(Sh)it Happens

“Been On a Snipe Hunt Lately?”

(A postcard)

Addressed to: Dazed and Confused

Casting Selection Committee

Universal Studios

Hollywood, California 91608

Going right for the jugular here. What are we going to do about the snipes? I have requested backup from the military, but in the meantime—I mean, these are your snipes. I don’t find it hilarious at all that they are now attacking us. The snipes, yes. The ones they are hunting in that scene that was later deleted from the film.

Yes, back in 1976 as that’s how movie magic works; everyone time-travels to film.

I swear to God, I caught an Alice looking into a ditch as she was transforming into a rabbit. (By the way, I know you like a good haze.)

It happens.

(A journal entry)

You ain’t seen nothing until you’ve seen a unicorn eat somebody. A horse eating corn, they used to say, when you’d grab somebody’s knee. A horse eating corn feels loving, even tickles a little. Not the same when you’re getting gored by a three-foot-long magical horn.

Again, it’s magic. This gnarling bone with the sharpest point will slice right through your soul. I’ve seen it. All the time, the unicorn screams like a banshee—roaring teeth like white boards clapping in a hurricane.

(List on notepad)

Weight of human organs:

heart

brain

spleen

pancreas

(Assignment)

Define a ‘middling snipe.’

(A journal entry)

Snipe hunts, on the other hand, do not happen every day. Certain conditions are required to find a snipe, and those haven’t been seen in half a century.

Some moron had the gall to ask if the snipes are “just birds.”

He hasn’t been seen since. He was an University of Texas guy. From Austin.

These snipes are Classified, Area 51, Top Secret. Can’t be going around sharing a snipe hunt with anybody on the outside.

Only clue I’ve got is if somebody comes in and asks, “Where’s the cookies?” That’s a sign we’re going on a snipe hunt. But, again, no one ever comes in here to the Bunker.

By the way, Russia is the moon. People from Russia arrived first and brought their cat head and dog head individuals—yes, “people” can have dog heads or cat heads in Russia. Did you know? So they came to the US, which is the leader of this planet and gave us the idea and taught us the way to the moon! Where the Russians live and many are still dog-headed or cat-headed!

This all has to do with the snipes because the Russians brought them, too! The snipes!

By the way, we are running low on ketchup, mustard, flour and eggs. Don’t forget the extra layers for the “stoner” characters.

It happens.

“Crayonsgiving”

When your tits go Pepsi Max, 

you know.

When your tits go Pepsi Max,

you know!

Last week I boiled a pound of

black-eyed

peas to eat on Halloween.

I was

thinking it would ward off the

black-eyed

children—those evil strikers who

thunder jaw

their way into everything.

Instead

I ended up dancing like

a crayon 

to Fergie’s “GLAMOROUS,” thinking

of my

last visit to Hell. The Black

Panther

brought me back in his fast as

lightning

street car after we dropped off

Cheetah,

who was going to be at

a baby

shower. Satan, meanwhile, yelled,

“RIHANNA!”

So loud it scared the thought of

Hell right

out of me, too. I ate that

pound of

unsoaked black-eyed peas to form

so much

gas I farted, so he could

take his

metal mustang right back down

there. I’ll

stay up top awhile, I said.

It happens.

(Someone is giving someone their horse.)

It is all white—not blonde, but solid snow. A white mane, a snow-covered coat with icy splatters, a long ashen tail braided in many rows, even white paint on all four of its hooves.

The albino horse views the world through red-rimmed primal eyes. Blue blood veins bulge through translucent white skin beneath its light white coat.

Coffee brews in the sand pit in tiny pots tucked into fiery hot pebbles. Dirt wafts in the air adding grit to their java. 

This is a Turkish horse trader from Istanbul. He asks, “Do you know what you will find in this mare’s mouth?”

“Teeth and a tongue, let’s hope,” I say, as the coffee gurgles boiling in thin tin cups.

“Teeth and a tongue, well I tell you something else,” but he stops telling me anything at all.

Something is protruding from his cheek. A bird’s beak is poking out of a bleeding hole in the Turk’s sagging, graying skin.

He pops open his mouth to show off a new animal friend.

This time it is a bird—tiny, but all painted up in red, orange and yellow feathers, like a will-o’-the-wisp.

You might find this odd. But I did once turn a waitress into an alligator.

It happens.