Friday, September 2, 2011

TGI Fridays

“So, how’s work?” I asked without looking. I flipped through my menu, trying to decide what to get. Southwestern Eggroll, maybe? They were good, but made me feel kinda touristy in my own country. Embarrassment's not a very good garnish.


“Good to hear,” I replied. Burger sliders? Or Chicken fingers? “How’s Cathy? You guys still together?”

Death pounded his massive gauntlets upon the table.


I looked up, my mind still on nachos. “When did you break up? You two seemed really good for each other?”


“Well at least you seem to be taking it well.” I said, “what were you thinking of getting? Because I’m kinda feeling like the chili, but the table next to us got the roast beef sandwich, and it smells pretty good.”


“What’s wrong,” I sighed. Death had been pissy the whole night, and I was pretty sure he was going to make me pay for the meal.


“Don’t bitch,” I said, “besides, whenever we go to longhorn you just ask to know the cow’s names.”

A waitress approached our table hesitantly. She was the blonde haired kind, still full of spunk before college. Her nametag said Lucy, and her head bobbled nervously as she walked. It was like being served drinks by a shivering puppy. This girl would be tipped well; it was almost unfair.

“Can I get you anything, or are you still deciding?” she asked. Her voice was a series of squeaks that had not yet become a melody. I tried to avoid looking at her chest, considering it a moral grey area.

“I’ll have the Fish and Chips,” I said, smiling. The waitress jotted it down hastily, muttering the words as she wrote.

“And you?” she asked, looking to Death. His titanic frame was totally still, and his form grew darker, as if he was consuming the shadows of the room.


I’m sorry?” the waitress asked, leaning in.


Lucy pulled back from the table, clutching her notepad like a crucifix. Her face was utterly blank. I tried to think of a way to make it look like Death was joking, but that would only egg him on.


Lucy squeaked.

“He’ll just have a steak with some curly fries” I said, and ushered Lucy away from our booth. As she bobbled away, Death boomed “FAREWELL LUCY, FEEDER OF MAN AND CROW ALIKE. I LOOK FOREWARD TO OUR NEXT MEETING AS MUCH AS MY ENTRÉE.

I waited until her blonde curls were out of the sight and turned to Death.

“If you were trying to pick up the waitress, I don’t think you’re doing it right.”

I THINK WE REALLY HIT IT OFF” said Death, belching green fire from his eyes.

“This is why we don’t hang out anymore.”

DON’T BE A DICK” Death said, and the booth next to us exploded into a cloud of ash. I sighed, walked over, and took what was left of their drinks.

Wednesday, July 20, 2011


In that moment, I knew two things. The first was that this was not my living room. This place was unfamiliar to me, completely alien. Also it was very dark, so I was prepared to invest in the possibility that I was in someone’s closet. The second was that I had done horrible, mean spirited things last night. Haunting things, the likes of which still echoed back at me even if there were no actual memories to base them on.

In fact, I only had one solid, dependable memory from that fever dream of a night. I recalled looking down at a bottle of vodka clutched in my hand. The other hand cradled a ball of pills roughly the size of a child’s prostate. I recalled thinking “what’s the worst that could happ-”

Then, darkness.

“Dan” my friend Zach asked, or more accurately moaned from the darkness. Through the spark of him lighting a cigarette I could make the outline of his gargantuan head rocking back and forth in the shadows. He’d been privy to the events of that night and the series of increasingly poor decisions that preceded it. It was extremely likely that he had taken a shit in a trash can earlier that night.

“Yeah?” I answered, my voice a hollow squeak, the sound of an emasculated squirrel.

“Where are we?” he asked. I looked around.

“Well, let’s work this out. I’m just gonna throw this out there, y’know, get the ball rolling: this place has a lot of shelves.”

“It really does” nodded Zach, “Just a shitload of them. I didn’t know you could have too many shelves, but this place does. You couldn’t possibly need this many things.”

“It’s like Prince’s shoe closet up in this bitch” I muttered, “what else?” Zach began flipping through the shelves.

“There’s a lot of medical stuff in here. Tubing, moth balls, bed pans, syringes…… Were we here to mainline something?”

I considered it. This was clearly a hospital, but I felt fine. The only reasonable alternative then was that here to pump something into my neck.

“Do you see windex here?”

“IIIIIIII do not, no.”

“Then no” I said. Zach put his hands on his hips.

