Until the Spirit and the Mind aren't Fighting

The earth is spherical, thus anything that goes around will inevitably come around. What is stolen from you, you will someday steal from someone else. The monster you loathe may come one morning to look you in the mirror. I have no idea where to take it from here, as I've just noticed the hypocrisy in my reflection.

I don't know when this metamorphose occurred. When did my enemy's eyes turn blue with flecks of gold? I hadn't noticed his eyebrows thickening.

Now I'm pleading with my own abductor. When he jams the barrel of a gun to my temple, I can't help but notice how much I like his tattoos. His eyes bear a heaviness of guilt and hurt, I just want to take away his pain. I'm not an expert on Stockholm Syndrome, but what I'm experiencing has got to be pretty damn close.

Now I wield his stigmata. Your stigmata.

I went grocery shopping last night, and I looked in the eyes of every man that I passed. Is that him? Are you him? If so, I'm sorry.

Be careful being judgmental. What is stolen from you, you will someday steal from someone else.

A River, Baptist

Reach to the ground and pluck a stone from the earth beneath your feet. No criteria must be met, any piece of gravel will do. Now, catapult it into the expanse of water before you. After witnessing the repercussions of the act, repeat it. Do this with as many different stones, bodies of water and methods of propulsion that you are able to implement. At some point you will realize that these factors are just extraneous details, and the result will always be the same. As the baptized rock is engulfed in liquid, a geyser of teardrops shoots to the sky. There is no longer proof that the rock, the catalyst, ever existed; and yet, ripples dance outward from the crash in all directions. The cause has disappeared, but the effects are a testament to its existence.

A perfect parallel of this event is the ingestion of a fifteen milligram oxycodone capsule. The pharmaceutical heroin is gone, but the resulting ripples still pulsate from the original source. I dosed myself merely twenty-eight minutes ago, and feelings of weightlessness are already beginning to permeate my body. If it were not for this manufactured feeling of euphoria, I would dive from the front of the riverboat so my body could be mangled and shredded by steel propellers.

This morning began the same as every fantastic morning, ever since I dropped a copy of Franz Kafka's The Metamorphose at a beautiful woman's feet. Sunlight crept through cedar blinds and gently illuminated my love. Her skin was like coffee with an overly generous serving of cream, her nostrils flared with every breath that kept her blood oxygenated. She stirred to life because of the sun and instinctively pulled me toward her; it was as if she was relieved to find me still lying next to her. I think she expected me to sneak away into the midst of night. She graced my lips with hers and our separate bodies became one in a bout of passion. Afterward, bathing under a stream of gushing water cleansed me of sin. After that, my heart was shattered in a way that I thought preposterous twenty-one minutes earlier.

The sun shines differently than it did this morning. It glares through the porthole and reflects off the burner door, piercing my eyes as I screw the panel shut. With each burst of flame entering the cylinder, a dense heat pervades the boiler room. Once the opening is properly sealed, I escape the vexing warmth and retreat up to the starboard deck.

If only I had made such a cunning exit from the choking steam earlier. While drying myself with a towel, the door creaked open and my love slid into the bathroom. I lunged for a kiss, she turned her head. The kiss landed on her cheek. Twenty-one minutes ago her lips were inseparable from mine; her hips clung to my own. She was now putting a finger to my mouth, and explaining that my child, my acorn, was growing inside of her. We were flies trapped in amber. For a moment, time was frozen in place. I soaked in the news and was stricken with joy. Our love would be consummated by the utmost means. We would be married on the seashore, and our peers would pelt us with rice. Our child would grow and speak and walk and call me father and her mother and would smile for a family portrait that would sit on our mantle above the fire that filled us with warmth as we opened Christmas presents from each other and we would laugh together when the dog wrestled our child and we would be a postcard family that loved each other endlessly until the end of time and earth was undone. We would be happy together, steeped in love.

I told her that was the best news I had ever heard. I told her that I had never been as happy as I was at this moment. I grinned and I told her that I wanted us to be married, and make the idea of our family become actuality.

She told me she was going to slaughter our baby. She told me that she was going to spread her legs and let a doctor dilate her cervix so that he could fit a hollow tube into her womb and vacuum our child out of her body. She told me that she didn't love me, and didn't want a family together.

Two hundred and thirty-eight minutes later, a black cloud of smog floats from a smokestack. The oxycodone isn't numbing me me the same way it did earlier, so I lean my head back back and swallow two more. The weight of the day rests heavily on my shoulders, and suddenly tears are slipping off my nose and into the river beneath. Every drop makes a tiny little epicenter that causes waves to ripple outward. The burner fires up and propels the riverboat forward to its destination.

