Nonsense
I look out the porthole to view the splenectomy as it burbles forth in frothy waves of pink and azure, like a bubble gum ice cream cone from Baskin Robbins. Odd Job asks me if I'd like a Pepsi, but I refuse on the grounds that it might incriminate me. My lawyer, Johnny Cochrane, practicing jurisprudence from the afterworld advises that I plead nolo contendere to the parking ticket, and they will go easy on me.
They are not amused.
Paying my fine in genetic material seems like a small price to pay as I deposit the plastic cup in the receptacle. As I leave the courtroom on quail eggshells I fall into a narcoleptic fit on the tighly woven floor covering in the hotel lobby. Busboys shuffle by with various articles of confederation and clothing. Waking suddenly, I'm overcome with the urge to sing, but my shyness gets the best of me and I hum until my lips itch with the vibration. As I emerge from the courtroom hotel lobby into the brightly lit dreary rain, I realize that water is wet, the sky is not blue, and all is not right with my checking balance.
Note to self: Call your accountant
Thoughts zip across my frontal lobe with annoying speed.
If Seinfeld is a sitcom about nothing, is According to Jim a sitcom about something else?
What the fuck is this Rudy?
I hail a pink carriage and long for the days of Yellow Cabs. As the carriage beasts skid to a stop, the bulbous door swings wide and the current occupant spills onto the blood stained sidewalk, looking like a cross between a bipedal sabertooth tiger and a tribble. It squeaks with displeasure at my lapel pin of Joe Dimaggio and I flip it the bird as I jump into the carriage and command the herd to take me to 4th Street and Borat Drive. The herd deftly guides me to my destination with complete inaccuracy. Dissatisfied with the service, I thumbprint the pay screen with my left thumb, signifying only half payment. The herd screems at me in a tongue only a half-wit Indonesian Armenian Jew would understand.
"Fuck him," I think out loud as he takes further umbrage. He'll sue me later, but these are the gravy boat times we live in. His carriage lurches into traffic and his herd beasts are immediately struck by a trash hauler, decapitating the lot of them.
"Well done," I think out loud yet again.
Golf claps surround me as onlookers view the bloody spectacle.