“Well fuck me, why are we here?” I looked around, dumbfounded. Also, I was actively trying to not shit myself, but mostly I was looking around. Zach found and flipped the light switch, and a few things happened.

1. I contemplated biting out Zachs’ trachea because screw me with a cat toy I was hung over. Whole new level. It was like some had boned the hell out of my frontal lobe, and hadn’t had the decency to pull out. Needless to say, the light hurt.

2. I figured out where we were. As stated before, someone had clearly knocked up my brain, but it turned out to not be such a bad thing, because we were in an abortion clinic. I was looking at a vacuum clearly designed to be jammed inside a woman.

3. Something much bigger than me let out the exact sound of me and everyone I know dying. I didn’t know that could be a sound before, but it could and it was right behind me. Literally, right there.

Zach turned around first because, and I cannot emphasize this enough, I am a pussy.

“There is a walrus behind us. Only, like a fucked up one. It is a fucked up a walrus.” I turned around now, because the desire to call my friend on his bullshit overrode all my instincts towards survival.

“If by walrus, you mean something other than a walrus, then you are correct.” He looked at me, confused and hurt. It was fantastic.

“That’s not a walrus. It’s a bull seal. Or possibly an elephant seal. Maybe even a bull elephant seal. I’m not totally prepared to take that off the table. Regardless, you’re wrong, very wrong, and should feel bad about it. You’ve shamed your father and made us all weaker with your ignorance.”

“Oh,” said Zach. “What’s the difference.”

“It’s like a walrus, but not. And it’s very bull like. Also there's some elephant in there. And it hates you, because there’s a big, floppy bag of fat stuck to the front of its face. That’s where it stores it’s hate. In the face fat.”

“So its like the John McCain of the animal kingdom.”

“Hyoooooo!” I shouted, “but no, seriously, we’re in very grave danger. “

“Right, right. So, did we steal this thing, or what?”

“Probably. Also, I guess we went to the zoo at some point. I’m kinda mad we can’t remember that.” In my head I reviewed possible reasons for our current predicament. Why was I getting this animal an abortion? Was this many-beast pregnant? Who was the father? Was it me? If it was, then well played drunk-me, well played. Our child would have inevitably been some sort of abomination, and as a father I would have been emotionally unavailable. This was the right thing to do.

“I don’t think it’s yours” said Zach, quite possibly reading my mind.

“It’s a boy seal. Don’t ask me how I know. Also it looks like we carved the word vengeance into the side of it. “

“That’s probably why it’s so mad!” I shouted.

“That’s right Scooby, that’s probably why it’s so mad. Anyway, I guess we were trying to get revenge on the seal? Or something like that, I don’t know.”

I looked at the animal, you know, really looked at it. As it foamed at the mouth, roared wildly, and blasted what I can only imagine to be feces about the closet, I realized what a beautiful creature this animal was. Powerful, yet majestic. Like the ocean itself. Even at my most vile, in the darkest corridors of my pitiful, ugly life, I could never declare a vendetta on such a beast. I didn’t have it in me. Also, this animal was wasted. Like holy shit, you think a sea monster would be able to handle its liquor. Jesus.

“No. Absolutely not.” I said, proud of myself.

“Alright, well in that case, the vengeance must mean that...."

“We were trying to transform it into a machine of cold hearted murder!” We both said in unison. We stood there for a second, smiling.

"Revenge is a dish best served via sea mammal."

“But if we wanted to train this thing to kill people for us, and I think we can say with all certainty that we did, then we would have to give this animal the blood lust. It would have to not only hate, but hunger. Hunger for hearts of our victims, the faces and lungs of our enemies.”

“Right, yeah. We would have to give it a craving for human flesh. And not just any flesh, but the freshest, most pure of it. Of course.”

“Yeah, so then why would we have come to an abortion cliniiiiioooOOOOLY SHIT WE’VE COME FULL CIRCLE.”

Silence. I knew it. Zach knew it. But neither of us wanted to give it that power, that heft of word. It was too severe for us. Luckily, I have no problems writing it: we had been feeding this seal abortions. Little baby fetuses. There it is. Really no big deal when you absolutely refuse to think about it.

Honestly, I only had one issue with the situation; we had absolutely no method of controlling this thing, or getting it to murder Zach’s ex girlfriend for that matter. It knew no fear, no forgiveness, only hatred and pain. I would be feeling something akin to fatherly pride, if not for the fact that my surrogate son was barreling down at me, bloated with the goo of many-child. Zach asked me what we should do. With the bravery of Patton and the decisive nature of Napoleon, I assumed the most basic and primal of combat strategies; I ran the shit away. Zach followed. Then, we tried to burn the place down, got frustrated, and just peed on it a little.

