It’s a pretty standard Saturday night at home for me, in that I’ve got a video game system somewhere I can easily gain access to it (tonight’s choice is my PS Vita, on which I have recently completed Final Fantasy IV Complete Collection; suck it, Zeromus) and I’m lounging in my extremely classy polar bear-print lounge pants. My dogs have taken over most of the other furniture on the first floor, saving the dining room table for the eight thousand bags my parents brought back from the Home and Garden Show, and the only other noises in the house are my laptop slowly screaming as it cooks itself and the heater as it kicks on once every three hours to pretend it’s working (I wish my job were this cozy, by the way, because if I could get paid to be a lazy ass I would be a very happy lazy ass).
It’s only natural I found myself wondering how many Big Macs in a canvas sack it would take to beat someone to death with, right? I mean, you’d probably have to have a lot of them. And would keeping them in their boxes make a difference in terms of the number needed to commit the aforementioned McMurder? Would it be more sensible to buy less and let them get stale/ferment/whatever they do as they McAge? At the very least, it’s this kind of thinking that ends up leading to some real, and really strange writing on my part.
For example, and this story will find its way here eventually (once I write it, obviously): I found myself wondering what would the crew of a spaceship do if they found its on-board computer went haywire and decided to replace the outside of the ship with styrofoam (styrofoam is so a word, Firefox; shut up with your red squiggles on my screen) only a few hours before the ship’s auto-pilot takes it back to Earth. Hilarity ensues, right? I mean, at the risk of some fictional characters burning up upon reentry into the atmosphere, which I also classify as comedy in case anyone wasn’t sure about that.
Mmmm, atmosphere-roasted astronauts.
Honestly, though, it’s thoughts like bag-of-Big-Mac-Death (not related to, associated with, or endorsed by the McCathedral, Our McChurch of Ronald McSaints, in any way) and how they drive me to write that really fuel me. They also remind me how getting a degree in writing was really the only viable route for me, because thoughts like that would have made me a remarkably bad therapist. Have you tried placating the voices in your head with a mallet? How about gluing a phone to your neighbor’s cat? No. I somehow doubt therapy like that would be appreciated as much as, say, writing a story about someone going around gluing things to animals. Even if it ended up being terrible.