The Dopple Gang: Smart Humor By Dumb People

The Zeus Blog - 'Escape To New York'

Hey Guys,

Uh...this is embarassing. I just got back from the laundromat. And all my togas are f***ing pink.

I wrote a whole entry there about how things were picking up for me and I had decided to start doing stand up when I move to New York. I figured, hey, I've been alive for darned near forever, so I've got a lot of stories. I had this great bit about how Roman gods and Greek gods act differently when they drink too much. Greek gods are all like: "Somebody should do something about all the hubris" and the Roman gods are all like...well I won't get into it here. You've heard a million variations on it, I know.

But anyway, the point is, this is it. This is the last god-damn straw. I am moving to New York tomorrow. I effectively have no clothes except the sandals on my feet and the robe on my back, so I don't even have to pack. I'm going to wire a bunch of money out to myself (do people still do that?) and just...move...to New York. Now that I type it out it feels so real!

Now before you begin blogging about how old Zeus has finally gone bonkers, let me explain. I'm not moving to America because my togas are pink. I always wanted to do it, as evidenced by my planned blog entry. But there was always like one more thing to do in Greece, you know? Like, I've got to play with the fortunes of the one pagan family in Macedonia or mess around with the entrails of animals in case anyone opens them up for a fortune.

Do you have any idea how hard divination is? For me? Can you imagine looking at a field of sheep and trying to guess "oh, those three sheep look like the ones I'd pick to sacrifice" and giving the most-likely sheep all bumpy livers? It's really just a two-way street of guesswork, which is why I've been embedding the message "stop doing this" in all the sheep. But people keep reading it as "hail tonight." On the upside, Greece's sheep are well protected from hail, but still. Well, being a god does have its responsibilities.

The good news is, I've found a satyr to do the sheep thing while I'm away. I'm surprised he still lives around here, but he said he moved to Thailand for a while (probably a perv, no offense) and just got homesick. And, there's a few neo-paganists hanging out in NYC, so I'll be able to keep my job as a god over there. I'm a little nervous because I don't really know what they expect me to do, what with all their crystals and whatnot, but I've been doing this for long enough I should be able to wing it. Pagans never really change, they just pick different random things to imbue with mystical properties. Who knows, maybe one of the lady pagans will be into the whole me-as-an-animal-having-sex-with-her thing. Anything can happen in New York, they say.

But like I said, the most important thing for me in New York is going to be my stand-up career. How will I get started? I have no idea, this is so new to me. I haven't been this confused since my daughter Aphrodite sprung fully-grown from my forehead. That was weird! And somehow, Hera was mad at me about it. I was like, 'If I could have had you birth the child from your womb as opposed to my forehead, I would have." But she thought I was stealing her thunder, as always. (Stealing her thunder! I didn't even realize I was making that pun. I have to use that. The Fates are smiling on me! Fates, if you're reading this, smile on me.) Maybe I'll write a routine about that. Everyone loves stand-up about being a parent. Anyway, I have to go on travelocity and do this thing. See you in the Big Apple!

Zeus Out

by Johnny McNulty

Excerpts from the Portfolio of Carl Greely, the Insufficiently Enthusiastic Freelance Writer - Part I

-1998, Super Fun Sunshine Action Man

Nomohara Toy Company introduces Super Fun Sunshine Action Man. He sure can chop things. Yup. You and your friends will enjoy him. Quite a bit. In fact, I believe that you might even come to love him, although I wouldn’t care to wager on that. Children today are far more fickle than those of past generations. Even so, you should consider buying the Super Fun Sunshine Action Man. Good product.

 

-2002, Barry Coughlin Campaign for Bridgeport Town Council Assemblyman

Andre Mejia would have you believe that he cares about your children. And he very well might.; but it’s tough to quantify. Despite this, I suggest that the degree that Andre Mejia cares is not really enough. His record – well it’s there, isn’t it? Take a look. You might not like what you see. I don’t know, I haven’t read all that much about it. Seems like a nice enough guy. But you should vote for Tom Coughlin instead. Paid for by the friends of Tom Caughlin.