As we walked off into the dawn, Zach turned to me and asked

“What will we do when people find out about this?”

“Simple,” I said, “we’re going to lie. To our families, our friends, and to the police. We’re going to lie like the shallow, gutless men that we are. Right through our goddamn teeth.”

“Awesome” said Zach with a grin, and we were off into the day, with the wind at our backs, and the knowledge that everything would be okay.

I sat back in my chair, smoking a cigarette that no one had offered me and I was quite frankly not allowed to have. I was also smoking it backwards, huffing lungful of mostly filter, but by the time I’d noticed it was too late to stop. I was riding this cigarette all the way to hell. The police stared at me with a cold, unwavering silence.

“You realize you just told us that entire story,” asked officer Mancuso, who was fat. Just picture a fat cop, and you’ve got a pretty accurate mental picture.

“Yup” I said, feeling like a badass. This was like the Usual Suspects or some shit.

“It’s…. pretty common procedure that when you lie to the cops you don’t tell the story of what you did along with your decision to lie. That’s not really something people do. Because we are cops" said detective Redding, who looked like a man have a seizure in slow motion.

“Right right,” I said, keeping my cool, much like a badass would, “Well, while we’re handing out constructive criticism, your good cop bad cop routine could use work.”

“I keep telling you, we’re not doing a routine,” said Mancuso, “We both just fucking hate you.”

“That seal ruined the planned parenthood you idiots left it in,” continued Redding, “It took our officers 47 bullets to put it down. We counted, because each one of them was heart breaking. It was like shooting Forrest Gump, and every time it leaked blood and baby everywhere. Our entire department is in a horrible depression, and one of the officers has gone or record saying that the event ruined his marriage.”

“Of course” I said, putting out my cigarette badassedly. “So do you want me to flip on Zach, or what? Because I can do that. I’m pretty sure he’s on meth or something.”

“No, he talked too. Almost immediately. You’re both going to jail. Pretty much forever.”

Friday, June 10, 2011


A little something I wrote for fun. A little bit more serious than most of my stuff, but whatever. It's rough (written exclusively at three a.m.) so I'm hoping for a little feedback. Be brutal internet.

“Tell me about Carl.”


“Yeah, Carl. I’ve heard about the guy. Tell me about him, he sounds interesting.”

“There’s not really much to tell.”


“It’s true! He’s just a guy. A friend.”

“He’s a crazy friend, that’s what I hear.”

“Who told you that?”

“Does it matter?”

“It does if I want to know whose spreading these baseless lies about a good friend.”

“Can’t say. Sworn to secrecy.”

“On what penalty?”

“Death. It was all very serious. So Carl’s not crazy then?”

“Sane as you or me.”



“Huh. How boring.”

The jingling of ice on glass.

“This person, did they tell you any stories about Carl? Why he’s so crazy?”

“Just one.”

“Can you tell me? Or is that sworn to secrecy too?”

A stool shifts.

“I heard that Carl likes to read in his apartment a lot. Just sits in the living room and reads--”

“That sounds pretty sane to me.”

“I’m not done. I’m not even through the first sentence.”


“So anyway, he sits by the phone and reads, and waits for calls. Apparently he gets a lot of wrong numbers, because he’s got a common number, like 5555 or something. And when he gets one, he answers it and talks to the person.”

“about what?”

“Their day and stuff, I guess. Nothing specific.”


“And anyway, Carls sitting in his living room one day, and he gets a call, another wrong number. Only when he picks up, the voice on the other end asks him to release the hostages.”


“the way I hear it, there was some hostage crisis at the hotel down the street. Some guy tries to rob it and the cops show up, so he takes like 12 hostages at gun point. But when the cops tried to call, they dialed 5555 instead of 5455, and they got Carl. And Carl, real calm, asks if the policeman-“

“Hostage negotiator.”


“It wouldn’t just be a random cop, it would have been a hostage negotiator. The kind of guy trained to talk to nutjobs.”

“Right, whatever. Anyway, Carls ask the hostage negotiator if he could call back in ten minutes later. And the guy on the other end starts stammering and stuff and says sure.”

“The poor guy probably though he’d just gotten someone shot.”

