red pills behind the sofa cushions, analepsis 16
In a retro-Buddhist show of opposition to “the social cons’ criminal War on Drugs,” the Sea Monkey king—already high on homemade Sangria, two Percocet tablets, and the handful of roaches he was able to sift out of a patio ashtray recently unearthed by a much-needed Colorado thaw—doused himself with lighter fluid and threatened self-immolation if I didn’t order him a large bucket of hot wings (extra spicy) and some beer-battered onion rings.
I called his bluff, citing tough love and the need to teach the presumptuous creature self reliance—but the truth is, I was two peyote buttons into a “My Three Sons” marathon on TV Land and didn’t much feel like having to track down the cordless phone, which I hadn’t seen since a couple of strung-out sugar beets decided to sweep the house for stealthy electronic surveillance devices. Besides, my legs were kinda tingly.
The saddest part to all this (well, aside from the second degree burns his majesty suffered to the trunk and thighs before he was able to hop screaming back into his tank) is that I really could have gone for some hot wings—and I probably would have, too, if instead of turning the whole production into some ersatz bit of southeast asian political theater, the self-absorbed salt-water elitist had simply looked up the number to the Wing Stop and fetched me my BlackBerry from the pocket of my sweats.
Because as it stands, it looks like I’m going to have to make do with Cajun spice-dusted trail mix, a half box of sesame garlic Crispini crackers, and a whining brine shrimp coated in anti-bacterial unguent. Which under ordinary circumstances is well and good, I suppose— but not once you’ve started craving kickass hotwings and delicious golden-brown beer-battered onion rings…