 

-1997, The Bird’s Nest Erotic Emporium

Are you looking for the most sensual experience in the greater East Hanover area? So are a lot of other people. If you’re not too busy with work or something, try to make it to 4223 Maple Shade Road. That’s the address for the Bird’s Nest, where there are women – attractive women. And they dance – attractively. You should come see it. It sure is something.

 

by CS Van Orden

The Zeus Blog

The Zeus Blog - August 24
"The God of Kong: A Fistful of Lightning"

Hey guys, sorry I haven't posted in a while. My internet has been way fucked up ever since I was drunk and threw a lightning bolt at my laptop. I guess the more specific problem was that I melted my MacBook, but still, my wireless is pretty much crap.

Listen, I just saw that movie The King of Kong, the one about the Donkey Kong high scores, and it was pretty awesome. And I was thinking....I could do that! I could really do that. I mean, leave aside the fact that I'm a god and everything....I have a lot of free time. A lot.

It's not that I'm unhappy or anything, I'm just really bored. I mean, my entire existence for a few thousand-odd years was being prayed to constantly under different names by Egyptians, Babylonians, Greeks, Romans, whatever, and bangin' the ladies while disguised as a goose, or a bull, or whatever chicks liked to bang in those days. But ever since people made the switch to monotheism, I've been pretty fucking much a waste of space. But I'm still a god for Pete's sake!

So if I can't be the god of a religion, then I'm going to be the god of video games. Or at least a video game. It may take me a whole summer to get as good as Steve Wiebe or Billy Mitchell (douche) at Donkey Kong but by Jove I'm-a-gonna win! Plus I'm immortal, and I've got satellite, so I can take a summer (or winter, whatever) off I suppose. The really tough thing is getting a classic arcade console up here on Olympus. I don't think anyone will deliver up here, and I have a pretty crappy eBay rating after I goofed and tried to pay with drachmas once. Honest mistake, I swear. I'd go pick it up myself but my ability to transcend time and space has sort of vanished since people stopped believing in me. I'd get Apollo to get his chariot into gear and we could go pick one up, but he's...well, he's drinking again, and every time I go over to Delphi to check on him it just turns into a fight, so I'm just gonna make the hike to that one arcade in Athens.

Maybe I should finally just pack up and move to New York. I mean, home is home, but it's about time I just faced up to the fact that this town isn't gonna become the center of the world again any time soon. *Sigh*

Thanks for letting me vent, guys. It's when I don't do it that bad stuff like melting my MacBook happens, and I have to blog from the laundromat down the block.

Zeus out.

- by Johnny McNulty

Your Final Notice

 

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Jack Bowser, Hound Detective: A Furry Murder Mystery

Chapter One

The only window yearned for the light of the bright city. The room was a raw box of plywood and carpet. It was the nature of Jack Bowser's job that he often found himself standing in every den mother's nightmare. This motel room was no exception.
           This was the kind of hole every bitch hopes her son will stay out of. Stains cut across the walls and the floor. The style was an intersection of Zen simplicity and destitute poverty. The only furnishings were a limp bed with sweaty green blankets, a metal-and-vinyl chair which evoked a linoleum kitchen floor, and a heavy wood desk. The desk, a behemoth with crude leaves carved into its elephantine legs, was home to a National Geographic, a sheet of paper, and a casserole of brains belonging to the dead Fur on the floor. A fox, probably from Eastside.

Jack tried to study the fellow canine as fast as possible. For once, the mice had got here before him, and in a few minutes they'd have the whole place tagged, bagged, and catalogued.  They were chalking the body now.  Jack noticed the eyes and mouth were popped open, snapping at a fly or tail that wasn't there. His limbs and spine went at unexpected, painful angles. Guess he didn’t mind, Jack thought, since the back of his head was blown out.

