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Updated 8/24/99

More Sense than a Dollar Bill

(a twentieth century parable for the twentieth century)

Jesus hates me yes I know, for my girlfriend told me so.

Little ones do Jesus know, for they are weak and he told them so.

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"Well, I have good news for you, and I have bad news for you."

"What's the good news?"

"Bill's going to work second shift from now on."

"That's great! And the bad news?"

"He's going to be my roommate."

Life used to be decent, before the fall of man. At least, that's what passed through my mind after she told the "bad news." And to think, she could have been talking about something minor, like a nuclear attack, but limited. Anyway, that was the first time I ever contemplated killing someone. Of course, there were ethical as well as more concrete reasons why I shouldn't kill her or Bill. But for the life of me, I can't seem to remember when I see her face before me, asking, "What's wrong? Why does this news upset you?" Nor can I remember those reasons when I'm holding a .357 Magnum in my hand, the most powerful hand held deterrent known against stealing someone else's girlfriend.

Of course, I'm rambling now, as my thoughts turn to Magnums and termination of love affairs with extreme prejudice. The old west comes to mind. "The Gunfighters." Maybe I could get away with killing Bill if I claimed that he snored. Back then, (apparently), justice was the six shooter on your hip, and God's will was an adequate justification for anything that you'd care to do. Now we have law systems, courts and juries. But, how can they be more just than I am? I'm at the center of the problem, I don't need to tell my story to some half wit to know that it's right, because it is right.

With this much needed rationalization, I decided to purchase bullets for my "collecter's" Magnum, and go do a little justice. I purchased my bullets, and strolled down to the lair of the AntiChrist (kind of funny, how he keeps popping up in this day and age.)

I knock on the door.

"Yes? Oh, hi. Come on in." She turns, and walks back to her dark and dreary lair, oblivious to the hatred that has taken control of me. I'm not human anymore, I'm a force of nature by God, and that ought to remove any guilt I would normally suffer over killing her and drowning her dog. I follow her into her apartment, and sit next to her.

"Now, you seem to be upset by this news, and I guess I can't really blame you. But you should relax, and try to accept it. There's thousands, no millions, of girls whom you'd probably like if you gave them the chance."

Maybe so, but right now I'm giving you a chance. And if you don't take it, I'm gonna give you something a little more substantial than a chance. Three little somethings.

"And I think that you would like Bill if you ever got to know him."

Right then and there I knew that she was the AntiChrist. I had previously suspected as much, but this was bitter confirmation. No normal human could possibly say something so insensitive.

"You know, I'd still like to be your friend."

Friends. Ha. I gave a bitter laugh. It was humorless as well.

"What's wrong? You sound like the Robot from Lost in Space."

The Robot from Lost in Space indeed. At least he had no heart to break, no soul to destroy, no self-esteem to lose in endless metaphors. But neither did he have a gun.

"Why so silent? Don't be so sad."

Of course, the Robot had laser beams, even though they looked something like electrical discharges. Maybe that's because they're channeled along with an electric field, thus generating the pyrotechnics.

"Are you ever going to say anything?"

You know, Lost in Space used to be my favorite show. First and second seasons were pretty good. It was only in the third season that it really went downhill. Of course, I was just a baby. I only saw it in syndication.

"Look, if you're not going to talk to me, just be that way. I'm going out to Taco Bell to eat dinner. With Bill. At least he talks to me."

Of course, third season had color. That was a distinct improvement over the first and second seasons. Hey, where'd she go?

I run out after her, waving my gun. "Vengeance will be mine. Cobraaaaa!!!!" It was at this point that I was hit with a sledgehammer, knocking me unconscious.

---------------

When I came to, I was in a jail cell. Let me tell you about the bars. They were black as night, and somewhat cylindrical. I laughed bitter laughs until the warden came to see me.

"Will you shut up with your bitter laughs already already? Some of us are trying to get to sleep."

I laughed humorlessly.

"And drop that too. Geez, what are you, some kind of nutcase?"

I laughed a red laugh.

"What the hell are you doing? How did you laugh red?!"

I laughed and laughed, and then he hit me.

"Ha, ha" he said. "That's how you laugh, you comedy freak."

I chortled. I guffawed. I gigglesnorted.

"That's it, laughing boy. It's maximum security for you. No one tries to escape reality in my prison."

At that moment, the walkie talkie he held at his belt bleeped. "Yeah?" he asked.

"Warden, there's a dream break going on in the south section."

"Wake 'em all up and give 'em coffee. Damn poets. They're the hardened ones."

He left, taking my senseless patter with him. I realized then how this story fits together. Hold onto your seat.