Earlier, I was speechless while standing in steam. My lover proclaimed she
was not worth the worry, and that I was not worth the trouble. Emotions overwhelmed me in a fashion I was not familiar with. I had to prove my love. I needed to show her I was the perfect one for her, and she was the only one for me. Most of all, I had to persuade her not to destroy our masterpiece. I reached out for her coffee colored face and called her 'darling'. Without pausing to reconsider, she pushed it away and turned to make an exit. Suddenly, there was no longer love or affection or sadness within me, it was all replaced by rage. Before I paused to escape clouded fury, I put all the energy I could muster behind my fist and rammed it into the mirror. Glass shards filled the air, as the fluttered downward the sun created a stunning refraction of light. The impromptu light-show ended abruptly as the pieces smashed on the floor and the love of my life dove for cover.

The day we met, I was walking down the biography aisle in the local bookstore when I tripped on a large, misplaced tome: The Tibetan Book of the Dead. The copy of The Metamorphose leapt from my grasp and hit the floor directly in front of her checkered Converses; within seconds, I was lying right next to the book. In an attempt to gain back any shred of lost dignity, I jumped up and apologized. Before I tripped on an ancient, irrelevant text, I had no idea that Kafka was her favorite wordsmith. When we went to drink lattes after our chance encounter, I got a better glimpse into the minute details of her life. She was an aspiring playwright. She worked part-time at a corner deli making delectable sandwiches and cookies. She did not believe in love.

I did not believe in love then.

I do not believe in love now, either.

In between then and now, I knew for a fact that love was true.

Now, I stand at the bow of the ship and reluctantly allow the sun to turn every tear that slides down my cheek into a prism. My hands tighten around the handrail, and my mind races through memories of the past. I ponder times before I lost my faith in love.

The first time I told her I loved her, she stared into my eyes for hours attempting to detect my dishonesty. She was afraid, and I was as well, because a year ago neither of us thought that love was possible. She had reservations, because she thought that all men were the same in nature as the man that put her through immense turmoil. After seeing unbelievable hate in the eyes of a man forcing himself inside her, she was convinced that every man held the same rage deep within his heart. I thought love was a myth because I had never seen it in any capacity. Falling in love when you don't even know what it means is like learning how to walk for the first time. We took our first steps that day, and within weeks we were running together.

Under the guise of moonlight, we followed a trail of crumpled clothing to my bed. Our lips waltzed and our bodies followed suit. With every thrust, she winced. I wanted to be the one that cured her sadness, the hero that liberated her from terror. She never got over her past, and she never truly loved me either.

The last time we made love was this morning. Bits of the fractured mirror lay scattered on the linoleum. I pounced at her with a jagged shard of glass, and as I neared, she saw a glimmer of her own reflection. As I reached her eyes with my glass scalpel, the last thing she saw was the burning rage deep in my eyes. I spent years trying to prove that I was not like the man that violated her, and now she realized that we were one in the same. She saw the same hate she had feared for so long. Then she saw nothing.

None of this would have happened if she had yearned for a family as I did.

Every stone that is thrown into the water is a baptism. Cleansed, re-birthed, the stone has changed, but there are consequences that must be paid for the change to be undergone. The ripples that float through the water are only rumor of the crash; the evidence is slowly sinking to the sand beneath.

I went back down to the hull of the ship, into the boiler room. I had been there this morning carrying transgression in a blanket, before any other crew-members had arrived yet. It was swelteringly hot in the room, and with every flare of the burner it intensified even more. The scent of sulfur lingers in the tiny space, and you could feel the past burning away inside the inferno.

The silence was stagnant and still, until the clinking sound of a screw fell from the burner door and hit the floor. A moment later, another hit the ground. Each screw created a metallic thud that reverberated off of every wall. When all the screws landed on the ground, and all the echoing had ceased, I took the panel off of the boiler and stared into the flames. I gazed at the destruction I had done; I watched the ripples as they danced off into the distance.

New Broadway; Chapter 2

It is June 9th, 1999, and the year is the stage for a number of world-shaping events.

Y2K fear is rearing its atrocious head and causing civil unrest due to marketing propaganda.

Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold, armed to the teeth, end fifteen unsuspecting lives at Columbine.

William Clinton is acquitted of charges against him. Even presidents have to get their rocks off.

