprise it was to knock on my own door and have a man dressed in a suit answer it. I asked why he was in my house and he rolled his eyes, and told me I lived across the street. I noticed the light was on in the kitchen, so I threw a rock at the window to see if there was any movement inside. I saw a rat move but that was it. I opened my unlocked front door and saw a group of hippies sitting in a circle around some kind of bubbling pot, all chanting to a hippy song. Damn hippies.

I noticed that one of the hippies was the man who was in charge of shutting off my electricity, so I allowed them to stay under the assumption that as long as he was incapacitated, I was getting my electricity for free.

I went to my mailbox to see if I had missed anything important. It was busting out the front, much of it lying in piles surrounding the box. I roped it all together and pulled it inside. Just as my email goes, most of it was spam. Whether bills or ads, I didn’t want to read any of it. Any of it, that is, except for a select few. I was apparently the 1,000,000th customer at Best Buy and I had won a free big screen television if I would fill out a survey. There was a letter from my dog, a package from my great uncle, and my subscription to espn. My dog was doing fine, he was happy with his new hobo owner. He was still mad that I forgot to feed him, but he was willing to forgive me if I would get him a nose job. Took me awhile but I finally figured out two letters had been fused together by the onslaught of rain I missed. The nose job was actually for the hobo. Or maybe it was just the hobo’s letter altogether? I guess I had forgotten to feed him as well, and it would make more sense than a dog writing a letter. I mean, come on, let’s try and keep this story realistic.

I took precautions when opening my great uncles package. I still remember the time he sent me a jack in the box that popped out as soon as I opened the box. And the box of worms, what was that about? Anyway, I was ready this time. I opened the box and carefully looked inside. There was another smaller box inside, on it read “DO NOT OPEN UNTIL YOUR BIRTHDAY.” Knowing my birthday wasn’t for another month, I opened it anyway. Inside was a card that said, quite simply, “Now that you have opened it before you’re birthday, I hereby revoke your present.” Damn uncle, he anticipated I would open it prematurely. He also spent more money sending it than he did on the card. He must still be angry that I wouldn’t pay for his hip replacement when I first won the lotto. That’ll teach him to send a jack in the box to a teenager! I sent the box back to him with a bag of dog feces in it.

The hippies had gathered around my bed by now and had started chanting to Cher. To outsiders, it would appear that I was their new God. But to insiders….well, I really had no idea what this was about. I couldn’t even get off a question because as I opened my mouth a spoon full of honey was thrust in it. It must have been some weird hippy ritual, I thought. But what happened next was even more awkward. They began to lift my bed, but had too much weight lifting at the back and not enough at the front. This caused me to literally tumble out of bed, headfirst onto a large woman who had obviously not showered since the Eisenhower administration. Save the rain forest? Save the mammals, damnit; that was just nasty.

This barbaric excuse for a hippy cult was now gathered around me, staring down and muttering. I couldn’t quite hear what they were saying because of the donuts that had just been stuffed into my ears. They roped my arms together and tied a plastic boulder around my right ankle, apparently so they could talk the talk, yada yada.  They instructed me to follow them, and that if I didn’t I would be castrated. Afraid to lose my boys, I did as I was told.

I was pushed out my front door and into a conveniently located limousine: it was spiraled across my front lawn, you know, just so it wouldn’t be obvious of the kidnapping. The inside of the limo smelled of peaches, and was much more spacious than it appeared. Apparently these hippies traveled in style.

Sitting across from me was what I could only assume was their leader. His décor consisted of a tidied shirt, faded and torn jeans, and bathroom slippers. He sat like a dog would if it knew how to sit like a slumping child. He coughed in a desperate attempt to get my attention, so I glanced at him again (I had been enjoying the scenery). His face was blue and he was gasping for air. He was pumping his chest and pointing at his throat. What did he want already? First he had kidnapped me, using his hippy henchmen as bait, and now he was so desperate for attention that he was turning his face blue. I gave him a clap for the nice parlor trick, but he wasn’t getting anything else. Damn hippies, they need to learn to help themselves. After a few minutes he finally stopped grasping at the air in front of him, surrendering to the inevitable; he would not be getting a standing ovation. He seemed to stiffen up as I tried to jumpstart a conversation. He refused to answer any of my questions, and even refused to blink, let alone look at me. He seemed transfixed at some point just beyond the window behind me. I repeated my question, why was I here? but he still refused to answer. I finally gave him a slight pop in the arm to see if he was even listening. He slowly fell to his side, stiff as a board. Oh, crap.

I told the limo driver to get off the street, that it appeared my host had had too much to drink before our appointment. As he veered away from the honking traffic, I started to get desperate. How would I even begin to explain this? I knew I was the one who had been kidnapped, but what proof of that was there now? My only witness and testifier was dead, and the henchmen were probably too doped up to know what was going on anyway. Maybe I could do what they do in the movies, you know, get some thin string and through a fancy system that is too miraculous to have come up with that quickly, tie the string in some way that makes his arms lift with the pull of the end of the string. That seems a tad too complicated. Not to mention, by the time I had finished with this thought, we were parking our car near some nameless department store. The car came to a stop, and I came to a full out sprint. I was doing the one thing I knew would keep me out of trouble: I was running, and running fast. But where to?

