From the blog of Flex Malarky, 43, of West Chester, PA on 1/10/12:

Bad day yesterday.  Was picked at work for a random drug screen and I failed the test.  How?  I missed the damn cup. 

I was in McDonald’s for breakfast and ordered the hotcakes and sausage.  Spilled some maple syrup on myself.  Went to the front counter and held up my sticky hands.  “Can I help you?” the male teenage employee behind the cash register asked me.  “Yes,” I said.  “Wash my hands.”  “Excuse me?” asked the employee.  Now his manager stood beside him.  “My hands are sticky,” I explained.  “Please wash my hands.”  “Why would I do that?” the employee asked.  I then pointed to a sign on the wall that read, “ALL EMPLOYEES MUST WASH HANDS.”  The manager looked at his employee and shrugged.  “He’s got ya,” he said.  “I’ll grab the soap and towel.”

My wife decided to take a nice, relaxing bath last night.  I poked my head in and said, “You know, I read somewhere that epsom salt in the bath is good for you.”  “Uh, thanks,” said my wife as I poured some in.  Two minutes later, I poked my head in and said, “It also said to put cucumber slices over your eyes.”  “Yeah, great,” said my wife as I placed the slices on her eyes.  Two minutes later, I poked my head in and said, “And it noted that Egyptians used milk in their baths for smooth skin” as I poured in some 2%.  “Oh,” I cried, “I forgot the oatmeal!”  My wife, extremely un-relaxed, cried out, “You sure that wasn’t an article about cannibalism?!?!”

Not only did I fail my drug test yesterday, I also got bad news from my doctor on my annual checkup.  “I have some bad news, Mr. Malarky,” he said.  “We have your test results.”  I felt my heart leap into my throat.  I figured maybe that was the problem.  First a frog, now my heart.  What did they find so attractive about my throat?  “What is it, doc?” I asked.  “is it serious?”  My doctor was examining the results.  “I’m afraid you have ‘natural causes’,” he said solemnly.  “My God,” I groaned, “my uncle died from that!!”

From the blog of Flex Malarky, 43, of West Chester, PA on 12/6/11:

Sad, sad day in the neighborhood yesterday.  The morning began with hugs and tears as the McCloskeys waved goodbye, slammed the doors on their moving vans and drove off to their new home across state.  They’re good friends and have been great neighbors across the street for the past 10 years…we’re really going to miss them.

I told McCloskey as I shook his hand, “Boy, I hope the new neighbors are as friendly as you guys.”

“With neighbors like you,” said McCloskey, “they’ll know immediately how blessed they are.”  He then seemed to run into his car and burned rubber as he sped up the street.

I told Fran that I really wanted to welcome the new neighbors with open arms.  Fran said, “That’s nice, Flex.  But Debbie told me they’re not moving in for a week or so.  They’re getting the place painted first.”  Fran said they were a young couple, early 30s, with a baby girl.  They were stopping by today to make sure the place had been properly cleaned and to drop off a few things.

I decided to nominate myself, right then and there, as the head of the Neighborhood Welcoming Committee.

I knew McCloskey hadn’t changed his garage door code, so an hour later I picked up a case of Moosehead and made my way over.  I punched in the four digit code, the door went up, and I entered.  I walked into the family room and then the kitchen and placed the case of beer on the countertop next to where the McCloskey’s refrigerator had been.

I had brought a pen and piece of paper so I wrote, “Welcome, Neighbors!” and placed it on top of the case.  I turned to leave then thought, Hmmm…they won’t know who dropped this off.  So I added, “Your New Neighbors on Briar Road!”  Then I thought, Hmmm…let everyone else take credit for my good deed?  Barloni hasn’t lifted a finger in the neighborhood in 10 years!  Why should I include him on this?  And what about Higgins?  Cheap bastard always grimaces whenever he buys the one solo box of Girl Scout Cookies from my daughter.  Screw him!  And Gorman!  Stan Gorman!  Stupid jerk next door just always seems to be mowing whenever we have an outdoor party.  Antisocial psychopath!  The hell with all of them!

