When I arrived at Mr. Gyllenhaal’s tasteful fifteen-floor tudor outside the greater Los Angeles area, I noticed his doorbell played a symphonic arrangement of George Michael’s “Careless Whisper”. And almost as soon as that soothing sax line began, the door swung open with a great ‘Ftang!’ and there was Jake, handsome as the day he was born, gleaming with joy, perspiration, and more joy, coincidentally holding a human placenta. “My dear boy, I’ve been expecting you for…” he abruptly checked each of the nine and a half watches which formed a metallic sleeve along his right arm, “Nearly twenty one seconds now! No matter, come along. How exciting this must be for you!” Gesturing towards my chic bath slippers, Mr. Gyllenhaal said rather flippantly, “Please, take your shoes off. This is a place of business,” grasping the left slipper out of my hand. With a swish of his cape he gave me a good natured pat on the back, which ejected the wad of Big Red from my mouth and into his extended right hand. Using the gum, he affixed my slipper to the ceiling of the long, serrated anteroom in which we stood. “You won’t be needing that anymore,” he chuckled.

“So you’ve come to see my murder machine?” Jake queried half-rhetorically, leading me deeper into his inner sanctum. Having no idea whatsoever of what he was referring to but not wanted to seem un-hip I replied, “Yes of course. I’ll have the grand tour,” extending my pocket-sized notebook and trusty Papermate Elite with a well-oiled click. The pen began to leak the aforementioned oil—Castrol GTX3 to be exact—all over my notebook, and I abandoned the idea of note-taking. As a homeless man named Kwaidea once said to me, “the human mind is the greatest notebook”. Granted, I had told him to say that, as quoting myself would violate my sense of journalistic integrity. He was paid handsomely with a McChicken sandwich and a kick in the ribs.

“This is where the magic begins,” Mr. Gyllenhaal said, leading me into a kitchen which featured what appeared to be a mailbox. He dropped the placenta into the mailbox, and a terrible screeching was heard from below. “Follow me,” he said, opening the refrigerator door to reveal a flight of stairs into the basement. As we rollerbladed down the stairs, I wondered if I had accidentally left the oven on, or if my girlfriend would notice that I had replaced the cologne I had used with Windex.

The basement, nothing short of expansive, was allegedly a football stadium which had sunk several miles underground, as a result of soft, peaty soil of Los Angeles. The chandeliers were never cleared up. Somewhere along the 20 yard line were a series of monolithic grinders and rollers which led to a factory line culminating at the end zone for the Los Angeles Xtreme, the official team of Los Angeles X Football League. Pointing with a jeweled cane which he often leaned on between the hours of 7 and 9:30pm for dramatic effect, Mr. Gyllenhaal alerted me to the thousands of workers who were apparently shackled to the machines, working furiously at forming, inspecting, and processing what this underground industrial complex was producing. “Homeless people,” he said, sorting through a massive stack of paychecks in one of his three bottomless coat pockets, “I gave them all food, shelter, and most importantly, employment.” He began handing out the paychecks, and I recognized Kwaidea, who was at a fitting station somewhere mid-field. I called him James, so he would know not to strike up any friendly conversation—I was working after all, and apparently so was he. “But what is it you have them doing?” I asked the illustrious Mr. Gyllenhaal, who has starred in such films as October Sky, Jarhead, and Source Code. “They’re making people into food,” he whispered, which immediately made me spit out the coffee I was not drinking, “although for the purpose of keeping up a pleasant work environment, we prefer to call the people ‘resources’.”

He led me back up the stairs to the refrigerator, this time using reverse-rollerblades to show me the roof of his home. Mr. Gyllenhaal explained where he got his resources’. “Don’t worry—it’s not like anyone will miss these people. I basically just abduct anyone who has ever been rude to someone working a minimum wage job.” We took the elevator in the microwave to a massive battery of solar cells on the roof. Mr. Gyllenhaal removed one of his hands and, using a silicone key inside his wrist, unlocked the roof hatch. I noticed the roof had a similar color scheme to an airport terminal. “The bones are ground into a renewable plastic substitute, while the meat is turned into food—think soylent green, but a little spicier—and non-digestables, like hair, are turned into fancy coats for dogs. I am, after all, a humanitarian.” Mr. Gyllenhaal replaced his hand and, pointing to the solar cells, exclaimed, “and it’s all green! Based on my projections, by the year 2015, everyone in this city will be fed, clothed, employed, and reasonably well mannered, or dead.” He cackled and then stopped abruptly in a way that made me need to sneeze. “Isn’t it marvelous?” Mr. Gyllenhaal asked.

