It’s Good, Almost Too Good

When I was 8 or 9 years old my mom was exceedingly nice to me for an entire day and I never quite got to the bottom of it. I think it was a Saturday and the first thing we did after cereal/cartoon time was to go to Kmart (definitely Kmart) where she allowed me to pick out some toys. After that she took me grocery shopping with her and a good 25% of what I put in the cart, stayed in the cart, and that was a first. Then she took me home and cooked me dinner. This would have been extravagant to begin with but the meal was something I remember thinking was too good to be true. Probably something with peanut butter and fried fish or hamburger on cookies, caffeinated, sugar infused, melted ice cream to drink- and at this point I knew something must be up.

  

This kind of thing isn’t nearly as appetizing as it used to be. Maybe I’m just not high enough yet?

 

 This kind of aberrational behavior went on in this unprecedented way well into the evening as I steadily grew more leery and disquieted by every loving gesture. At ten when she noticed that I seemed to be enjoying whatever I was watching, she brought me a blanket and a snack and told me that I could stay up and watch Saturday Night Live if I wanted. Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore and voiced my concern that there seemed to be a game afoot and that she likely was working on a nefarious plan to kill me or otherwise destroy me. Was this PB & J that she handed me laced with razor blades made out of cyanide and dragon teeth? Was she planning to sell me into Russian slavery, she knew that I was terrified of the Russians. Was she about to announce her engagement to that douche-juice, the one with the shiny eyes and the personal relationship with Jesus that he HAD to tell you about? No? Holy Christ, there is a God. Then what childhood annihilating travesty was she about to unleash upon my fragile life?

 

She tried to reassure me by giving an Oscar worthy performance by getting all teary eyed, in that young mother kind of way and asking ‘if I was out of my fucking mind’ but I didn’t buy it. She quickly shook it off like an aggravated goose coming down from a goose fight adrenaline high and we got past it. Especially since I fucking won by calling her out before she could carry out her evil plans.

 

Well, it’s happening again.

I’m rooting for Morgan Freeman being the God-like being in this production.

 

The Universe, or God, or maybe Jerry Bruckenheimer, whoever’s in charge of this thing, is being way too nice to me. Every. Single. Thing. Is. Perfect. The whole move: Cadiar>Madrid>Miami>St. Pete Beach went smoothly. No lost luggage, no shit covered animals- even after 15 hours in a cage, no hula hoop inspections by customs or their infuriatingly accurate dogs, no cavity searches, no arrests, not even any international incidents. That’s a first for me. I’ve moved and traveled for most of my adult life and this one was easier than a transfer from state to federal prison. Even the food was better. And there was a lot less prison bitch making. Which is good because as entertaining as it sounds to witness a prison bitch making, or PBM, it usually just makes you feel kinda uncomfortable, awkward even.

 

The first things that got me suspicious were the people. Everyone’s all, “have a great day now, sweetie!” while being all smiley and flirty and helpful. There are more scantily clad beach beauties than I remembered. My neck actually hurts from whipping it from side to side while driving. Also from where I got punched by a surprising accurate right hook thrown by a surprisingly fast fisted wife.

All that without one situation! Or Snooki, for that matter.

 

The roving bands of pillagers/rapists are no longer a problem since they’ve all turned obese. Now, when I hear their heavy footed, gaspy approach I just throw country fried donut skin in the other direction and by the time they remember to come back and resume their pillage/rape they’re usually too tired or heart attacky.

 

The apartment we rented was much nicer than I’d expected and even offers a water view. The kindly downstairs neighbor doesn’t even sell meth (yet) but she seems pliable should I ever get my meth farm off the ground. Right now the shit I planted is just kind of lying there. The apartment is actually clean and nice and I’m thinking about just staying here for a year. There are two beach bar/restaurants within crack rock throwing distance and they have live bands or music playing every night but it’s not too loud and only seems to add to the beachy ambiance. Besides, it’ll be good cover if I ever have to use a chainsaw on somebody in a bathtub.

The roving bands of pillagers/rapists are just off screen. Eating.

 

One of our surprisingly loyal, unusually helpful friends was able to lend us a perfectly healthy car and there weren’t even any dead vagrants in the trunk until I’d had it for a weekend.

 

Everything is, so far, absolutely perfect and that scares the shit out of me. What’s the plan here? Is my penis going to start dripping Ebola? Am I about to get caught up in a zombie apocalypse? I wonder if the zombies will  fall for the country fried donut skin trick?