I was the king of everything dusty and rank. They peeled me out of my soup can and dropped me off at the mall of death. I strode with the best of them. They called us Barbra Streisand. I never had time to learn why.
One day, me and some of the other Barbras impaled a hitchhiker to an oak door with an ice pick. The story didn’t get any airplay until the 11 o’clock news. The guy never saw a thing but he described us perfectly, “A pushy loud-mouthed chick who kept claiming I miss screamed her name.”
About 15 years later I wasn’t the big shot I used to be. I stopped at a convenience store and picked up one of those plastic looking, almost glowing food products. As I paid for my lunch I noticed an odd gleam in the eye of the guy at the register. By the time I was hacking down the the final chunk and fighting my gag reflex like a bulimic with short term memory loss, I realized the dude had slipped something in my ‘ham’ sandwich.
I was awakened by the smell of burning pancakes and the tickle of blood dripping down my legs, only to find myself stapled to the business end of a turkey baster.
It’s true what they say, “people who think they need a cheap-ass hoagy are the lunk-headedest people in the world.”