Ten Weekend Missions, No Refunds

No time, no time—I’m the deranged coke rabbit from Wonderland today, sprinting across an impossibly green meadow for no articulable reason. Weekend. I have ten missions. Complete them all or I will abduct your parents and turn them into doors.

One: host a formal dinner and serve my own genitals as the main course, exactly like Mao Sugiyama did in Tokyo—had them surgically removed, cooked them up, plated them, charged admission. Cannibalism is apparently legal there. Two: get genuinely excited about the Anchorman 2 teaser, because the first one actually was funny and Ron Burgundy deserves to come back. Three: call my girlfriend for dirty talk while secretly jerking off to Michelle Rodriguez’s bikini photos from Cannes. She doesn’t need to know. Actually she probably already knows.

Four: crush some turtles. Slowly. There’s a gif. Five: deploy my obscure video game knowledge on my nerd friends and watch the envy manifest as actual skin conditions. Six: make a mental list of everyone in my social circle who has slept with all the same people I have. If it’s more than eighty percent, I stop going out. If any of them share a last name with me, I emigrate.

Seven: shave a zebra. Black-with-white-stripes versus white-with-black-stripes—this has gone unanswered long enough. Eight: get into a decent fight at a party, the kind that recalls school and releases psychological pressure that would otherwise come out in stranger ways. Nine: join some fringe political party. Any one. The ideology is almost beside the point. Ten: eat more honey cucumbers. Delicious. Probably healthy. Maybe.

None of us have anything better going on anyway.