Thursday, September 1, 2022

Imaginary Friends Saved Our Marriage

 

We’re mature adults of sound mind and body and have warm relations with a host of imaginary friends. Well, not always warm, because they’re six brilliant rapscallions with a penchant for getting into difficult scrapes. Many is the time they’ve had us up past our usual 9 PM bed time, worried about whether they’d return home safe from their risky adventures around the world. And, one time, outer space.

It was March, 2020 when our energetic crew first came to mind, when the pandemic was gaining steam and we, having been termed medically high risk, began to isolate ourselves at home, venturing out only for necessities.

We’re a couple of some thirty-nine years and pride ourselves on being emotionally self-sufficient. For us, it was love at first sight when we locked eyes over cubicle walls in the communications department of a Transamerica insurance subsidiary. We became instant soulmates and eventual business partners, working out of the house after leaving our fast-paced L.A. corporate jobs for the Smoky Mountain foothills. To some, it might seem a suffocating existence. For us, it was just right. Working together, playing together and sleeping in the same bed meant that we were usually within shouting distance 24/7. We didn’t possess a cell phone, so communication was face-to-face.

Our home life was all good until Covid-19 arrived in the U.S., first in nursing homes and then everywhere. By then, we had moved to a fresh set of hills above Eugene, Oregon, just down the coast from the major outbreaks among senior citizens in Washington State.  

We’d thought we’d lucked into the perfect home for a self-contained older couple with an intense aversion to dying from a newly-coined disease.  Perched on a steep hill among tall pines on a private road, it offered a distant view of the valley below. There, if one was inclined towards magical thinking, the virus would stop, uninclined to tackle an arduous climb when so many potential victims were within easy reach on level land.  

And there were further protections. Our modest home was on slight knoll above street level. Passersby couldn’t even see inside, let alone cough an infection fifteen feet up and through a window.

Plus, our neighbors were similar to us: self-employed, sans children; friendly, but readers, not revelers.

So, we settled in for the duration, figuring that it would be measured in weeks. Afterwards, we could go back to our previous lifestyle, which, frankly, wasn’t much different that our pandemic lifestyle. But it hadn’t been forced upon us, which, we found out, made all the difference in the world. There would be no more getaway weekends, no more long drives up the Oregon Coast. At least, if you stopped. The region of seashell shops and taffy pulls didn’t want visitors from the Covid-infested inlands. Gas up and keep goin’, the mantra was.

So we stayed put without surcease. Books were our panacea, the antidote to sameness. They allowed us to accompany 1930s gumshoes as they solved heinous crimes, trod the Mexican badlands with Paul Theroux, find lost civilizations in South America, crash land on Mars, and experience dystopian futures unlike the one we foresaw as a result of current events.

We read on the couch, at the kitchen table, but mostly in bed, snuggled under a down comforter, surrounded by three purring cats, pleased by our inactivity. Only on occasion would the literary orgy be interrupted, when Crazee or Hannah or Sara, in search of a more obtrusive position, would curl up against a book, bringing even the most pulse-pounding page turner to a halt.

Then our bedtime story took an unexpected turn. Smoke and ash from Oregon’s raging fires invaded our once-impermeable home. Eyes ran. Dust jackets became indistinct beneath thin films of carbonized Old Growth. Meanwhile, Covid-19 lurched from unnerving chapter to chapter. Even simple excursions to buy food or to gas-up become fraught.

Eventually, shopping anxiety became social anxiety, which turned into generalized anxiety, the mother of them all. Misplacing a bookmark became an event of major concern. A retching Crazee, probably from consuming too much crab grass, elicited shrieks.

Melancholia followed. Our closeness, forever a solace, began to grate. Our social dyad became comically circumscribed. We were like hostages bound together face-to-face, inhaling the humid stench of each other’s opprobrium. Personality characteristics that had once delighted became gratuitous acts of tyranny.

We agreed on only one thing: books were no longer enough. They were diverting, for sure, but we needed escapism of a more personal sort, designed to meet our idiosyncratic needs.

It was moments after this epiphany that there was, figuratively speaking, a knock on the back door. We peered out the kitchen window. And there, in immaculate blue sweaters and pressed khaki shorts, were six boyish figures of precisely the same physical stature. Their faces varied, though, each a pleasing twist on classic boyish traits.

“May we borrow a cup of sugar?” one of them piped up. He proffered a Pyrex measuring cup. His smile was ingratiating. Yet there was a touch of mischief, as if this was just a set up for a monumental prank.

“We’re The Flakes,” he added, as if sensing our unease. “We live right behind you.” He flashed the ingratiating smile again. In fact, all six of them did.

