Sleeping Problems

I can't sleep. It's annoying. I keep trying at all times of the day. I figure since I can't do it in a bed, maybe it'll work in a chair, or in a line, or on someone's shoulder on the bus. No dice.

Falling asleep on someone's shoulder only works for so long. Then they have to get off at their stop, or they gently nudge you back awake. I pretend I don't notice the gentle nudging, which works at first, but eventually they get wise and start really nudging. Then I start really nudging back. No one believes I'm still asleep at that point. But if I admit I've been faking it, then it really gets uncomfortable, because they can address my actions.

Generally, when people address my actions, it's uncomfortable. "Sir, we require shoes and a shirt," they'll say, or, "He's the one! Get him officer!" Two examples. Two very common examples. Which reminds me - it's a bad idea to rob a store in your underwear. Makes it hard to hide the gun.

So here I am in jail. Good luck keeping me. One of the things they don't know about me is I'm an alien with superpowers. Like super-Power of Attorney. I'll have my home planet funnel me money for a rich-person lawyer. I've never been convicted. And it's my fault all that global warming's happening. So think of a crime bigger than that - I'll still get out of it.

I'm the guy that keeps throwing trash in the ocean. That's why there's that big vortex of it as big as Texas. I spend a lot of time throwing trash in there. Frankly, this jail time is cutting into my polluting time. I'm owed for that.

Heard of fracking? I makes it so you can can light water from your faucet on fire. I do that for fun.

I've been tried for all these things and always come out clean - so clean you never even hear of the trial in the first place.

You may think I'm a bad person for all that, but I do it all out of contempt, not love. So I am a bad person, in a lot of ways.

My goal is the total annihilation of the human species, or at least an admission that you're not as great as you thought. I'll settle for either one.

And it's hard to come up with good ideas for that when you can't sleep. I heard Ibuprofen works, so hopefully I'll be back at it soon, in full force.

Making Normal Small Talk

"Is Trudy the name of your wife, or your car?" I asked.
"Both."
"How?"
"I named my car after my wife, Trudy," he said.
"Oh, I see. I run into the same problem with my wife, Oldsmobile," I said. That was a lie. I was trying to fit in.

I was not making any friends at this YMCA. I try too hard. Every time I tried to strike up small talk I ended up telling a bald-faced lie like, "my wife's name is Oldsmobile." That one actually comes up a lot.

My wife's name is Chevrolet.

"You keep up with the Sox?"
"Sure do," I said. "I am a sock." That was the wrong thing to say. I was speaking to the coach of the Sox. Ricky Sox, I think his name was. Apparently it's a sports team.

When I try too hard I end up lying to impress people.

I tried to cover my tracks by showing up to the dugout for a few games, but my RBIs were average at best. I was worried they'd start to catch on.

I felt I stole too many bases too. I should've earned them, the honest way.

"Your wife's name is Oldsmobile?" asked Ricky Sox, incredulously, weeks later, after a game where I'd only hit one or two homers. I thought it was time to come clean.
"Alright," I said,"that was a lie." It felt good to be honest. Now we were off to the start of a great, honest friendship, I thought.
"Because I don't even believe you could ever have a wife," he continued. "And some really awful, maladjusted people have wives. John Wayne Gacy did, I think. That guy without a face, his wife still stuck with him. But you - no," he kept continuing, "You're worse than all of them."

"Thanks for the tip, friend," I said. That caught him by surprise.

If I hadn't had my hands around his neck, choking him, he probably would've responded. Probably with something like, "No problem, buddy." But with my hands around his neck choking him that hard he really couldn't say anything. I guess I'm not a Sox fan. And I'm not good at making friends at the YMCA.

So that's how I finally lost my YMCA membership.
"Geez, you don't have to file assault charges on me," I said to guy who runs it, Ricky YMCA.
"Stop saying that so much. That's practically your catchphrase," he countered.
"Sorry," I said while assaulting him. It's habit I'm into that's hard to break.
I gave him some free tickets to the next Sox games to show my gratitude for all he'd put up with from me and whole organization.

Since I couldn't go to the Y anymore, there was no point in me keeping up the charade with Ricky Sox. I lead the team up to the playoffs and then gave it up. I couldn't live a lie anymore.

More about my wife, Chevrolet, later.