“We should go inside,” I advised Jake (since he had become familiar on a first name basis since his last meaningful quote), “It’s raining pretty hard.” He stared directly upward, not blinking. He seemed to agree with my conclusion about the weather by opening his mouth, gargling loudly, and spitting the rainwater onto his shoes. “I’m really not bothered by it,” Jake said, although I noticed sparks jumping from his fingertips, “I probably should have mentioned that I’m a cyborg.”

——

I went home to watch Zodiac with a lingering feeling of both confusion and overwhelming respect. I also thought it best to drink heavily. My dog had finished all of my vodka, so I chose to take shots of my girlfriend’s cologne and lavish in the familiar taste of Windex. At the 7-11 across the street from my apartment which I frequently visit to buy candy bars and hobby magazines, I overheard a portly mime berating a sales associate and immediately became hungry. God bless you, Jake Gyllenhaal.

In the fourth week of my summer holiday, I happened upon a sign along the banks of Lake Pond on Cheshire, one advertising a model boat regatta. Finally, a chance to impress Sylvia had arisen. I had ruled out most sporting events in the earlier week as they were mostly dominated by Clarence and the Negroes. But a regatta was exactly the kind of thing up my alley, as my father was once a champion of tiny boats himself, before the flu outbreak of 1918 damaged his brain to the point where all he could understand were model trains, like the other mongoloids. That was neither here nor there. I immediately set off for my workshop in the basement on the third floor and began to construct my entry, a masterfully built schooner with all of the proper clippings. I painted the hull emerald as a tribute to Sylvia’s piercing eyes, and also because it is the fastest of non-primary colours. Within several days, my creation was finished, and I was sure I was poised to win the semi-prestigious event.

I awoke the day of the regatta several hours before the cock crowed. Too nervous for breakfast, I busied myself in the fourth story masturbatorium, followed by a fully clothed trip to the sauna. Dripping in sweat, I grabbed my ship and headed for the banks of Pond Lake on Lake Pond on Cheshire. The crowd was beginning to gather like moths to a moth regatta. There was Sylvia, her face gleaming in the sunlight reflected from the water. She smiled at me, and I nervously smiled back as the vomit slowly seeped between the cracks in my teeth and onto my pants. She giggled. My ears popped. From behind her emerged Clarence, boat in hand. That Scandinavian prick smiled in the way that resembled a corpse of a rightfully dead Scandinavian. I did not only want to beat Clarence, I wanted to dance his grave to music that he probably wouldn’t like. Soon, the call came to put our boats in the water so the race could commence.

The race magistrate, Thompkins Boatington, fired the starting canon, killing three on-lookers. The race was on! All of the boats skimmed across the perfectly clear, cloudy water. Other more feeble designs fell behind, but Clarence and I were neck and neck. What if I lost, I thought to myself? How could I deal with the pain of losing Sylvia to a Northern European? I was almost too distracted by my negative thoughts to see my boat cross the finish line first. Oh sweet victory! There was Clarence, sobbing in his defeat as his father rightfully spanked him bare-bottom. But where was Sylvia?

Looking back towards the starting line, I saw the horrid sight. As the spectators and competitors followed the rapidly moving boats, she had tripped and drowned in the ankle deep waters. Oh, fickle destiny! My selfishness had led to the death of the only woman I loved as both a cousin and a lover, drowned by the calm waters of Lake Pond Lake Pond Pond Near Cheshire. I fell into a deep depression shortly after, and remained a shut-in, until I was drafted in the war where I died. Clarence lived a full-life, but he remained Scandinavian, so even if my death came at the age of 19, I still won. Scandinavians are filthy people.

