I would perform back alley abortions with a claw hammer and then take the fetus buckets to a Jewish deli down the street and try to convince the proprietor that they are white Christian babies full of fresh blood for his Challah bread even though they all have fake plastic horns glued to them after I tried and failed to sell them to the unicorn store next door.I would strangle the Pope with piano wire and then write a sonnet about it.
I would cut out my own heart as sacrifice to Teztlotl, the Aztec God of cutting out your own heart in sacrifice to Teztlotl.
I would dig up and sodomize the remains of General Patton and I would videotape the whole thing in that creepy night vision filter.
I would install a Linux operating system on my gaming PC.
I would give myself a 50 gallon sea water enema and then force feed Alaskan King Crabs into my rectum.
I would write an article that is roughly as formulaic as a Jeff Foxworthy "Best Of" DVD…whoops!
I would pass other people's kidney stones.
I would descend into a bestial state and prowl the shadowed streets of nightmare America preying on the weak who stray too far from the herd. As I fall upon the elderly, the sick, and the young my talons will sink into their soft flesh and their arterial blood will spray hot across my face and loins like war paint and I will exult in their demise. I will collect the skulls of my victims and hang them from my belt as trophies of my victories and cry out from the rooftops as an impotent world quakes in fear of my reign. Doors will be bolted, windows will be shuttered, and families will cower in their basements as I prowl the streets in search of my next innocent victim. They will send hunters to trap me or bring me down, but all will fall to my clever traps and animal cunning. Loops of their entrails will decorate the doorsteps of those who would send hired thugs out to rid this world of my cruelty.
I would sing "I'm a Little Teapot".
I would inject syringes of air into the veins of my loved ones and family members.
I would take what's behind door number two.
I would write, score, produce, and direct an off-off-broadway musical based on Vikram Seth's 1500 page novel "A Suitable Boy" using only hand puppets made from road kill as my cast. An inauspicious debut will lead to rave reviews in trendy free broadsheets that see the production as a crazed novelty act akin to Tiny Tim or Wesley Willis. By week three I'll be playing sold out shows and entertaining offers from various Broadway producers to shorten my script down from 27 hours to two hours and franchise out into touring productions. Andrew Lloyd Webber will offer to rescore my production but I'll turn him down in favor of Sondheim and then storm out of our first meeting cursing the entire industry as nothing but "ill-tempered faggots bent on destroying the performing arts with aggressive frippery". Sondheim will run me down with his H2 leaving me a paraplegic but the court settlement will grant me millions to raise my family of imaginary children that I sired with a stuffed turkey buzzard that played Rupa Mehra.
I would masturbate to a photograph of a baby.
I would pummel a killer bee hive into the ground with my bare hands and then try to scoop the still-living bees down my throat.
I would give my banking information to someone from Nigeria. They would promise me big returns, but I wouldn't care, just the idea of helping someone would make me happy and of course I would have that Klondike bar waiting for me when I get home from donating plasma to pay my rent. Assuming you live up to your end of the agreement.
I would hop on one foot.
I would conduct a variety of occult rituals in an effort to open the secret tomb of Noggya-Shasuth or "That Which Shall Be Forever Forgotten". Upon breaking the 99th seal containing Noggya-Shasuth within his circle of binding I will run up to the maddening deathless God of mankind's forgotten past using a human screen of sherpas and gullible college students convinced that I was taking an ecology trip to one of the lost islands of the Pacific and intone solemnly to "That Which Shall Be Forever Fogotten" that I have rent asunder reality and torn away the thin veil of reason to tell him that he just got Punk'd. Then I will point to Ashton Kutcher and the imaginary camera crews as his tentacles pull me into twitching pieces that are shoved into Noggya-Shasuth's ever- hungry beak.
I would chew off my own hands and feet, then cauterize the stumps with a lit stick of dynamite.
I would give Ann Coulter a long, wet, and sloppy rimjob.
I would forge the sword Excalibur and quench its white hot steel in my gut in the vain hope that part of me might live on through this, my greatest creation.
I would…you know what, actually I think I would rather have a Drumstick. Oh man, what I would do for one of those!
Ernest Cline, writer of Ready Player One, shares his newest poem.
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