They call me Dirk and I call them bastards.

They call me Dirk and I call them bastards. All of them. If hate was metal, they'd be in chains right now. My thoughts alone could boil the flesh off their bones.

If hate was wood, I would split them in two. If hate was water, I would drown them. If hate was my mother, I would give birth to them three thousand times. I am Dirk. Fear me.

A towel thwacked his ass painfully. Dirk's teammates didn't understand his self-talk methods before each football game and yet no one could argue with his on-the-field prowess.

He scored more touchdowns at the last minute than anyone ever had. Dirk was a walk-on and learned by improvising. Until he had an injury, he had no plans to quit football.

The first plans started arriving on his doorstep the morning after the injury. Hundreds of people had seen it on all the video sites. People all over the world were laughing at his

humiliating concussion. But these plans; he couldn't make heads nor tails of them. An experienced thermatologist, he could follow the directions, but to what end? And from whom?

The red phone on Julia's cloud desk began to buzz. "Ghost of Julia Child, how may I help you," she said. "There's a guy down on earth about to injure himself with an oven. You've

got to stop him!” With that, Julia Child’s ghost sped to earth, wine bottle in hand. When she found the guy with his head in the oven, he turned to face the ghost and freaked. “You

are famed chef Julia Child!" "Also a ghost!" she cheerfully lilted as she assessed the situation. She told the guy "Ovens are for the joy of cooking, not the sorrow of life!" as

she had previously mentioned. Suddenly, all made sense in the world. I ascended back to my spaceship and took off back to mars, where I ate my pastry.