I got so mad I cracked open a beer as I added, “Specifically, Your New Neighbors Across the Street…the Malarkys!”  There.  I toasted myself and drank heartily as I read my note.  “Ha!” I yelled.  “These new neighbors are gonna friggin’ love us!”

Next thing I knew, I heard a scream.  My eyes fluttered open and I saw two people staring down at me.  It was a young man and woman, both maybe in their early 30s.  She was holding a baby girl.  They were all huge!  “Who the hell are you and what in God’s name are you doing in our house!” the man cried.

I looked around and took the picture in.  17, maybe 18, empty Moosehead bottles all over the countertop and kitchen floor.  I also happened to be on the kitchen floor…in horizontal fashion…which explained a lot.  My new neighbors were not giants.

She screamed again, he freaked and proceeded to toss me out of the house.  I then noticed that I had beer stains (God, I hope they were beer stains) all over my Aquaman Underoos and I nearly tripped on my Captain Picard slippers and Spider-Man cape as he threw me out into the garage.  “Whoa!” I slurred.  “You’re getting my Spider-Man cape dirty.”

“Spider-Man doesn’t wear a cape,” grunted my new neighbor.

So now I’m bummed cause I forgot that Spider-Man doesn’t wear a cape, that this guy doesn’t appreciate Aquaman and that I still had 6 or 7 beers left in that case.  “Who are you?” the man cried. 

“Gorman,” I said.  “Stan Gorman from across the street.”  My new neighbor then shoved me out of his garage.  As his door went down, I proceeded to vomit all over his driveway.

My first impression?  I’m not crazy about our new neighbors.  They seem very uptight.

From the unpublished autobiography of Flex Malarky, 40, of West Chester, PA:

 

March.  The third month of the year.  One of seven months that has 31 days in it.  The vernal or spring equinox arrives the twenty-first day in the northern hemisphere and with it the swing of bats for millions of Little Leaguers around the world.  Nothing like a fine spring day and watching one’s own son or daughter playing baseball or softball.  My son plays lacrosse in the spring…thank God.

 

My memories of Little League are not fond ones.  I’ll be the first to admit that I was probably the first pre-teen baseball player who had to frequent the proctologist’s office once a month to have splinters removed from my ass…but my parents and I should have seen this coming from that very first day when Coach Ashwell addressed the team…

 

(SCENE:  A blubbery-gutted man wearing the baseball cap of the Tornadoes.  He is standing before a small crowd of parents and their sons who are seated on bleachers beside the baseball field.  He is holding a clipboard and a pen is wedged behind his beefy left ear.)

 

COACH:  Good evening, folks!  Now that the tryouts and draft have been completed, I’d like to welcome you all to the Tornado family!  My name is Burt Ashwell and I’ll be your kid’s coach.  This is my first year coaching so you’ll have to bear with me.  I don’t really know much about coaching or baseball for that matter, but I wanted to coach my son, Kevin, to ensure he’ll be pitching and batting clean-up every game.  Unlike your kids, my son will play every inning of every game.  I’ll make sure he gets on the All-Star team and hopefully gets noticed by the county so that he can participate on that team at the end of our season and ultimately make it to Williamsport where he’ll be assured a college scholarship in a few years.

 

What I’ll be looking to teach your kids this season is that life ain’t fair.  If I don’t like you, your kids will have less playing time.  What I’m asking for is a little ass-kissing and none of this talking-behind-my-back bullshit because ultimately I have the power and you don’t.  Don’t try to live out your miserable lives through the lives of your youth, cause you’ll just be more despondent as he makes ass prints on the bench.

 

Practices will be held twice a week on Tuesdays and Thursdays and I’ll hand out schedules for Saturday’s games.  Practices will consist of me spending most of my time with my son and whoever he’s practicing with at the moment.  If your child cannot bat well, I’ll teach him how to get hit by a pitch.  If he starts to play better than my son, I’ll bench him.

 

Here are forms for selling soft pretzels to raise money so that all of the coaches and their sons can afford the trip to Williamsport.  Please take one and pass the rest of them around.

