It’s fairly common for a person to have an inner monologue- that mental voice through which we come about our decisions and form coherent, reasonable thought. I have one of those, and it thinks I’m a fucking idiot.
Me: Hey John?
Me: You’re taking care of your niece this weekend, right?
John: Yeah , Suzy- I got to watch her while her mom’s in Vegas; Little brat driving me nuts. Why?
Me: Well, I was thinking maybe I could take care of her for you for a little while- I’m good with kids. I could give you a break.
John: [holding out Suzy] Oh man, that would be aweso- wait. You’re an asshole.
Me: Ok, that’s kinda mean. I mean, here I am offering to take care of this kid for you and-
John: No I mean you never do shit like this. Why are you offering to take care of Suzy for me?
My Brain: Ok, you got this- just lie.
Me: I’m thirty feet tall and I don’t get an erection from the movie Shrek.
My Brain: No, god dammit; lie about the kid. Just look him in the eye, and whatever you do, don’t say the words “Baby Cannon”.
Me: I am….
My Brain: Good, keep going.
Me: Building ….
My Brain: Wait, no, stop!
My Brain: Don’t you say baby cannon, you son of a bitch. We’ve worked too hard for you to fuck this up now!
My Brain: Don’t you dare.
My: Great. Good job; no, really, that was an awesome save.
John: [pulls Suzy away] No. and you’re not allowed near our house anymore.
My Brain: alright, be cool. You can talk your way out of this. Now, you’ve called this guy black, and to the best of your knowledge he is black, but for some reason he seems pissed about it. It’s okay. Just, say something to calm him down.
Me: I really like Morgan Freeman.
Black guy: [cold, unwavering silence]
My Brain: Well that didn’t work.
Me: And I’ve seen “Malcolm X” like, 30 times.
My Brain: is it not okay for white people to say “Black” anymore? I thought that was okay now. Are we supposed to say African American again? I thought that was only old people who had to say that. Maybe its colored- that could be it.
Me: I don’t think colored is okay. I’m pretty sure that’s horribly offensive still.
Black guy: The fuck did you just say?
My Brain: oh shit, did you say that out loud? Fuck, you have to do something. Quick compliment him- shit, he looks like he’s about to hit you. He’s flexing and everything. Oh man, he looks strong; he probably lifts, like, two hundred pounds at a time. You could compliment him on that! Or his clothes- that a really nice shirt! What is that, cotton? Do they still make cotton shirts, or did that end in colonial times? Wait, are you still not talking? Fucking say something man!
Me: You….. look like…. You could lift…. A lot of.. cotton... back in colonial times.
Black guy: [The same silence, only now with a little more “murder” in it]
My Brain: Oh my god, he’s going to kill you.
Me: I uh, really like your tattoo. Did you get it in prison?
My Brain: alright, I’m leaving before the concussion. When he hits you, try to go fetal.
Me: Okay thanks.
My Brain: alright, Dan?
My Brain: I want you to stop for a second- can you do that? Just, put down the lighter.
Me: Okay. What’s up?
My Brain: What the hell are you doing?
Me: I’m, uh….
My Brain: Here, I’ll give you a hint; you’re in roller skates, standing at the top of a slide. At the bottom of that slide is a plastic ramp that your mom gave you when you were 9 and she thought you were going to learn how to skateboard or do something else cool like that, and after that is an old slip and slide that you’ve somehow transformed into a crude loop-de-loop. After that is what looks like a couch covered in tanks of gasoline. You’re holding a lighter, and you’ve doused yourself with lighter fluid. Is this ringing any bells Dan?
Me: um, yeah. Yeah, it is.
My Brain: Alright, good. Next question; what the fuck are you trying to accomplish?
Me: I’m pretty sure I’m doing this to impress women.
My Brain: okay, that kind of makes sense, in a retarded sort of way. Only problem is that there aren’t any women here. This is an elementary school playground.
Me: I was kinda hoping that some would see from the road or something. Do you think some of the elementary school girls will be impressed?
My Brain: Maybe, but that’s really not anything you can work with without going to prison. You realize you’re about to die in, like, 40 different ways, right?
Me: I think I’ll be okay.
My Brain: You don’t even know how to roller skate, and as far as I know, you’re not flame retardant, although that honestly wouldn’t surprise me with the amount of asbestos you eat.
Me: I stopped paying attention half way through that sentence and started thinking about Crepes'.
My Brain: Of course you did.
Me: We should-
My Brain: Shut up,we're not getting fucking crepes' after this. Why aren’t you afraid right now?
My Brain: you know, Fear; that bad feeling that’s kept you from accomplishing anything with your life or getting within 500 feet of a midget.
Me: oh that. I huffed a lot of paint before doing this.
My Brain: I figured. But I need you to pay extra special attention. Okay?
My Brain: now, I’m not going to lie; I’ve tried to kill you a few times in the past. I thought it was the noble thing to do, seeing as I’m pretty sure you’re going to be responsible for the end of the world.
Me: of course.
My Brain: But that was before we discovered deep fried Twinkies. Now I have reason to live. I’d let you do this, shit I’d record you doing this, but were both in here. So I need you to take off the roller skates, and slowly back away from the slide.
Me: yeah, I’m not doing that. I don’t want to look like a pussy.
My Brain: In front of who? There’s no one here!
Me: Too late.
I then promptly descend my flaming one man roller coaster. I miraculously survive, but in the process set a large group of orphans on fire. Technically, no one is harmed because orphans aren’t real people.