And most importantly, I graduated Salutatorian from Ellis Cedar High School in Flint, Michigan. Finishing second always induces a steep, unbridled pain, and this instance was no different. After slaving over endless worksheets, book reports, and science projects, I had come .003 short of Valedictorian-worthy grade point average. I protested to any guidance counselor or administrator that would listen to my pleas, I wanted a recount. Beady eyes hiding behind coke bottle lenses told me again and again that it was final, I had lost the lobbying for academic supremacy and now it was time to face my failure. The loving demeanor of my friends and family attempted to make me more jovial, but it was a lost cause. I was wallowing in my defeat, and I was loathing myself for being so utterly useless.

“It was only a .003 difference. That's not even your fault.”

“Don't worry about it, you came in second place...”

“Salutatorian is nothing to scoff at!”

But this shortcoming was just the tip of the iceberg, for a host of other problems that I had surmounted in my life up to that point were all submerged just under sea level; they waited patiently to disembowel an unsuspecting cruise liner or an innocent freight ship. I had terrible social skills. I was restless. I was obsessed with the title of Valedictorian. From eight-thirty in the morning until three-thirty in the afternoon I was a model student sitting in the decaying metal desks that were oft used as a canvas for chewing gum ornamentation, pouncing at every opportunity to increase my grade in any given subject.

Whats that, the Latin teacher is giving extra credit for colored pencils? They were bought in bulk and handed over promptly.

A bulletin board says that all attendees of Wolves for Christ get five extra points on their test. I was in the prayer circle.

I wanted to be first. I lusted after the envy of all of my peers. Just thinking about giving my twenty minute speech to an ocean of teenage heads was almost enough to procure an erection. I've always had an affinity for showmanship, but the quest for domination of my graduating class was by far the most vast and elaborate plan I have ever crafted. After working tirelessly to achieve, I experienced the intense feeling of complete failure.

My five minute speech was completely eclipsed by the fifteen minute speech of my conqueror, William 'Bobby' Legrand.

Bobby was pathetic, and I detested his pitiful existence. He was a virgin then, and he probably still has no idea what lurks between a womans legs. Actually, he may have checked an anatomy book out of the local library and accrued monumental fines using it as a masturbatory aid day after day, so he may know what a vertical smile looks like, but he definitely doesn't know what one tastes like.

I digress.

After my incredulous failing, I had lost all hope, and I spiraled out of control. I trudged through my freshman year at Michigan State, and withdrew from all classes halfway through my sophomore year. Coming short of first place, I could hardly stop tipping red plastic solo cups back and drowning myself in an alcoholic waterfall. It was also around this time that I tasted marijuana smoke for the first time, and I'll just say that after a month or two, envy was not the only thing that was leaving my thumb with a green tint. Indulgence was an opportunity for me to reset my mind, and forget about the failures that I had led myself into. I engaged in compulsory vice, loving every last second of it.

During this time I also proceeded to dip my wick into every vagina that would allow it. Caucasian, African-American, Asian, Latino, morbidly obese, bulimia induced underweight women, as long as it was scientifically a vagina, I had no problem probing around inside of it. Even to this day, I fill out paperwork asking if I have children and my response is always: It's very likely, but to the best of my knowledge, no. Cliché, I'm aware.

Cue the discontinuance of my scholarship and federal aid.

Cut to the swift slaughter of my dignity.

I was no longer enrolled in a university, and I spent my bread-winning days getting sunburned as I painted advertising propaganda on massive billboards alongside a bustling highway. This chapter of my life was miserable, and I do not wish to delve too deeply into the humiliation incurred from this stage of my history. Suffice it to say that I was eventually terminated from my position after I painted “You. Yes you. Go fuck yourself” in vibrant neon paints at the most traveled exit on the highway. I was having an appalling day, and needed some kind of drain to let my frustration flow mercilessly into, little did I realize that the drain would simply clog, and I would be stuck with a bathtub that was overflowing, full of misery. And there was no Drano in the cabinet under my sink, only dish detergent and garbage bags. I did the next best thing that I could do, metaphorically. I took a garden hose and submerged one end in the misery, and put my lips to the other orifice and sucked. My attempt at siphoning the disdain from my life left me gagging on a mouthful of putrid filth. I vomited uncontrollably for weeks. My body was purging itself of all the negativity. I spoke to no one, and I hardly left the house, I just regurgitated.

Again. And again. And again.

Until I was cleansed. I was a phoenix rising puissantly from the burnt ash of my past.

I was reborn.

And what did I do with this second wind?

