"DAD..." Here we go. "Spongebob has a new DVD..."Spongebob is Satan in Big Bird's clothing with a smart marketing agent. If Big Bird had had Spongebob's agent back in the day, he wouldn't still be shaking tail feathers and begging for change on PBS marathons. He'd be making the big bucks on primetime with his own specials and movies and such.
"Hey dad?" I'd like to find the guy that thought Spongebob was a good idea and beat him with a dead squirrel, a live crab, a starfish, a boat, and my bottle of brandy. Then I'd like to sleep with his squeeze because I'm sure she beats mine all to hell. How's that for a hoot? On the sexual food chain I rank below a geeky cartoonist whose claim to fame is that he made a stupid show about a sea anemone. And I have to pay him dues on a regular basis like he's a Roman and I'm a peasant. I wonder if Romans put out box set's?
"Yes boy..." Spongebob irritates me badly, but I'm glad he has no ambition like me. If he were really organized, he could start some serious garbage that would end up in some ugly sort of cartoon war.
"Can I get it?"
"Do I have to pay for it?" Spongebob is an accountant that takes the money the taxman lets me keep that my wife doesn't take that my cable man doesn't steal so I can have Spongebob piped into my house twenty-four hours a day so my kid can be programmed to want Spongebob crap all the time. So that he needs bedcovers and slipcovers and curtains and radios tattooed with a stupid yellow talking scrub brush to avoid the icy sweats. So that my kid can go through withdrawal if he doesn't get through one day singing about pineapples and drunken sailors asking me for more Spongebob fixes.
"Well? D-A-D-D-D-D-YYY...." I wish his mother was around so I could smack her. Come to think of it I wish her mother was around so I could smack her. You know what? I wish I could go straight to the source. Give me god in a ring with some gloves and a baseball bat with nails in it like that scene in Escape From New York. As long as I have Spongebob in my corner I have nothing to fear.
I take a slug of brandy. It's 9:23 A.M. and I can't take anymore. The days get shorter and the drunks get longer. I grab the keys and head for the door. I think I'll stop at a bar for a while. Spongebob is Satan, of this much I'm sure. He has replaced the monkey on my back with his stupid evil yellow grin and that dumb laugh.
On the pavement in front of my car is a kid wearing a Spongebob shirt playing with Spongebob toys eating a Spongebob ice cream. This kid must be fifteen years old for the love of God. Maybe Spongebob is more organized than I considered.