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Tuesday, December 14, 2004

In Mike We Trust

(Now they’re testing the trap and it chills my spine with 11 more minutes to go)

It’s days like today when I feel like having a ghost writer. You know, a person that simply does the writing of a paper or book.

For that matter I’m thinking I need a ghost worker and even a ghost family member so I wouldn’t have to work and deal with my family respectfully.

I could just have some dude come in with my name tag at work and, if he wanted, he could act like me: tap dancing in the freight elevator, debating if a certain can of pop floats in water, or rubbing a glossy covered book on my cheek. However; I’m thinking my ghost worker would require extra money, but it would be worth it!

My ghost family member would probably appear at Christmas and open up my present because I’m sure my family will try and ‘pay me back’ for not telling them what I want.

Which is very ironic because, as I explained before, I grew up asking for a lot and I never received anything of the sort.

So, because I put, ‘Surprise me’ five times in a row for my 1st through 5th choice, I will probably get a lump of coal or a replacement bag for our vacuum cleaner. So, instead of dealing with the brunt of the blow, my ghost-family member would take the frustration and heartache and me, passed out under the vacant $2 blackjack table at the four queens casino in Vegas.

I can’t think of a better Christmas myself.

I imagine I’d have someone who looks nothing like me, play my ghost-family member. I imagine that person would be Indian and have a severe chip on his shoulder for draggin his ass halfway around the world just to replace me for a day. The jet lag alone would make myself want to burn down a news stand. Yeah this guy wouldn’t take that much shit at all.

“Coal, you can take this piece of coal and throw it in the heating chamber of that train over there and send ya’ll to Hell!”

Granted, I would rarely ever say that to my family, but I’m sure this Indian would. This Indian, Mike would also not settle for any old spongeholder either. He’d be like,
‘Hey, what the hell gives? You can take this sponge holder along with whatever screwed up sponge comes with it and shove it up your ass until you cough it up, in which case you can send it up your ass again and collect $200 bich.’

Then for the dinner, I’m sure Mike would grab the bowl of mashed potatoes and throw ALL the gravy on top, like any good ghost family member would and just have that bowl of mashed potatoes and gravy for Christmas dinner.

God bless you Mike,

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