Please don't feed PickleMan
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by: Max Burbank

I never said you’d always be happy.

I never promised they’d all be good days, that I’d never run out of stuff to say to make you laugh, wherever, whenever. I never claimed I didn’t sometimes cry the ‘tears of a clown’.

I never promised you a rose garden. I never talked with my mouth full, walked across the floor you’d just mopped, got up on the furniture or cracked my knuckles at just ‘that moment’ in church. I never disappeared into the desert on a six day bender with Sherman Helmsley, and when I didn’t do that I sure as hell never woke up with a hangover Jesus couldn’t have risen from, and there was no inexplicable tattoo of ‘Twinkie the Kid’ on my left butt cheek with a word balloon saying "I got your cream filling right here, Sailor."

Never promised to change, never called you and hung up the moment you answered sixteen consecutive times in the ‘wee hours’, never ‘danced’ with the ‘devil’ in the ‘pale moonlight’.

I never for an instant was ‘funky’ or ‘fresh’ or ‘phat’ or ‘down’ with anything and if you thought I was, well that was just you reading something into my character that wasn’t there, I suppose. Never crouched behind Michael Dukakis in that Tank doing who knows what all, didn’t go to the Package Store for Jenna Bush, was not a ‘charter member’ of the ‘Justice League of America' and if nominated I will not run, if elected I will not serve.

It may have looked like me in that orange jump suit chained to eight other guys picking up trash by the side of the road, but a lot of people look like me, I’ve got ‘that kind of face’ and I never stood you up for the senior prom or the junior prom or any prom at all. If I’d stood up all the god damn crazy bastards for every lousy prom they said I did I’d never have had five seconds to go to school and I never sold anything to kids on your playground, that was my cousin.

The boys will vouch I was playing poker when the deal went down, I don’t know how to fly a helicopter, and you know what? You’ve got a lot of nerve. If, and I say ‘If’ I thought it was in the national interest to destabilize a South American country I’d write a letter to my congressman and to be honest I don’t know who the hell he is and that picture of him in a Girl Scout uniform holding a tub of Vaseline brand petroleum Jelly next to an Orangutan in an Iron lung? Didn’t take it, all I got’s a point and shoot, couldn’t get the F stop open far enough for that kind of action shot.

And here’s the thing, what business is it of yours? Is there some reason you save my emails, record my phone conversations, collect my trash like all I threw away was Hummels, document every aspect of my life like I’m the reanimated corpse of Princess Diana, have a restraining order against me? Are you stalking me?

Because while my backyard may not be full of bodies and the Lindbergh Baby is not in my crisper, while you won’t find a detailed map that when washed in lemon juice and held under ultraviolet light would not in any way reveal what when reassembled and compared with dental records would not prove to be the better part of Jimmy Hoffa’s mandible, I am still not a man to be trifled with. It’s been said I have a ‘short fuse’ but that’s slander and actionable if you believe my lawyer. It’s not like I’m the kind of guy who bought an engraving tool and took engraving lesson just so he could engrave his ‘enemies list’ on the individual bullets that line his mantel. I don’t hold a grudge and anyone that says I do had better watch their god damn back for the rest of their lives or at least the rest of mine and when you read my obituary you can rest easy friend, ‘cause I’m sure as hell not one to fake his own death just to lull the people on his ‘enemies list’ into complacency. That guy who’s rented ‘Cape Fear’ from the local video store 325 of the last 365 days? Not me, my friend. Just some fella with the same name.

I never told you I was the Duke of Parma. That was meant as a parable and I assure you, I will never again speak to you with that degree of multi leveled sophistication, I wouldn’t take that risk. If I had any dreaming notion whatsoever you wouldn’t have realized I was being ironic when I spoke of a ‘trust fund’ I doubt I’d have gone on dating you. And yes, it’s true, I may have implied that I had ‘prospects’ involving an ‘inheritance’ upon the ‘death’ of a ‘drug kingpin’ I think we can both agree you encouraged me, you did, you’re an enabler and you always have been.

And yes, I am too blame for a lot of things, I never said I was a saint, but here’s a short list of the things you can’t pin on me. The eradication of the Neanderthal, the Babylonian Captivity, the Crusades, the Spanish Inquisition, the Holocaust, and forgetting to buy the damn sour cream.

The sour cream wasn’t on the shopping list. I wish I’d saved it, I do, from now on I will so when you accuse me of not buying sour cream I can show you the list and you’ll see how wrong you were and be sorry. I’d have known if sour cream was on the damn list because I don’t eat it so it would have stood out. If you’re a sour cream junky with the cold sweats from a prolonged lack of sour cream you should do the shopping yourself, I never said I was your sour cream connection. I can’t take that kind of pressure, okay?

Sour Cream
Get your own damned Sour Cream!

Oh is that the list? Was it in my pocket? When you did the laundry? Really? Well, look, lets be adult about this, I never said I might not have been mistaken, I don’t see any need to check it, I mean, you know, in the grand scheme does it really matter who wrote what on some sheet of paper or another? And might that not well be an old list? From the last time I went shopping? When I did buy sour cream? I did. I did. You put a mountain of it on your god damned baked potato, where the hell did you think it came from, the sour cream fairy? Jesus!

Look, what say we just agree to disagree? Hey did I mention I got fired last week?

note: For those of you who are wondering, yes, Max Burbank has fallen off the deep end. But he swears it's not his fault.

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