PROFILES IN CONFUSION 20
Comics by Michael Lowell Teague
Best of Volume Five
I serve Satan. Not off the children’s menu but off the adult’s menu. Off the hoochie coochie menu. I wear thongs for Satan. Uncomfortably tight slacks for Satan. Slacks so tight I cannot sit down for Satan.
Why water from eyes? We have no water from eyes on my happy island. Popo know not why your eyes rain. Popo want to leave now. Popo and donkey want to return to happy island where only sky rain. Popo want to get on big metal bird whose wings do not go up and down and fly back to home. Must home go.
I spelled your name in walnuts in the backyard. It took all day. (I kept losing my place.) Sticks probably would have been better than walnuts to spell with. Easier to see in the tall grass. Dead leaves didn’t help, either. Maybe I should have raked them up before I started. I think I might have misspelled your name, too. So while looking for purposefully arranged walnuts, you might keep that in mind.
There’s a outlet that sells human skulls. Real human skulls you can buy legally. No roads lead to this place. No roads that you can find, anyway. It’s about being found and not finding. It’s about being sought and not seeking. This skull outlet will find you, and the harder you try to find it the more you will miss the whole point of a human skull outlet.
Found this thing of Lipitor pills behind a dumpster, and I’ve been taking them. Don’t know what they do. No buzz, but I do feel better. Yeah. I think they’ve helped. Down to my last two pills, though. Medicine is good. I’m good at swallowing things without water. Found some huge antibiotics, once. Swallowed them without water.
If I had a girlfriend, I would treat her right. I would make a roomy box for her. A big refrigerator box lined with clean newspapers. I would give her plenty of fish oil. Fish oil is good for omega threes. Girlfriends need omega threes, too
We need to confer with Trash Compactor Man. He’ll have some answers. If we take this on ourselves, it could get messy. This is above our pay rate. Go get Velveeta Avenger (West Coast), Young-Breasted Girl, and the others. Tell them we’ll meet back at our secret headquarters.
If you drive a golf cart, and only drive on grass or on the shoulder of the road, then you don’t need a driver’s license or car insurance. God’s honest truth. There’s nowhere you need to get to that can’t be got to by driving over grass. The only thing you have to watch for are serial killers. Serial killers are everywhere on the road driving those big semis with heavily tinted windows. See them all the time in movies—but only from the knees down wearing cowboy boots. These characters are always at truck stops. A golf cart offers you little protection from serial killers in semis, but if you drive cross-country, and avoid truck stops, then you can safely get to where you need to go.
This knife says, “I don’t love you, anymore.” This knife says, “We’re through.” This knife says, “Go find somebody else’s life to screw up.” This knife is very gabby today.
That was no omelet, sir. That was to be the beardless youth, the little tag-along who would have looked up to his older brother, and always pestered him about wanting to throw around a football after church on Sundays. That, sir, was no omelet.
I invented the remote controlled can opener, but I can’t decide on what color it should be. I invented it ten years ago, in my sleep, but I’ve never been able to decide on a color. I’ve narrowed the choices down to teal and puce. Chartreuse was in the running for a while, but it was just too sassy. Chartreuse could never just do something because you asked it to do it. Always sassing back. Had to cut it loose. Had to vote chartreuse off the island. No hard feelings, just wasn’t going to work as a color. Down to teal and puce now. Feel good about teal and puce.
I know people there. Bumping into me is the best thing that could have happened to you today. Just say you’re friends with Sandra Phlegm and doors will open. Drop my name at the desk, and the seas will part.
Becky the Chicken—that was my slave name. I go by Melissa now. Melissa the Chicken doesn’t have all those negative cultural connotations. Melissa is a real chicken name—not Becky. Becky is something a kid would make up. A kid who would keep a string tied around a chicken’s leg so she couldn’t run away. A string that would keep a chicken in her place. Keep her earning sixty-five cents to every rooster’s dollar.
I expressly told you not to bury me in stripes!
Copyright © 2010 Michael Teague. All rights reserved.