While driving down the highway yesterday, I saw a strange and disturbing sight. In the lane next to me the driver was brushing her teeth. “What the fuck?” says I (I literally did say this). As she could not hear me, I started gesticulating in the woman’s direction. As you might imagine, it took me a moment or two to get her attention. After all, she had some teeth to look after. When she did see me, the woman raised her eyebrows quizzically. Her toothbrush was still in her mouth, by the way.

I threw up my hands in the universal hand signal for WTF. The woman merely shook her head and looked agitated. In fairness, I wouldn’t like it if someone was interrupting me while I was performing my morning ablutions. Of course, if someone were interrupting me while I was brushing my teeth, they would have to be an intruder who had made their way into my bathroom. Then my toothbrush would need to become a lethal weapon. John Wick’s pencil. Muffet Orange’s Oral-B. Right to the Adam’s apple. Pow! Powpow!! Ablution interuppting, bastard. He’s dead now. Well, gurgling on the floor. Then I gargle some mouthwash and spit it on him, Josey Wales style. The hell with that fella. And I drag him out into the cornfield for the buzzards to eat.

Shading my eyes as I look skyward I yell, “Dinnertime!” Then I head back inside to floss and shower.

As you well know, the rogue practitioner of dental hygiene is not alone in her lack of driving focus. Daily, I see people flying down the road at 70 plus miles per hour with their heads down, transfixed by the all-important Instagram post in their lap. Did I mention I hate smart phones with a passion bordering on mania? Because I hate them. They represent everything that is wrong with our society. Entitlement, attention-seeking behavior, cheating, laziness, a hatred for reading, disinformation, misinformation, AI-takeovers and herpes. Actually, the one thing that smart phones combat is herpes. You can’t get herpes from a screen, no matter how hard you try. And you know damn well somebody has tried.

Luckily, we are only a few years away from having cars that drive themselves. Well, we already do, but the general public needs to be assimilated to the idea first. Once assimilation is complete, we will all be able to brush our teeth while in the car. Perhaps vehicles will have sinks in them for that very purpose. Think of the joy this driver-less world will bring. For one, you will be able to drink all you want and not worry about drunk driving. Glug glug glug. As long as you can negotiate the door to the vehicle and say “Car on. Drive home,” you will be good to go.

If you get hungry, “Reroute. Head to the the nearest McDonald’s.” McDonald’s will be happy to see you, unless you fall asleep in the drive-thru. Then again, if the car can drive you home, it can damn sure wake you up.

“We have arrived at McDonald’s,” says the car. “Beep beep beep,” goes the alarm.

“What?” you reply groggily. Drinking too much makes anyone tired. “Oh, yeah. Just order the same as last time.”

“As you wish,” says your car. It’s a Toyota. But the car speaks in the voice of an Australian woman. For reasons unbeknownst to you, that is how it came from the factory. You did try the voice of Charlton Heston for a while, but you sometimes felt like it was judging you.

“Maniac!” it said to warn you when you almost urinated on the seat. “Almost” being an euphemism for really did it in this instance.

“Can I take you order?”

“Two burgers, a large fries and a Diet Sprite (you are on a diet),” says the Australian woman. Toyota Dundee, let’s call her.

“Thanks, Toyota Dundee,” you say when the car passes you the food with its helpful drive-thru arm. What will they think of next?

You gobble down the food then wash it down with a nice, refreshing Diet Sprite. Subtly, your car begins to vibrate your seat, like a mother comforting her newborn. You drift peacefully off to sleep, mustard and ketchup smeared adorably on your chin. The future is fine. God bless you, Toyota Dundee.

With today’s news cycle, it becomes tempting to always write something political. Indeed, the subject is overflowing with possibility. On the left, a Crypt Keeper. On the right, a Hitler Crypt Keeper. 2024! Boebert gets caught fondling a paramour’s junk at Beetlejuice. (There is a whole spiel here where I talk about when Beetlejuice turns into the snake, but I will resist. Unlike Boebert.) Even worse, the fondlee was a democrat. Scandal!! None of the Republicans want to pass the budget. A football coach is disrupting the military. Mrs. Crypt Keeper, Pelosi, wants to run again. Freeze, Mitch McConnell! Matt Gaetz is still probably a felonious pursuer of young girls. Hunter Biden’s laptop? Children of thalidomide.

Anyway, I am driving into work the other day and there are dead raccoons strewn across the highway. It’s like some sort of hellish Dali diorama. Particularly if you are a raccoon. The masked creatures lay contorted, brains and innards meandering across the hard asphalt. As I survey this macabre scene I say to myself, why in the hell are raccoons so damn dumb when it comes to crossing the road? It’s a poser that needs answering. After all, they do very well when it comes to getting into someone’s garbage can. After only a few moments of thought they use their wits and dexterous little hand-paws to lift the lid and then frolic with the garbage within. Oh, how they revel in the glory of refuse, eating, rolling, maybe even fornicating in their bonanza of detritus.