Reuniting is Such Sweet Sorrow

Well, me and Maple-leaf met back up at the unemployment office. It was awkward at first, but I broke the awkwardness but standing somewhat near him and neither confirming nor denying his presence. I did a lot of looking at him and then looking away as he looked at me. Boy, I wonder what those people thought of me being so aloof with that horse. We were in a big line.

"Oh! that horse just farted," a beautiful woman said, holding her nose and retching.
"Nope, that was me," I countered. You gotta take the fall for your buddies sometimes. Plus it really was me. "Nice to meet you. My name's Ron, I think you're beautiful, and I'd like to take you on a date." I couldn't be sure what she was saying through the vomiting, but I'm pretty sure it was yes. No one could refuse a line like that. "Nice one, Ron," I thought in my mind. Then, in my mind, I gave myself a high five.

Usually, when I think something about a woman, I'm dead wrong. Sometimes I think they're men. Sometimes they are. Then, in those cases, it's not even an issue of me thinking something wrong about a woman, it's just a general lack of attention to detail. So that's a different issue.

But this time I was right. I gave myself a bunch of high fives in my mind for that. We had a date. The trick is, I just stayed with her in the ambulance after she passed out from the smell. I brought her food from the hospital cafeteria and told her about myself as she slowly regained consciousness. It was perfect. Ok, sure, I shouldn't have farted again. That maybe wasn't perfect. But no date is perfect.

A few medical shifts later, she came to.
"I've been keeping you hydrated," I said. Shows that I care.
"Thanks. I didn't know I could even drink water," she said. I hid the tube.
"I read on your chart that your name's Darla. Sounds like a corny country singer's name." Boy, I have to hand it to myself - I can really lay on the charm.

It wasn't long before security escorted me out, but those several hours before she could hit the panic button were magical. You can't win them all, but I consider this one a win. Just because it ended doesn't mean it was a waste. Also I don't care that she ended it as soon as she was lucid enough to realize who I was. The important thing is she loved me, probably. At least by accident in a coma dream, I bet. Anything can happen in those.

Maple-leaf was waiting for me outside. They wouldn't give a horse unemployment. (I tried to tell him that. Horses don't pay in to unemployment insurance while they're employed, so how could they receive it when they're not? Use your brain, horse.) We barked philosophically about injustice, the universe, and the tendency of chaos to create order, at least in the feeble mind of mortals. I farted again, but this time there was no long line around to suffer a "trampling catastrophe," as the press so unfairly called it. I would've called it a trampling inconvenience, leading to a date. But they never tell the little guy's side of the story.

Maple-leaf, My Horse, Come Back! I Love You! (In a Platonic Way)

I bet you're wondering what happened to my horse, Maple-leaf. Me too. He said he was going to meet me at the most abandoned, dilapidated spot in East Chicago. Good luck finding that. That's like finding crappiest crap in a pile of crap. Exactly like it. Maybe he had something specific in mind, but I'm lead to believe he ditched me on purpose. That hurts. That hurts a lot, Maple-leaf.

Now, I never did anything wrong to Maple-leaf. I mean, sure, I rode him. But isn't that what horses are for? I mean, I wouldn't care if people rode me. ... Wait. Maybe now I'm starting to see his point of view. I would care if people rode on my back. At least, if a big fatass like me did. Ever heard the term "Circus Fat"? Neither had I, till I was at the circus.

"He's fat, but I don't know - circus fat?" said an incredulous, straw-hat-wearing circus employee chewing on a toothpick. He name was Dwelvin.
"Damn right I'm circus fat! You sayin' I'm not?" I said. Why did I say that? I don't want to be circus fat. I just like to be defensive. "You think you're better than me? Fatter?" I continued, wishing I hadn't.
"That don't make sense."
"Hmmm, maybe he's circus dumb," his friend chimed in. Jelvis.
"Naw, I know circus flaws, and he's circus fat at best," said Dwelvin.
"I'm dumber and fatter than anybody you got," I said, thinking "Shut up, Ron."
"Awright," Dwelvin said, "you got one day to prove yourself."
"Pfff," I said, "Pfff. Gimme and hour." Now I was actually into this and pretty engaged. I'll admit that sometimes I'm pretty stupid. I said one more, "Pfff."

So they set me up one display. People paid a lot of money. Why? I don't know. People are stupid. Can't blame them. I am too.