“Well shit, we really put our heads together on this one,” said General Crispex, “as we say in the army, occasionally in the navy, and rarely in the coast guard: this was one tough cookie to bomb the living shit out of.” Lieutenant Crispex has already had to scrap several plans, including one where all of the commanding officers would close their eyes and count to 17 million while their troops sneak into bordering countries. “Turns out that’s pretty much illegal…or at least most people would consider it an act of aggression,” Sergeant Crispex whined, “Haven’t you assholes ever heardof hide and go seek!?”

Proving his strategic brilliance, Colonel Crispex was quick to come up with alternatives. “It seemed natural to kind of gerrymander this one. If we could naturalize the soldiers as Afghani citizens, then technically we’d be reducing the American military presence and increasing the country’s ability to become  a thinly-veiled imperialist puppet state,” said Private Crispex. However,  this stroke of genius was snuffed out when it was discovered that the government building responsible for giving citizenship tests had been demolished several years ago by indiscriminate carpetbombings.

“Well, we can’t just let everyone leave. That’s tantamount to admitting defeat,” proclaimed Double Colonel Crispex, “So we had to use my least imaginative plan—have them kill each other.” As justification, Commando Crispex cited the finite number of expendable U.S. military personnel in a draftless era, as well as the insurgent forces’ truly lackluster pace in ending the lives of the soldiers already stationed overseas. “The troops would be given the opportunity to die for their country and be defeated by the greatest military in the world. It would recude the troop presence by an estimated 100%,” said Crispex, who was stripped of his rank after admitting that he changed his last name to reflect his favorite breakfast cereal. “There’s a great deal of patriotism in knowing when your country needs you to kill a while bunch of your friends or commit suicide,” Harrison Crispex said, hastily packing a suitcase and boarding a plane to Dubai.

When asked if he wouldn’t rather go home to his family, Bravo Team Captain James T. Kirk, a New Orleans native and father of four stationed in Kabul said, “Go back to America?! Fuck no! Have you seen the job market in that shithole recently? My ass has been on the line for ten long years; at the least those schmucks could have sured up some cushy job sweeping floors in a public middle school. Thanks for the offer,” Kirk said, removing the pin from the grenade has was cradling, “But I’ve got kids to think of.”

Emily described the interview process as ‘rigorous’. “They’re some tough cookies, but they were so impressed by my resume that the only question they asked me was, ‘Why the hell is your name Emily?’,” he recounted via telegraph, a process which took several hours. “I told them my parents hadn’t wanted children, and that it was refreshing for another human being of flesh and blood to call me by my given name, since my dad usually refers to me as ‘faggot’. They laughed and hired me on the spot. But I could tell they were laughing with me, not at me.”

Although past interns have described the bowels of ARSE as somewhere between ‘abysmal’ and ‘life-threatening’, Mr. McCandless claims that the experience is ‘like being a sponge’. “I’m just surrounded with people who are at the top of their field, and who are trying to help me grow to become as great as they are,” said McCandless, whose co-workers think of him as expendable and ‘kind of ugly’. “The first thing I learned was that you have to spend money to make money. Between transportation, food, and the nine to fourteen cheesecakes my boss has been having me buy him every day, my returns on this little venture are going to be huge!”

McCandless’ responsibilities for ARSE Inc. include making coffee, re-making coffee better than last time, and waiting four to eight hours for further instructions. Occasionally he receives menial tasks which could be described as ‘comparatively thrilling’. “Just last week they had me haul 80lbs of bricks from Brooklyn to Queens and back again. They also told me I would have to pay out of pocket if I wanted to take a cab, but I said no. That’s slacker stuff. I could tell this was a real opportunity for character growth and learning how the industry works,” Emily notes while carrying 139lbs of bricks, an ARSE record. He added, “There’s a real potential for upward mobility here.”

While taking a 36-second break to wipe the sweat from beneath his company-controlled shock collar (which has a nasty habit of going off seemingly at random), Emily, a male, noted that there were a few less-than-ideal aspects to working for ARSE as a whole. “Don’t get me wrong, I love my job,” said Emily–who has a penis–while separating a spool of yarn into individual strand fibers at his boss’s request, “but some of the people here are just upsetting to be around. I overheard Mr. Woods in cubicle 1744018_B-6 say that if he could kill himself more than once, he’d like to spread each of his bodies’ entrails all over the 480th floor, just so it would be harder to clean up on Monday,” Emily recounted with accuracy unabated by the regular jolts of electricity entering his neck from his shock collar. “I mean…I’m not sure what an entrail is, but I just can’t stand someone with a negative attitude.”

