Pinko was in my room again and I know he was going through my collector issues of Oui. I’m sure of it this time, for three reasons:
1) The footlocker with all my CCR stickers on it was unlocked and my old POW boxer trunks, the ones that still smell like Lao, looked as though they’d been moved but carefully replaced.
2) I found crumb traces of his animal crackers on my side of the bed.
3) When I turned on the television set, the station was showing a reality show on VH1. Cindy and I stopped watching VH1 when the “I Love the 80s” program slanderized the boy actor Scotty Schwartz, of The Toy, for participating in a porno movie. The Toy was a damn hard act to follow. The man tried. VH1 should have stayed out of his business.
I didn’t wait for Pinko to offer an explanation when he and Cindy returned from Pineapple Express. I just went at him with my arms out. The whole ordeal was a little humiliating at first because I couldn’t catch him, and he even ran backward, taunting me by singing the theme song to “The Munsters.” Cindy was whining at me to stop, and over all the commotion, I kept shouting, “Stay out of my stuff!” I was on the verge of frustrated tears and my left arm was starting to tingle when Sarah popped up from behind one of our Italian sofas and foot-swept Pinko onto his back. I was so surprised that I stopped shuffling toward him and just stared. Sarah had stepped on his neck and bared her teeth down at him. She looked at me and put her thumb sideways like an executioner. Cindy fainted onto the polar bear-skin rug that the Palins had given us as a gift and I raised both my thumbs as high as my arms would allow. She stepped off Pinko, straightened her pantyhose, and walked back into our pretend Oval Office. After about ten seconds I could hear my old word processor tapping away.
Pinko sat up Indian-style and held his throat with two hands. I mumbled another curse at him and nudged Cindy’s high heels until she groaned and I went in my room.
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