Riding a Bicycle on Psychedelic Mushrooms

            Riding a bicycle after consuming a handful of psychedelic mushrooms is much the same as riding a bicycle anytime, except for the fact that you’re tripping balls. Tripping balls while riding a bicycle is much the same as tripping balls anytime, except for the fact that you’re riding a bicycle. Are there any other questions?

            -Are you going to tell us a story about riding a bicycle after consuming a handful of psychedelic mushrooms?

            Great question! Yes. Yes, I’m going to tell you a story about riding a bicycle after consuming a handful of psychedelic mushrooms…

            -Well?

            Well what?

            -Well, are you going to tell us a story about riding a bicycle after consuming a handful of psychedelic mushrooms right now?

            Oh, you want me to tell it right now? The story about riding a bicycle on psychedelic mushrooms?

            -Yes. Yes, I want you tell me story about riding a bicycle on psychedelic mushrooms right now!

Well, okay, calm down, I’ll tell you a story about riding a bicycle on psychedelic mushrooms right now.

This is a story about riding a bicycle on psychedelic mushrooms.

            I was riding a bicycle after consuming a handful of psychedelic mushrooms when my rear tire suddenly went flat. I pulled to the side of the bike path to inspect the damage and immediately realized that I had no flat tire at all. It was a phantom flat and I immediately wondered how long it had been following me. “How long have you been following me?” I asked the tire.

The tire did not answer, so I got back on the bike in hopes of outrunning the phantom flat. But damn if that phantom flat wasn’t following close behind, constantly urging me to stop and check my rear tire. So, again I stopped and again there was no flat. The tire was fine, but I knew the phantom flat, that wily son-of-a-gun, that tricky bitch, was still there, mocking me. I was about to get back on my bike when suddenly, all of a sudden, abruptly, out of the blue…

BOOM!

...a heavy, deafening explosion shook the world around me.

I turned around and looked up just in time to see a bird—was it a bald eagle? A peregrine falcon? A very fit ostrich? Who knew?—fall from an electric line that hung precisely thirty-seven feet, three inches off the ground. Time suddenly slowed down as I watched this bird fall head over tail, its wings flopping, its feathers on fire. It smacked the ground at an incredible speed—not terminal velocity, but undoubtedly some fraction of it—and lay motionless in the high, dry grass.

Out of nowhere, a crowd evolved, a dozen strong. Where the hell did all these people come from? They all pointed at the bird and asked questions only the bird could possibly answer—Is it all right? Do you think its hurt?—but the bird, like a stubborn old man staring at those punk kids in the park who have no respect for anything these days, said nothing. And then, a miracle. The bird rose from the ground—from the ashes?—shook itself violently and stumbled away from the electrical tower like a seasoned drunk stumbling out of a bar at three in the afternoon. Which raised some questions: How could someone possibly get so drunk so early? And why do people claim that vodka is tasteless and odorless when any idiot with a tongue and a nose can tell you otherwise? I guess some questions may never be answered.

The crowd cheered!!! The bird was alive!!! But the cheers were short lived. Another problem arose—from the ashes?—a far more serious problem. The high, dry grass was now on fire!!! And the bird, it seemed, had started it. Fucking arsonist birds and their disrespect for fire! I was half-expecting Smokey Bear to run out of the woods and lecture his fellow animal on preventing wildfires, but nothing, no bear, just a group of spectators on the verge of hysteria. What will we ever do?!?

Luckily, I was there. With no formal training (or informal training for that matter) on extinguishing wild fires, I immediately decided that it was up to me to put out the fire, to save the high, dry grass from burning alive. I went into action, dropped my bicycle, jumped a four-foot high chain link fence and approached the raging fire with reckless abandonment. The crowd all stared at me, at the hero in front of them, unquestionably thinking: What I wouldn’t give to have just an ounce of that man’s courage.

I was only a few feet from the flames when the sound of sirens filled the afternoon sky, which triggered an unsettling fear of authority figures that had been lying dormant in my psyche since childhood. What the hell am I doing? I thought out loud.

“What the hell are you doing?” Some guy yelled at me from the crowd.

That was the same thing I wanted to know. So, I did a quick review of the events that had just previously occurred: A loud noise, a flaming bird falling from the sky, a grass fire out of control, me hopping a fence that clearly said “NO TRESSPASSING.”

I stared at the fire and then at the crowd and then at the fire and then at the bird, who was still stumbling away from the flames. It was then I remembered that I had previously eaten a handful of psychedelic mushrooms and had no business fighting a grass fire.

