IT'S ALL RELATIVE

“Just when you think nothing else can possibly happen, it does!”

Excerpt from: “The Slap Happy Days of Carlos McGuffin.”

My name is Sam Goldstein, I’m 50 years old, owner and CEO of a major CPA firm, and the weirdest thing happened to me this morning: Either the world grew to twice its size or I woke up this morning three feet tall. I’m not kidding. I woke up, threw my legs over the edge of the bed expecting to hit wood and nothing happened. I looked over my knees and the floor was still 2 feet away. Naturally, I just thought that I was still asleep and dreaming and I would wake up at any second. So I just sat there and waited. And waited. And waited. So I stopped doing the Godot thing and came to terms with my situation: That I’m actually not dreaming. I’m actually three feet tall. You would think something like this would really freak me out, right? But naaaaah. I mean, after the shit that happened to me yesterday, waking up half my normal height just didn’t seem like much. 

Yesterday was my 25th wedding anniversary. Did I unwrap a little box with the keys to a new BMW inside? Noooooo. Did I get a watch with “Happy 25th” engraved on the back? Nooooo. Did I get even a stinking tie?! Noooooooo. What I got from my wife, Sylvia, was a fucking Hallmark lying on the dresser in the morning that read: “Happy 25th Anniversary, Baby. I’m leaving you for Raoul.” 

Raoul was our nineteen-year-old, pool cleaner. A fucking pool cleaner, for Christ’s Sake! Then my son, Jacob calls that very afternoon, COLLECT! from fucking Israel. Did he call to wish his old man a “Happy Anniversary?” Of course not! He calls to tell me he’s dropped out of Harvard Law School (three weeks before graduation) to join a fucking Kabutz in Tel Aviv! A Kabutz! Three weeks before graduation, yet!! And that’s not all. Ooooh no. 20 minutes after Steven’s call, my daughter, Rebecca (who I haven’t seen or heard from in three years because I’m a “Capitalist Pig”) shows up at my door six months pregnant by some camel jockey from Yemen! And if that’s not enough to give me a stroke and finish me the fuck off, I get a notice in the mail from the IRS that I’m being audited! Since my family and the IRS have been chopping me down at the knees for years, waking up 3 feet tall should’ve been expected, huh?

    Well. What are you gonna do, right? Just deal with it, right? Anyway, I better get dressed and head over to the office. I’ve got an IRS shit storm waiting for me there. 

Shit! What the fuck am I going to wear?!

THE END