I hear voices. Baby jesus talks to me through a toaster oven. He tells me I need to check on some things at my Laotian mini-wife turkey baster impregnation farm. The morning is cold, grey and overcast. A Black helicopter's spotlight breaks through the clouds, peering down at me.
George Bush's secret "fascists escape route" is located next door to me in the remote Paraguayan jungle. I know this because of the black helicopters that constantly encircle my farm and because I am on good terms with, Steve Nash' s wife, the world's third most famous Paraguayan.
At one of the pump stations I meet up with Mini-wife #434. She has on stiletto heals that add 3 inches in height. That brings her to a full 2 foot 3. She's proud of her heels and she stands provocatively as to show them off. If she were green you'd swear to god she was leprechaun.
"Ohh, Larry, me love you long time." Asian mini wife number 434 coos.
"Gamble...gamble." My tiny Laotian mini-wife barks at me. She points to a pumping station. "Ok. Ok, I'll get somebody on that."
It's early. And I need my breakfast. But the goddamn toaster won't shut up. He keeps shouting something about a gurney and being hauled off. And how K-fed is the Antichrist. And Britney isn't crazy. But I've seen that girls pussy and it looks like somebody gave it a good whack with a meat tenderizer. I tell the toaster oven that I think Britney's found god, just like that Baptist woman from Houston who killed all her kids in the bathtub. I tell the toaster to mind his own business, that frankly having to deal with Doctor Phil trying to bust you out of rehab is as close as any of us ever wants to get to the apocalypse. That one of the authors of the "Left Behind" rapture books thought about adding the exact same scene in a chapter of his book, but it was deemed too frightening by his publishers. "I can imagine the unending torment of a lake pit of fire in hell," I tell the toaster, "but I can't imagine the pain of having to listen to 15 straight minutes of Dr. Phil's southern bullshit."