Actually, that's a cop out answer. "People are stupid" is a stupid answer I hate. Only something as stupid as people would come up with it. The real reason is I was FAT. I mean, once-in-a-life-time, come-and-see-this-honey-before-his-heart-explodes, is-there-a-neck-under-there? fat. So that's not so stupid. You only get to live once. Might as well see someone really fat.

(I should back up and say that the reason I'd become circus fat was because I'd been traveling through Canada during syrup harvest season. I did it while riding with my horse, Maple-leaf. Remember him? He's the one I've been talking about. Drank a lot of syrup, and I mean a lot. It had a significant effect on Canada's gross exports.)

Dwelvin and Jelvis were impressed. They graciously took me on to their circus, offering me a state-of-the-art hole in the ground to sleep in, as long as I dug it every night, and the finest straw you can buy in bulk on the black market. They argued about it. Here's how it went:
"He can't sleep in a hole. That's inhumane," Dwelvin said.
"Oh yeah?" I said truculently, meaning I'd be willing to fight him to prove I could do something. I just like being defensive.
"Well, you could," Jelvis said, bewildered.
"Damn right," I said, "I could do it every night for as long as you employ me."
"Well, I don't think that's necessary."
"Watch me," I said, hard-assedly. Then I stared them down to prove my hard-assedness. But they didn't know what I was doing it for, so they just looked confused. So they looked at me, confused, and I looked at them, hard-assed, for a long time. Just stared and stared. I won, because it got dark. I did the same thing with the OSHA employee who came later to try get me out of the hole for my own good. Beat him!

Now, you'd think just touring as a freak, you know - being yourself, would be easy. Just be. That's all you have to do. Not so. First thing I did was change my name because I thought I should have a stage name. "The Iron Noodle" just confused people more than anything. What did it mean? Wait, are you the fat guy? There were lots of questions. I was clearly the fat guy.

But the second thing, my bigger problem, was that I couldn't stop losing weight. I was on a strict diet of horse-grade oats.
("He can't live on horse-grade oats, Dwelvin."
"Oh, can't I?" I butted in. I showed them.)
Those things clean you out, the horse-grade oats. I went from circus fat, to alarmingly fat, to pretty fat, back to circus fat again for some reason, but finally just to chubby. It didn't help that I jogged alongside the circus caravan all the time.
"Only the horses run alongside," they said.
"You saying the horses get something I don't get?"
"No, you get a car all to yourself to sit down in. Why did you choose to butt in on another conversation?"
"Pfff," I said. "Pafuhfffffffffffff."
I sure was challenging them a lot. It feels good to win. Feels good to be right and prove it. I stand up for my rights.

You know, I guess I could've stopped losing weight, now that I think about it. I mean, physically I could've. But this was a moral decision more than anything. All my decisions are. I mooned them and made fun of their white-trash heritage for a long time as I ran alongside the caravan.

While I was showing them what's what, running alongside the caravan and flirting with dehydration, I noticed something.
"Maple-leaf?" At first I thought it was a dehydration hallucination. I'd had them before. Last time I thought I saw a cactus trying assassinate Barack Obama. They gave me such guff for diving on Obama. Give the guff to the cactus! I'm a hero! Bureaucrats...

The point is, it was Maple-leaf! Reunited at last! He'd been on display as "The Only Horse We Have with Four Legs", which speaks to the poor quality of the other horses. Sure, some of them had wooden legs that made it look like four, but it's not the same. Real horse legs don't come from stolen construction site materials.

We chatted for a little while, then both agreed that we could probably do better than this circus. I have my background in vast knowledge of the universe and he's a pretty fast horse, so there are good job markets for both of us. Dwelvin and Jelvis gave us very fair severance packages, especially considering we'd both resigned. I told them to fuck off. Happy ending for everybody.

Oh, and Maple-leaf had ditched me on purpose.

Terrible News

Well, I solved the hair problem. I got laser removal over my whole body at once, with one big giant laser beam. And boy did it hurt. They gave me those tanning goggles to wear so as to protect my eyes, but I thought I looked like a boner with them on so I cast them aside.

"You're going to want to wear those, Mr. Jass," the nurse said. (I'd told her my name was Hue Jass. Hehehehe...) I told her to eat me, or something impolite like that. I don't know. It's not up to me to keep track of every impolite thing I say. That's unrealistic and I don't have nearly enough space to keep the records.