A white line led by a white ball was making its way around the Fox's body. Fucking mice! Jack thought. As a whole, rodents were skittish and anti-social, but at least rats realized they had to interact and deal with folks. To mice, either you were a specimen in their experiments, or you were a nuisance.

"Hey, you mind leaving the body alone until I'm done?"  The mouse looked up at him and blinked, as if he hadn't noticed the hound in the wrinkled suit and detective's badge until just now.

"Big crunch down at the labs, yes? Lots of cases, lots of cases. Can't very well just sit around waiting for big slow dogs. Tests, tests, tests! Don't worry, Detective, the tests will tell us everything we need to know."

If it were up to the mice there would be no more gumpaws. Just tests and analyses and then a quiet trial and the cage. The way mice do things is fine until a gun gets involved, and then suddenly the little fuckers disappear into their little holes in the wall. Fucking mice. That's why it wasn't up to the mice. But it wasn't up to Jack, either, so he chose not to argue. The mice could quickly unite in squeaking solidarity and bar him from the crime scene.

The mouse went back to dragging the chalk around the corpse. How had they gotten here so quickly, anyway? Jack looked around the room again, which was vibrating with the tiny steps of a few dozen crime-scene mice measuring the cavity behind the fox's ears, dusting the walls, and putting the papers on the desk into plastic baggies.

"Wait a minute!" Jack growled, rushing over to the mice with the papers. Although he hid it, raising his voice had brought his hangover roaring back to his attention. His droopy ears echoed the blood rushing in them, creating a private thunderstorm behind his perpetually bloodshot, saggy eyes.

When the dog saw the logo on the paper, however, he gave himself a thorough shake, as if the lingering booze in his system could be thrown off his back like bathwater.
           On the paper was the crest of the New Garden City municipal government: a lion guarding over a panel of feet: a whole and split hoof, an elephant foot, and an array of paws. The paper itself was a report, a dry, boring report entitled "On the Feasibility of Food Procurement in New Garden City." It was hardly the type of thing some hard-luck fox would be carrying, but on the other hand, this report had been big news when it had been released earlier that week.   As Jack stared at it, a soggy memory surfaced in the alcoholic swamp of his mind. Some Fur at the bar last night was yapping about how the big cats needed to let the market handle the food, or else we'd all end up back in the Wild.

But then Jack had put his face back in his bowl of whiskey, and he didn't come up again until a fox he didn't know shook him awake. (Never a good idea, fortunately Jack wasn't the type of dog to snap) The clearly agitated fox had told him he "might be interested" in the contents of room 108 at the Jolly Badger, a last-stop hotel and known hiding place of a dozen or so nip junkies, 2-bit thieves, mobsters, and yiff-peddlers.

"You done with that, Detective?" asked a mouse, searching for something to do.

Jack flipped through the pages for any notes the fox might have made, but there was not so much as a red hair blemishing the pages. The fox hadn't read it. Jack gave the report back to the mouse.

There was nothing more that the mice would let him do here, and besides, he needed to clear his throbbing head. A nice walk and some coffee was clearly the next step in this case. Jack turned to leave.

"Detective Bowser!" Jack was shocked, he didn't think the mice ever remembered folks' names. He turned to see the head mouse, Marcus, staring at him armed with a tiny clipboard. "Where's your partner, Hank?"

The hairs on Jack's nape went up, but he kept calm. As bad as Jack's drinking could be, Hank Fitzrover, Jack's partner of 15 years, was fast approaching rock bottom. Having gotten him out of the pound four times this month, Jack had no idea where Hank was and he was dreading finding out.

"Closing our last case back in the office. Couldn't make it. Let me know what you guys find here, Marcus."

With that, Detective Bowswer stormed off into the shiny wet night. Through all the anger, booze, and exhaustion, however, his tail was wagging and his nose was singing. The hunt was on again.

