There was a time when I wanted to be an astronaut

There was a time when I wanted to be an astronaut and travel to Mars. I had it all worked out--Air Force Academy, NASA, Mars. Then in grade 8 I took my first physics class.

No one told me it was inappropriate to make a cyclotronic atom smasher in my back yard. I would go to Mars on my own meal ticket. My parents didn't know until they found

evidence of my wonderful adventures buried in the flowergarden. My parents refuse to acknowledge my brilliance, though; they laugh at me when I say I've met martians

at the 7-11. My parents always say, "you only see Martians in the store brand section. Everyone knows that!" that's when they laugh and spill their Seagram's and start fondling

brand-name tennis shoes were a sad remnant of a past age. Goddamned pretentious hipsters and their vintage gangsta rap. Chinese Trance-core, now THAT was dope music for dope folks.

Thought the Crypt-Keeper as he read Spin Magazine.

He tossed the rag aside, lit another spliff, and reclined on his bed thinking about all kinds of crazy stuff. An hour later, the Crypt-Keeper heard the garage door open. His mother

came in and picked up the rag. "What on earth have you been doing with this rag? It's horrid!" Then the Crypt-Keeper sheepishly avoided eye contact, as the garage door closed.

The garaged door closed. I dropped the rag. Our Crypt-Keeper grinned as he handed me his letter of resignation and a flier for his new cleaning business. Damn you, Crypt-Keeper.