 

Finally, remind your kid to have fun out there unless we’re losing.  I’m not in this to lose.  Vince Lombardi once said something about winning but I’m not sure what it was cause I never read his book, but I loved Lombardi’s attitude.  Yeah, I know he coached football.  But football is a way better sport than baseball and unfortunately my son’s football camp doesn’t start until July so baseball is what we have to deal with now.   

 

Oh yeah…and for the coach’s gift at the end of the season?  You can get me a gift certificate to that ritzy steakhouse in town.  Make sure it’s enough for me and my wife as well as to cover the tip.  Go Tornadoes!!!

 

 

 

 

 

 

Transcript of Flex Malarky, 38, of West Chester, PA, checking his voicemail the evening of 10/25/06:

FLEX: Wow! 17 messages! I’ve never felt so popular! Let’s hear them…

*BEEP!*
Hi. My name is Becky and I have an important message for you regarding next month’s state congressional election. Did you know that candidate Bill Beckingham has raised property taxes numerous times over the last 3 years? Aren’t Pennsylvania families paying too much in taxes anyway? You need to…*BEEP!*

FLEX: I need to move on to the next message, thank you very much.

*BEEP!*
Hello. My name is Steve and I have an important message for you regarding next month’s state congressional election. Did you know that candidate Nancy Furlong supports George W. Bush? Can you believe that? A jock strap won’t even support Bush anymore! This means Furlong supports the deaths of thousands upon thousands of our soldiers who are dying…*BEEP!*

FLEX: That’s enough of that. Let’s hear what’s next.

*BEEP!*
Hi. My name is Bill Beckingham and I’m running for State Representative in Harrisburg next month. Did you know that my opponent, Nancy Furlong, supports George W. Bush? That means she supports the needless deaths of our brave men in arms and higher taxes and curbing stem cell research that could cure cancer and…*BEEP!*

FLEX: You have got to be kidding me. Next!

*BEEP!*
Hello. My name is Nancy Furlong and I am running for State Representative in Harrisburg in November. My opponent, Bill Beckingham, is a liberal Commie who does not understand or appreciate family values. I do. I have six kids, I’m Catholic, I’ve been married to the same man for 24 years, and did I mention I have 6 kids? *BEEP!*

FLEX: Yes, you did. Do I have any messages here for me?!

*BEEP!*
Bill Beckingham here again. I’ll bet you have a voicemail or two from my Fascist, Bible-thumping opponent, Nancy Furlong……*BEEP!* Hi! Nancy Furlong here! My opponent smoked weed and inhaled! *BEEP!* Bill Beckingham again! Nancy Furlong may have been married to the same man for 24 years, but he’s her third husband! *BEEP!* Nancy Furlong again! Bill Beckingham is gay! *BEEP!* Bill Beckingham! If Nancy calls me gay, she means I’m happy! *BEEP!* No, I don’t! *BEEP!* Nancy Furlong’s husband must be gay for marrying her! *BEEP!* You lusting after my man? *BEEP!* I could steal your man without even blinking, ya pig! *BEEP!* Bite me, ya tax-hiking Commie! *BEEP!* In your wildest dreams, ya Nazi gun-slinging whore!

*BEEP!*
I’m Bill Beckingham, and I approve these messages.

*BEEP!*
I’m Nancy Furlong, and I look forward to securing your vote on November 7th.

FLEX: And the government wonders why voter turnout is so pitiful!

Excerpt from the unauthorized autobiography of Flex Malarky, 37, of West Chester, PA:

 

For some reason I have a hard time taking drug tests.  I think it’s because I’m not allowed to study for them. 

 

The first time I took a drug test I was greeted at the lab by an immense mammoth named Nurse Pigsnout.  I asked if she was into bacon.  She said, “Whatchoosay?!”  I replied, “I asked if you were into baking…baking cookies.”  “Why would you ask me that?” she snipped.  I didn’t want to reply that she smelled like Crisco or the fact that she looked like she could put away a box of doughnuts (doughnuts included) in record time.  I said I was a cookie cutter salesman selling from one diagnostic laboratory testing center to another.

 

In any case, I failed my first test miserably.  I missed the cup.  Nurse Pigsnout oinked at me as she handed me another cup.

