What can YOU say in six sentences?
I pressed the remote on the pre-season game with the Seahawks out front and we rushed to the can to dump all the cheez-its and pizza and beer, and when we came back, this thing had busted on out of the Tube and now filled the room, bringing with it the news that the ballgame was over.
I couldn't even begin to describe it: sounds, smell, dimension, appearance and movement, DNA traits--all tangled up and we couldn't grip it, but, man, the impact--
Imagine Mick Jagger gargling with Drano; Keith Richards' face and post-modern discourse; drainage erupting as Beethoven's Ninth; snot-locker emissions and babies-to-go in the frozen foods section at Sam's Club; tap-dancing wombats and all that weird shit, tumbling and knifing through deep inner space, then morphing into My Favorite Things and then into cheese-dip and then into ten million Goofys and Plutos, every last one of them dressed up like Cub Scouts, now whirling and spinning in slow, waltz-like rhythms and starting to chant just like Zulus, and then--lights dancing through ancestors' graveyards in Norway, the Congo, and Stephen King's back yard in Bangor...castratis singing Otello off-key...Mr. Ed doing a pole-dance in Vegas, and then--a long, black stretch limo slowing to crawl, and inside the limo six figures arrayed in black suits and white ties and fedoras, and known to the free world as Phi-Delts, bringing out Thompsons to hose the room down...
You'd think we'd have all bowed and prayed to this TV-spawned god, but hell no: Benny Jablonsky yelled, "Hey, man, the second half's starting, so get your dizzy ass out of the way!"
One Phi-Delt looked at another and said, "See, man, I told you."
The other said, "Yeah, dawg," and swung the gun up and took Benny out like a squab--but I hit the remote and the game came back on, and the Phi-Delts and all of that happy-ass shit disappeared, and the Seahawks beat Memphis, man, going away...