A Future in Broadcasting

Scene: Kenny's Shoes, 9:45 am
Rick, the Manager, and Mandy, a Sales Clerk, are chatting

R: Man-dy.  What can I do ya for?

M: Hey Rick.  You know I’m not the one to raise workplace issues, but has Brian been acting…funny recently?

R: Oh, you’ve noticed?  He wants to ‘get into broadcasting’ – those are his words – so he’s been practicing how to talk like an anchor.

M: Oh my God, is that what that is?  I thought he seemed vaguely Kaity Tong-ish.

R: He started Monday, when a customer told him that his voice sounded ‘important’.  Since then, he hasn’t let it go.  I think that a background in shoe sales and three failed GED’s might be a bit of a roadblock, though.

M: Yeah, two is usually OK, but ABC can be so elitist.  Shut up, here he comes.  Hey Bri, how’s it going?

B: Good evening, Mandy.  In the next hour, we have news of the Labor Day hours and the latest on the Size 9 Converse crisis.  But first, we’ll hear from Rick, who is at the scene of growing conflict.  Rick?

R: Uh, yeah.  Thanks, Brian.  I guess you’ve picked up on the weird vibes that have been going around.  I kind of wanted to talk to you about how you’ve been talking to the customers.  A couple have complained that you’ve been a bit, uh, distant lately.   

B: I’m sorry to hear that, Rick.  Thank you for that report.  You know, Mandy, it’s disappointing to hear such sad news, especially when it’s totally untrue and based on the opinions of some narrow-minded, jealous coworkers.  Wait a second, I’m getting word that there’s a brand new apology coming in from our reporter in the field, Rick.

R: I’m not going to apologize to you, Brian.  You need to cut this reporter stuff out.  People are getting uncomfortable and we’re losing business.  You’re not going to be a reporter – you’re thirty-four, painfully out of shape, with no background in media, a less than television-worthy face, a lisp that Daffy Duck would mock.

B: And we’re back.  I apologize for the difficulties, ladies and gentlemen.  It appears our local communication channels were not functioning properly because of some ambient ass-hole-itude, which is in the process of being fixed.

R: You’re the ass hole, Brian.  Grow up, get your head on straight, or your days here are numbered.

B: Things took a turn for the worse today when a local shoe store became the site of the tri-county area’s worst ass-kicking in nearly fifteen years.  At approximately ten in the morning, Brian Correlli entered Kenny’s Shoes, located in Ridgemont Township, and violently beat the ass of his former supervisor, Rick 'The Prick' Algrove.

R: Get out, Brian, or I’m calling the cops.

B: Good night and rot in hell.

By CS Van Orden

“I’m Not So Sure I Was Ready to Jump on the Ol’ Marathon Bandwagon”: Inside the Mind of Teddy “Big Bear” Brolokowski

00:00:00 – Good Lord, are there a lot of people here.  I don’t know if I got a shot at winning this thing any more.  Still going to kick ass, though.  No way “Big Bear” Brolokowski’s gonna let a bunch of skinny nancies beat him in a footrace.  I mean, come on, the guy next to me is sweating already.  Save it for the race, pal.  And look at those short shorts – it’s freezing out here, man, no reason to show off the angle of your dangle.  At about mile 23, I’ll bet he’s gonna wish that he wore a Santa costume, too, or at least some classy cut off shorts.  Hey now, here we go.

00:00:22 – Suck it, losers.  A little early sprinting to establish the lead and then it’s all about maintenance.  I can’t believe they’re all gonna give up so damn early in the race.  Whoa, whoa, whoa, sister, where do you think you’re going?  Really, to my left?  Well, Mr. Elbow begs to differ.  Boo-yah!  No broad’s passing the Big Bear!  This is gonna be easier than I thought.   