         I didn’t know where, so I stopped at an ice cream parlor to collect my thoughts. I always think better when under the influence of sugar. Lots and lots of sugar. I’m shaking just thinking about the ice cream. Dipped in chocolate then sprinkled with sugar, it doesn’t get any better than that. Oh! Wait. Dip it in caramel too; now it’s perfect.

         I knew my sugar high would only last so long, so I had to think fast. You know what a good movie is? Batman. Man, that guy always had something to get him out of trouble. And that belt of his, holy crap. I had a cool belt once. I made it into a kite. Didn’t work out so well for either of us.

         I narrowed down my options to one of four places. Took me an hour and three extra scoops of ice cream to do it, but I managed nonetheless. Option A was to move to Russia, which seemed unlikely. But then again, after all I’d been through, anything seemed possible. Just not Russia, I’ll tell you that. Screw the next two options, I’ll just tell you I went with Option D. I decided that going back to my house would be the smartest thing to do. You see, from all of the movies I had seen, that was the one constant in all of them: Never go back to your house, that’s the first place they look. I know, I know: genius, right? Go back to the place that they already checked once, and I know what they’ll think: No one in their right mind would go back to their house. Well that’s exactly why it was the perfect place to go- I wasn’t in the right mind. In fact, my mind was so far wrong it wasn’t even funny. Well, maybe a little funny, but not much. You know, like when you see a hobo lying on the street and he has a puddle of yellow liquid coming out of his pants, and you know it’s just the beer he forgot to drink, but you can’t help but laugh anyway? And then when you laugh you start to pity the old drunken hobo, so it’s not really funny anymore, but it still kind of is, which is why you leave the scene snickering but also feeling as though you should leave him a dollar bill. Yeah, it’s kind of like that.

         Case in point, I headed to my house. It felt like forever since I’d last been there. Looking at my watch, I realized it had only been two hours. Boy, time sure does fly when you’re having fun.

         I knew the hippies would most likely still be there, so I crept around in a bush like they do on old cartoon shows. Lucky for me, most were still too stoned to notice anything strange about a walking bush. The main question now was, do I sneak back into my house undetected, or do I snatch one of their joints and join them? ‘Cuz damn they looked relaxed. Well, I decided to finally acknowledge that I paid attention in school and I decided to go with option A, sneaking in through the back window. I was too tired to push the dog out of my room (wait, what dog?) so I just slept on the ground. I would deal with who the kidnapper was in the morning.

         Let me tell you, you do not want to know what I dreamt about that night, so I’ll just fast forward this story a few hours. When I awoke, it wasn’t to an alarm clock or even a hippy. It was to a growling dog inches from my face. Startled, I growled back. It then licked my nose and curled up next to me. Weird.

         Out of the corner of my eye I saw a hippy try and sneak out unnoticed. Not on my watch, damn it. I yelled at him and he stopped in his tracks. I told him the cliché “take me to your leader” and he did. Only problem was, they all looked alike to him too, so he left me in the room of a hundred hobos. Or so it seemed. There was only fifteen, but still, they were in my living room, and that was NOT cool. I pulled out a five dollar bill and a bottle of whisky and held one in each hand. This would be my foolproof test to determine who the leader was. The one hobo who didn’t reach for the whisky would be my leader. I went around to each of them and laid out my hands and the first twelve all reached for the whisky. Well, all except for one. One reached for the whisky, took out a knife and demanded the five dollar bill and my watch. I gave him the money but refused to give him my watch until he finished the whisky. Needless to say, I saved my watch. The final three hobos all reached for the whisky too. Damn it. Looking closer, I noticed they all had name tags on. One hobo’s name tag read “I am the leader. Nice to meet you.” Damn it.

         I decided the best way to get rid of the hippies would be to bargain with their leader. Problem was, I just had to wait for their leader to sober up and realize who he was. So in the interest of saving space and not leading to a story that makes absolutely no sense and has no point whatsoever, I will simply say that eight hours and twelve beers later, he was sober enough to talk business.

I asked him what his demands were, expecting to hear either something regarding money or weed. Instead, he demanded an elephant and a tambourine. Maybe he wasn’t sober. I would have agreed on the spot, but damnit, I came to haggle. I don’t get to go to Nogales as often as I’d like, so I need to get the practice in somewhere. He wanted an elephant and a tambourine? I’ll offer him a donkey and a guitar. He countered with a desktop light and a walrus. I rejected this interesting offer, and countered with a tape worm and a miniature Buddha. His final demand was for my left shoe. I graciously accepted his offer.

By giving the leader my left shoe, I reclaimed my house and, more importantly, my dignity. I had finally outlasted the hippies. I was victorious at last. And I really had to pee.

After agreeing to free my bowels from purgatory, I slept for the next two days. And it was good. And I also just realized that I accidently left money man in Boston. Damnit.

Now that I have finally reached the end of my story (I know, I know...FINALLY), I will enlighten you as to what I did next:

I ate a sandwich. And it was good.