Anyway, she sighed and rolled her eyes and walked away. And later overcharged me. It's ok, I deserved it. I've been pretty cranky for a while and it was wrong of me to take it out on an innocent hair-removal assistant. I tried to apologize to her later, and she said it's ok and started telling me she's been having a rough time too. I thought we were having a moment so I went in for a kiss, and that's when she hit me with a black jack. I thought, "Really, a black jack? That was unexpected." But I didn't get a chance to voice that because her boyfriend, the hair-removal doctor, was pounding the crap out of my face when I woke up. I don't think he's a real doctor.

The point is, the size of this laser was huge. I mean, it got my whole body. I look like one of those people with Alopecia. You know, like a hairless freak. Also, I have no idea how to spell "Alopecia". I don't care. That's another way I'm insensitive towards people afflicted with Alopeesha. Which I look like I have now.

Naturally, my first thought was "Yes!" because now I have a huge advantage as a swimmer. That was after I had the thought about looking like a freak. I hadn't really been a swimmer before, but now that I was smooth as a dolphin that had been sanded down and waxed, I figured I'd have a leg up on somebody. Just one person, for christ's sake, give me one advantage on somebody. I was also reminded of how much I wished I was a dolphin. That made me sad. Then I remember how they often suffer horrible deaths at the hands of tuna fishermen. That cheered me up, because that's not happening to me right now. But then I got sad again, because hey, I have some empathy. Then I thought about using my wiener like a shark fin, so it'd be the only thing people saw coming for them as I back-stroked towards them in the ocean. And that cheered me up quite a bit. "Heeheeheehee," I thought. "Heeheeheehee."

"What's so funny, Mr. Jass?" asked that phoney hair-removal doctor. That cracked me up.
"Nothing. I was just thinking funny stuff. I wasn't laughing at your terrible, weak mustache or your high-pitched girl voice, if that's what you were thinking. Although, hahahaha, it's a very funny voice."
"Mr. Jass, I --"
"Bahahahahaha! Hoooo.... Hahahaha! Hehehe, hoo, ha... hoo... whew. Ha..."
"Are you done, Mr. Jass?"
"Ha! Stop! Hahahahaha! You're killing me!"
That went on for a quite a while. In fact, we didn't get any work done that day because by the time I was done it was 7pm and time for him to go home. I was his first appointment of the day. He had to cancel everything else.

A few appointments later we finally got the job done. The trick was, he knocked me out with a black jack. I asked if that's where his assistant got his. He said after my first appointment they got two, so that either of them could strike me with one at any time. I gotta say I respect his forethought.

If he'd left the room to go get a black jack, I probably would've gotten bored and wandered across the street to get pizza. I'd done it before. The only reason I don't do it now is because they said I can't come in with a hospital gown and no underwear on anymore. I told them, listen I'm a paying customer and I deserve the same respect as every one else. All they said was to "please cover my scrotum. This is a Chuck E. Cheese and blah blah blah..." They don't deserve my business anyway.

So, as you can imagine, the hair-removal "doctor" was none too fond of me by this point. I tried to patch things up with a Hallmark card, but I accidentally got him a funeral card. So it was weird when I winked after he read it. Only made things worse.

I should've worn those boner-looking goggles, because now I don't even have eyelashes. It looks like there are tiny mouths around my eyes. Now, I find this attractive, but it seems like ladyfolk don't. I know because I thought the assistant and I were having another moment when she handed me the bill, and she hit me with a black jack even harder that time. And I woke up to an even more brutal onslaught. I should probably sue or press charges or something, but I don't want to get the cops or courts involved because of the "Hue Jass" thing, which is called fraud. But it's damn funny. Way more so than hitting me with a black jack. I mean, come on, seriously? A black jack? You probably have to special order those from some 1920's weapons memorabilia catalogue or something. I don't know - an "obscure weapons that no one will believe you have" catalogue. Some kind of catalogue. Maybe online.

I need some eyelashes.

This is the Deal with why I Smell

I argued against having to come back here to Earth - fought tooth and nail. I beat the giant tooth but there's really nothing you can do once the giant nail gets the hammer on its side.

"Fine," I said. "But if you send me back to Earth, do NOT make me a human again. I never wanna see a human again. Unless I can eat it. Maybe that'd be ok. Make me something that eats humans - a cow. No! - a polar bear. They eat humans. 'Petey the Polar Bear', they'll call me. Cute name. 'Petey the Human-Eating Polar Bear'. I like it." And they agreed.

