It was a cool Friday evening in San Francisco and former television game show host, Bob Eubanks and I were settling in for the 4th annual Punky Brewster marathon on BET. Bob and I had been friends ever since he'd splattered that deer all over the highway with his monster truck and we'd exchanged tasty venison recipes and even tastier gangsta rap lyrics. I deeply admired Bob's choice of hairstyle and he in turn confessed a deep respect for my mad skills as a professional cobbler. He knew full well that a career in the shoe repair industry was no bed of roses.
We were waiting for our pizza to arrive when Bob confided in me his disappointment in the fact that he had never seriously pursued a career as a professional bullfighter. This odd confession at least finally explained his habit of wearing an ornate matador's costume on Friday evenings.
"I'm just not Spanish enough." he sighed. "Damn my Dutch and Scottish heritage!"
When I addressed the mystery of why he wore his speedo underwear over the outside of his matador britches he became more cryptic. "Society, the reflections of a child." he said, quoting Charles Manson. "Maybe after Punky Brewster we can pretend that we've invented a time machine." He proposed.
"Sure thing, Bob. I'm certainly looking forward to that pizza." I said. "I truly hope that it will be savory." I added, simply wanting to use the word "savory" in a sentence.
Bob downed the last swallow from his bottle of Heineken and belched loudly. "I was looking at the Oprah's book club blog entry under the rest in peace, Dennis Hopper blog entry below this one and was reminded of how someday I would like to write a book...a great work of fiction."
"I didn't know you had aspirations of becoming a writer." I said. This was the first mention Bob had ever made of his desire to achieve literary greatness and frankly it surprised me.
"Well that particular dream is usually eclipsed by my bullfighter fantasy, but I do possess a rather fertile imagination...especially when it comes to thinking up different and unique ways to murder people. I think that I might do quite well as an author of horror novels or crime thrillers."
I was intrigued. "Anything in the works?"
"Oh sure...a couple of short stories here and there...three unfinished novels and I also write lengthy letters to an unsolicited pen pal in New Zealand that include numerous references to necrophilia."
I cleared my throat, a bit jealous of Bob's uncharacteristically cerebral aspirations, and then began to lie. "Last week I sketched out the storyline for a sweeping historical epic that I've titled 'The Opulence of Moe Moe's Waffle Shack' and I have a great idea for a children's book called 'Wally Gets His Finger Back' " I claimed, attempting to appear as intellectually ambitious as my guest.
Bob raised an eyebrow. "You never mentioned this before."
"Well it's just a hobby, but I'm quite prolific...last week I wrote three novels, 'Sherbet The Clown's Sexual Snake Pit', 'Tiki Tantrum', and 'Whitey and Crackers in Honky Town'...plus a poem titled 'Peppermint Schlong'."
"Why you gotta steal my thunder, homie?" Bob asked, sounding slightly irritated by my insane and colorful boasting. "I say I want to write a mother fuckin' book and all of the sudden you're mother fuckin' Charles Dickens? I suppose you wrote the Bible too, mother fucker! Is that it? You God now?" Bob's mood was turning extremely sour.
Unable to help myself I continued to weave my web of lies. "I've also invented a new bubble gum by mixing previously chewed bubble gum with blue food coloring...I call it 'Chewy Bluey'."
"You're fucking full of shit, you fucking fuckface!" Bob screamed, pulling a knife from a sheath attached to his belt.
I jumped to my feet with lightning quick speed. "Not so fast, Skippy!" I warned, knocking Bob into a glass cabinet full of ceramic clowns with a perfectly executed roundhouse kick to the jaw.
As Bob lay sprawled out on the floor moaning, I ran to my bedroom to retrieve my latest eBay purchase: an ominous, plastic Colonel Sanders Halloween mask. After donning my mask I quickly prepared a syringe full of enough black widow spider venom to kill a rhinoceros and walked back into the living room singing the lyrics to "Give Me Back My Fillet-O-Fish", a catchy jingle that I had recently heard used in a MacDonald's commercial.
"End of the road, Honcho." I said, plunging the needle into Bob's neck and injecting the deadly spider venom.
As Bob convulsed on the floor, foaming at the mouth and turning a pale shade of gray I spat on him. "You just wore out your welcome, smart guy!" I hissed, turning toward the kitchen to get my hacksaw.
