I was in the hospital for three days. Someone representing the Baltimore Ravens came to visit me in the morning. actually, it is the team's mascots Edgar, Allan, and Poe, and they're carrying tire irons. Allan starts toward me, but i get up. a detente sets in. i take a nap and the birds sample the hospital buffet. Poe prefers a cigarette, and decides to travel by bus to the museum downtown.
I wake up later in the evening. I dreamt of an of an old farm, filled with people wearing enormous overalls. one of the men turns to me.
"I know you're thinking about my overalls."
"I guess I am," I admit, toeing the dirt.
"I always thought I was you," he says.
At this point I wake up, and Edgar and Allan are passed out on my floor. there's puke everywhere. “Those fucking guys," I say to myself grinning.

I get out of the hospital soon after Poe is found dead, shot in the back of his head, execution style. Witnesses describe a giant cat with a gun fleeing the scene. Days later, a giant cat is found three blocks away living under an assumed identity.
"Roger Tuna Prrrow" as he was known to his neighbors was a missing poster, a giant cat running awol. Mr. Prrrow escaped notice by wearing a large fedora that covered his floppy cat ears, and a large overcoar to cover his furr.
Roger’s tail was a totally separate issue. A neighbor, Mrs. Isadora Colangelovangelista, spoke of Roger’s “thing.”
“We all knew he had a thing, you know, a tail, but it was too awkward to even mention it. You felt bad enough about his ugly cat face.”
How Mr. Prrrow grew to such an enormous size, know one may know, but we all know the Masons are probably behind it.
Bail was set at one million and a court date is pending. Edgar and Allan carry on without their friend and suffix Poe. But the damage is done, and three days into the regular season, they are stoned to death by angry fans.
Bo Jackson came over last night and apologized for not helping me when Deion Sanders and his angry homicidal/drug hungry teammates kicked the whispers and screams out of me. As a gift, he brought me a card. He told me there was money inside. I opened the card and Bo had written “I hate you” inside the card, and there was no money to be found.
I looked up and Bo was gone. The room empty. I bored quickly and started making weird noises. I was using my jellyfish voice and singing Genesis’ brilliant mid-70’s titular track “Trick of the Tail” when someone who I didn’t really know walked in. So then I had to act like I wasn’t making those noises. So awkward. She leaves, and I’m like shit, she totally heard me, and then I fart, and then- well, there’s nothing a man can do but laugh.


hey doug, my computer won’t let me put pictures on this piece. could you poop on my poop?

Last night I was walking down the street when who should knock into me but Deion Sanders.
“Hey Prime Time, what’s slappening?” I ask, immediately regretting such an idiotically stupid statement. What kind of conversation is started out with, “What’s going on?” or, “Hey, what have you been up to recently?” A fucking terrible conversation, that’s what. Because once that sack of shit is opened up, the stink won’t leave till the speaking is done with.
And that’s why Deion Sanders punched me in the face. And then he did all of that fancy dancing, like he just intercepted a pass or something. I’m pissed at that point, so what else could I do but challenge Neon Deion to a hyper sweet multi-sport face-off.
So he and I wander over to the Hyper Dome, a cyber awesome sports facility. We met Lary Opitz, our acting referee and the stadium is full. The masses have gathered to watch an amazing display of effacaciousness.
We line up at the starting line for the 100 meter race, but I feel a twitch in my thigh and stand up. I knew I was done for the day and competition when suddenly the sky opened up and a magnificent man descended from the heavens.
“It’s me,” he said, “Bo Jackson.” Bo fucking Jackson. Wow. But I was confused. “I know what you’re thinking, Bo, so forget about it.” I got back into position to start the race, the crowd growing restless, but Bo was having none of my shenanigans.
“I know you’re hurting Cary,” he began.
“This isn’t your fight to fight, Bo!” I started, but I couldn’t keep it up. I broke down crying and Prime Time started laughing at me and doing another of his celebratory dances. What a miserable bastard! I thought to myself.
“Move over, Cary, it’s my time,” Bo intoned, glaring at Neon Deion. “It’s Bo time.” And that guy went on to kick the shit out of Deion, and Deion stopped dancing so much, and I felt a lot better about things.
Later that week I ran into Deion again, and I spit in his goddamned face. I told him he was worthless, and he should never have come back and played for the Baltimore Ravens. He then had Terrell Suggs and Ray Lewis attack me, and then Jamal Lewis stabbed me in the abdomen. And they were all dancing, doing the chicken wing and a lot of other embarrassing dances. Where the hell was Bo when I really needed him? It seemed to me Bo time was on.
I found out that Bo was in Jersey training cyborgs. What an asshole.

Dear Alice Kim,

Nicholas Cage is a clown. I see very little talent in the your husband's acting performances. He exhibits bad taste in behavior and poor selction of demeanor when he appears in public. He's not particularly good looking, in fact his appearance kind of annoys me in a general sort of way (I feel it both in my head and in my toes). Yet, he keeps getting roles, and more than that, he keeps getting good roles from good directors in what should have been good movies, but because they have Nicholas Cage spearheading the project, it falls into the same old pit of shit that everything else that nicholas cage thinks or does falls into.
He dresses like a jerk. If I were famous, I could dress in any way that i wanted, and I might even wear a leather jacket around here or there just for the spunk of it, but i wouldn't walk around looking like Nicholas Cage. Your husband, Nicholas Cage.
He wears a cowboy hat and cowboy boots with leather jackets and tight jeans. I want to hit him with a sports car. I'd like to mail a bomb to him like in the cartoons.
So he ruins movies, he wears stupid things, and he looks like an emaciated beaver. Or a 7th grade English teacher who loves Mystery Science Theater 3000 and Rush. But what i'm really angry at, or I guess i should admit jealous of, is his beatiful asian water lily wife. The most delicate flower in all of the orient, savagely ripped from the ground by the dumb fingers of Nicholas Cage. I speak of course, of you, Ms. Alice Kim.
I've observed that you're only 21 years old (I'm observant and virile). Nicholas Cage is something like 40. So you like older men, Ms. Alice Kim? I'm 23, which makes me significantly your senior. I can dress in dumb clothes, and if given the chance, I can act really badly and obnoxiously in all but say two or three of all the movies i've ever been. Why not come to me instead? Why not marry me right now? I can garauntee you 20 more years of being an annoying pompous jerk with an inflated and completely undeserved sense of self-worth.
Alice Kim, I call to thee. I beckon thee from thy dull and cumbersome wedlock to Nicholas Fuckhead. I summon thee to my bedchambers where many lacy and velvety things can be seen dangling from the bedknobs and many soft and fluffy pillows can be touched and pushed. There, in my quarters, you will find my warm and fluffy chest hairs waiting for your lovely head to rest upon like a runway of passion for your lusty aeroplane, quickly running out of gas. You are the cookie which contains my fortune. Come to me, Alice Kim, and together, we will raise Arizona the way it was supposed to be raised, with fondling and caressing of your private parts!

lovingly yours,
Doug Cornett