 

One hour and one gallon of water later, I went into the bathroom.  Unfortunately, I must have been completely brain damaged that day, because I failed the second test.  When I handed the cup to Nurse Pigsnout, she yelled, “MR. MALARKY!  This is supposed to be a URINE test, for cryin’ out loud!”  She then told me to get my thumb out of my ass, pull up my pants, and take a seat. 

 

No way in hell I was going to ask for toilet paper.  She was pissed!

 

I’m really embarrassed at how I failed the third test.  At this point it was near lunchtime and I have to admit I don’t think straight when I’m hungry.  Nurse Pigsnout handed me yet another cup, said, “Fill the cup up to the red line, idiot” and somehow my competitive juices started to flow.  I bent over in a football offensive lineman’s stance, said, “Set down!  Hut one, hut two, HIKE!” and bolted for the bathroom.

 

I stumbled out an hour later with considerably less knee cartilage, blisters all over my right hand, and suddenly far-sighted.  But for the love of God I filled that @&!*# up to the red line, dammit!

 

Nurse Pigsnout looked at the cup, shook her head ruefully, and said, “Mr. Malarky, do you need help filling this cup?”

 

“Damn straight,” I muttered as I held up my right hand.  “If I had help this last time I wouldn’t have all these blisters!”

From the unpublished autobiography of Flex Malarky, 37, of West Chester, PA:

 

Went on a job interview the day after I graduated college. Something about a market research assistant. The asshole that interviewed me wanted to know what kind of experience I had. I told him I had to sit on my sorry ass for four years listening to bullshit from market research blowhards and has beens. That was enough experience. He said that wasn’t any experience. I asked the asshole how I could get experience when I spent the last four years sitting on my sorry ass getting lectured. He asked if I had an internship anywhere. I told him I couldn’t because I was too busy taking classes. He said I must’ve had some free time on my hands. I said, no, I didn’t, because the little free time I had was spent working trying to make enough thousands of dollars for tuition money to pay the university which paid the blowhards to stand there behind their podiums and lecture my sorry ass every day. My free time was spent working to save enough money to get lectured for four years so that I could earn a degree so that I could get the opportunity to sit here today and get told that I didn’t have enough experience for the job I earned a degree for.

 

I wasn’t hired.

From the journal of Flex Malarky, 36, of West Chester, PA. 

 

            So I break the garage door opener remote (again!) and Lara has me go to Home Depot to get another one.  Like I don’t have enough going on in my life this week!  She knows I’m booked with business lunches for the rest of the week and I’ve got YMCA basketball tomorrow night followed by poker night on Thursday, so why can’t she go out and buy it?

            One glare, of course, and I knew I was heading out to fetch the new remote.

            I canceled lunch today with Harry and ventured to Home Depot.  The last universal remote I bought worked like a charm so I thought I’d buy the same one.  Sold out, of course.  I guess there are plenty of my fellow comrades out there who crushed their remotes with their butt cheeks as well.

            I came across a remote opener that caught my eye.  It was called the Galaxy 401 opener.  No idea what the hell 401 meant, but I liked the picture of this astronaut opening up a black hole on the far side of the solar system with this remote.  Looked good to me.

            So I get home from work before the wife tonight and I thought I’d surprise her by actually putting the remote together.  I opened the package and immediately threw out the directions.  Why?  First off, I’m a man.  Men don’t need directions.  Show me the little contraption and I’ll figure it out.  I knew I had to program the device to the same coordinates as the last remote.  I did this in thirty seconds.  I then had to point the remote to the actual door opener hanging in the middle of the garage and press a couple of buttons so that this new remote could ‘learn’ the signal.  This took ten seconds.  I then pointed the remote to the door and pressed the button.

            Nothing happened.  I did it again.  Nothing.  I re-programmed the remote and tried again.  Nothing.  I walked out onto the driveway and tried it.  Nothing.  I re-programmed a third time and tried.  The garage door didn’t open but suddenly I heard a yell from behind me.  It was my next door neighbor, Joe Bladderful.  He was a plump, quiet man in his mid-50s that knew how to put away a case of Twinkies.  Joe had yelped because his toupee apparently had flown off his head and landed three feet away from him on his front lawn.  I know this embarrassed Joe.  He liked to think that the entire neighborhood didn’t know he was wearing a dead cat on his blotchy dome.

