A 18 • March 31, 2017
Nonsense
OP-ED
I Tried To Do DMT But I Didn’t Know What Kind Of Sandwich It Was
By Bill Whittleton SPEC I A L TO NON S E N S E
In retrospect, I gotta say that my intentions, at least, were good. I had a good head on, had my hopes high and a chipper attitude about the whole thing. And honestly, I think everything that happened really brought me and my son together: as father and son, and as bros, and as brothers. I think it was last Tuesday that I first heard about this DMT business. I had just gotten home from the daily grind to find my boy, Josh, sprawled out on the couch reading a comic book. Scooby-Doo Apocalypse, by
the look of it. Third issue. “Hiya there, Josh,” I said. “Father,” he replied. I took a seat in the armchair next to my son and watched him for a little bit. His favorite Diplo shirt was looking a little tight on him, and I thought about getting him a new one. “What’re you up to this weekend?” I asked. “Anything fun?” “Major Lazer concert,” he said shortly. I smiled: these kids and their boy bands. “Say, Sport, whaddya think about us doing something together this weekend, maybe before your little show? Your mother has the girls coming
by for Mahjong, and boy, I do not wanna be in the way for that!” “Go away, Dad,” said my sweet boy. The gears in my head started turning: there had to be something that would get that boy off of the couch besides that nu-disco he’d been listening to. I mean, hell, you can’t Hustle to that! And then it clicked. Just like that. I remembered one of the interns, Dennis, talking about it in the office, and I thought that maybe, just maybe, it was worth a try. “Whaddya say we try a DMT?” Josh’s head shot up. “What did you say?” “Y’know, DMT. Isn’t that what you kids are all tryin’ these days?” He looked skeptical. “You wanna try…DMT?” he asked me, slowly. “Well sure!” His face started to brighten—reel ‘em in, Bill!—and I sat back, proud of myself. “Dad, if you know where we can get some, that’d be awesome,” Josh said, beaming. It warmed me to my core to see such a big grin on
my boy’s face. “How about this weekend? You and me, before your concert—we can go around the corner and pick one up for each of us.” Josh nodded. “You’re cool as shit, Dad.” That, I think, made me happier than anything. “Of course, my boy. Just tell me what’s on it so I know I won’t be allergic to anything.” Josh’s face fell a little bit. “What do you mean?” “Well, I’m assuming there’s lettuce and tomato on it, hence the em-tee—” “Do you know what DMT is?” I sat there in silence. I didn’t understand. What else could it have been? Dennis was a good kid; always showed up to work on time and dressed neatly. Sure, he only fetched coffee, but I didn’t think he was an incompetent young man. Did Josh know something I didn’t? Josh continued to stare at me, smile nearly gone, then buried his head in his comic book. I went upstairs and closed the door, retreating to my bed for a moment of reflection. What did my son think DMT was? Some crazy
new dance move? A drug? I shivered. Not my sweet boy. I decided there was only one thing I could do. I tried it. I went to the guy at the gas station, and he got awfully tight in the rear about the whole ordeal. Asked me how I knew about DMT. And then asked me for way too much money— twenty dollars for something to eat?—so I decided to take my business elsewhere. Also, he wanted me to follow him to his truck, and I have work in the morning. So I said, “no, Sir!” Everything everyone said about it was—pretty true, I suppose. My conscience was radically altered, I guess. I was sweaty, I vomited, and I cried. A lot. It certainly made me go into my own head a little bit, but I think it was some bad mayo that was responsible for all of those hallucinations people talked about. They didn’t mention this online, though, so I will say this: make sure you get the roll toasted. Otherwise it makes for a pretty soggy mid-afternoon lunch. But overall, give the McDMT a shot: you won’t be disappointed.
Resident Little Bitch Thinks He Can Tussle With Me By Todd Brodnod SPEC I A L TO NON S E N S E
Look, it’s not a matter of how big you think you are, okay? It’s a matter of skill. It’s timing and all the stuff that make people like me, Todd Brodnod, in the business of delivering the hurt. So, resident little bitch—what’s your name? John? You think can tussle with me? Let’s fuckin’ tussle, little boy.
My son doesn’t want me fightin’ no more, says I gotta be a dad first. I’m a great dad, and I want you to know that, Josh. “Not gonna happen,” I says to him. I says, “this fuck really wants to scrap? He thinks he’s got balls? He ain’t got no balls! They’re not there!” That’s what I said. I really said that. What’s that, you say? Oh, you think since your girlfriend doesn’t want
you fighting that you’re just gonna walk away? You can’t hide forever, you small-handed, lonely little man-boy. You think you’re a fucking tough guy, huh? You’re a little whiny baby boy. “Oh, look at me! I’m Jim with a successful relationship and a Prius!” A Prius? You’re a joke. You got no shot at feelin’ hot victory sweat on your face, you little gremlin. You can put your fat,
weak, hipster fists up to defend your sad, squishy face, but rest assured I’m gonna make a Picasso out of it. I’ll take all the parts of your face off like a Mr. Potato Head. I’ve been doing this for years, you shit. Love the way my fist feels when it hits skin that isn’t mine. I crave it. And you know what? I’m an animal. What are you? A little tiny boy. I’ll scramble you like a egg. I have had
enough. E-nough. I am stanced the fuck up. Come at me, Jim. Oh, and you know what else, you baby boy? I’m pretty sure it’s your dog that’s been shitting in my yard, and I don’t appreciate it.
I’m a Retired UFC Fighter and I Will Win