Except I think they only half-listened, or half-tried, or something. Maybe they did it on purpose. I was impatiently checking my watch a lot and I dragged mud into the Transformochine as they put me into it. The mud got transformed into sand. Also, at the time, I was in the habit of calling them assholes all the time.

Long story short, I came back as a half-human half-polar bear freak. (the long version involves a detailed explanation of particle physics, trans-terrestrial biology, and a kind of boring part about what I read in the waiting room. Time Magazine.) To call me ugly would be an understatement. To call me the most hideous abomination ever puked over would be an overstatement. But if I had to err on one side or the other, it'd definitely be on the abomination side. In fact, I'd err strongly on that side, because it's a pretty accurate description, really. Not an overstatement at all, now that I think about it.

When I say "puked over", it's because a lot of people puked over seeing me. Polar bears too.

The polar bear women would have none of me. I felt so rejected. Plus, being half-human in the Arctic is not very functional. I was cold. I became the laughingstock of the polar bear community. Pukingstock too. I only had one date, and I'm pretty sure she was just using me because I knew how to steal the fish out of the research station's cooler.

I told the guys back home how it was going, and they turned me totally human, which was cold - bitter, freezing, -40 degrees cold. I told them, and they made me into one of those freak wolf-man looking hair people. I explained that that's not what I want, and that I want to be a total polar bear, you assholes. Then they said they couldn't hear me, but I think they were only pretending because of the "assholes" remark. I'll show those assholes, I thought. They can hear my thoughts.

Did you know polar bears are the smelliest animals on the planet? It's true. They left that part. I'm still smelly.

They put me on Canada, the northern part. I had quite a time getting down south. I had to stop to buy Nair so many times. One guy shot me with a silver bullet, and he came in for the kill I said, "I'm not a werewolf, you asshole!" Then he shot me again. He had understood what I said, and even believed me, but I had called him an asshole. Some say I should stop doing that, and I respect where they're coming from. But then, hey, they are assholes, so screw 'em.

Eventually my smell knocked the guy out. When I say "eventually", I mean "quickly". There's a BIG upside to being repulsive. It disarms Canadian gun-owners. Works every time. American ones not so much. They've built up a tolerance to horrible stink through years of middle-American culture.

To give you some closure, I'll just say quickly that I pawned the silver bullets (both silver! yes!) after I tore them out of my torso, knocked a Mountee off his horse and then rode his horse to lake Michigan. I used the silver bullet money to buy oats for the both of us, and at this moment I'm sitting in an unsecured wi-fi hotspot using a laptop I also stole from the Mountee. The horse's name is Maple-leaf.

Great... (sarcastic "great" - not a real one.)

Well, shit. I'm back on Shit Planet, as I call Earth. I called it that in my official reports back home. They told me to stop. I said no. They said, "You will do as you're told."
"Like shit I will," I said.
"Stop saying 'shit'."
"No way. That's the only good thing I got from that planet. That word. And I stole some underwear off a guy while he was wearing them. Didn't take his pants off. But that was more about the experience than actually getting the underwear. Let me elaborate."
"Well you're going back," they interrupted sharply. I was just about to elaborate.
"Like shitting shit I am. Shit hell shit no."
"Now you're just doing it because you can."
"So shit what?"

They didn't like my attitude. I called them assholes, they got hurt, said that I'd only proved their point, and then I agreed that I could see what they were saying and promised not to ever call them assholes again. They were right. I was out of line.

Anyway, the assholes on my home planet saw the remake of The Day the Earth Stood Still and were like, "Hey, Ron, that movie's got a point. Go do that." That's when I started calling them assholes again. It only took about 5 seconds. And to be fair, I had to burp, otherwise I would've done it sooner.

So here I am.

Then they all agreed that it was nowhere near as good as the original and poorly acted - the remake, that is. Then, when I chimed in that no studio today would respect the intelligence of the audience enough to make something with the depth of the original, they really laid into me. I'm back on Shit Planet for a 5 year stint. I don't know what that equals in your Earth years. 5, I think. Here's my thing: What do they want to defend the studios for? It's the studio's fault the movie sucked!

Question - how the shit am I supposed to build a goddamned indestructible robot?