            The odd thing was, there wasn’t even a breeze.  Joe quickly placed the smelly rag on his crusty scalp and waved to me sheepishly.  I waved in return. 

            Muttering obscenities to myself, I pressed the remote.  Out of the corner of my eye I saw Joe’s toupee fly off his head again.  He quickly grabbed it and returned it to his head…backwards.  That was

strange.  The poor man was trying to fertilize his lawn for the fall and his rug kept falling off.  Or was it?

            I pressed the remote again.  The toupee flew off his head.  I grinned.

            I suddenly noticed Donna Turbulanti walking her poodle down the street.  Donna was looking very nice this early Indian summer evening, still dressed in business attire.  We waved with a smile.  When she wasn’t looking, I pointed the remote at her and pressed the button.  Donna shrieked as her bra flew straight up in the air.  Out of the corner of my eye I saw Joe’s toupee fly into the azaleas.

            Donna caught her bra and quickly looked around.  I pretended to fiddle with the remote.  She stuffed her bra in her suit pants pocket and picked up her pace.

            I now realized the power I had in my hand!  I pointed the remote at Wiggins’ BMW across the street.  The driver’s side door opened.  I pointed the remote at Murphy’s mailbox.  Door flew open and mail splattered onto the street.  Just then Katy Lynch and her two best friends (all three are captains of the West Chester East High School Cheerleading Team) walked by.  I pointed the remote at them.  Three skirts flew up into the air amidst their innocent shrieks!  Murphy’s mailbox fell off its wooden base, Wiggins’ BMW rolled backwards out of the driveway into Murphy’s Volvo, Donna Turbulanti’s pants suddenly ripped apart and Joe Bladderful’s toupee flew up into his gutter.

            I was beginning to salivate!  I pointed the remote all around me and kept pressing the button.  This turned out to be the wrong move.  I noticed an airplane in the sky suddenly descend at an alarming rate.  Katy and her friends immediately found themselves naked as their clothes just ripped off their bodies.  Donna’s poodle turned into an alligator and began to munch on Donna’s left foot.  Joe Bladderful amazingly turned into a Democrat and hammered a Kerry/Edwards sign into his lawn.  The airplane crashed in my backyard.  As flames and black smoke filled the air, Katy and her friends launched into a football cheer.  Wiggins’ BMW and Murphy’s Volvo burst into flames.  O’Brien’s house across the street suddenly imploded!  Katy and her two naked friends jumped onto my Jeep and proceeded to cheer.  I kept pressing the remote.  A UFO suddenly crashed into the middle of the street!  Cute little squirrels and rabbits on the neighborhood lawns suddenly detonated like hand grenades!  Half the neighborhood was on fire! 

            Suddenly, a large rip in time and space occurred beside me and I saw an apparent clone of myself walk through this tear.  He walked right up to me, grabbed my remote, and said, ‘Knock it off!’  He then turned around and walked back into the temporal rift with my garage door opener!  Seconds later, he and the rift disappeared.

            Lara pulled into the driveway minutes later.  “Naked cheerleaders, a 747 in our backyard, a UFO

in the middle of the street and the entire neighborhood a raging inferno!” she yelled.  I nodded in shame. 

“Don’t tell me you threw out the directions again?”

From the mind of Flex Malarky, 36, of West Chester, PA:

 

I’m Flex Malarky, and I approve this “Seek Therapy”

FLEX: Good evening, Mr. President.  Good evening, Senator.

BUSH/KERRY: Good evening, Flex.

FLEX: First question goes to President Bush. 

KERRY: Ladies first, huh?  Heh, heh.

FLEX: Mr. President?

BUSH: I’m glad you asked that question, Flex.

FLEX: I didn’t finish yet, Mr. President.  And please don’t interrupt me again.  Mr. President, why in God’s name should we, the American voters, give you another four years in the Oval Office?