I moved to New York, and I took my clothes off in a very erotic manner, with bass-thumping techno beats cascading as my backdrop. I worked as a male stripper at an upbeat strip club named 'Old Broadway' under the stage-name 'Buzz Woodland.'

People loved me. People lavished me with attention, as well as cash, and I was hooked. All I wanted from that point forward was to be the pinnacle of everything, the definition of showmanship. I had unquestioning fans that were drawn like a magnet to my chauvinism. I became arrogant, and I deserved it. Myriad women, and men, came to see me night after night. Some were professionals, some were struggling just to survive in a harsh world, but they all held their arms outstretched throwing presidents at me, and thats all that I cared about. They did not come to see my troupe's all-male, musical rendition of The Philadelphia Story. They came to stare longingly at my abdomen, or at either side of my light blue piece of ass-floss. They wanted me. And I gave them what they came for.

The only person that didn't want me straddling them was a frequent customer, whose only alias was 'Big J.' He was a heavyset man, with stringy red hair and a tendency to shade his eyes with over-sized aviator style sunglasses. He never wanted any of the performers to get near him, and whenever we would try he would simply grumble under his breath something about 'no gay stuff..' To this day I don't understand what he was doing there. I guess he found his way out one day, because he never came back after a terrible incident involving a banana split and a double shot of whiskey. The police reports are plastered on the walls of the arresting officer's office, stained with tears of laughter. Of course the name and address has been blacked out, and with it the identity of 'Big J' continues to stay a secret to nearly everyone.

Anyway.

The underground drug scene and the male stripper scene is almost synonymous. Almost every night, the troupe of male performers, Buzz Woodland and his disciples, we would venture into the New York night life defined by elastic rubber morals and virtues. After our shifts, we were a highly trained, elite force that was on a mission to get lifted. Fine liquor, marijuana, ecstasy, psilocybin, any designer drug, all of it hit our digestive tract at some point. We were a gaggle of euphoria preaching ministers, and through our missionary work we had converted many women to the church of mind alteration. We just as easily coaxed them into our individual studio apartments, and they basically threw themselves onto our beds, ripping the clothes from their bodies in midair.

One particular night, I had swallowed three tablets of ecstasy right before the final act of our performance. Right as Tracy, played by Benjamin Foxtrail, finds Mike's watch, I was beginning to have sounds attack my ears with the force of a battering ram. My pupils were dilating, and by the time it was my turn to step up and marry 'Tracy,' I was feeling every milligram of the pills coursing through my veins. When I took Benjamin's hand in faux-marriage, I was tracing my hands over his, just marveling at the delightfulness of touch. I couldn't stop running my hands over everything, and everyone.

On the trip to 'The Blue Sky,' I wouldn't quit molesting the crushed leather seats in Brandon's brand new Saab. It was glorious. The music danced through the speakers and waltzed right into my brain, and I couldn't help but sway with the rhythm.

Upon arrival at the club, my senses were being pounced on from all angles. I was reaching the peak of my trip after climbing the strenuous mountainside; ecstasy has it's name for a reason. The music floated me along, without a care in the world, all the way to the bar. I made small talk with a large pair of breasts being restrained by a tight v-neck shirt. I ordered a vodka tonic, and continued chatting up the flat, toned abdomen next to me and downed the entire drink.

Bliss.

Quickly ordering another, I felt pure happiness inside of myself while still somehow maintaining a conversation with the leather Dolce belt at my three o'clock. A slender, attractive pair of legs stride past me and I can't help but to let my glance drift in their direction. I eagerly swallow my drink again, and look to the floor. The bar slides from in-front of me, to behind me, back in-front. The landscape is spinning. My blood vessels constrict from the alcohol. The ecstasy causes my brain and heart to yearn for more blood. I'm in a paradox where my two joys have caused my downfall, and I slip to the floor, slashing my head on the bar on the way down.

I read somewhere that when you begin to see the light at the end of the tunnel, you will be drawn to it. You will want to run gleefully towards it, and be enriched by the pureness of it all. But what you should do in order to stay alive is turn your back to the light. Run as fast as your feet will take you, right into the terrifying darkness that is lurking behind you. It is very dark, and the floor is covered in grime, but somewhere in the night you will find a door. Should you be lucky enough, you will have picked the correct door, and you will come back into your earthly body.

If you are unlucky enough to pick the wrong door, you may end up on the stage of Canine Cleansing.

Thankfully, I picked the right door, and was thrust back into my lifeless flesh heap. My eyes opened to view two fat, stubby fingers placed right before my face.

