by John Wayne Comunale
I lost my keys after I slept in a bed cursed by an Inuit witch doctor and woke up with what looked like giant snow-crabs dangling from my balls. I figured the reason I got snow-crabs was because my dazzlingly white pubes sparkled like the light that dances across the tops of waves. Either that, or it’s because they’re white and snow is also white.
I needed to confirm for sure that these were indeed snow-crabs, so I visited the seafood counter at my local grocer. The friendly man came from behind the glass, took a close look, and confirmed my suspicion. I had snow-crabs. He was an authority on things like this after all, and who was I to question a professional? Being that I already had the undivided attention of an ‘expert in his field’ I asked if he could tell me what the best way to prepare them would be.
He said, “Why, boiled with a fuck ton of butter, of course.”
I kindly asked him if he used metric or standard fuck tons, and he told me to fuck off. I guess I had inadvertently insulted him. I loaded what I approximated to be the fuck ton of butter I would need for my meal into two shopping carts and made my way to the checkout counter.
When I got there the young cashier exclaimed, “Holy shit, that’s a fuck ton of butter, mister!”
“You think so?” I asked pleased with my measuring skills. I was just eyeballing it, after all.
When I got home I realized I did not own a pot big enough for all the butter and all the snow-crabs. I mean, these were some big fucking snow-crabs. I dumped the butter in the bathtub and used a hairdryer to try and melt it, but the hairdryer overheated and shot sparks all over the floor and the butter. The bathroom caught fire and I savored the aroma of burning butter as I hauled ass out of the house. I watched it burn down from my neighbors yard, sad that I wasn’t going to have snow-crab for dinner that night. I noticed something by my foot shine in the firelight. I looked down and saw my keys.
“Oh,” I said to the snow-crabs, “that’s where I left them.”
John Wayne lives in Houston Texas where he wiles away the days writing ridiculous stories, and slinging lattes for a bunch of jerks. When he’s not doing that he’s touring with his bands: johnwayneisdead and Letters to Voltron. He also writes and illustrates his own zine: The Afterlife Adventures of johnwayneisdead.
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