“Exactly! So when he calls back in ten minutes, the cops are ready to give anything; gold, a helicopter ride to Bolivia, whatever. They just don’t want anymore bloodshed. And keep in mind, the robber's still sitting in the hotel with a siege of cops outside waiting for the phone to ring. And the cop asks Carl what his demands are and Carl says beanie babies.”

“Beanie Babies?”

“Little stuffed animals. Kids play with them and sad people collect them. And Carl tell’s the cops, he wants the front door flooded with them. To hook up garbage chute to the front of the hotel and just pump them in. And the cops ask why, and Carl threatens to kill a hostage, and then hangs up.”

“But he doesn’t have any.”

“Yeah, but the police don’t know that! They think they’re talking to the hotel robber, who’s turning out to be a raving lunatic. So they get a shit ton of beanie babies from god knows where, and they start shipping them in to the building.”

“How’d the robber take this?”

“He was scared shitless. He gets the silent treatment for 45 minutes now, and suddenly the police start hurling teddy bears at him. He though the things were full of tear gas or something. Comes right out with his hands up screaming.”

“Huh. Sort of saved the day, didn’t he?”

“From the sound of it, yeah.”

“You believe it?”

“I don’t really care if I do; I like the story, and I like the sound of Carl.”

“That’s good to hear.”

“Is it?”


“Is it true?”

“I thought you didn’t care if it was true.”

“No, but I want it to be.”

A chuckling.

“Its hard to tell, with Carl. Facts don’t really stick to that guy.”

“Wow, copout answer.”

“Afraid so.”

“So how’s this Carl friend doing. Still sane?”

“He’s sane. He’s not doing so well, but he’s sane.”

“Why not?”

“He tried to kill himself last week.”

“Holy shit. Why?”

“Not sure. All I know is that he walked into the military base downtown wearing a trench coat and a fake beard. He went up to a group of soldiers and whips open the trench coat screaming “Allahua Ackbar” or something like that.”

“Oh my god.”

“I guess he was trying to get himself shot.”

“They didn’t?”

“Nope. Carls keeps telling people they didn't shoot because he’s white. But I hear he messed up the yell.”

“What did he yell instead?”

“The name of the slug guy from Star Wars.”

“Admiral Ackbar?”

“Yeah that one. I think he watched the third movie the night before or something.”

“See now, that’s crazy.”

“I don’t see how. That all seems perfectly sane to me.”

Shoes clicking, chewed ice cubes.

“You wanna get out of here?”

Monday, April 4, 2011


I'm going to be one hell of a father:

Daughter: Daddy?

Me: (poking my head into her room) Yeah sweetie? What’s wrong?

Daughter: (Embarrassed) I…. its dark in here. I think there’s monster. Can I have my night light back?

Me: (Chuckling) Well where do you think the monsters are?

Daughter: (pulling the covers up over her face) in the closet. In the corner behind my dresser. (Whispers) under the bed.

Me: Honey, I want you to listen to me very closely.

(I hug her reassuringly)

Me: Hiding in the darkness is for pussies, sweetie.

Daughter: What?

Me: You’re a 90 pound child, honey. You barely have enough muscle mass to lift an old tire, and you get emotionally upset watching old reruns of Pokemon. Any creature that would hide from you isn’t worth the time it would take to imagine it. That monster under your bed, the one you’re so afraid of? Daddy could snap him like a fucking twig, baby. I will throw him in a full nelson and shove his goofy ass back into whatever pixar movie he crawled out of. All your monsters are gaywads, sweetie.

Daughter: But-

Me: Now a real monster, Daddy’s monsters, they run at you in broad fucking daylight, shrieking to high hell and smelling like they just crawled out of a Vietnam flashback. They look like John Carpenters wet dream, with more rows of teeth than you have ideas in your head, and a huge, jagged erection that only goes away when they murder everything you’ve ever loved. Those monster will eat your children before you’ve even started ovulating, sweetie. And they’re everywhere, because unlike these punk ass monsters under your bed, they don’t need to hide. Do you know why? Because they’re fucking killing machines.

Daughter: O-okay.

Me: Now: do you still need that night light, or would you rather continue living in blissful ignorance of the horrors around you?

Daughter: (looking up) I’m okay daddy.

Me: (kissing forehead) I know you are.

(I begin to leave)

Me: And when do daddy’s monsters come for you, sweetie?

Daughter: Whenever mommy tries to leave daddy?

Me: that’s my girl.

