Help me!

Oh sweet lord, please help me up!

I’m old and I’ve fallen down and I’m afraid I may have shattered my pelvis on the cold, unforgiving tile of this floor! And I’m missing the beginning of Survivor!

No doubt they’ll find me here in a few days, stuck to this floor like a squashed bug, once the smell grows strong enough to overpower my neighbor Gladys and her hellish brood of cats. Then some nice orderlies will come in and roll me onto a stretcher, my pissed pant-suit long since gone bitterly dry and packed with the pea-green product of my evacuated bowels. And they’ll have a good laugh at poor old me, lying dead on the floor with no idea how this season’s exciting Survivor midseason finale shaped up, the cold glint of unknowing flecked within my glassy eyes!

How cruel to live a life with no finale! Eighty-seven years and Edith Walker is cancelled to make way for a midseason replacement. How sad to live such an anticlimactic life. If only I could have waited another fifty-four minutes before taking my catastrophic tumble, I could have died a fulfilled woman!

I’m afraid I’ll never get to see which of those nice young men ate the rat testicles.

Alas, I keep beating my cane on the floor, hoping to thwart my Survivor-missing fate, but I don’t think Mr. Humphreys downstairs has even noticed. Probably too busy watching Survivor, absorbed in its midseason-ending magnificence. I can just imagine it. Eliza dancing a celebratory dance as Twila is voted off the island. Oh, no sense in torturing myself; the show’s nearly half-over now. But by some cruel fate I’ve fallen within view of the bathroom clock, so I know by the minute just how much of my precious Survivor has ticked away.

Maybe if I press my ear closer against the floor I can overhear some of the show on Mr. Humphreys’ television. Hmm. Nothing but muffled voices. It doesn’t even sound like Survivor. Hard to be certain, but this isn’t much like how the show sounded the episode after I’d dropped my hearing aid in the toilet. What could that old fool be watching? I bet it’s Murder, She Wrote. I’m afraid I’ve long overestimated Mr. Humphreys, that tasteless old fart.

If only I’d thought to set up a series of mirrors in the hallway so I could see the television from the bedroom floor! That oversight seems foolish in retrospect. As well as ever turning off the TV in the first place. You never know what can happen right before Survivor, putting the TV knob cruelly out of reach! I should have thought to just turn my hearing aid off—that’s like having a remote control with me all the time, and one that works through walls and around corners even if you’re laid out on the bedroom floor like a pancake on the griddle.

Oh, how foolish I’ve been. What a foolish, wasted life. Hopefully the next old bag that takes my place in this apartment will learn from my cautionary tale and never turn off the television, lest she pick an inconvenient time to be voted off the island of life!

Oh, my. Is that a rat? Well, at least I won’t starve to death.

Christmas is Cancelled Due to Lack of Interest
So for all you inconsiderate ingrates out there, consider yourselves the reason there’s no Christmas. All this talk about a year without a Santa Claus irks me something fierce. You want it? You got it.

Man, That Clown Kicked My Ass
Normally when I’m getting my dork kicked in, eventually my pathetic screams are enough to make the assailant lay off for a sec, at least long enough for me to grab the fender of a passing car and be dragged to safety. But not this clown. That dude was enjoying this shit.

I Promised to Stop Smoking Crack
It’s just like you to twist my words around. I think I’d remember, in the midst of all that automobile wreckage, whilst the paramedics were sweeping the windshield glass out of your eyes and the neighborhood was awash in a sea of swirling lights and sirens, if I had promised to stop using crack entirely. Please, that doesn’t even sound like me.

I, Robot Builder
The idea came to me while smoking pure PCP out of a trumpet I found in the trash, and watching that futuristic movie where Will Smith hunts down robots while wearing old school Converse sneakers. Now, I don’t know if you’ve ever worn a pair of those, but whether you have or not, take it from me: They suck fuckin’ whale dork.