Applied Resources and Sciences Etc. also has the highest incidence of workplace disappearances of any business worldwide. “I came in on Tuesday, and the entire office was empty,” said Emily, whose important work allows him to hold on to the barest shreds of his masculinity. “At least I still had plenty of yarn to untie.”

Later that week, Emily McCandless could not be reached for comment. When asked about his whereabouts, college internship adviser Cynthia Krizzman said, “Who? You mean that weird chick that was always yammering on about the ‘corporate ladder’? Who gives a rat’s ass. I hate this job and I wish I was dead.”

The backbone of any Outback has always been No Rules, Just Right. Now, if any eating establishment is to tell me that at any given location I am to expect a lack of law and order, I’m going to take full advantage of that. However, if the summer of 2005 taught me anything, it’s that their purported lack of rules is nothing more than a bold-faced lie, and I have the police report to prove it.

If I remember correctly, the exact date was June 28th, but it could have been close to the 20th, but let’s just say that whatever day it was is inconsequential. The nation was still riding the high of Gwen Stefani’s “Hollaback Girl”, and citizens were in high spirits across the board. I had just completed my second year at Father Chapman’s School for Boys and Other Genders, and had just been launched into the full swing of the bliss that was summer vacation. A few of the local rowdies and I had been engaged in a pick up game of rugby at the local park. After a few nasty scrums, we decided to part waysand I phoned a local girl I had my eye on, Sophia, for dinner. Much to my surprise, she accepted, and soon we agreed on the location, the above mentioned Outback Steakhouse in Medford, NJ.

Things got off to a rocky start almost immediately upon arrival, when I put out my cigarillo on the hostess’ hand, mistaking it for a novelty ashtray. She was visibly upset, as was my severely asthmatic date, but I was certain that the company’s slogan would protect me from any fallout. After a quick word with the manager, a man who resembled a suckling pig more than the daring adventurers/prisoners I would imagine Australia to be populated with, we were seated.

Soon our drinks and Bloomin’ Onion were ordered, and the date was to commence as planned. My nerves had gotten the better of me, so I stopped and blew a bar of Xanax, which visibly irritated the tables surrounding us. Not one to take any crap for something so harmless, I took off my shirt to let everyone know that I was a very serious person. At this point, Sophia had had enough, but thanks to some careful planning and misdirection on my part, she was now hot-glued to her chair. If the rules don’t apply to the restaurant, then they certainly don’t apply to dating etiquette while within the confines of the restaurant. Seeing the manager from before approach, flanked by some larger, muscle-y barmen, I feared for the worst and slowly reached for my taser I had tucked near my genitals. If there’s anything a good boy scout should know, it’s to keep a taser tucked near your genitals.

Sophia screamed as the charge from my taser hit the one barman directly in the forehead. Whether or not he survived, I’m not sure. Seeing this, the manager and the other large man took of sprinting out of the building. This was my one chance to declare myself king. Forming a makeshift crown out of my now cooling Bloomin’ Onion, I hopped onto the bar and screamed for all to surrender to me. Ten minutes later, I had set up a new currency and trade system base on the most abundant resource, shoes and buttons. An hour in and we had already developed a successful mining endeavor, though many lives were lost in the process.

At first I felt bad. I only seemed to hang out with you when I was plastered. Most of my drunk stories ended with me inside of you. But you told me you didn’t mind. You’ve always been understanding that way. When I ogle your well-endowed drink selections, glassy-eyed at 4am, you don’t get offended; when I rough up the chips a little, you’ve never called the cops, even though they’re usually in the parking lot to begin with. I think I even heard you giggle about how drunk I was once, but I knew you meant love-drunk. This is what I mean about you getting me, 7-11. You’ve always been there, through thick and thin.

