Meet Mr. J, a mouth-breathing-barbaric-lousy-writer so self involved that he failed Astronomy 101 because he literally thinks the world revolves around him.
In consequence, Mr.J is to language what hemlock is to Socrates, what Pontius Pilate is to Christ, what Harvey Lee Oswald is to JFK, and what Rush Limbaugh is to credibility of Rush Limbaugh.
Incidentally, Mr.J tergiversatingly-types-top-ten-tips-totally-to see if you too are an Aerosol Spray Can causing global warming on our Proverbial Planet Populated Preponderantly by a Parade of Pompous Populations, Pretentious Postulations, & Precipitiously Pedantic Pontifications as it orbits in our Semantically-Snobbish-Syntax-Solar-System of our Grammatical-Galaxy:
1) -You think “Barnes & Noble” is a description of a fancy farm.
2) -Spell check has no suggestions other than “Don’t expect people to read this.”
3) -Your favorite author is a guy named Cliff Notes.
4) -You think sweat shops make deodorant.
5) -You never order a Caesar Salad because you’re afraid a Brutus and Claudius Salad will stab it to death.
6) -Someone said, “I’m watching Ripley’s Believe It or Not.” And you reply, “I believe it.”
7) -You think Olive Garden should open an adoption agency because when you’re there you’re family.
8) -In your mind, Books for dummies describe all books.
9) -You can only speed read with books on audio aka press fast forward and use your book mark aka pause button.
10) -Face book is the only book you’ve ever read.
However, this particular story is not about Mr.J. No, instead it’s about a murder of his closest friend who of course in Mr.J’s case was a stranger. His friend’s name is M.T. Jester, a fuzzy fellow who could be the love child of Chewbacca and Sasquatch, making Repunzle on Rogaine look like Lex Luther after a fresh shave.
Let’s rewind to where it all began, last Tuesday. Its a crisp calm night, as the velvet twilight glistens and gleams from sparkling silver pepper stars sprinkled across the powdery air of the black tarp hovering overhead restlessly. And M.T. Jester is busy looking for his new nickle plated shovel so he could clear a space in his yard for a glow-n-dark sundial that he trusted as if it was Pinochio on a polygraph.
Suddenly a stealthy silhouette wavers through the shadows. Sneakingly the silhouette emerges clutching the missing titanium shovel in his nervous hands that are quivering rapidly and shaking violently like Michael J. Fox playing a game of Jenga, erasing an etcha sketch, and asking questions with a Magic 8 ball during an earthquake.
The mysterious figure strikes M.T. Jester’s cranium, cracking completely open as if its a pinata full of dark rose colored blood, gushing in a flood like that classic scene where the elevator doors open from Stanley Kubrik’s film, ‘The Shinning’.
Exactly one week later on the subsequent Tuesday, M.T. Jester lies on his death bed, pale as a winter moon. He’s forcing an awkward smile before sinking into the unknown abyss of afterlife but in his mind he’s consumed with regret as he winces an apologetic mantra eliciting his inner concious to hear the phrase, “I’m sorry” more than Sarah Palin competing on a celeberty edition of “Are you smarter than a 5th Grader?”
As death lurks nearby it seems almost as if a heightened sense of M.T. Jester’s sparse source of mortality is plunging over the ragged edge of the universe that was once crimson lit full of youth giving air. More reminiscence overwhelms M.T.Jester with memories of when he was 18 and lost his virginity followed by memories of being 19 and realizing he didn’t lose it but simply misplaced it between his low self esteem and social awkwardness. And lastly followed by memories of being 20 and realizing his virginity was now like a shadow: Not only would it follow him everywhere but his only shot at getting rid of it would be in a very very dark room.
Eventually everything surrounding M.T. Jester becomes sinisterly desolate dreary and dark. His universe is becoming cold lifeless and absent of all short winded elations. Eyes closed so tight as he grasps at insignificant concepts for comfort. Turning over in his mind how he displayed such amorous feelings towards day-light savings time because he loved jet lag without packing or how he never had a watch but did have a bracelete that reminded him he was late or how one October the voice in his head caught a case of bronchitus so he had to day dream about cough drops every 4-6 hours.
And now, who else other than the fetid sump-sucking, Mr.J arrives, on deck to be the last person privy to M.T. Jester’s final uttered syllables. Most of what M.T. Jester says to Mr.J makes as much sense as a mime performing ventriloquism or a dyslexic playing boggle or anyone buying a coffin with a lifetime warranty.
Mr.J, yawning feigns interest with a camouflage of affectation as M.T. Jester rambles, rants relentlessly. Musing amphigories such as “Cannibals truly are what they eat unless they’re annorexic” and “If the early bird gets the worm, then worms should sleep in for their own safety” and “If the alphabet was one long word, then it would be easy to spell but hard to pronounce.”
M.T. Jester’s fluttering lips; Banality of banter flourishes nonsense like a Blue Angel soaring through social-stratosphere. Caroming off intergalactic solar plexuses of vastly vacant headed vernacular that’s so boring even his tape recorder is now just pretending to listen. Its a cheap Sony Handheld Recorder: batteries and attention span not included.
Suddenly, M.T. Jester stifles, truncating his jostling jabbering jowls and for several moments becomes quieter than Marcel Marceux on mute, quieter than a librarian with laryngitus. So quiet the decible levels are lower than a midget playing limbo in the grand canyon.
This of course abruptly elicits Mr.J to regain intrigue. By this point Mr.J had begun playing on his laptop which was full of Trojans, viruses, and never worked. Essentially his laptop is Paris Hilton w/a keyboard.
Silence consumes the entire room and shatters as M.T. Jester lightly interposes and whispers in a husky tenor with great trepidation and Mr. J leans forward with eagerness. Moving wistfully before him hesitantly unveils his only veracious secret. An ancient mystery so old it makes Alexander Graham Bell’s prototypes look like the new iPhone.
M.T. fragilely murmurs. “I have a confession. You never knew this. But, I’ve been secretly having an affair with your girlfriend.”
Wicked words from a wicked tongue poison the ear and resonate to the deepest crevice of M.T. Jesters stitched skull. Mr.J pauses, motionless, reticent, reserved, and statuesque. The air is rich with tension and dramatic turbulence that builds at a steadfast and unwavering pace.
Mr.J smirks and replies contemptuously. “I have a confession too. I already knew about the affair. And, that’s why last Tuesday night, I borrowed your new nickle plated shovel.”