Run-On Sentence
(Or, Does Anyone Remember The Movie Flatliners?)
By Michael O'Hare

One of the Bee Gees died recently, didn't they? I don't know why they bothered reporting that, it's not like anybody was a fan of them, anymore. Well, I guess maybe their family members, but I'm pretty sure that's just kind of a pity fandom. Kind of like the pity cheering your family gives you when you're a kid and you're on a soccer team and you suck no matter how hard you try even though you're not a bad player it has nothing to do with you but with the fact that everyone else on your team is a witless moron who doesn't know how to play soccer only yell about Garbage Pail Kids or whatever the Hell else those little drops of garbage yelled about and they're so stupid they can't even think of a good name for the team so they choose "Green Crush" like a pack of retards even though you recommended we choose the name "Flatliners" because the movie of the same name was out at the time but the coach wouldn't listen to you so you decided to keep repeating "Flatliners" over and over again to him until he gets so pissed off at you he yells at you and he makes you run ten laps around the field because he said to you "If you say Flatliners one more time I'm going to make you run ten laps around the field" so you say it in complete defiance to him and the rest of your team being total dicks but he sort of gets the last laugh because he's still the coach and when I got home and I was getting into the shower I found a tick on my leg so I put a match to it and killed it but ended up singing some of my leg hairs off and they still haven't grown back and it's been like at least twelve years which makes me think they never will although now that I look at my legs I can't tell where it happened so maybe they just grew back without me realizing it because it's not like I examine my leg hairs every day that's what freaks do while they're living in particle board shacks and getting fat and pretending to be dragons or foxes or whatever the Hell they like to pretend they are while they're rubbing a pool toy across their fat faces and pretending they're kissing a woman made of rubber or perhaps a normal woman who's using wax lips because she's playing a joke on them and will probably end up kneeing them in their stinky groins and running away laughing because even their fantasies hate their guts and so do I to the point that if I ever saw one of them on the road I'd run them over even though that would probably damage my car like that one time my wheel scraped into this huge-ass branch that was sticking into the road and it was dark and the road was curving so I didn't see it until it was too late and I swear to God some bastard probably pulled it into the road for me to hit even though my friend said that the wind probably knocked it down but that's not true I swear some little punk yanked it out there for me to hit and if I ever catch this kid I'm going to rip his head off and shove it up his pooper so that he has to eat with his butt and take dumps out of his neck hole like some nightmarish Bizarro kid from the planet Zombor who plans to invade the planet and turn us all into zombo-men like that one movie I saw which may have been a dream because Ben Franklin was in it and I'm pretty sure he has never acted in any movies.

Jesus, did I just write all that?


I kind of own this story. You want it? Why don't you e-mail me, and we'll talk it through. Yeah, I'm up for that.

Did I just threaten to decapitate someone whom I can't even be sure exists? Good God, I did. Ah, well. That whole "Flatliners" thing was fun to relive, anyway. Jesus, those guys sucked at soccer.
You know, honestly, I don't know why I wrote this. It took me less than five damned minutes. I'm sorry, I really am.