Saturday, March 19, 2011

127 hours

Actual Scene from 127 Hours:
James Frankos inner monologue: Holy shit, I've been trapped in this cave for almost 110 hours, with my rock pinned against my right arm! I have nothing to entertain me but this video of two semi naked girls flirting with me, but I can't masturbate or else it'll waste precious bodily resources! Now, about cutting my arm off-"

How that would go for any of us-

Literally any other man: Shit, I've been down here for like two hours. I should jerk it.

Friday, November 5, 2010

The hobo Chronicles

A common misconception is that to become homeless you have to suffer some horrible tragedy; war, mental illness, or financial ruin. That’s not true: it turns out that all it takes is accidentally tipping this month’s rent while trying to pick up the waitress at a hoagie place. In my defense, she was pretty hot, a period and a comma look exactly the same after 2 margaritas, and no I didn’t get her number.

But as they always say, when god closes a door he opens a window. I don’t really know what god opens when he takes your fucking apartment, but I’m hoping it’s nicer than an overpass. I’ve decided to make lemonade (don’t ask what kind) and record my exploits as a recent member of the homeless people so that future generations can…. Learn from it I guess.

Day 1:

Okay, I kinda meant for this to start couple weeks from now when I actually got evicted, or at least after I told my landlord. But none of my douchebag friends will give me a ride home, I guess this “Tony Luke’s Cheese steaks” parking lot is my home now.

But you know what? I’m going to remain annoyingly optimistic about all this. This’ll just help my report. I’m not gonna be the pussy hipster kinda homeless guy that lives in his car and couch surfs. I’m gonna be the all American hobo. Knapsacks tied to sticks, beans eaten out of cans, and a series of secret codes to tell other ho-folks which houses don’t lock their doors at night. I’ve got an overpass to sleep under, a dumpster that is either full of or barely contains food depending on my standards that day, and a hooker that may or may not be alive. I’m feeling good about this.

Day 2:

Okay, being homeless has a bit of a learning curve. And I mean in the sense where the school is really competitive and one of the honors students stabs you in the shoulder while guarding a half eaten ham.

Turns out life isn’t a Norman Rockwell painting, and the hobo code doesn’t actually exist. I guess there’s no honor among people tripping on meth who think that you’re the ghost of their dead grandmother. Who’da thunk it.

On a slightly brighter note, I’m really starting to get used to my new living situation. I shimmied up one of the overpass support beams to escape a pack of surly prostitutes, and found a rich buffet of unsuspecting pigeons, fat, happy, and unsuspecting, like some kind of mystical sky Wisconsin. They were delicious. I’m really starting to like my new place. I stole a dog bed to sleep in, and wrote “stay away” all over the parking lot in some of my knife blood. The bathroom, or lack thereof, was kind of an issue at first, but I solved that eventually. It turns out people are actually pretty okay with you using their cars, if you use a very loose definition of “okay”. Also, the excitement of a car alarm going off actually helps get things moving.

Lets chalk it up: I’ve got shelter, a steady food, a place to shit, and a makeshift security system. It’s what, day two? And I’ve already got a better living situation than most people in New York. Suck it.

Day 4:

Today I declared war on a small fleet of stray cats. For too long, they have encroached on my territory and stolen my women. Emboldened by their fierce leader, who I have named “Snowball”, their attacks have grown increasingly vicious. Also he smelled my anus and reacted poorly when I returned the favor. The time for negotiations has ended. Blood has been drawn (cat blood, though some of mine was in there too) and I the time has come to unleash the cats of war.

I have gathered a military composed of family, co-workers, and people who used to be okay with being referred to as my friends. Their loyalty was bought by a bag of salvaged donuts and a few well placed abductions. Tommorow, we attack their encampment behind the Denny’s on Oregon st. To War!

Day 5:

The attack was a disaster. We suffered massive casualties. Side note: I do not know how to work a Molotov cocktail; Don was totally right about that. God, I’m going to miss the half of him that I didn’t burn off.

But life goes on. Kinda. I have discovered two friends that will remain with me for the rest of my life. The first is a family of raccoons that was attracted by the fish smell emanating from my knife wound. It’s a modest family, but they have adopted me into it almost immediately after I suckled at the mothers’ teat. The father is like the one I never had, his son is like the brother I had but he stopped returning my calls. Their friendship has melted my cold heart and taught me the meaning of love. The second is crack cocaine. I think I like that friend better.

Also Day 5:

Hihowyadoin? I- what? Hey! HEY! That’s not yours Franky! FRANKY! I SWEAR TO- huh? Oh yeah, I ate the raccoons. Why?

