Wednesday, April 11, 2007


The most famous man on the earth had a problem. He couldn't get anyone to change the light bulb down in his basement. As soon as he approached someone for help, they screamed and peed on random light posts. They wore shirts with his face giving the expression he was most famous for: dour recognition of life's fleeting nature. Some people even wanted to eat his liver and intestines, so they could become him, therefore earning untold riches and celebrity-status. Not being able to do this task had tortured him since childhood. His father, now dead and not famous, used to time his attempts and denigrate him severely when he failed. "You are nothing but a washed up sitcom character. 'Entertainment Tonight' will never feature you on its broadcasts. Someone else will have to pick up that Oscar, right?" The man holds the bulb again, before the socket, knowing all he has to do is turn it right, right, right, and then he'll see light. His hands twitter, sing, perform an evasion. He's never wanted to look in the coils. An electric pulse, a chemical reaction, might tell him he's not important as he thinks he is. He sits in the dark, doesn't speak.


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