Disarmed, we allowed them in. And thus, an imaginary friendship began that has sustained us through over a year of emotionally difficult times.

The Flakes, as we learned, resided in a compound among the Doug Firs and blackberry snarls in our back yard. Consisting of a whitewashed bunk house, one-room school, full gym, professional galley, outdoor amphitheater and twenty-car garage, it was far too sprawling for the actual space, but we ignored that.

The Flakes weren’t bound by our own faltering physical and societal norms. They were the only students at the retro grade school in the compound, furnished with solid oak desks, inkwells and a squeaky chalk blackboard. Their instructors were a pair of Irish brothers who smoked clay pipes, stashed whiskey behind the lectern and challenged the boys with a curriculum an Oxford don would envy.

The Flakes were also billionaire entrepreneurs, running a successful business empire when their homework was done. Called Splat Inc., after a malleable substance they’d come up with during chemistry class, the company was multi-pronged. Splat was as tasty as ice cream and as strong as tank armor, just two of its countless uses.

Which is not say The Flakes ignored athletics. Put through their paces by a taskmaster known only as Coach, the boys typically left gym class dead on their feet. A sample workout was three hundred Marine-style push-ups on the bottom of the swimming pool, followed by a bruising rugby match in thigh-high mud.

During school break, The Flakes embarked on adventures so dangerous they included coffins in their luggage. Ever considerate of our needs, they didn’t want us left with a mess should something go wrong.

They also thrilled us with quarterly sporting competitions against top teams from across the globe. Sponsored by notorious figures ranging from Vladimir Putin to Elon Musk the opposing teams employed every dirty trick in the book. Yet The Flakes always came home with the gold.

All of which kept us distracted from the sputtering trajectory of our own lives; the fears, both real and, yes, imagined. For one of the ironic things about the era of the pandemic was the dreadful fantasies it engendered of traumas even more spectacular than we were currently suffering.

In that way, The Flakes are entertaining, imaginary friends that help offset the visions of unthinkable woes.

This was never more evident than just after New Year’s, when our beloved cat Crazee became violently ill and had to be put down. Suffering from both asthma and diabetes, she been on a medical roller coaster for eighteen months. We’d nursed her through countless sleepless nights, until nothing helped anymore.

The house was empty without her. And then, a few days later, there was another knock at the back door. It was The Flakes back for another cup of sugar. And there, weaving between their legs was Crazee. Then a barely visible something attracted her attention and Crazee scrambled away, batting at something only she could truly see. We were thrilled to see her alive and thriving in a new world, even though it was only a comforting illusion, a product of our minds.

Our imaginary friends serve a need and we are grateful and unembarrassed to have them in our lives. How long they will be with us, we don’t know. Will they move on to greater things when the pressures on us decline? Who knows? All we can say about The Flakes is that they and the open-ended universe they offer are good for us now. They’re an integral part of our bond with each other, our love.

By:

Anonymous

 

Tuesday, March 29, 2016

Trump to Name Judge Judy, Three Others to Supreme Court.

    In an exclusive interview, a Trump 2016 insider offered a peek at candidates he's considering for the Supreme Court--and reality show superstar Judge Judy tops the list!
    
    Said the insider, "While I am not authorized to speak on behalf of the Trump campaign, it is believed that Judge Judy is a shoo-in for the highest court in the land.

     "Is she a liberal? A conservative? Who knows? But she does not hesitate to voice her opinion--and that is a quality Mr. Trump values above all else. I, for one, cannot wait to see Judge Judy give a verbal dressing down to the stuffy lawyers who believe they've hit the big time because they're arguing a case in front of the Supreme Court.

     "On top of that, she already owns a gown, saving taxpayers money."
   
    According to the source, who asked to remain anonymous for fear of reprisal, three other reality show stars will be given the nod:  
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                                                      advertisement


Eyeing the Flash: The Making of a Carnival Con Artist, by Peter Fenton

"A cross between Ferris Bueller and William S. Burroughs...A hilarious, twisted coming-of-age story." --New York Times

                              10th Anniversary Edition!
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    1. Gwen Stefani works well under pressure, having made many, many difficult decisions on The Voice. She's hot. Looks great in black. End of story. Sexy women have for too long been underrepresented on the Supreme Court.

    2. Blake Shelton. Unfortunately, Blake and Gwen are a sort of package deal. But if the lovebirds break-up, the Nashville warbler is out!

     3. Pharrell Williams. Any guy talented enough to write "Don't Worry, Be Happy!" is an automatic shoo-in. The Supreme Court should be a happy place! Plus, he can mediate any disputes between Blake and Gwen. And he's got that ethnic deal covered.

