Somebody please help me. Bob has got me locked up in his closet. It’s dark and scary in here and it smells funny. In fact it smells like Bob. It smells like Bob if Bob were a truckload of sweaty gym socks and soiled underwear. Which he is. I can’t believe that son of a bitch locked me up in this closet. All for calling him a son of a bitch. And then he faked a letter from me and had me calling him a son of a bitch again! Which he is. And a rat bastard. And a hosehead. Anyway the nincompoop forgot to take my cell phone so I’ve been reading my supposed column and am typing out this message just as the battery is starting to get critical. He keeps making me jump through Time to get my meals. “I’m going to put food in your closet two weeks from now,” he’ll say, and I have to jump two weeks into The Future, eat my grub, and then pop back into The Past, which as you might recall was recently The Present, and all of this taking place within the confines of Bob’s closet. But he is a pretty good cook. Or at least somebody is. Three weeks from now I had tacos. And a week and half after that I had some lasagna that was second only to my mom’s. I have to pee and poop in a bucket. Bob seems to be collecting it for some secret and no doubt sinister experiments. He’s got Melissa the old Chick Shit chick in here too. And oddly enough, Gary Coleman, who says he’s been here for 15 years. Needless to say we make an odd trio. Oh shit here he comes. I have to go!
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