BUSH: Well, for starters I had no idea.

FLEX: No idea about what?

BUSH: That my office was oval in shape.  Looks more like a circle to me.

FLEX: Please answer the question, Mr. President.

BUSH: Why should I be re-elected?  For starters, the economy is growing.  There are more Americans working today than ever before in the history of America.  Any America, for that matter.  Pick your North, Central, Latin or even South America, and this America…this America right here where I’m pointing…has more Americans working than ever before.  And in all kinds of offices, whether they be circle, square, rectangular or even oval. 

FLEX: Oh………..kay.  Mr. Senator, You have been campaigning for over a year now and yet no one has ANY IDEA what the hell you stand for.  What will you do once elected president?

KERRY: Good question, Flex.  As president, I will do a better job dealing with terrorists.

FLEX: I hate to interrupt, but there have been no terrorist attacks on U.S. soil since 9/11.  How will you do “a better job”?

KERRY: I’ll make sure there are no more terrorist attacks on the entire planet.

BUSH: Earth?

KERRY: Yes.

BUSH: Just making sure.  If re-elected, I’ll make sure there are no more terrorist attacks in our entire solar system.  Especially Saturn.  Bastards.

FLEX: Mr. President…please stop interrupting.

KERRY: Thank you, Flex.  Anyway, I believe I was discussing my health care plan?

FLEX: Whatever.

KERRY: If elected, I promise that every American will have access to a health care plan that won’t cost a lot of money.

FLEX: That’s very descriptive.

BUSH: If re-elected, I’ll tax the hell out of the terrorists on Saturn and use that money to give to people who need health care coverage here on Earth. 

FLEX: Right.

BUSH: Don’t mess with Texas.

KERRY: I’d like to address the Swift Boat issue.  Those 250 vets are all lying!

FLEX: Lying about what, Mr. Senator?

KERRY: Everything.  I was a hero in Vietnam.  “Rambo” Kerry they called me.  And those 250 Swift Boat vets are all lying when they say I faked my Purple Hearts!  Liars! 

FLEX: How many people did you serve with on those Swift Boats?

KERRY: 250.

FLEX: Thank you, gentlemen.  I thank you for your time.  I thank you for your brilliance.  I just have one question…WILL SOMEONE PLEASE TALK JOHN McCAIN INTO RUNNING FOR PRESIDENT AGAIN?  PLEASE?!?!

BUSH: I’d vote for him.

From the journal of Flex Malarky, 35, of West Chester, PA:

            Case in point: I was minding my own business the other day, not a care in the world, thinking how wonderful this thing we call life is, when I approached an automatic teller machine at a local bank.  An elderly woman was just walking away from the machine as I reached for an envelope just beneath it.

            So I’m about to stick my ATM card in the machine when I looked at the computer screen.  It read, “Would you like another transaction?”  Hmmm, I thought.  The old woman left her card in the machine!

            My palms began to sweat.  The hair on the nape of my neck tingled.  My teeth gritted with excitement and I think I wet myself.  I looked around to see if anyone was watching, and sure enough, I was alone.  My finger was about to push the `YES’ button when I stopped to think of the possible consequences.  Perhaps there was a hidden camera in the machine.  Besides, I thought, the poor woman probably didn’t have two hundred dollars to her name.  Even if I took out the money, the FBI certainly would show up at my house in a few days and arrest my sorry ass.  Wasn’t worth it, I thought, so I pushed `NO’ and her card slid out of the slot.  I conducted my business then returned her card to the bank and found out that the old woman was actually Mrs. Roth, the wife of the town’s sole millionaire.  Damn.

            The next day, I’m walking down the street, humming to myself in a jolly, half-baked fashion, when I decided to stop at an ATM to withdrawal some money.  I was in a giddy, carefree mood, and I decided to treat myself to a visit to the dentist once I had a full wallet. 

            So I approached the ATM, and much to my surprise the message, “Do you want to make another transaction?” was on the screen.  Now my back began to sweat, the hair on my left leg fell off, and I could feel the wax in my ears melt.  I was about to press ‘NO’ when the machine spoke in a computerized, hollow voice, “Would you like another transaction, Ms. Kershaw?”

