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It came barging into my dream--sadly, because it was a happy dream involving zombie extermination alongside Milla Jovovich. Nothing I can do to stop it, but someday I might find a way to trace the origins of these prayers, and then these people will be sorry.
Dear Sheos, How much should a plumber charge to unclog a toilet? Waiting for words of wisdom, Flunker 12 Flunker 12, Are you fucking kidding me? You woke me from a perfectly wonderful zombie/Jovovich dream with this shit? People like you don’t deserve toilets. You should be forced to root in your own filth, while you ruin the thoughts and dreams of others with various stenches and Eskimo kisses! Don’t you ever send a prayer to Sheos again! But, since you asked: I’d say you’re looking at about two- to three-hundred dollars, depending how bad the clog is. If there’s a clown down there, though, it’ll cost you extra to bribe the plumber.
I woke up to toned-down, swerving stars. My head kept hitting the passenger window of the Strom, leaving little spots of forehead grease to blur the outside world. Not that I could see much in the first place; like I said, though the stars were out, they all seemed somehow dim. Another swerve, another smudge on the window, and now I heard Rabies saying “Shit, slow down.” I pushed myself to a normal sitting position in the car seat. The first thing I saw was Rabies holding a pair of binoculars to his face with one hand, while he held the steering wheel in the other. Then I saw a car with a sign reading C-A-B lit up on the top of its roof. “Rabies!” I screamed, and Rabies took the binoculars from his eyes and slammed on the breaks. The Strom jerked, and the smell of burning rubber filled the cab. I hate the smell of burning rubber. Rabies squinted his eyes Clint Eastwood-style at the taxi ahead of us. “I’ll catch you someday C-A-B, and put you in proper order,” Rabies said, and replaced the binoculars to his eyes. The swerving resumed. “What the fuck are you doing?” I yelled at him. “Trying to watch a movie,” he said, pressing harder on the accelerator to catch up with a champagne colored mini-van. “I had to turn down those damn stars to get a clear look in the window. Fucking white subtitles. Everyone knows that subtitles should be yellow. They’re easier to see.” “You dimmed the stars?” “Yeah,” he said. “You can’t just do that, can you?” I asked, though I didn’t see a reason why not. It would just sidetrack a few astronomers, and nobody cared about or listened to them anyway. “Give me those binoculars.” I grabbed for them, but Rabies pulled away. “Get your own,” he said. I was about to ask how I was supposed to do that, when he added, “They’re in the backseat.” I moved around machetes, CD cases, and bagged snacks, until I finally found the binoculars underneath all that junk on the backseat. I focused on the screen inside the van and found a screen full of Johnny Depp as Hunter S. Thompson. The things parents will show their kids these days. We drove over a few scraps of a blown out tire remnants before realizing we were venturing off the shoulder of the interstate. Rabies slowly corrected the problem. Of course, all this was the fault of humans. If they put things like DVD players in automobiles, they shouldn’t be surprised when someone else wants to watch, too. But I couldn’t watch anything--I kept getting distracted.
Dear Sheos, Is ear wax poisonous? What if I got some in my mouth? Maxamillion
Maximelt, The only thing you need to truly worry about is what it can do to your words. If left unchecked, ear wax is a known conductor of demonic paraphrasings, and will turn every word you say from here on out into a dark incantation. What you need to do is eat a shitload of communion wafers to get rid of any ill effects. I’m sure if you talk to your local priest, he’ll understand and give you a stack of them. If not, thievery is your only hope. Good luck.
“This is stupid,” I said, throwing the binoculars out Rabies’ window. “Where are we going?” “Gas station,” Rabies said. The dial on the dash said the tank was full. “We’re not going for that,” he said before I could comment. “We gotta find a place to live for a while. I’m going to ask a friend of mine if he has any suggestions.” When we stopped in the gas station, I waited in the car, staring at a gash that had split open the dash of the Strom. I remembered it being smaller when we started the trip, but I could have been mistaken.
Dear Sheos, I think my freezer is a portal to Hell. How do I keep my ice cream from melting? Running hot & cold in Arkansas
Running, You are so fucked, but I’ll write something to give you false hope. You’re ice cream will be fine... I think that you should--I’m sorry. I can’t keep this up. Just tell me it’s not rocky road in there. Why is it always the good ones that have to die? The only thing I suggest you do is sacrifice a soul to the portal. Maybe then it will go away and your ice cream will be safe.
I got bored with the Strom and decided to go see how Rabies was making out with our immediate living arrangements. I exited the car and walked up to the station, when a payphone off to the side of the store began to ring. I decided to answer it. “Hello?” “Mr. Sheos,” the caller said. “I want to draw little people on my girlfriend, but this makes her very upset and uncomfortable. Is there a way we can both be happy?” I dropped the phone, and it dangled from its metal cord like a suicide victim. I picked up the phone again, “Hello?” but there was no one there. I couldn’t give an answer. I walked away from the phone and entered the gas station’s store. “There is to be a place that I was force-ed to go years and years back,” a man behind the counter said to Rabies as I walked through the door. He was a small, blonde haired guy, whose skin was leathered and worn, despite his obvious young age. Pointed ear tips poked out of his hair, as he continued to speak in his odd accent. “I think it is to be run-ed by a man that is to be in the mob.” “The mob?” Rabies asked. “Djais,” the man replied. “We can deal with that,” Rabies said. “Where’s it at?” The clerk wrote something on the back of a receipt. Rabies took the paper, looked at it, and passed it to me. “Hilton Head Island?” I asked, but no one bothered to answer. “Thanks, Kobadob,” Rabies said to the clerk. They shook hands, and we left.
Dear Sheos, How do you make a quiche? Frisbee love in Mexico
Frisbee Screwer, According to Wikipedia, which is the best thing to happen to humankind, let alone to the internet, “A quiche is a pie made primarily of eggs and cream in a pastry crust. Other ingredients such as chopped meat or vegetables are often added to the eggs before the quiche is baked. In Quiche Lorraine, cream and cooked bacon are added.” And there I thought it was something sexual dealing with five-somes.
When I got in the car and slammed the door, I could have sworn the crack in the Strom’s dash grew an inch. Rabies chose to ignore it. “All right,” Rabies said, turning the key in the ignition and starting the car. “We’re headed south. Rich people and oceanfront properties, beware.” “Did that guy in there say something about the mob?” I asked. “What? No. Don’t worry about it.” Don’t worry about it coming from Rabies was always ironic. It was after these words that a flesh-eating chemical fog comes rolling into your vicinity, or the WB greenlights a new shitty sitcom. Last time Rabies said, “There’s nothing to worry about,” I spent a year buried underneath a foundation of cement. He knew what I was thinking. “What do you care?” he asked, and again I had to agree. I didn’t care, and so we beat on boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past. Or something to that effect.
Sheos out. _______________________________________________________
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