After a heavy drinking session, your taquitos are ready and willing. The candy aisle is well stocked. And even when half of your slurpies are accompanied by the lit red button “Flavor Out of Order” that I never notice until it’s too late, I can’t be mad at you. We’ve been together too long. You got me through the busiest parts of college. During those sleepless weeks, we practically moved in together! You gave me somewhere to loiter in high school between the end of the school day and my shifts at Panera Bread, and then CVS, then Gamestop, Citgo, and Starbucks. Even when I was out of a job, you’d let me crash with you.

Light of my life, fire of my loins.

These days I mostly come in to pick up a few six-packs, or a bottle of your wine. While perusing the seasonal flavors of Kit-Kats and Snickers, I tell you that you have a lot to learn about winemaking, but that I wouldn’t be critical if I didn’t want you to get better. I know you’ve got the talent and the perseverance to really make something of yourself, 7-11, so shoot for the stars. It’s moments like these that we share on my way up to the counter (or cash wrap, as you told me yesterday. Every time we talk, I learn something new. You’re so smart!). You ring up my alcohol and I promise that we can spend some time together later. You laugh. We’ve heard my excuses enough times, so you don’t get your hopes up anymore. Later, I’ll be drunk and forget about you.

And that’s why I wanted to write you this. You’ve been faithful. You’ve been generous. 7-11, I’ve neglected to share my feelings with you for too long. But it’s hard for me.

Just know, the next time I come up the to the cash wrap nearly vomiting into the rack of tabloid magazine and mumble, “packa Marlboros,” pointing vaguely at the wall of cigarettes behind the register…just know that what I meant to say was I Love You.

Eccentric billionaire Giuseppe Mantalban announced yesterday, in a gesture of amelioration for America’s collective pain, his plans to spend his entire fortune on a reconstruction effort which would convert all of Manhattan Island into a 9/11-themed amusement park, aptly titled Terror Land.

“New Yorkers have seen enough horror,” said Mantalban, gesturing towards a set of blueprints. “Or at least, they’ll think they have until they ride an 800ft super-coaster through a burning mock-up of the World Trade Center,” he chuckled politely. Construction on Terror Land is slated to begin immediately.

The park, which takes its inspiration from the most destructive incident on American soil, is slated to feature all of the usual attractions of any similarly-themed amusement park. On Mantalban’s proposal list were an American Airlines 11 flight simulator, a “ride” described as the “97^th Floor Leap”, a Tour of Duty Ferris Wheel where patrons are forced to continue riding for several years after they expected to get off, a caricature artist who depicts his subjects as first responders suffering from respiratory carcinoma, as well as a teacup merry-go-round meant to commemorate America’s national loss of innocence. When approached by Disney with an offer to rebrand and repurpose their popular Twilight Zone Tower of Terror for inclusion on the new Manhattan-wide amusement park, Mantalban and his associates immediately dismissed it as “utterly tasteless, appalling, and just plain insensitive” to fans of the famed science fiction show in all its iterations. To quote one nameless Disney executive: “Shucks, it would have made a real splash, just like all those losers hitting the pavement after they jumped out of that skyscraper that was slowly burning them alive. I can name at least 200 people that aren’t welcomed in the Magic Kingdom anymore.” The park’s board of trustees, which included executives from nearly every multinational corporation, exchanged sympathetic nods and phoned their secretaries to make sure the Disney executive would receive a care package, a wheel of feta cheese, and unrestrained use of those same secretaries.

“A little to the left, you nimrod!” Mantalban thoughtfully instructed a laborer who was pouring several thousand gallons of concrete down a subway stop in Times Square onto an MTA official below who was unavailable for comment. Terrified screams were heard. One New Yorker, who was trying to pretend that the deluge of liquid concrete was just another homeless person asking for change, was asked his thoughts on Mantalban’s plan. “I mean, after 9/11 there just wasn’t anything left in this city. Those planes brought down two buildings I had categorically avoided and had never had reason to go into in the first place,” the native opined, spreading his arms to the sky with desperation, “Now look at this hell hole! What the fuck else is even here?!” Letting out a defeated snort, the indigenous man mumbled under his breath, “It’s not like this city has anything going for it anyway. Might as well just cash it all in and start from scratch. At least we’ll have a Gravitron…”

For many New Yorkers, the ground zero site is still an open wound, a pile of rubble that reminds them of their losses. Mantalban sympathized from behind the controls off a crane, which he had strapped a wrecking ball to. “It was such an iconic part of the skyline and an important piece of the city’s architecture,” he said, swinging the massive wrecking ball into the side of Grand Central Station. Hundreds of commuter clutched their heads or shielded their eyes from broken glass. “What New York needs is to rebuild. There’s just so much crap to clear out of the way before we can really break ground on anything though,” Mantalban bemoaned, before leveling the Chrysler building, which put him in higher spirits. Later in the day he was seen slapping ice cream cones from children’s hands. It was unclear whether this was part of the Terror Land project or not.

