Have you ever wondered what kind of living structures could be built out of nothing but Romaine lettuce – or if science will ever invent an automobile that runs on Cheetos and Tab? These are the kind of thoughts that shoot into my mind, like a scud missile launched from my subconscious penetrating the rest of my brain with its payload of psychotic monkeys.
Once, when I was very young, I found a pickle. I literally found an abandoned pickle laying on the side of a little trail. As an ordinary boy of 12, I was a little perplexed. I mean, who abandons a pickle? Shouldn’t there be agencies that protect pickles from such horrific and uncaring circumstances – like NAACP – (National Association for Advancing the Care of Pickles)? Well, no such organization existed at the time, so I did what any normal 12 year old boy on acid would do in this situation – I took the pickle home and named it Louie. Louie and I became best friends. He went everywhere with me. I made a little leash and would walk him as if he were a dog. Of course, I stopped this walking practice pretty soon after I started because Louie would lose little parts of his pickle skin and occasionally be drug through some dog crap.
Times were great for Louie and I. He understood me. He GOT me. I once enrolled him in night school but the best he could do was around a C average. But that was OK by me. I didn’t love Louie for his intellect. I loved him for his other awesome traits. First, he was docile. He never bit anyone, although I could tell that his previous owners had bitten him. He was quiet. Not like those damn dogs or birds or other loud, whiney pets people think are so cute. No, Louie was not like them at all. He was different.
One day, I brought Louie to school for show and tell. I stood in front of the class and told everyone about my friend, and what he meant to me. All the other kids in the class started laughing. Even the teacher, Mrs. Johnson, laughed so hard that she snorted and some junk came out of her nose. It was the same color as Louie, so I thought maybe she would be an ally. But no, she was actually making fun of me, and doing so with more fervor than all the others in the class.
So I picked Louie up and threw him at her face. He smacked her right in the forehead. Because Louie had been laying by the trail for, I’m guessing, three or four years, he was pretty dried out. He broke into a million pickle pieces and Mrs. Johnson fell to the floor, unconscious.
At that moment, I knew the reason Louie and I had met. We met because we were destined to whack Mrs. Johnson in the head.
I’ll never forget you, Louie.