Ya Wanna Buy A Toothbrush?

Freewrite morning post, scattered thoughts and misspelled words. I hope you enjoy it. [The Zolar X piece will be up in a few days, I promise. There is just so much to write about our dear Plutonians, and I want to get my thoughts in order and be succinct. I'll be working on it tonight after Alice Bag at RADAR (!) and it will be posted by Friday at the latest. Perhaps even by tomorrow.]

For now, there's this:


When I was five years old I would ask my dad to tell me a joke before bedtime, so I could slip into the grip of Morpheus with a smile on my face. I fall asleep like a baby. It takes anywhere from ten seconds to three minutes, but then there I am, a little angel...he looks like an angel when he's asleep! they said, once, before they tried to rouse me from my slumber.

When I wake up I am like the charater Jawa in my novel, all swinging fists and throat yelps begging, begging five more minutes... I wake up punching the air, aiming at nothing and connecting with nothing.
[Make sure to never have your head in the line of fire when you wake me up. You may will get punched, I wont remember it but  I will apologize a few hours later, once the blood clears from my knuckles and your lip, but you'll probably still be mad and I will feel the remorse of a nun-killer, serving neither of us... so if you need to wake me, do what Joel does: set a loud alarm next to my head, run away, and hope for the best.]

My dad always chose tucking me to waking me up. Waking me was my mother's charge, and she'd try everything: slamming my door, singing morning songs, flicking lights on and off like an exhausted bartender at 4am. After ten minutes she'd lay up my red window shades with a sharp snap and fwip fwip fwip, it would spin on its roller and the goddamn sun blast would warm my closed eyes from beneath the shell of my covers. She would give up after that, school day or not. "Go ahead and sleep," she'd say, as if it were a punishment.

In my cave of cheap blankets, the sun was an intruder. It never whispered the promise of a productive day of being awake, as it does for so many who savor the waking life. With my sign being ruled by the Sun, it hangs there waiting for my morning salute, which I scream into a stack of pillows. I don't hop off the matress and bend at the knee, raising my arms to Father Sun, beads of joyful gratitude forming like dewdrops on my perfectly smooth forehead.

Instead I lay there frowning and waiting. I struggle to tap in to inspiration, gurgling into my pillow, reminding it that the Sun is no more than a quickly dying star, and that I'd rather slip back into dream/night, shirking all percieved responsibilities. Just you and me, pillow. We don't need the sun, you and I... I got you, babe. And you got me. My literal pillow talk (literal because I am talking directly to my pillow, a fancy tempurpedic that makes my thumpsack of a bed all the more uncomfortable in comparison) finds me saying horrible things to my Ruler, the Sun, blaspheming into the NASA approved memory-foam and exposing me as the most unmotivated ingrate of a Leo to ever take a nap. Bad Leo.

So, bedtime was for jokes, but always the same joke: my favorite joke, the only one I liked. I heard it every night and still it made me laugh. I hate jokes- always have- and never know what to do when someone threatens to tell me one. Usually I tell the comedian Oh, I hate jokes, almost as much as I hate interactive puppetry. This is said for their benefit, pre-joke, so they aren't upset when I don't laugh. I know they are going to push the joke on me regardless; when someone says "I have a joke for you," not even a well placed swarm of Locusts can prevent them from telling it. Saying "I have a joke" is the set-up for the joke itself, and I never get it, or it's not funny, or both. Maybe I don;t get it because it's not funny. Either way, I loathe a good joke.

Except for this one, told in my dad's voice:

There was this kid, a little older than you, who wanted a job. He searched and searched but most jobs he applied for were too hard. Then one day he came home all excited, barging through the door and throwing down his bookbag, telling his father "Dad, dad! I got a job!"
His dad says "Great! What kind of job did you get?"
"I sell toothbrushes, door to door!"
"Hmmm. How'd  your first day go?"
"I didn't sell any toothbrushes."
"Well, what did you do?"
"I went up to the door, I knocked on the door, the lady answered the door and I says 'Hey, ya wanna buy a toothbrush? and she says "No, I don;t wanna buy a toothbrush" and then she slammed the door in my face.
The father said "Hmmm. Seems like what you need is a gimmick."
"What's a gimmick?"
"A gimmick is something that helps you sell your product. An incentive, something that will make someone want what you're selling.You have to make them think they need what you have."

The next day the kid comes home for dinner, beaming, "Dad, dad! I sold seven toothbrushes!"
"Whoa!" says the dad. "That's a LOT! What did you do?"
"I got a gimmick, just like you told me to!"
"How did it work?"
"I went up to the door, I knocked on the door, lady answers the door and I say 'Ya wanna buy a toothbrush?" and she says "No, I don't wanna buy a toothbrush."
So I says "ya wanna cookie?" and the lady says "Sure! I want a cookie!"
Then she says "Hey, this cookie tastes like shit!"
I says
"It is shit!
You wanna buy a toothbrush?"

Bah dum dum. So that's it for me on jokes. Please don't message me telling me you have a better one. I hate jokes. I really do. And with that, I now go back to my uncomfortable bed, pull the covers over my head, and curse the Sun.