Mantalban’s plans have had a few very vocal opponents. He has, however, responded to all of them with the blanket statement, “I can promise you that this theme park will let you live as your loved ones died: screaming, terrified, and probably disappointed with the commute. What more could you want?” Since this answer was unsatisfactory to a few ninnies, wusses, and dimwits, Mantalban later tweeted in quick succession, “I big plans, you stupid babies,” “Plans meaning a safari,” “There’s going to be a safari,” and “We’re turning the Bronx into a safari. Way to spoil the surprise, idiots.” He later clarified, “There will be no fences. Bronx residents are free to remain in their homes, patrons of Terror Land are expected to supply their own helmets and first aid.”

When asked if Terror Land would include any sort of memorial to the victims of park’s inspiration, he replied, “Good god! Fuck no! Absolutely not! The media would be all over that.” He huffed, “This is a theme park, not a circus. All we need is another 60 Minutes segment titled ‘In Memoriam’. What a bunch of greedy blowhards.”

As a closing remark, Mr. Mantalban added, “And if I see anyone selling any goddamn American flags, miniature or otherwise, I swear I’ll-.” Unfortunately, his threat was drowned out by the sound of dynamite coming from the upper west side, and the immense splashing of thousands of New Yorkers chancing the Hudson to seek refuge in Hoboken.

I felt obligated to help this friendly “neighborhood” chain establish a desirable customer base, by creating the short questionnaire “Arrr You Able to Flow with Joe, Bro?” without their permission. The correct answers are included, and if you get more than half of them right, chances are there’s flaxseed somewhere in your pantry.

1)      Do You Love Your Kids?

In a sterile, authoritarian but liberal-minded way, and only when they do their homework.

2)      Do You Feel Boring Because You’re (almost certainly) White?

Yes, but I would never address such a racially sensitive subject in public, or even around close friends I had known for less than 4-and-three-quarter years. That’s my cutoff. No exceptions.

3)      How Often Do You Litter?

Trick question- no one who goes to Trader Joes knowingly litters. And if they do by accident, they’re sure to give a burnt offering of Kashi and say a Hail Greenpeace.

4)      Do You Drink?

I like to own expensive-looking liqueurs and prominently display them near my dining room on a bar set made of recycled materials. I pronounce the word ‘liqueur’ in four distinct syllables.

5)      How Old Are You?

I’ve been 35 for the past eight years.

Same with my wife.

And our kids.

I chalk our longevity up to the amount of B-vitamins I’ve been taking before bed every night. It’s like time travel.

I consider sandals to be the most sensible footwear.

6)      How Do You Take Your Coffee?

I only drink green tea, sweetened with agave nectar if I’m feeling spunky. The chinamen had it right for thousands of years, and we’re just beginning to understand their wisdom. I mean, have you even seen Eastern Promises?

7)      Is Portland, Oregon “Where it’s at”?

This one is too obvious. Like, should all clothing be made out of fair-trade hemp fiber? I’ll bet that Ashton Kutchins character is going to show up any minute now.

8)      Do You Keep A Diary?

Does my daily blog about meditation and health supplements count?

9)      How Do You Feel About Welfare?

The sight of poor people makes me feel uncomfortable, and I usually lock my car doors when driving through a largely-industrial neighborhood. That being said, once we finished converting the shed in the backyard to a guest bedroom, adopting a poor person seems like a good humanitarian venture. I’m glad we still have that electric fence left over from our dog, Ezra, before we realized pet ownership is just socially-acceptable animal abuse.

10)   Were You Raised In a Barn?

No, but I’ve been trying to make enough money to live that way since my early 20’s.