Yet, put them near a roadway at night and they turn into wandering simpletons, completely oblivious to the terrible death machines hurtling their direction. Perhaps raccoons merely have a blind spot, an evolutionary defect, that keeps them from understanding the peril that automobiles represent. And, to be fair, can human beings claim to be much better? After all, half of our species still doesn’t understand how vaccines work or how to write down the Netflix password someplace where you can remember it the next time you need it. Jesus Christ, is that annoying! I mean, do I have to keep every password in the entire house? The answer, of course, is a “yes,” and I should have known better than to think otherwise. If I were a raccoon would I, too, be splattered over the road by a half-drunk HVAC worker speeding home from dart league? I’d like to think otherwise.

It is certainly something to ponder. Pondering, sadly, is an activity that is no longer in fashion. For example, I see that Kim Kardashian is a central character in the new American Horror Story. This was not a good choice and just goes to show that everyone, even Ryan Murphy and Brad Falchuk, eventually runs out of ideas. Not to be overly negative, but Kim’s acting is horrendous. Unsurprising, given the fact that she has no discernible skills, sex videos notwithstanding. (Actually, withstanding. Terrible work there as well.) Of course, Murphy and Falchuk are out to sell their show and star power- no matter how ill-gotten- helps the bottom line. Still, there must have been some other star with whom they might have contracted. Glenn Close is still alive. What she lacks in youthful appearance can surely be made up for by her ability to play a menacing female character. Who can forget Fatal Attraction? Brrrrrr. I know I can’t. At least no raccoons were hurt in the filming of that movie. A rabbit got it, but rabbits don’t last long anyway. Every spring my year is filled with hopping bunnies. By late summer, the yard is a rabbit wasteland, eerily silent save for the lip-licking of the resident fox population. Rabbits, you see, are even dumber than raccoons.

But probably not dumber than Lauren Boebert. Though I hear she’s not a bad companion at a show.

It’s better than being run over in the road, anyway.

You hear a lot more about mental health and anxiety than you used to. And that’s basically a bad thing. Not the admitting one has mental health or anxiety issues. But rather telling the rest of us about it. What can I do for you? I have my own problems. When I was younger, they were even worse. You know what I did? I drank way more.

Of course, that only exacerbated the problems. Then again, no one ever had to hear me droning on about all the sadness in my life. Again, telling someone about these issues isn’t wrong or bad. It is just that the person you tell should be a licensed therapist. Keep in mind that they actually get paid to hear people’s problems. They get paid because listening to other people’s problems all day sucks.

The reason I bring all of this up is to make sure you stay off my lawn. But I do have a mental health issue to discuss. No, it isn’t mine. Well, maybe, but this isn’t about me. This is about other people I want to criticize. America, love it or leave it.

Anyway, there’s this mental health problem known as Main Character Syndrome. Main character syndrome is when somebody presents, or imagines, themself as the lead in a sort of fictional version of their life. Shockingly, social media makes it easier for people to fall into this mental health trap. Stop taking that selfie!!

It’s everywhere.

But why, you say? Assuming you exist.

The reason for the prevalence of this issue is completely obvious. It is because we are certainly living in a simulation. As noted in an earlier screed, a lot of people (even scientists) think it is likely that our entire existence is a simulation. Like Super Mario Brothers, without the annoying music. And somewhere in the universe, or perhaps in another universe, are a bunch of nerdy, technologically superior Strombolis pulling all of our strings. Dance, little humans, dance.

But it seems some of you are on to these guys and I say good for you.

Perhaps our simulation masters are only people from the future or alien beings (which, we know from our last meeting, are all around us). They sit in their extra dimension, with their highly sophisticated joysticks, laughing uproariously as they make people like Donald Trump leader of the free world.

“Wait, wait,” Zelgort says, wiping the tears from his extraterrestrial eyes. “Let’s make The Apprentice guy the President of the United States. Hahahahah.”

“What?” Mimforading replies. “Don’t do that. That will ruin the game.”

“Too late,” says Zelgort. “It is done. Boooom!!!” Master Zelgort dissolves into laughter.

“Hey,” says Mimforading a little later (though later has no meaning to beings living outside of time– What can I say? We are limited characters.) “That Muffet’s Orange guy is on to us.”

“Impossible. He has a focus rating of seven and an intelligence rating of 6.5. He can’t even do basic calculus. Idiot.”

“Look at what he is writing.”

And that Margie Greene woman. Boy, she is something else. Jewish space lasers.