     According to the source, two other candidates were given careful consideration and then dropped:

     Sarah Palin: She'll get the experience she needs if her judge show pilot is picked up for a full season run.
     
     J.Lo: Isn't she from Puerto Rico or something like that? Sorry, no foreigners allowed! After ten years of a Kenyan in the White House, the American people have had enough!

reporting by My Urban Fantasy

     

   

Wednesday, March 16, 2016

Congress to Downsize U.S. to 45 States.

     A cost-cutting proposal making the rounds of Capitol Hill downsizes the U.s. to 45 states.
     While there is widespread agreement that the step should be taken, party-line divisions threaten to scuttle the program even before Congress votes.
     Republicans want to delete New York, California, Vermont, Oregon and Massachusetts.
     Democrats prefer to eliminate Utah, Alaska, Arizona, Mississippi and--in a surprise move--Wisconsin.
     What states would YOU wipe off the map?

     Sponsored by Eyeing the Flash: The Making of a Carnival Con Artist, by Peter Fenton.

Sunday, February 7, 2016

Blood Money: How to Get It

       If you’re thinking about selling your kidney, private parts or a slice of your liver to make easy money, here’s a better idea: You can earn quick cash for beer, a fill up, or even chocolates for mom at a blood plasma center. You heard right—cash, not a check or credit to your account. Because blood plasma centers are run by righteous folks dedicating to providing their clients with instant funds for subsequent activities of their own choosing. Once you’re out the door, the money is yours and so is temporary financial freedom, although your blood sugar levels may be low for 24 to 48 hours. So buy a Dove Bar. You’ll have the dough.


                                   
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     Finding a place to “donate” blood plasma isn’t hard; in fact, it’s a booming business. Blood plasma centers have popped up across the country in recent years to meet demand for their life-saving products. There’s most likely a facility located near a college campus in your town, because, to coin an industry slogan, “Student Plasma Is Welcome!”  Yes, the universe of acceptable donors extends beyond selfless leprechauns who sprout like mushrooms in the shade of train trestles. 
     By the way, even if you’ve managed to acquire a college degree and you’ve graduated into the “real” world, friendly blood center staffers will still be delighted to stick a needle in your arm.  (And, although many of the materials put out by the industry are aimed at college students, they are equally applicable to any greedy bastard.)
     Such is the importance of a youthful population, educated or not, to the country’s blood supply that academic papers are even published on the subject.  One example, in Volume 19, number 2 of Sociological Spectrum, confirms the predominance of young donors.  According to the abstract of “Selling Blood: Characteristics and Motivations of Student Plasma Donors,” 10 percent of surveyed U.S. university students report selling plasma.
     In an eye-opening passage, the researchers conclude that “…paid student plasma donors tended to be predominantly male and from higher income families and to have higher rates of employment while in school. They also exhibited greater rates of alcohol consumption and cigarette smoking. Unlike non-remunerated Red Cross donors, (these) plasma donors do not feel a strong identification with the altruistic aspects of the blood donor role. Rather, they are motivated to continue donating in order to secure an easy source of pocket money, which they tend to spend freely, especially on social drinking in student bars.”  Amazing, isn’t it?  The authors are describing you. Or maybe your best buddy.
     However, even if you don’t fit the typical profile, giving the gift of plasma can be a savvy move to make. Although upright citizens may consider it an undignified way to turn a buck, donors receive $20 to $40 per visit and are allowed to make two donations a week. When you surprise your lady with a stunning bouquet of roses, how’s she going to know you bought it with cash earned by your very own blood platelets?
     Another option: Tell your significant other the truth. Talk up how good giving plasma made you feel. That allowing a nurse to insert the needle in her vein would be an altruistic act she, too, would never forget. Convince her to wear that sequined tube top you like so she won’t even need to roll up a sleeve!  Then—quick—before your girl gets cold feet, swing by the center. Within a half hour she’ll have made her donation and you’ll have enough cash for a gourmet pizza before hitting the clubs.  Plus a truckload of brownie points for showing what a caring guy you are.
     Need more convincing? Here’s a touching testimonial from a guy named Phil at BloodBanker.com: “I was a young starving college student once and got involved with these plasma donation centers. It was a great way for me to get a handle on my bills without much effort, also I learned about how blood helps people and cord blood banking as well. I would do homework, read magazines…even watch TV while having the economic resources for school supplies, or a sub sandwich.
    Plus, you’ll broaden your horizons and meet interesting people, like: 
·        Lefty: So-named because of the missing nostril melted down by cocaine.
·        Rafael: Devised groundbreaking formula:  two pints plasma = one pint cheap vodka.
·        Sex Machine: Groans in ecstasy when nurse inserts needle.
·        Dr. Rockit: Old school break dancer; head permanently cocked to the right.
     Your fellow donors may even invite you to share a communal beer in the alley!
      Footnote number 1: A sign at an Oregon clinic warns that men may not donate if they’ve had sex with another male after 1977.
     Footnote number 2: According to the Southern Illinois University student newspaper, a local ghost researcher suspects that the basement beneath a plasma center in downtown Carbondale may be haunted.  Consider yourself warned.

