In which I wish I were Mallory Ortberg. Happy Monday, everyone.
Oh my god. This is it, isn’t it? This is the end. I’m going to be killed by an ugly man with a giant pair of pliers, a chain fetishist in a yellow raincoat, and some conveniently placed white fire. I’m going to die naked in a giant glass condom. Damnit to hell.
Oh my god, Mark.
If only I could get out, I’m sure I could find a way to save us.
Oh. My. God. Mark. We’re about to die.
I know! I’m so frustrated!
I can tell! Everyone can tell! The creepy dude staring at us naked can tell!
What? We’re about to die, Betty. We’re not dead yet.
Oh my god Mark just turn around.
Oh I do love you
Oh how I love you as well, Minnie darling
Oh Hank. Let’s. Let’s–
Let’s never stop pretending, so they don’t put me back in the bell jar with the others, alright darling?
Oh yes, darling, darling Minnie.
Oh my god what is he wearing? Is he wearing my gold cocktail dress and boots? Of all the things he could have tried to save me in, he has to pick now to express himself? Oh my god this is mortifying. Let’s get this over with. Listen, you webbed-mohawk-headed weirdo, you throw that switch and you throw it now.
Do you think– you know what nevermind, it’s probably nothing.
I’m sure it’s nothing
What is it?
Well, it’s just.
Don’t you think. Maybe if we really need these bell jars on our heads–
–that maybe we’d need something on our shoulders too?
Don’t you think?
…I’m gonna kill Frankie.
Richard Ford Burley is a writer, library worker, and doctoral candidate in English at Boston College, where he’s studying remix culture and the processes that generate texts. In his spare time he writes about science, skepticism, and feminism (and science fiction covers) here at This Week In Tomorrow.