“We've got some eye movement! How many fingers am I holding up?” Shouted in my direction.

“Two...” It took such force just to get a one syllable word out of my mouth.

More shouting, “He's conscious! Get a saline drip!”

Needle, say hello to my arm. I believe you two may have met once or twice before.

I was rushed to the hospital in an ambulance, flashing lights and sirens abundant. How many had laid on this stretcher before? How many had died on the same plank that I rest on right now? How much bodily fluid had covered this thing?

My mind was racing, right up until the moment I fainted.

When I came to, for the second time, I was entombed underneath shoddy hospital coverings, with the noise of David Letterman's inane ramblings in the far off distance. A man with a scruffy goatee and a bright green windbreaker sat in the chair parallel to me, staring at me. His hazel eyes lit up once he saw that I was coming back to life, and he reached over to scratch his broad chest.

“Are you feeling OK?”

“Who are you?”

“My name is Jason Gasparo, I am the EMT that rescued you from your insipid decisions.”

Shame.

“Well, thank you. I appreciate it.” I felt an incredible surge of guilt run through my body, not very different from the surge of euphoria caused by the drugs.

“I just wanted to make sure that you were alright.”

I was at a loss for words, so I invited him to one of my performances, at no cost. A meager form of repayment.

He asked what it was that I performed, so I told him.

He said that he wasn't homosexual.

I told him that you didn't have to be, just to enjoy the brilliance of a cast of physically fit men dancing and singing in unison, acting out one of the greatest
love stories of all time.

He obliged.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Standing behind the curtain, I was ready to leap from my cage and consummate the show. It was the final scene, and I was ready to burst out and pledge my eternal hand in marriage to Benjamin, all while singing impeccably, of course.

As I heard my cue, I dove through the curtain, and took a quick glance into the audience. Sure enough, there was Jason, sipping on a Bloody Mary, his pearly whites gleaming in laughter. I told him that you didn't have to be gay to understand our greatness. I sang the lyrics and I sauntered over to Benjamin slash Tracy, extending my hand waiting for his grasp. As I turned to the onlookers to sing the final lyric,
I saw a table of old men dressed in expensive suits in the back corner.

I know the kind. They are not here for sexual arousal, and they are not here to bathe in the glory of the show. They were talent scouts, almost positively here to observe me. Feeling invigorated, I belted out the final line perfectly, and as the lights dimmed all the performers stood in a line, ready to take our collective bow.

Walking offstage, I was stopped by the suits. I was told that I was exuberant, majestic, magnificent. I was told that I was a born star, and they wanted me to host their television show about dog exorcism.

Television! My immaculate face would beam directly into every living room, bedroom and kitchen that held a set. Of course I pounced on the chance to be a real star, leaving all my disciples of Old Broadway behind. I didn't even consider the ridiculous nature of the show I would be hosting, nor did I care. I was going to fulfill my destiny, I was going to be the object of salivating mouths all over the nation.

I filmed the pilot, and moved to Newark, New Jersey, off of my first paycheck advance.

Then I was given a partner.

But Scott Harper is still the crown beacon of sex symbols to the public.

Which brings me to the very microsecond that my brown oak door is flying from its hinges. The sporadic time-line that I have traversed culminates in this final second of forceful entry into my white-colored prison cell. It is this brazen act of criminalization that pulls me violently into the present.

I am shoved onto the ground face first. The odors of my carpet intrude my nostrils, just as thugs have invaded my safe house. It's quite likely that I will be robbed of my possessions. It's a definite possibility that I will be brutally raped without lubrication. I am almost certain that I will be a non-breathing cadaver by the end of this atrocity. But, if I do manage to survive, steam cleaning my floors is going to be at the very top of my to-do list.

The cold steel of a rifle makes acquaintance with the back of my cranium. People are shouting so frequently that my head is swimming in the confusion. I do manage to pick a few sentence fragments from the disarray.

“Stay on the ground or we will end you!”

“Keep calm, and don't make unnecessary noise because you will frighten the demons and risk being possessed yourself...”

“Don't move! FBI!”

What?

The Federal Bureau of Investigation?

My arms are pulled from their sockets and they reach their destination near my shoulder blades. This is a very uncomfortable situation, I would like to point out. I am beyond lost right now.

“We've caught the drug dealer.”

So, you sell three stamps of acid to a few seedy people four years ago and you're branded a drug dealer? Moreover, the FBI trailed me for four years over three hits of acid? Don't they have Columbian cocaine kings to tend to?

“We have 'The Lumberjack,'” an agent mutters sideways into his shoulder.

