Inside Doug's Head

I am not a number, I am… What's that stuff they make glue out of? I'm that. Forever swirling, forwards and upwards, but always sticky. Sometimes, a little sad.

Ground control to Major Tom: We’ve seen your butt in zero G and it looks… fat. Oprah fat.

Ground control to Major Tom: You didn’t call. We assumed you were dead, so we contacted your mom. She seems concerned.

Ground control to Major Tom: We don’t know how it happened, but we killed your dog.

Ground control to Major Tom: Well, we did it again. Your monkey is… on the roof and won’t come down.

Ground control to Major Tom: If your car is parked outside… the lights are on.

Ground control to Major Tom: Someone broke into your apartment, your TV is gone.

Ground control to Major Tom: Things are awfully bad here, so take your time.

Ground control to Major Tom: The test came back positive. It’s cancer.

Ground control to Major Tom: Do you have my keys? I’m going to need them back. Wait. Never mind.

It goes on like that for quite a while. There’s a bunch more of them. Ground control to Major Tom: Take the stairs, the elevator is broken.

—DG.

Thirty years ago I was promised that the current volume of miscarriages and abortions would provide humanity with all of the stem cells we would require to support us in our geriatric years. I was all in favor, as were the Clintons, Bushes, et al.

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