            No one was around; I couldn’t see any hidden cameras so I decided to go for it.  I pressed ‘YES’.  The machine said, “Would you like to withdrawal, deposit or see your balance, Ms. Kershaw?”

            I wanted to see how much dough Ms. Kershaw had, of course.  I pressed the button for balance inquiry.  “Checking or savings?”  Savings.

            “You have $76,288.92, Ms. Kershaw,” said the machine.

            “I want to close my account!” I said excitedly.  “Complete withdrawal.”

            “Are you sure?” the machine asked.

            “I’ve never been so sure in my life!” I cried.  “Gimme my money!”

            “Ms. Kershaw, you sound like you have a cold.”

            What the hell kind of an ATM was this?  I coughed and attempted to sound feminine.  “I do have a cold,” I said.  “Scratchy throat.”

            “You taking anything for it?”

            “Robitussin,” I said.  “Thanks for asking.  Where’s my money?”

            “Ms. Kershaw,” said the ATM, “what year were you born?”

            Now the hair on my right leg fell off.  And I heard approaching police sirens.  I was caught!  There was a hidden camera!  “Forget it!” I yelled to the machine.  “I don’t want to close my account!”  And I turned to run.

            “Where do you think you’re going?” a deep and sinister voice came from the ATM.  I looked at the screen to see a demonic computerized face laughing at me.  “You ain’t goin’ nowhere, buddy!  Boo ha ha!”

            A large mechanical arm reached out from the machine and grabbed my wrist.  Another mechanical device appeared and grabbed my leg.  I was trapped!  “Listen,” I said.  “I realize I made a mistake.  Please let me go.  Someday I’ll have a wife and two kids to support.”

            “Why should I let you go?” asked the ATM.

            “I, uh, have a pretty sweet Dell laptop at home who would love to date a computer such as yourself,” I lied.  “She’d love a computer who comes from money.”

            “Gimme some details,” it said.

            “It’s an Inspiron 1150,” I said.  “Intel Celeron Processor 2.60 GHz, 14.1 inch XGA.”

            “I usually wouldn’t date anyone less than an Intel Pentium 4 Processor 2.80 GHz, 15 inch XGA,” said the ATM.  “But I’ll give you a shot.  Bring the laptop to me by 8:00 tonight or else I’ll have your entire checking and savings accounts eliminated.”

            Well, I got out of that situation…sort of.  Two blocks away I noticed a penny on the ground.  I bent down to pick it up and was immediately surrounded by twenty police officers with guns on me.  I was arrested for “pinching pennies” and thrown in the slammer for the night after being strip-searched…twice.

            It was quite a relief the next morning to be released from prison…until I stuck my bank card into another ATM and realized that my bank accounts were now displaying a $0 balance!

From the journal of Flex Malarky, 34, of West Chester, PA:

July 19^th

            So I’m driving down Rt. 202 South a few weeks ago, minding my own business as I was blabbering on my cell phone, weaving in and out of traffic.  Why do people drive so recklessly when I’m on my cell?  Sheesh!

            Anyway, I’m headed down to Lowe’s in Delaware to pick up some paint when a thought occurred to me: why is it that the “Welcome to Delaware” sign on Rt. 202 is roughly 500 yards away from the “Welcome to Pennsylvania” sign?  Shouldn’t they be back to back? Which state claimed those 500 yards?

            I bought my paint at Lowe’s and on the way back to PA up 202 North, I decided to stop in this “no-name zone” and find out whether it was Delaware or Pennsylvania.  I had some time to kill.  My wife loved being home alone with our two rammy kids (4 and 2 years of age.)

            I parked on the shoulder of 202 and stepped out of my car.  On the east side of 202, there is a farmhouse roughly 50 yards from the road. I was halfway between the “Welcome to Delaware” and “Welcome to PA” signs.  I was actually curious to see which state this one house belonged to…the state of no sales tax or the state of fleeing doctors.

