Oops
Well, I think he is. My friend, that is. I never met him. Can he be my friend if I never met him? I don’t know the rules. I knew the rules for having friends when Nixon was President. You remember Nixon, surely. He didn’t have any friends. But I did. They’d come over and we’d play Battleship or Stratego. We’d go down to the baseball field and mow the knee-high grass, pushing a mower with the handle at eye level the whole time. We never bothered mowing right field because there weren’t enough of us to have a right fielder, so it was an out anyway. You can never have enough friends.
Maybe Casey is an elaborate hoax being played on me. He says he lives in Oregon or Washington or Vancouver or one of those places with moss on the roof shingles instead of snow. An elaborate ruse would feature a person who claimed to be from a place no one goes, so you’d never find out. But by that criteria, I might be an elaborate ruse. I might have found those Beatles-playing kids on Fiverr and buy furniture on Ebay and steal a buncha text from Mark Twain and paste is on the Intertunnel to fool the unwary. Once they were suckered in, BAM, I’d have ’em, and, and, and…
Well, I don’t know exactly what I’d do. But it would be George Smiley-grade shite, levels on levels, no one knowing who’s who or what’s what until the letter opener slips between your tenth and ninth ribs and you gasp: It’s you!
But to get back to my imaginary friend, Casey Klahn, he sent me this video, like, two months ago and I’m just posting it today because I’m so far in a hole right now I can hear Chinese mumbling and I need something that doesn’t require me to write 326 words into this editor.
Oops.
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