Day 1

10:15 am: A co-worker is washing the blue chest plates used to teach CPR. He keeps repeating under his breath, “Die. Die. Die.” I am unsure if he is speaking to the chest plates or me.

He suggests we take a coffee break. I agree. The coffee tastes bad.

10:25 am: Reading the paper. All the CD Reviews have got three stars. I think somebody is not being critical enough.

12:08 pm: Hair cut. Hairdresser tells a story about his friend’s new cabin. It used to belong to the town dentist. In the basement, they found dozens of jars of teeth the dentist got from his patients. As a bonus, the haircut turned out pretty well.

3:50 pm: I realize the future predicted in the Robert Zemeckis film Back to the Future II is five years away. Hear that Science? Where’s my hoverboard?

3:07 pm: “Unfriend” Barack Obama on Facebook.

3:15 pm: Watch a young viking in a bandana enter the vestibule of my office building, presumably to discuss car insurance. Muse for a moment how out of step I am with other members of my generation. Suspect it is mostly because I use words like vestibule.

5:58 pm: Arrive at where I am house sitting. Find a pile of cash on top of a sheet of instructions. A bottle of Wild Turkey has been left for me.

8:14 pm: After many glasses of Wild Turkey, I consider my options. Couch or the public. I grab another glass of bourbon and my rain-jacket.

9:15 pm: I wait for the bus and look at the house where my great grandparents lived. The house has long since been sold.

9:35 pm: Reminded that I am in dangerous territory. Fell or something. Obviously not important.

9:40 pm: There is a girl, no older than 16 riding the train with a mess of groceries in her arms. I feel for her. I glance for her on the platform. She is gone. Like she never existed.

9:45 pm: I see a train. I wonder if the time it takes to reach the platform is enough time for a couple truly in love, to finish a orgasm. Counting the seconds, I decided “maybe.”

9:55 pm: The bus driver and passengers are plotting. There are dozens of balloons. The driver runs out and places the balloons on the hood of a near-by car. It takes ages.

1:55 am: Back at home after the club. Hazy memories. Saw some bands. Talked to some people perhaps. Don’t remember. Ate lots of midnight pizza.

Dear Visitor 60,000!

While you may be simply visiting here for the celebrity gossip, I ‘d like to offer you a personalized message nonetheless.

Here it is:

Thank you Visitor 60,000. I wanted to do this for Visitor 50,000 but I forgot and then the numbers ballooned to limits not thought possible. I had to be patient. You see Visitor 60,000, I’ve been waiting for you for a long time.

It’s been a fine year for me. I’ve written meaningful correspondence with various objects and people, earned a pair of robot boots and a sack of gems, built a homunculus, killed a homunculus etc. etc.

This is well and good, but sadly something is amiss within the meaty cockles of my chest. I’m not sure why I feel the need to share this information with you Visitor 60,000 but I must. I can’t seem to put my finger on it. Perhaps my enemies have been secretly increasing in strength and it is indeed time for me to flee. Maybe my odd sleeping patterns are having an effect. In an effort to be considered to colonize Mars, I’ve recently switched to Martian time. The Martian day is only 39 minutes longer than an Earth day, but I’ve started to think the subtle change is producing unintended effects.

We have a connection you and I, a connection that I intended to have with Visitor 50,000. But like so many things, it wasn’t meant to be. But you and I are different. One day we will travel to the Red Planet…

I can see it now…

Sincerely,

Fergis T. McGillicuddy

To The Commenter Known As “Superman”

Superman:

There is nothing wrong with US President George Bush and Canadian Prime Minster Stephen Harper enjoying the benefit of each other’s companies…and military-industrial complexes.

We’ll never know what kind of strange conversations they have behind steel-reinforced doors, and what we don’t know obviously can’t hurt us.

However, what we do know is Mr. Bush refers to Mr. Harper as “Steve.” Nobody on the planet refers to Stephen Harper as “Steve.” Not publicly, at least. Even the Queen of England calls him Stephen.

I believe Mr. Bush shouldn’t call him Stephen…even when Stephen is wearing his zip-up “outside” vest.

Sincerely,

Fergis T. McGillicuddy

Dear Ham Chedley

My local Rogers has a porno section now! The
convinience! I can rent hardcore porn at the same time
as regular movies and videogames. I don’t need to
leave my house ever again, except to go to and from
the video store. Someone should have thought of this
several years ago.

—Ham Chedley

Dear Ham Chedley

Porno eh? The idea of walking up to the Rogers counter with Gang Bang Sluts 9 or Barely Legal #87 and casually handing it to the clerk named “Troy” or “Lisa : assistant manager” doesn’t seem appealing to me. I can imagine the customers behind in line are clutching their precious copy of The Lake House or whatever along with their kids, while the pervert ahead of them is renting some Dom/Sub whack-off shit. I’m not saying that would be you either. I’m talking about the average suburban family man who will slip said filth into their Lake House-type family movies.

“No, I’m not going to bed honey, I’ve got a lot of work to finish before I can sleep,” says Joseph Family-pants.

“Okay,” says Wifey Family-pants, who learned a long-time ago to not question her Familly-pants husband.

He starts loving really freaky shit. He writes letters and sends gifts to his favourite porn starlets. He rents movies every night. He obsesses over destruction of the rental slips, lest  they fall into the clutches of his massive family and reveal his expanding X-rated tastes. Eventually he succumbs to Porno Madness and leaves his family for a cabin in the hills where he can masturbate constantly. Of course, the video store clerks have seen the tragedy in every phase since the beginning. I doubt Rogers has psychological counselling for the video clerks factored into the franchise operating budget. Nevertheless, I think it is sweet the Rogers rents hardcore.

Sincerely,

Fergis T. McGillicuddy

To Rebecca, and other Dog, the Bounty Hunter Fans

This is a letter from a fan…of reality television.

I love your show and I whatch it every time your on Beth is so funny I love to see you and your team work as a team I had a hard time and life and then I saw your show and I know it was all about my choises
have a good day and keep up your hard work

Rebecca

Hello Rebecca. I don’t have a show. So you must have been watching something else. In the future, it may be in your best interest to end your sentences with a period. It’s that key that has a dot on it. While you’re at it, it might help to run your work through a spellchecker. Or you could just read things…

I sympathize with your hard life and times. However, I can’t sympathize with your abuse of the English language. There isn’t much that I get upset in this world, but this is one of these things. Please get yourself a membership to your local public library and get out a few books. They can be about anything. Just start reading…

That goes for everybody who wrote their own letters to Dog on this website. While I appreciate that you took the time to plug a few words into a search engine and then plug a few more words into the “leave a comment field,” you must realize I am not Dog. I am a poor, lazy, drunk, Canadian writer. I may be lonely, but I don’t enjoy reading the heartfelt musings to somebody I don’t know. It probably boils down to insecurities on my part. I desperately seek validation from strangers, so if you’d like to tell me I’ve changed your life for the better then go ahead. But leave the “Dog Love” to somebody else.

Thank you,

Fergis T. McGillicuddy

PS: You left your comment under my Extremely Short Fictions category. I found that odd, as it has nothing to do with anything. Good luck with everything though.