            I walked up the front porch steps and knocked on the screen door.  Peering inside, it looked as if I was standing on the front porch of a house stuck in the 1950s.  I could make out an old sofa with some chairs opposite a TV that looked to be roughly 30 years old.  “Anybody home?” I asked.

            It looked like I was wasting time so I turned to leave.  As I turned around, I was suddenly face to face with what appeared to be an eight-foot creature with a long cylinder-like head, three black eyes and four arms jutting from a metal-like torso!  As I screamed, the creature reached for my neck and grabbed me by the throat.  His pinching claws muffled my scream.

            “Blix shemgpth?” it said.  I tried to pry its claws off my neck, but to no avail.  The creature drew me closer to its hideous face.  “Blix shemgpth?” it inquired again.  I was gasping for air.  I tried to respond but simply could not.  The creature lifted me by my neck and asked again, “Blix shemgpth?”

            I passed out.

            When I came to, I discovered that I was tied to a long table in a dingy, dark room.  “Where am I?” I cried.

            The lights came on.  I realized that I was in a windowless room (the farmhouse basement, perhaps?) and I was surrounded by six creatures, all similar to the one that was choking me to death on the front porch.  I was now hoping I was indeed in a basement and not on a UFO.   “Who are you people?” I yelled.  “What do you want with me?”

            “Blix shemgpth?” they all asked in unison.

            “Is that the name of your leader?” I cried.  “Is that where you’re from?  Tell me!”

            The creatures looked at one another and scratched their cylinder-like heads.  One of them stepped forward.  “Crybh norwakt dee lynxzereba?” it asked.

            “I’m sorry,” I said, gasping for air in my understandable panic.  “I don’t understand. I only got a D in French class!  Listen, I don’t care who you are or what planet you’re from…just let me go!”

            The creatures laughed.  The one that had stepped forward wiped a gleeful tear from his third eye. “What planet are we from?” he suddenly said between chuckles.  His voice was tinny, as if speaking with a microphone through a poor sound system.  “We’re from earth like yourself, moron!”

            “You speak English!” I cried.

            “It has been awhile since any of us spoke it,” he said.  “We rarely speak it here in Mxyculfukakka.”

            “What the hell is Mxyculfukaka?” I asked.

            “That’s Mxyculfukakka,” he said, “with two k’s at the end.”

            “Oh.”

            “That’s the name of the area between the “Welcome to Delaware” and “Welcome to Pennsylvania” signs,” he explained.  “We are Mxyculfukakkans. My name is Tewqyuritkop and that’s my

wife, Hdiopswzxck over there wearing the dark eyeliner.  She’s president of the Mom’s Club.”

            “You can call me Hdiopswz for short,” said his wife.

            “Pleased to meet you,” I said.  “This is amazing!? How have you guys survived all this time without the government, hell, the media, noticing?”

            “They know we’re here,” said Tewqyuritkop.  “But who gives a kableeka about 6 wackjobs who live in 500 yards between states?”

            He then untied me and sat me up.  “Sorry for tying you up like this,” he said.  “We thought you were someone else.”

            “Yeah,” I said as I rubbed my wrists.  “What does Blix Shemgpth mean anyway?”

            Tewqyuritkop laughed.  “We thought you were my daughter’s blind date,” he said.  “That’s his name.  Blix Shemgpth.  He’s from Qwuoklimon, the area between Delaware and Maryland.  Turns out he stood up my lovely daughter.” He pointed to the shy three-eyed freak that was standing behind Hdiopswzxck.

            “That’s a damn shame,” I said.  I rubbed my chin in thought.  “Ya know, I’ve got a friend who would probably love the chance to date your daughter.”

            “He’s not Italian, is he?” asked Tewqyuritkop.  “We don’t like Italians.  They’re weird.  Calling tomato sauce ‘gravy’ and all that happy horsekaplak.”

            Anyway, I fixed up my buddy Mike O’Connor with Dfghulremx, Tewqyuritkop’s daughter.  Mike said they had a good first date.  Dfghulremx knew how to give a great knobzewrt in the backseat of his Durango but the two realized by the third date that they really didn’t have much else in common.

            Me?  I no longer stop on the side of the road in between states.