Tuesday, January 19, 2016

Top 5 Worst Oscar-Winning Songs

With so much crap to choose from, compiling a list of the five worst Oscar-winning songs ever was insanely difficult. Nevertheless, here are our choices from the bottomless cesspool of movie music:

5. Chim Chim Cheree from Mary Poppins, 1964--Even an umbrella couldn't stop Julie Andrews' descent from the peak of Sound Of Music and The Hills are Alive with Music.

4. We Belong Together from Toy Story 3, 2010--I dare you to hum this one. Or even remember it.

3. Al Otro Lado del Rio from Motorcycle Diaries, 2004--a movie about Che Guevara's greatest hits, sung by Fidel Castro

2. You Light Up My Life from You Light Up My Life, 1977--Uplifting tune written by a guy who was later indicted on 91 counts of rape, sexual assault and other uplifting stuff like that.

1. It's Hard Out Here For A Pimp from Hustle & Flow, 2005--Oscar music's all time low point. The title alone says it all.

My Urban Fantasy

Monday, December 21, 2015

What 10 Popular Christmas Presents Would Cost if Martin Shkreli Controlled Prices.

Martin Shkreli was named The Most Hated Man in America when he raised the price of an AIDS/cancer drug Daraprim from $13.50 to $750 per pill. That's a hike of approximately 5000 percent

Here's what top Christmas goodies would cost if Shkreli bought the companies that made them and jacked up the price by 5000 percent:

1. Star Wars light saber

     Market price: $35
     Shkreli price: $1750

2. Star Wars Wookie Feet Slippers for Men

     Market price: $25
     Shkreli price: $1750

3. Jennifer Anniston Eu de Parfum Spray

     Market price: $39
     Shkreli price: $1900

4. Fitbit Flex watch

     Market price: $100
     Shkreli price: $5000
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10th Anniversary Edition

"A cross between Ferris Bueller and William S. Burroughs...A hilarious and twisted coming-of-age story" --New York Times.


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5. Tie for Dad

     Market price: $9
     Shkreli price: $450

6. i-Pad Air

    Market price: $400
    Shkreli price :$20,000

7. Disney Frozen Doll

    Market price: $15
    Shkreli price: $750

8. 10-Pound Christmas Ham
   
    Market price: $20
    Shkreli price: $1000

9. Star Wars ticket

    Market price: $9
    Shkreli price: $450

10. Scalped Adele concert ticket

    Market price: $4000
    Shkreli price: $2000!

Bonus:

    Typical credit card APR:   18 percent
    Shkreli credit card APR:  900 percent

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Saturday, December 19, 2015

Inside $100 million plan to convince Adele to eat Oreos onstage.

     An in-depth My Urban Fantasy investigation has uncovered a secret plan to convince Adele to eat delicious Oreo cookies between songs on her upcoming world tour. In return for an astronomical $100 million payday.
     According to an unnamed insider, whose wish to remain anonymous we will respect as long as he/she doesn't reveal the debauched circumstances under which our interview took place, Adele's "people" have been approached by numerous corporations.
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10th Anniversary Edition

"A cross between Ferris Bueller and William S. Burroughs...A hilarious and twisted coming-of-age story" --New York Times.


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     Said the insider, "These companies want to place their products on stage or have Adele mention them by name. The theory is that Adele's adoring fans will snap up anything their idol endorses or stands beside when she sings a song.
    "For example, it's rumored that Apple wanted her to sing "Hello" over an i-Phone. And Carnival Cruise Line begged Adele to relax in a miniature cruise ship as she sing "Rollin' in the Deep."
     "These attempts to commercialize Adele's world tour were rejected immediately as crude and crass.
     "However, a member of our team came up with the idea for Adele to eat Oreos onstage. Oreos seem like a perfect fit. They're scrumptious. Don't  take up much space on stage. And Adele can toss a few into the crowd.
     "Our plan is to ask Oreos for $100 million to have their product placed on stage. Once that deal is sealed, we'll cut a deal with the milk industry.
     "Of course we'l have to run this all by Adele first. Unfortunately she's more into music than milk and cookies.
     "Maybe Taco Bell will be more up her alley. Being English, she may never had had really good nachos. I'd love to see Adele eating nachos during encores."
   
     Keep checking My Urban Fantasy for updates on this breaking news.