I hopped back over the fence, grabbed my bike and took off for home, that damn phantom flat riding my ass the entire way. Looking back, I often wonder if the phantom flat and the flaming bird weren’t working together the whole time…

The Night Taco Bell tried to Kill Us: A Love Story, of Sorts

             First thing first, I must decide how to properly describe the sound of myself throwing up, because, unfortunately, this story is going to entail a lot of that. I could go with traditional words such as puke, hurl, barf, ralph, retch, or vomit, but in reality, the act of throwing up doesn’t really sound like any of those words. Perhaps “bleagh” is more appropriate, or “blargh,” or “guahp,” or a prolonged version of one of those, such as “bleaaaaaaaaaaagh,” or “bbblllaaarrrggghhh,” or “guuuuaaaaaaahhp.” But to be honest, none of those words quite do justice when describing the way it sounds when I throw up. When I throw up it’s loud. When I throw up it’s theatrical. When I throw up it sounds like a Tyrannosaurus Rex throwing up a cow that’s giving birth to a porcupine. So perhaps, for literary purposes, the best way to describe the act of me throwing up should be the word “Trexowpine!” as in, I hovered over the toilet bowl, opened my mouth, and Trexowpine! Ok, now that that’s settled, let’s get to the story.

            I get home from work and it feels like there’s a reenactment of the “Rumble in the Jungle” inside my stomach. And not just the boxing match, not just Muhammad Ali rope-a-doping George Forman, but also the 60,000 screaming fans in attendance, yelling, and clapping, and jumping up and down. I hurry to the bathroom and Trexowpine!

            “I think I have food poisoning,” I tell Katelin.

            “It’s probably just heat stroke.”

            “No, I’m pretty sure…Trexowpine!...it’s food poisoning.”

            “Well, what did you eat?”

            “I had the leftover shrimp for dinner last night.”

            “Oh, yes, it’s definitely from the shrimp. That’s why I don’t eat shellfish,” she states, a-matter-of-factly.

            “I think I’m going to die,” I say as I make my way from the bathroom to the couch.

            “Oh stop. You just have ‘man’ cold.”

            “I don’t have ‘man’ cold. I have food poisoning.”

            “Well, then you have ‘man’ food poisoning. Quit being such a baby,” she says as I stumble back to the bathroom and sit on the toilet seat. Number2! (Do I need to go into further detail? I didn’t think so.)

            “Google says to drink ginger tea and apple cider vinegar,” she says as she sets two glasses down on the coffee table.”

            I take a sip of the ginger tea. Trexowpine! I take a sip of the apple cider vinegar. Number2! “I can’t do it,” I say. “They’re both disgusting.” Trexowpine and Number2!

            “Quit being a baby and just drink them. They’ll make you feel better.”

            “I can’t do it.” Trexowpine!

            “Well, I’m going to bed. Are you coming?”

            “No. I’m just going to stay on the couch.”

            Five minutes go by. Katelin comes out of the bedroom. “I don’t feel well,” she says as she hurries into the bathroom.

Now, Katelin’s act of vomiting doesn’t sound quite like mine. It’s a bit softer and less dramatic, like a feline coughing up a bowl of hairball stew. Let’s call it “Feliballew!”

            I grab the garbage can out of the kitchen and set it next to the couch. Trexowpine! Katelin kneels on the bathroom floor. Feliballew!

            “Luckily you didn’t eat the shrimp,” I say.

            “Why is this happening to us?” she asks. “What did we eat to deserve this?” Feliballew!

            “Taco Bell,” I reply. “Taco Bell is the only thing that we both ate.” Trexowpine!

            “Does that mean we can never eat Taco Bell again?” Feliballew!

            “It does.” Trexowpine!

            “But I love Taco Bell.” Feliballew!

            “Drink some ginger tea,” I say. “Have some apple cider vinegar.”

            “I can’t do it.”

            “Quit being a baby. It’ll make you feel better.” Trexowpine!

            “Screw you!” Feliballew! “I’ve never been so sick in my life. I wouldn’t wish this on my worst enemy.”

            “I would.” Trexowpine! “I wish this on Tom Brady. I wish an eternity of this on him.”

            “Oh shit!” Number2! “We’re out of toilet paper.”

            “This is going to be a long night.” Trexowpine!

            It’s a long night. I can’t sleep. I chug water and then I Trexowpine! it up, over and over again. Maybe I can flush the poison out of my system. Water. Trexowpine! Water. Trexowpine! Water. Trexowpine!