Day 6:

Fucking…. Cracks gone. There’s…. none left. Also, Franky took my jeans. I don’t…. I don’t want to do this anymore…… I don’t want to not do crack anymore.

Day 8:

Dan Ludwig! Bouncing back! Technically off drugs! Still homeless! Yeah!

Okay, status update; I had to burn down my hobo cave. Which I guess means I burned down an overpass, bus who’s keeping track. The point is, I’m free! Wind at my back! Testicles blatantly hanging out!

Snowball and his gang had finally moved into my parking lot, forming some sort of biker gang. They’d been getting in my face a little bit, especially after I started moving in on Snowballs woman. So now it’s time to move on. I’m going to wander the streets of Philadelphia! Drink in the culture! This is the city of brotherly love- I shouldn’t be cowering in a overpass; I should be out among the people enjoying the shared human experience. I think I’m gonna swing by the middle school and try to use my rugged hobo charm to get some action.

Day 9:

What did I say? City of brotherly love! At first, yeah I’ll admit it, things weren’t looking so hot. The women (if you squint a little) of the middle school were somewhat off put by my knife would, which had scabbed over and festered into a horrific shoulder vagina, and the school’s health services promptly opened fire on me.

Luckily, in my flight, I encountered a large black man who I can only assume was a doctor because he gave me a fistful of pills. Or not so much a fistful as a clump, or even more accurately, a wad. He was wearing this awesome fuzzy tophat, and had this really sick cane with the handle carved into the shape of a tit. I can only assume that this is how doctors dress when they are also black people. God, that race gets all the fun. He assured me that the pills would help with my wound, and I didn’t question him because he was giving me free pills. He didn’t say what they were called, but I’m going to go out on a limb and say that its 3 milligrams of fucking magic.

13 pages of illegible handwriting, most of which seems to be doodles of giraffes and penisis.

Day 15:

All in all, mediocre day. My new friend Otis told me to show people on the subway my penis, but they did not react as favorably as he’d led me to believe. I wouldn’t listen to him, but he is extremely persuasive, as least as far as talking dogs go. Also new development: My grandpas apparently decided to visit Philly. My enthusiasm for his visit somewhat declined when I realized that he now had the face of a clown and insistently masturbated wherever we went. Also, I’m fair certain my grampas been dead for like, seven years. I’m fairly certain he is a Nazi.

Still possessed by the devil by the way. Not sure how many more of these pills I have to take before that crap stops.

Day Infinity:

They say home is where the heart is. Does that count if you stole the heart from a hospital?

Tuesday, September 7, 2010

If I was There: Ferris Bueller's Day Off

After being convinced to steal his crazy dads prized Ferrari by his best friend, Cameron freaks out and kicks it out of their garage, which is inexplicably both made of glass and hanging off a cliff. It plunges off a cliff and is utterly destroyed.

Ferris: Oh my god Cameron… Ok, Ok, I’ll take the blame for this, alright? I’ll stay here, and tell your dad what happened. I’ll get in trouble, but-

Cameron: No Ferris.

Ferris: Cameron, you don’t want this kind of heat.

Cameron: No, I did. If I hadn’t wanted this heat, I wouldn’t have let you take the car out.

Ferris looks incredulous, but impressed.

Cameron: I could have stopped you-it is possible to stop the great Ferris Bueller. My whole life, my father’s loved that car more than me. He’s raised me like a museum exhibit, and because of him I can’t relate to people or deal with stress. When he gets back (smiling) my dad and I will just have a little “chat”.

Ferris and Sloan smile, and leave with the feeling that Cameron’s going to be alright.

Ferris: Sloan, I’m going to marry-

Me: You realize that by “chat”, he means “murder”, right? He’s going to murder his dad.

Ferris: (Pause) I don’t-

Me: He is blatantly unstable right now. You watched him flip out at the New York stock exchange. He pretended to drown ten seconds ago. He convinced you that he was in a coma so he could watch your girlfriend undress. He just kicked a car out a window right in front of you. You just watch a kid reenact that whole "mother lifts a car to save her child" scenario, only instead of love, he's motivated by rage and childhood neglect. His dad is going to come home, and Cameron is going to stab his face off.

Sloan: Hey, listen-

Me: Then he's going to have sex with it.

Ferris: I….

Me: But by all means, focus on proposing to your slutty high school girlfriend. That scenario always works out great.