Account: Misinterpretation Of Signs
I knocked three times. A bald man with a 16 inch goatee opened up. He showed me his squirrel suit. I told him, “I locked myself out of my mom’s car.” He said, “I can help.”
He led me behind his house and along a dimly-lit woods path. I felt scared but open-minded. He vented about how Peter Parker’s mom, who was his own Godmother, was a feral child with no business mothering anyone. He said she was animalistic but that she had also been bestowed with vast subconscious wisdom. “She told me something important to this very moment,” he said, “I just can’t remember what it was. Oh right, got it. She said, ever since 1972, the appetizer menu at TGI Fridays has included whipped toddler yams.”
“To TGI Fridays, then?” I asked.
“Where else would we go?”
When we got to the restaurant, the waitress told us about their new offer: a stellar healthcare plan for all customers lasting 24 hours after their meal.
The rest of the night is a blur. I woke up in a hospital bed giving a lecture to this man as he sat cross-legged on the tile floor next to me. He was wearing a furry costume drenched in blood. I told him, “Jeff, just because someone’s picture is on a restaurant menu doesn’t mean you can eat them.”
“They were on the front page!” he protested.
“That’s worse,” I told him. He nodded his head reassuringly, although I did see the corners of a maniacal smile peeking from behind his [in hindsight quite weird] facial hair. He seemed inappropriately aroused.
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