They don’t tell us much about European history. A set of Fallopian tubes washed up on a Portuguese beach one day then ran off into the thorn scrub like a pair of slimy legs. My father (who is also from Europe but lives in Toronto) tells me that in the cancer ward, the men have the worst time of it. Women seem to be able to handle it better but the men just fall apart. He also says that cat food is the deadest of all meats. When I die, I want to be buried in a strip mall parking lot – beneath the pavement of a stall next to an Adult video store or a Mac’s Milk. People could park on my grave – I wouldn’t mind. In fact – I’d be honored. I want the concrete barrier engraved with the words: “THERE’S ALWAYS SOMETHING” – even though I don’t actually agree with that. Sometimes there’s just nothing. The crash was not well observed, ladies and gentlemen. Nobody saw it happen. Afterward, the alleged victim walked bleeding into a Mr. Submarine and then was never seen again. I’m sitting on a traffic island drinking the blood of Christ from a styrofoam cup. Just me and a dead cat who was already there. A piece of a newspaper blows by with a picture of God on it. He’s dressed in a space suit but I know it’s him. The air around me is filled with invisible chemicals. Heaven’s orange lamp shines down upon my cowering head. Look! I’ve got a halo. I’ve always wanted one.
