I'm Like a Fucking RadioShack

I bet you forgot about me, didn’t you? Anna and my sister both said I should disappear into the background and let this creation of mine tell his own story and amuse you.

They said I was annoying, that I was too Hemmingwayesque. If you ask me, any writing that includes the letters “esque” is not very Hemmingway at all.

But I disappeared here, for the past two months, letting him tell his own stories. I think they said I was annoying because I am the most honest man they have ever met.

A lot of questions have been posted recently, so I felt I should clear up a few things.

In/Out

He has no control over the list. He does not know its whys and wherefores. He gets the lists and presents them as is. So you can ask about brooches, you can say it’s not fair. There isn’t anything he can do about it. Here is the back story.


The real decision makers are the illuminati. If you are unfamiliar with them, you can read a history of the illuminati, or if you prefer, a short history of the illuminati.

They have placed an implant in his head. He has a scar at the base of his neck, between the second and third cervical vertebra. He is not the only one. About five percent of his patients have them. He always makes mental note of their scar, but never writes it in their chart. The implants do not show up on CT or MRI. Even on autopsy, no pathologist has ever found anything. Of course, vertebral dissection is quite difficult; they could easily shred a small implant and not notice it. The funny thing is, the patients who believe they have devices in their head never have the scar. The insane are of little use to the illuminati.

The implant gives him headaches when the illuminati are displeased. He has tried the hats. They do nothing. Though his favorite is the thought screen baseball cap.

So through a long, tedious process that nearly got him killed—and, if told, would get him killed—he found a contact. He has only met him twice. The contact gets him the lists. They come with instructions on how to signal when he needs another list. He changes his behavior and the headaches go away.

For a while.

This Week’s Uncynical Image

I love this picture because of how great those guys were being. Ignoring that their buddies and others would say snide things, they jumped in that tub. They were having fun. I included it to force you to choose between placing an easy snide distance between yourself and these people, or letting your guard down and getting their joke.

Dating Someone on Parole

Look, he views you as someone sitting next to him at a bar. He’s quick with a joke or to light up your smoke, but there’s someplace that he’d rather be.

Wait, no. That’s Billy Joel.

But the point is, he’s telling you everything that he is comfortable telling you. No ‘deets’ on the parolee, who—as a technicality—doesn’t exist.