            For twelve hours straight, I Trexowpine! For twelve hours straight, Katelin Feliballew!s We both have enough Number2!s to go through a roll of paper towels.

            It finally subsides. The Trexowpine!s stop. The Feliballew!’s stop. The Number2!s stop! But we still both feel like a couple of zombies who got run over by a tractor trailer. We make our way into bed. “If this is it what it feels like to kick heroin,” I say, “then I fully understand why nobody kicks heroin. If you offered me a needle full of anything right now, and told me that I would feel better if I injected it into my arm, I gladly would.”

            “Oh my God,” Katelin says, staring into her smart phone. “My grandma died this morning.”

            “I’m sorry, sweetie,” I say.

            An hour goes by. “Oh my God,” Katelin says, again staring into her smart phone. “Your grandma died this morning too.”

            “What are the chances of that?” I ask. “Maybe we were supposed to die, but they took our place instead.”

            Another hour goes by and I decide to venture to the drug store for some supplies. It’s only a quarter-mile away. I’ve run marathons, bicycled across the United States twice, and canoed the Mississippi River, yet the quarter mile to the drug store and back is the hardest journey I’ve ever taken.

            When I get home we sip on Pedialyte, eat chicken noodle soup and watch some movie where Liam Neeson kills people, because apparently that’s all Liam Neeson does these days.

            “Do you still love me?” Katelin asks.

            “Of course I do,” I answer. “Why wouldn’t I?”

            “Because you heard me being sick all night.”

            “If anything, I love you more than ever. Going through something like this only makes our love stronger.”

            “It does?”

            “It does. It’s just too bad we can never have sex again…”

           

           

           

            

If I Could Only Eat One Food... (A Poem)

If I could only eat one food for the rest of my days

I'd choose whipped sugar to satisfy my ways

It’s pink and it’s blue and shaped like a cloud

The kind you can find in any carnival crowd

And though one set of teeth is all that I’ve got

And I’m aware that my mouth will certainly rot

Not to mention my dentist won't be very happy

Luckily you don't need teeth to eat cotton candy

Facebook before the Internet

            The bell rang. The old man answered his front door to find two young men dressed in suits. “Excuse me sir, but if we could have just a moment of your time…”

            “I’m not buyin’!” The door slammed shut.

            Again the bell rang. Again the old man opened the door. “Did you not understand what I meant when I said I wasn’t buyin’?”

            “But that’s just the thing, sir, we’re not here to sell you anything. In fact, what we’re here to offer you is absolutely, one-hundred percent, free. Now, if you’ll give just a moment of your time, I guarantee that we will present you with something so amazing, so revolutionizing, so extraordinary, that it will be impossible for you to say ‘no’.”

            “Just a moment?”

            “Just a moment, sir, and then we’ll be on our way.”

            “Come in to the living room and have a seat.”

            The two men in suits followed the old man into the living room where they had a seat on the sofa. The old man sat across from them in an old rocking chair.

            “Sir,” the man on the left side of the sofa said, “my name is Mr. Zucker, and this here is my associate, Mr. Burg, and the extraordinary thing we are here to offer you is something we like to call Facebook. Now, sir, do you enjoy reading the newspaper?”

            “Well, I suppose I do.”

            “Then you’re going to absolutely love Facebook. Please, let me explain how it works.”

            The man on the left side of the sofa went on with his presentation while the old man sat patiently, nodding his head here and there, as if to say: Yes, I’m still following what you’re saying. When the presentation was over, nobody said anything for a minute. Finally, the old man broke the room’s silence. “So,” he said, “let’s see if I understand this correctly. You want me to give you all of my family photographs, all of my most private thoughts, and even my most cherished memories and you’re going to take all of these very personal things and share them with the world on a daily basis?”

            “Precisely,” the man on the right side of the sofa replied.

            “And you’re not going to charge me a dime?”

            “Our service is absolutely free and always will be.”

            “But then how do you make money?”

            The man on the right side of the sofa looked over to his associate on the left side of the sofa and smiled before returning his eyes towards the old man. “Let us worry about that, sir.”

            “Well,” the old man said as he stood up out of the rocking chair, “it all sounds good to me. Now, let me just go get some old photos to start out with.”

            “Wonderful!” said the man on the left side of the sofa.

            “Outstanding!” said the man on the right.

            The old man left the room. He returned a couple of minutes later with a double-barreled shotgun with which he put a bullet into each man sitting on his sofa. He then dragged their bodies behind his house and buried them in his backyard, right next to the bodies of the men from Twitter, Instagram, and the Mormon Church.