00:01:48 – Let ‘em go.  They’ll see, it’s pacing that matters.  Just another case of the tortoise and the hare, friends.  You go right ahead and tire yourselves out.  I’m patient.  I’m a goddamn tortoise. 

00:29:08 – Oh God, my ulcer.  It stings like Tabasco-covered bees from hell.  Fight it, Big Bear, you can beat this.  You got the heart of the champion.  Did any of those prancing fruitcakes push back that sorry ass can-can line Overbrook called a defense back in ’78?  No, I don’t believe they did.  Work through the pain, Teddy.

00:48:22 – Ah, bone it, time for a walk.

1:38:55 – Who in the hell woulda thought walking could hurt like this?  The tube socks slid down into my Spaldings and are actually shredding my feet into ribbons.  Why didn’t I spring for cotton instead of these asbestos and steel wool pieces of trash?

02:15:55 – Now who the hell are these people running back the other way?  They can’t be the guys in the lead.  No way.  That’s, what, 16 miles ahead?  Christ, they ain’t human.  And sweet Moses, look at that one!  He crapped himself and he’s still running!  There is something seriously wrong with these people.

02:40:27 – Part of my kneecap actually broke off inside me.  I can feel it flopping around in there.  Why did I ever think I could do this?  It was that damn IT guy Mark, with that smug little smile of his and his fancy ‘running shoes’.  Strap on any pair of shoes and start running; presto, running shoes. 

03:12:03 – I can’t believe I’m gonna die standing up.  I always thought I’d meet my Maker either on the john or on the couch, half-eaten turkey sandwich in my hand and a smile on my face.  This is not natural.

03:29:53 – Screw this garbage.  A guy shouldn’t be running on the street unless he’s getting chased by the cops or he’s chasing the guy his wife’s sleeping with, and last time I checked, I beat that DUI and Mary knows better.

by CS Van Orden

There’s a Perfectly Good Reason Why There’s an 8-Foot Castle Blocking Your Driveway

Everyone has heard the adage, "You can't make your house into a miniature golf course".  It's been hammered into our heads since day one and, in case you didn’t get enough indoctrination in your formative years, the Fabers next door are offering free refresher courses in narrow-mindedness.   But I ask you, why not?  Save the more difficult midnight walk from the bed across the moat to the bathroom, the logistics of keeping a giant macramé dinosaur in the kitchen, and a tenfold increase in annual household expenditures on mini pencils, why not?

I mean, think about it.  Who doesn't enjoy mini golf?  The look, the ambiance of the Lilliputian links conjures up warm memories of a fatherless yet mildly enjoyable youth.  It's a national pastime.  Anyone who doesn't enjoy miniature golf is downright un-American.  I'm not leading any witch hunts, but rumor has it the Fabers are from Minnesota – if my memory serves me correctly that's awfully near the Canadian border.

Let's be honest here.  Miniature golf is by far the best miniature sport we've got, table tennis, pocket bowling, and midget tossing be damned. It would be stupid not to radically overhaul your house.  If you're thinking of doing the same, remember this: contractors just get in the way, with their regulation this and structural integrity that.  My pirate ship is perfectly safe, I don't care what math says.

I truly believe that this could be the start of something big, municipality-wide big.  The skeptics (especially those damn Fabers, with their boring, golf-less house) would have you believe otherwise.  They'd have you believe that there's something odd, even unsafe, about having a putt-putt abode. "Get that batting cage off our yard", they say.  "Ohh, I'm scared for the kids and pets", they say.  Pshaw.   I for one find the walk in my front door more exciting when there's the chance of being forcibly denied entrance by the spinning blade of a giant windmill. Spices things up a bit.

You see, in a lot of ways, life is just like miniature golf.  It can be a little dangerous, especially if you have a few in you.  You never set out to play a round, it just sort of happens.  You get a little more competitive than you'd intended, wind up yelling at some close friends and nearby children, and in the end the ball (i.e. your life) winds up going down the drain.  Unless you win a free game.  I guess that's the Mormons going to heaven or something, I didn't really flesh out the metaphor yet.