'The Lumberjack?' That's my street name?

A low voice booms from directly behind my head saying, “We've been hot on your trail for a very long time now. Surely you didn't think you could outsmart us forever?” A Metal ring clasps around my wrist, then another imprisons the next in a similar fashion.

“Denise Stiles, you are under arrest by order of the New Jersey Judicial System. You have the right to remain silent, anything you say can and will...”

At this time I abandon my right of silence.

“I'm not Denise Stiles! You've got the wrong person!”

My head is a mess. My apartment is in shambles. I have been mistaken for a female drug dealer codenamed 'The Lumberjack.' All I wanted was to slosh around on my couch in a drunken stupor and cheer on my hero as he abolished demons.

God, Allah, Vishnu, all of you. Yes, you.

Go fuck yourself.

New Broadway; Chapter 1

It's nine PM, eastern standard time.

Cue dramatic music.

Cut to horrifying montage.

It's time for Canine Cleansing.

Yet another prime-time Thursday night spent watching myself on television. Here I am, lounging on my scorched-earth brown micro suede sofa in my white washed apartment, eager to stare at myself for the next fleeting hour. I loathe these white walls, and how they are so devoid of life. I want blood red walls, or turquoise, it doesn't matter. Any kind of change would be even more welcomed than the deep well of orange juice slash Grey Goose vodka glaring at me, perched on the horizon of my coffee table. The colossal glass is wide enough to swim laps in refreshing drunkenness; it's also tall enough to drown in. I've always been terrified of drowning, it's my worst fear, but in this case I don't think I would mind being smothered in a sea of screwdriver one bit.

I digress.

A typical person may find it strange that I spend my Thursdays adoring myself on a national broadcast. Then again, said 'typical person' would probably find it odd that I am on television at all. My job is ridiculous, but I am quite complacent with it. The version of myself that I watch at nine PM, eastern standard time, on the MSF Science Fiction channel is my idol. He is more than my alter-ego, he is everything that I wish I was. Unfortunately, the fun-house mirror image of myself is nothing even remotely similar to the real deal. The actual me is the one wearing tattered red sweatpants, whose roots are developing a frighteningly tight grip on the micro suede couch beneath my buttocks.

From miles away I hear the sound waves of my own voice slicing through my vodka induced haze, and kicking open the door to my eardrums with M-16s that are loaded and poised to fire.

“Hello, I am Scott Harper.”

Is he? I am not so easily fooled, impostor.

The Scott Harper that is commanding my television is breathtaking. He is a towering individual with short, jet black hair that is currently shooting an intimidating glare into the camera with his piercing azure eyes. His broad chest implies importance, and his posture screams dominance. Normally such a protruding nose would seem unattractive, but on this Scott Harper it is nothing short of impeccable.

The true Scott Harper is an utter waste.

“And I am Amanda White.”

Wrong. Her name is most certainly Amanda McHale, but it turns out that the focus group didn't like that name at all; I guess that there is just too much prejudice against the Scotch-Irish in America. So much for the land of the free.

This woman is the grand thief of my overwhelming thunder. I originally hosted Canine Cleansing alone, but yet another spiteful focus group that was determined to desecrate my dreams hated that idea as well. Did they not ogle my marvelous pectoral muscles that show ever so subtly through my tight polo shirts? Were they not enchanted by my chiseled-to-perfection-and-bright-enough-to-startle-the-blind smile? Against all logic, they voted for a female counterpart and now I have a co-host. Fuck focus groups.

Amanda White is a stunning angel with wispy golden hair that is practically begging to have a halo floating above the remarkable features that some would call a 'face'. Her emerald green eyes shine as if she was standing on the roof of a building, watching a city doused in gasoline burn to the ground around her. The reflection of the slaughter would mirror in her irises and come out exactly the opposite, an astounding image of beauty. She was also staring direly into the studio cameras attempting to relay the importance of our actions, and succeeding valiantly.

Amanda McHale is a filthy slut with lopsided tits. Unadulterated, the right one is noticeably larger than its partner in crime. Oh, the infinite magic of the Wonderbra.

“Welcome to Canine Cleansing.”

Relief. Back to the crisp voice flowing from the object of my idolatry.

“Tonight we have a very special case lined up for you. Hunter is a Jack Russel Terrier that lives with his family, the Richardsons, in a quaint home in Starkville, Mississippi. He is a terribly troubled dog, and he has been wreaking havoc within the home for some time now.” The words snaked effortlessly from my wonderfully plump lips. “We have Madelyn Richardson here in the studio with us tonight to tell us more about his devilish actions.”