That last part was to get them momentarily off the track. Perhaps their intelligence rating isn’t as high as they think it is. Of course, they can always just give me a brain hemorrhage or strike me down with a lightning bolt for my insolence. Doo Dooo Dooo Dooo. My character’s life force is running out. The Muffet Orange needs food badly.

If you read about ancient history as I do, you will understand that people have always wondered about their place in the universe. Where else would gods come from? Not West Virginia. Just coal and discarded teeth as far as the eyes can see. The eyes in the hills.

Perhaps you noticed my focus meandering. Zelgort, no doubt. All hail Zelgort, giver of life!

Happy now? Maybe you can put one of the Kardashians in office next? Or Joe Rogan. Instead of taking a civics test, immigrants can eat horse intestines to gain entry into the country.

“Fear is not a factor for you! Welcome to the USA!”

The point of this whole thing is to not worry about anything you do. Powerful beings with made-up names are orchestrating your every move.

If only I could think of a way to make some money off this. Maybe if those Doctor Who-like bastards would dial me up a little. Tardis traveling SOB’s.

Forget it. I’m not groveling.

“We told you not to grovel.”

I really hope those tin can Wizard of Oz knock-off guys get their revenge.

“The Daleks?” Apparently, all my thoughts are known to the Tardites. Consider Tardites Trademarked!

“Yeah. The Daleks.”

“We told you to say that, too.”

“Did you also create Steely Dan? Because I hate Steely Dan.”

“No. That was our buddy.”

“You have a friend? What’s his name?”

“Todd.”

Neila, Everlasting

Well, the government finally admitted it. There are UFOs all around us. And inside of these craft are little green men just waiting to stick their probes into all of our body cavities. While some readers may find this intriguing, I would say to be careful what you wish for. Imagine your embarrassment in the emergency room when you have to get an alien probe extricated from your rectum. We come in peace, my ass. Or rather yours. I’m not signing up for that any time soon. And neither should you. Who knows where these aliens have been? The next thing you know all of us have some sort of outside galaxy venereal disease. And just because a few people didn’t have any inhibitions. Inhibit!! The world depends on it.

Anyway, it seems that our government (along with many other governments) has been tracking UFO activity for some time. Not everything is weather balloons and swamp gas. This comes as no surprise to the many conspiracy theorists in this country. “I told you so!” they holler triumphantly from their mother’s basement.

“Shut the hell up!” screams the neighbor who has to get up in the morning to go to work. 

To this Worker Bee, I can only say it is time to wake up and listen to the paranoid Incel who only comes out to gather his mysterious packages from the porch. Eric is his name. The Incel kid. You would think you would remember that since he has lived next door for the last fifteen years. You even went to his high school graduation party. Oh yeah, Elroy is his name. Like in the Jetsons. Anyway, the kid is pretty nondescript. Plus, he’s technically not a kid, unless you think that 31 is a kid. Maybe in some alien civilizations it is. Who knows?

The Pentagon. And maybe Elroy. You have to admit that he did help you get your YouTube TV set up. That was nice of him. Then again, you had to listen to a 40 minute diatribe on the Illuminati and have Elroy leer at your seventeen-year-old daughter like he had never seen a real girl before. Though it is fair to say that Elroy’s experience with real girls is limited. Like limited to setting up YouTube at people’s houses, at least for the past fifteen or so years. I mean, he never goes outside or does anything that you can see.

Anyway, it is important to understand that calling alien ships UFO’s is now passe. The government calls them UAP’s, which is currently less frightening, but won’t really matter when the invasion comes. On the bright side, our collective, determined destruction of the Earth might ensure that an invasion is not worth the effort. After all, nobody wants real estate in a shithole. Perhaps civilization’s complete disregard for the environment will be our saving grace. Irony, at its best. Well, until the planet becomes half inhabitable desert and half flooded disaster area. But I should be long dead by then. Unless the aliens kidnap me and use their advanced technology to keep me alive past my normal life span.

I can’t think of a reason why they might do this. Perhaps they work in mysterious ways. Or they have a really sick sense of humor. Or they are punishing me for not remembering Elroy’s name. 

In this scenario, Elroy has made a secret alliance with the aliens, who have taken pity on him because he cannot get a date. Which is a bunch of garbage since I can’t be expected to remember everybody’s name who I come into contact with. What am I, some sort of Rain Man? Maybe Dustin Hoffman is an Extraterrestrial. He is kind of a goofy looking fellow. He also has a strange cadence to his speech, not unlike the giant cockroach from Men in Black. 

Alien bastards. To tell the truth, I am already sick of them. Why the hide and seek game? Reveal yourself, little green interlopers!! 

Yet they don’t.

Unless they are over the skies of Phoenix. 

Allegedly.