by Cameron Pierce
This call has gone on for far too long. I am only so patient. Two hours of long distance chatter with a narwhal is far too much!
Let it be known, the narwhal called me. I would never call a narwhal on the telephone. My interactions with all well-endowed sea dwellers are strictly limited to email correspondence. It's their vernacular that breaks it for me. They jabber on like fifteen year old girls about the gas station clerk whose name is Scooter and drives a Chevy.
As I stand here, squeezing my legs together because I have to pee and can't afford a cordless telephone, I wonder why anonymous narwhals seem so compelled to call me. I must've been born with a magnet for a brain, a magnet that attracts stupid horned whales! Or my number must be written in the bathroom stall at some narwhal bar.
Oh, great. Now I'm pissing myself. Great, you stupid narwhal. I've spoken one word in this entire conversation, and that was hello. Goodbye, narwhal. Please tell your brothers and sisters and motherfucking friends never to call me from your underwater hovels.
I am hanging up now. I am changing my phone number (for the umpteenth time). I am cleaning the piss off my legs. I am throwing my jeans in the hamper. Next I will buy an armory of hand grenades and MK-47's, hijack a submarine, and come after your endangered asses. You will not survive the evening, you mysterious callers. I will destroy you, as your calls have destroyed me. Goodbye, narwhal. This time it's for good.
Bio:Cameron Pierce is a Bizarro author. His books include Shark Hunting in Paradise Garden and The Ass Goblins of Auschwitz (forthcoming). If you stop by his home, you're likely to find him cooking magical pies and building insects out of tinfoil.