Cue fog machine and roaring applause.

Cut to Madelyn Richardson entering from stage left.

She walked through an ornate black door which, unbeknownst to the audience and home viewers, had absolutely nothing on the other side of it; The guests still appeared to be walking on stage from a much more prominent place. Heaven maybe, Valhalla perhaps, but it is irrelevant. There was nothing of substance when walking backward through that threshold, only blank space and white washed walls, much like that of my surroundings. I suppose it's possible that my apartment is through that door. It's doubly possible that I have drank too much Grey Goose.

For the first time I find myself worrying that this glass of vodka will be the one that introduces my liver to Cirrhosis.

Isn't it funny how your worst enemies always turn out to be your best friend's best friends?

Back to the small silver screen. Madelyn was an incredibly sexy middle aged woman, even if she was insufferably naïve. Luckily for her it isn't a requirement that you must have a working brain to appear on television, you simply have to be aesthetically pleasing, and this woman was a cougar. Her curled brown locks rested loftily on her shoulders, her taut skin was a testament to the positive aspects of Botox injections. The wide, royal blue eyes north of her slender rabbit nose revealed a shining innocence, the kind of unsullied soul that vultures from network production love to prey on. She walked forward riding a tsunami of applause from the studio audience.

According to her pre-screening biography, Madelyn Richardson is the definition of suburban housewife. Her talents include cooking, poetry, and coaching a recreational softball team for eight year old girls; she does all of this while mothering two rambunctious little children, one twelve year old boy, and of course, an eight year old girl that reluctantly plays softball on Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday. I can only assume that she has intricate plans to live vicariously through the young girl, hoping to forget her own life that is sinking slowly into normalcy, being guided to oblivion by the pitfalls of suburban life. She also stated that when she was younger she was full of grandiose dreams, but her objection to prophylactics cut them down prematurely. I would like to add a footnote: even having abandoned her dreams, she gives a ruthless blow-job, albeit the exchange of ambition for a prowess in the art of ejaculation does not sound enticing in the least. But I suppose that the weak will cling to those that possess whatever it is they lack, as a barnacle will attach itself to a sturdy hull. I think that there is only two types of person in this world: the barnacles, and the hulls. In this case, it was my aspiration to fulfill my goals that drew her to me, or at least thats what she was led to believe by my alter ego's exterior distinction. People will do anything to feel even the least bit significant these days.

It's a shame, really.

Madelyn walked over to the two of us, with her hand graciously extended to limply shake Amanda's, and reached out for mine. When I took it, her eyes lit up as if there had been a thousand football stadium lights behind them, all switched on simply by the touch of my hand. I had not noticed this during the taping, but looking in from the outside it was all to simple to spot. 'Excellent,' I thought. Now her husband is going to see this, and he as well as the entire nation is going to know that she had bathed in my semen backstage. Note to self: put a deadbolt lock on the door to my apartment.

The tantalizing voice of my co-star filled the speakers. “Tell us a little bit about the demonic dog, Madelyn.”

A sultry vocalization of her sexual character was launched from her lips. “Well, Amanda, Hunter has been terrorizing our home for months now, we just can't understand what has gotten into him.”

“Demons, of course.” Amanda stated, ever so matter-of-factly.

“Yes, of course... We're all hoping that you can save him. We don't want him biting anymore small children, or ripping apart brand new furniture anymore. Please help, I'm begging you.”

It was my time to shine. “We are going to do more than just help, Mrs. Richardson. We are going to cast out the demons that have been plaguing your beloved dog in just a few moments. But first we're going to have a quick word from our sponsors. When we get back its time for yet another...” I pointed enthusiastically to the logo that was plastered across the back of the set. The audience burst into chant, exclaiming “Canine Cleansing! Canine Cleansing!”

Cue commercial break.

Cut to the raping of viewing minds by endless corporate marketing.

I'm taking this quick opportunity to sever the roots that are holding me relentlessly to my micro suede couch. The vodka has torn a calculated path directly through my urinary tract, and was now protesting violently in my bladder, screaming for freedom. I suppose it is only fair to give into the demands, everyone deserves to be liberated, and piss is no different.

After ridding my body of the intoxicating substance, the only thing I could do is fill up yet another bottomless glass of orange juice slash Grey Goose to the brim. The problem was that this time, I had forgotten the orange juice, leaving only slash Grey Goose. These next 47 minutes of demon dogs are going to fly by, and within the hour I won't even be able to pronounce 'dachshund' correctly.

