This cold rain is pissing me off like a teething baby raccoon going through my underwear. Why did I have to spill the raw essence of my soul just to buy a popsicle? Everything’s gone sideways. The neighbors don’t even bother pretending anymore. 

The old lady next door—God help her—hisses at me like the spirit of a elderly possum possesses her. Then, as if on cue, she flashes me. I think she’s trying to curse me. Or recruit me. Either way, it’s grotesque.

Oh, God. What a farce. The world has spun entirely off its axis. The last time I stayed up this late re-organizing my forks, I’d just crawled out of rehab with a hangover that could kill a gorilla. 

Now, here I am, in 1992, elbows-deep in expired orange juice, unable to tear my eyes from MTV. Why is Nirvana so socially acceptable? And why is Kurt Cobain and Dave Grohl staring through the screen like they know my uncle’s phone number?

Christ on a pogo stick. Someone should put me out of my misery. That loaded gun on the mantle? Don’t bother using it. Just polish it and leave it there as a cruel joke. 

I used to play Russian Roulette in night school because that’s what everyone did after their third beer and hot dog. Honestly, it was duller than a PBS pledge drive. Who gets a thrill from that? 

I’ll tell you who: naked mailmen who swig vodka from the bottle while stuffing your mailbox with coupons for hamburgers. They live for that kind of chaos.

Alright, I’ve said too much. I must go now. Tom Brokaw is on the other line, and he’s not happy. Last week, he let it slip that the president is a Martian sleeper agent, and honestly? I’m inclined to agree. 

Before I go, send my love to Diana and The Bacon Boys. They’re in dire straits. God knows they need all the goodwill they can muster.