As the poplars' long shadows become even longer across the Romney signs I've been pulling up in the eve's waning, I contemplate heading home to my Mother's warmly-lit basement. A wave of anticipatory savoring of the PB&J sandwich and bottle of YooHoo she always sets out for me by my crumb-filled keyboard washes over me. Even as I step in my third pile of dogshit of the day, my spirits are lifted by the tinkling of adolescent female laughter, and a tingling winds its way up my leg. As I approach the nubile young lasses, I consider asking them once again to my abode for ice cream, though each time I have they make those curious gestures of sticking their fingers down their throats and laughing harder still. I spy one of their fathers watering the hedges and looking at me as if considering whether or not to step on a particularly loathsome insect, and I scurry along without stopping.
At last I spy the familiar silhouette of the house I was born in, the house I grew up in, the house I nearly burned down making meth in, and am comforted. Entering, I am greeted by the sight of my father asleep in his well worn recliner. The TV's faint bluish glow of Fox news illuminates the worry lines I have lovingly helped carve into his face in my forty-plus years of occupying his domicile. He shifts slightly and I pause, wary of arousing him from slumber and facing yet another question of whether I have cleaned my room or not. Even when I lightly remove the ten dollar bill peaking from his shirt pocket he does not move. I am pleased. He deserves his rest.
I tread lightly to the comforting environs of the basement, smelling musky yet compelling with the odor of a thousand masturbations. The newspaper is lying across my computer chair, open to the Help Wanted ads. My father again. I chuckle at his never ending optimism as I brush it aside and take a seat. Taking a sip from the condensation-covered bottle of chocolatey goodness my dear mother provided, I stroke the mouse lovingly, nudging it to lead me to that other plane of existence, that other universe, DU, where I and so many others can once again pretend our lives are relevant. The front page greets me with the same lame and uncreative Photoshops I have come to expect from EarlG, but I don't care. At last I am at my real home, where my neuroses are not only accepted, they are celebrated.
My unwashed fingers begin to dance across the greasy keys. I have many grand stories to tell of the slaying of conservatives, of favorable polls, and of toasty scandals.
Yes, I am home.