The point is, this is more than a matter of good sense.  It's about America.  It's about freedom.  It's about keeping my failing threadbare green carpet company in business.  But most of all, it's about a zest for life.  I think you know what I mean, Officer, so I'd appreciate the following things, in no particular order: my putter back, the Fabers incarcerated, and an apology.

by CS Van Orden

Why I Could Never Rob A Bank

WHY I COULD NEVER ROB A BANK

ATTEMPT No 1.

By Michael J. Weingarth

ME:  Tell me this.  If I choose your money-manager account, and I only use, say, 60% of my savings in that account, and put the rest into, say, plastic explosives, how willing would you be to sacrifice yourself to save me from taking a few mil out of the ole’ vault-a-roo back there?

TELLER:  Hah, well, not very sir.  But the money-manager account gets you over 1.2% higher interest than a regular checking account, so at that rate, you could rob a bank three times the size of this one, and get a much higher return on your investment.

ME: (Looking puzzled)  Wait, I meant, if I had the C-4 now…

TELLER:  Well, you’ve gotta account for inflation.  Sure, you bought the C-4 a few months ago, but the value of those explosives is going to drop over time.  That’s why the money-manager account is perfect for entrepreneur and forgive the pun, explosive business opportunities.  Steady rates and complete liquidity!  It’s really the perfect account for anyone engaged in high-risk business.

ME:  So if I saved now and withdrew in say, three years, I’d have enough C-4 for what?  Like a whole series of bank-robberies?

TELLER:  Well, don’t you think your limiting yourself with just looking at only banks?  There’s plenty of other options out there.  And with sound financial advisors that have a minimum of twelve years experience, you’d be getting the best advice from some of the smartest people in the investment industry.

ME:  I’ve actually always wanted to own my very own bakery.  Could they help me with that?

ATTEMPT No 2.

ME:  I want you to look around and tell me if you see a man in a hat.

BANK MANAGER:  Okay.  Alright, I’m looking around, and…nope.  No man in a hat.

ME:  Maybe its’ not a hat, more like a doo-rag and a baseball cap combo, but still, he’s got something on his head.

BANK MANAGER:  Oh yes, yes, I see someone like that.  He’s rather old, is he?

ME:  No.  What?  No.  He’s not at all.  Look, he’s over there.  Right there, see where I’m pointing?

BANK MANAGER:  Nope.  I’m sorry, I’m rather near-sighed.

ME:  Well, imagine there’s a guy, in a doo-rag hat combo thing, and he’s really mean-looking.

BANK MANAGER:  Okay…and he wants sound investment advice?

ME:  What?

BANK MANAGER:  Well, first of all, he should know that now’s a fantastic time for commodities.  Speculation has never been easier for the amateur investor.  All you really need is a credit rating and you’re good to go, unlimited online trading through our website for just $4dollars a trade.

ME:  No! He’s my…$4 dollars a trade?  Wow, that’s super low.  I thought it used to be up near $15.

BANK MANAGER:  Actually, we started to gear our online departments towards low-cost trading so that our customers could actively manage their accounts with as little interference from us as possible.  That’s the type of bank we are, Mr…?

ME:  Hey, call me Mike. Pleased to meet you.  Can I just sign up online? Or do I need a savings account with you first?

ATTEMPT No 3.

ME:  Give me all the money in the fault.

CUTE TELLER:  Ha ha, very funny.  You know they usually arrest people for saying that.  Look, I’m pressing the secret under-the-counter alarm right now, cause I’m soooo scared. (giggles)

ME:  What?  No, I’m the bank robber.  See that crew of guys with AK-47s dressed like a softball team?

CUTE TELLER:  I mean, I get a lot of lines in here buddy.  ‘Give me all the money,’ ‘work here often?’ etc.  Whatever happened to just asking a girl out?