As I am topping off my glass, I am told by the speakers of my television that it is my responsibility to save Darfur. I can't save myself, how am I supposed to singlehandedly end a holocaust? I am a pet exorcist, not Superman. Now if they had told me to save Darfurian dogs that have bad social habits, I would oblige. But Darfur as a whole? No thank you. Call the Justice League.

I faintly hear deep tones that strike fear into any heart that they come across. These tones mean that I am about to adorn my television screen once more. I have waited for this moment for my entire life, sitting patiently (as well as thoroughly inebriated) on my sofa.

When the introduction is complete, various appalling images of Hunter doing dastardly things are shown to the masses. One such image involves a teddy bear that has been decapitated, with its unlucky head being held by the fangs of a Jack Russel terrier that is foaming at the mouth. Another shows a snarling mutt ripping olive colored curtains from the windows, a viewer can also notice the shredded couch, as well as an ominous crimson stain splashed across the shag carpet. It is unclear whether it is blood, or fruit punch, but one has to assume the worst. These vehement snapshots are accompanied by Madelyn's stressed voice, proclaiming that the family has done everything within its power to settle the dog, to no avail. That is where I come in. Do not fret, for I am here to expunge the demons.

If only that was so. I wish that my career was not so similar to that of a Shammy cloth infomercial, in that I have promised to cure everything, when in reality all of my pledges are just a sheet of wool ready to be pulled over the collective eyes of civilization. Poor Madelyn had no idea that I am no pet exorcist, merely a cardboard cut out that has been pasted to the face of a mildly interesting television show. She was oblivious to the fact that she had sent her dog in two weeks prior to taping, and it had undergone some serious dog behavioral rehabilitation in that time period. But I have found that it is best to just leave the ignorant to their beliefs, people are more happy when they are blind than when they are informed. Thus Madelyn stands on my stage, waiting for me to exorcise the demons from her bastard dog. And there I stand with my proverbial Shammy cloth in hand, ready and willing to play into her inane beliefs in the occult.

People can believe whatever they want, as long as they watch my marvelous display of blasphemy from their living rooms. It's all about the ratings. It's all about a paycheck. Enlightenment doesn't put a filet mignon on my plate, and it certainly doesn't fill my goblet with top notch imported vodka.

The whore of Irish descent sung her vivacious siren call. “And now the time has come that we introduce the crowd to Hunter, the dog riddled with demons. Audience, stay relaxed, we have taken special measures to make sure that no harm will befall you.”

Seriously? Do people honestly believe this shit?

Suspenseful background music overwhelmed the studio as a stocky man walked onstage through the door from Valhalla. Little do people know that this is the very dog trainer that had taught Hunter both manners and discipline over the last two weeks, they only knew him as the dreadful soul that brought dogs to their deliverance. I suppose that he too holds a Shammy cloth among his toolbox.

The cage he carried was dilapidated and covered in rust. The production team believed that this adds to the illusion. When it was finally set on the ground and opened, the tiny brown-spotted terrier tore out of the cage, snarling through his black leather muzzle. No one heard the dog whistle from offstage that had caused him to freak out, no one cared that they were watching a ludicrous charade. They just chanted for the casting out of demons. They just wanted to pass the time.

Hunter ran flippantly around the set, jumping on chairs and scratching the ground. He only wanted the true demon to stop bothering him, the dog whistle.

I interject, “It is time for yet another Canine Cleansing.” The crowd chants emphatically behind my cause. Louder, and louder, more passionately with every scream. They are practically lusting after the exorcism of this poor dog. Hunter jumps on top of a chair and turns his head to the studio audience, his superior hearing being assaulted by the incessant, cult-like chant of the faceless. The vivid fear in his eyes was growing increasingly blatant, as if he was a martyr being sacrificed for the twisted entertainment of MSF science fiction channel advocates. The cult livened their crooning, parlaying their incantation louder and louder. Suspense was building, and it was no longer Hunter that was foaming at the mouth, but the audience. Even I am sitting on the edge of my micro suede refuge, biting my nails, waiting for the reverent portrayal of myself to be Hunter's savior.

I will be a hallowed saint to this dog. I will cast out his troubles and forgive his transgressions, all while appeasing the viewers with the attributes of a Roman gladiator willing to kill for the cheers of onlookers. I am the leader of this cult. I am everything that they need to sustain happiness.

Cue theatrical entrance into my immediate life.

Cut to wood splinters flying across the room and landing in my vodka as the door to my apartment is demolished.