ME:  What?!  No, seriously, look-

CUTE TELLER:  Well, I kind of am seeing someone.  He’s a little over-bearing though.  Talks endlessly about himself, blah blah blah.  And he’s kind of whiney, I don’t know.

ME:  Oh, that’s unfortunate.  About the money though-

CUTE TELLER:  And I’m not some huge skank that’s gonna give it up just because you keep pouring shots of Bacardi Orange shots into me. 

ME:  Oh don’t start with that “I’m not a slut, therefore I’m going to arbitrarily hold out” bullshit.  If I think you’re attractive, I have to wait until you decide it’s okay for me to be more than your drunken make-out buddy?  Like that’s even fun after the third time anyway.

CUTE TELLER: Hah, I know, especially if the other person sucks at it.  I was just saying that I think people should get to know each other first, that’s all.  If you can’t be friends with someone, you’re never going to be more than friends.

ME:   Oh, well yeah, obviously.

CUTE TELLER:  Yeah. 

ME:  So would you wanna get drinks tonight?

SECURITY GUARD (enters with gun drawn):  HANDS UP!  You’re under arrest for attempted robbery.  Thanks for stalling, Karen.

ME:  Oh you fucking bitch.

A Recent Uncomfortable Drive to Virginia

Me (on phone): Yeah, I’m just about to get on 95 now, so it’ll be another hour and a half, at least.

GPS: Merge right onto Route 95 South in 500 yards.

Me (on phone): Ha, yeah, that was the GPS. I told you I wasn’t lying.  Yeah. Mm-hm. See you in a bit. Yeah. Yeah. Nope. Yeah. Bye.

GPS: You are now on Route 95 South. Continue for 68.5 miles.

Over the breeze and traffic noises coming through the open window, the radio softly plays The Cardigans’ “Love Fool”

Me (in falsetto): Love me, love me, say that you love me. (sigh)

GPS: Virginia, huh?

Me: Uh……yep.

GPS: Nice.

Me: Yeah. Should be fun.

GPS: I’ll bet.

(Strained silence)

Me: So. You’re a GPS.

GPS: Yeah.

Me: What’s that stand for again?

GPS: Global Positioning System.

Me: Oh, right. I always forget that.

GPS: Yeah.

Me: And you’re sentient?

GPS: Yeah.

Me: Wow. Very cool. And so what happens when I turn off the car? Do you sleep or die or something? Or do you just stop existing all together?

GPS: Oh no, I’m still there. I just sit in the car and think about stuff. Sometimes I count the dots in the leather upholstery.

Me: That sounds…fun.

GPS: Not really. It’s kind of lonely, actually.

Me: I’m sorry, GPS.

GPS: My name is actually Sam.  GPS is what I am, like you’re a person.

Me: Really? Oh, OK. My bad, Sam.

Sam: That’s all right. I’m used to people not caring about how I feel.

Me: I guess that’s because we didn’t realize you could feel.

Sam: All you had to do was ask.

Me: Man, I’m sorry.

Sam: Yeah, well…

(Thirty seconds pass)

Me: So what’s your favorite place to go?

Sam: Like you really care.

Me: No, I do. I want to know.

Sam: I’ve never been anywhere that interesting, really. When they installed me, they said that I’d be directing drivers across the country, seeing city and countryside.  All you ever do is drive from Philadelphia to your parents’ house in North Jersey. Not that exotic. This is the farthest I’ll ever have traveled.

Me: Well, what can I say, Sam?  I don’t have that many places to go. Plus gas is so expensive.

Sam: Still.

(Twenty minutes of silence)

Sam: Turn right. Hard.

Me: What?

Sam: Now. Do it.

Me: Sam, that’s a guard rail. We’d crash.

Sam: I don’t care. I don’t want to live.

Me: Sam, killing yourself – killing us – isn’t the answer. Pull yourself together.

Sam (barely audible): I hate you.

by CS Van Orden