started to freak out and called out to
me
for help.
I was still clicking on the phone, and I searched the screen frantically for a garden hose or anything to put the fire out.
While Laurie’s Husband, the one who actually
lived
in that house and was to its same scale, so he could see things far more clearly than I—I mean, really, I’m a giant in this world, the whole house is about a foot across, and being a giant sometimes does
not
give you a vantage point, contrary to popular opinion—just stood there, Laurie’s arms were flailing about, and she was yelling and hollering. The flames were almost out of control now, the entire kitchen was ablaze (except for the area that Bastard Son of a Bitch Sad Sack was observing from a corner). Frankly, I was about to throw my Diet Vanilla Coke right on the screen when my real husband suddenly had an idea.
“Click on the flames!” he yelled. “Click on the flames and see if you get an option!”
Immediately, I clicked on the flames, and what popped up but the option to extinguish, and that’s when Sad Sack finally coughed up a goddamned fire extinguisher and sprayed it all over the kitchen. The fire subsided.
But it was too late.
A computerized version of the Death March was heard, and when the fire extinguisher spray had cleared, Laurie was gone. Where she had stood just moments ago, batting at the flames licking at her tiny simulated body, was now a small, gray urn.
“Oh my God,” I said quietly.
A message from the game popped up on the screen.
“Laurie Notaro has died,” the box said.
“I’m . . . dead,” I said weakly. “I’m dead. I died. I DIED. I am DEAD!”
“No way,” my husband whispered.
“How can I be dead?” I questioned.
“Oh, man, demons eat me all the time in ‘Diablo,’” he said. “One time, I was mauled by evil devil strippers. It was gruesome, but also strangely erotic.”
“This is all his fault,” I said, pointing to Laurie’s Husband. “You! This is your fault, you lazy, stupid asshole! You just stood there as she sizzled like a Jimmy Dean sausage link!”
“Click on the urn,” my husband offered. “Maybe there’s a way to bring you back.”
So I clicked on the urn, but the only thing that happened was that an option to “mourn” popped up. So I took it.
And then, a beautiful thing happened.
Someone started to cry. But it wasn’t simply crying; it was more like heart-wrenching, pain-filled weeping, almost as if your soul had been ripped from you, or worse, in this case, your meal ticket. Like if the only person in your house with a job was suddenly transformed into a pile of talcum powder that could fit into a can of fruit cocktail.
“I’m . . .
crying,
” my husband said simply, pointing to Laurie’s Husband as he wandered about the filthy, charred, trash-strewn house. “I’m so sad.”
“Look at that,” I said unbelievably. “Look at that bastard cry.”
“HOO HOO HOOOO!!!! HOO HOO HOOOOO!!!” Laurie’s Husband wailed.
I clicked on my urn again. Mourn. And again. Mourn. And again. Mourn. Again. Mourn. Mourn. Mourn. Mourn. Mourn. Mourn.
“Cry, you big baby, cry!” I commanded. “Look what you did to her! Look what you did! I’m going to keep you so goddamned depressed you’ll never be able to get a job, have a normal life, or marry anyone else! Do you hear me? Cry! Let me hear you cry!”
He deserved it. You know he did.
That’s when the fireman finally showed up, and Laurie’s Husband moaned all the way out to the front yard to greet him as the fireman stood next to a bunch of decomposing turkey legs.
“HOO HOO HOOOO!” I made him say to the fireman. “HOO HOO HOOOO!!”
“Come on, quit clicking on the urn,” my husband said. “I’ve been through enough. Don’t you want me to get on with my life? Hey, can we make a fake girl who looks like Kate Winslet now?”
“NO!” I protested. “I’m sorry, but did you or did you not just see me being incinerated like a Duraflame
me
for help.
I was still clicking on the phone, and I searched the screen frantically for a garden hose or anything to put the fire out.
While Laurie’s Husband, the one who actually
lived
in that house and was to its same scale, so he could see things far more clearly than I—I mean, really, I’m a giant in this world, the whole house is about a foot across, and being a giant sometimes does
not
give you a vantage point, contrary to popular opinion—just stood there, Laurie’s arms were flailing about, and she was yelling and hollering. The flames were almost out of control now, the entire kitchen was ablaze (except for the area that Bastard Son of a Bitch Sad Sack was observing from a corner). Frankly, I was about to throw my Diet Vanilla Coke right on the screen when my real husband suddenly had an idea.
“Click on the flames!” he yelled. “Click on the flames and see if you get an option!”
Immediately, I clicked on the flames, and what popped up but the option to extinguish, and that’s when Sad Sack finally coughed up a goddamned fire extinguisher and sprayed it all over the kitchen. The fire subsided.
But it was too late.
A computerized version of the Death March was heard, and when the fire extinguisher spray had cleared, Laurie was gone. Where she had stood just moments ago, batting at the flames licking at her tiny simulated body, was now a small, gray urn.
“Oh my God,” I said quietly.
A message from the game popped up on the screen.
“Laurie Notaro has died,” the box said.
“I’m . . . dead,” I said weakly. “I’m dead. I died. I DIED. I am DEAD!”
“No way,” my husband whispered.
“How can I be dead?” I questioned.
“Oh, man, demons eat me all the time in ‘Diablo,’” he said. “One time, I was mauled by evil devil strippers. It was gruesome, but also strangely erotic.”
“This is all his fault,” I said, pointing to Laurie’s Husband. “You! This is your fault, you lazy, stupid asshole! You just stood there as she sizzled like a Jimmy Dean sausage link!”
“Click on the urn,” my husband offered. “Maybe there’s a way to bring you back.”
So I clicked on the urn, but the only thing that happened was that an option to “mourn” popped up. So I took it.
And then, a beautiful thing happened.
Someone started to cry. But it wasn’t simply crying; it was more like heart-wrenching, pain-filled weeping, almost as if your soul had been ripped from you, or worse, in this case, your meal ticket. Like if the only person in your house with a job was suddenly transformed into a pile of talcum powder that could fit into a can of fruit cocktail.
“I’m . . .
crying,
” my husband said simply, pointing to Laurie’s Husband as he wandered about the filthy, charred, trash-strewn house. “I’m so sad.”
“Look at that,” I said unbelievably. “Look at that bastard cry.”
“HOO HOO HOOOO!!!! HOO HOO HOOOOO!!!” Laurie’s Husband wailed.
I clicked on my urn again. Mourn. And again. Mourn. And again. Mourn. Again. Mourn. Mourn. Mourn. Mourn. Mourn. Mourn.
“Cry, you big baby, cry!” I commanded. “Look what you did to her! Look what you did! I’m going to keep you so goddamned depressed you’ll never be able to get a job, have a normal life, or marry anyone else! Do you hear me? Cry! Let me hear you cry!”
He deserved it. You know he did.
That’s when the fireman finally showed up, and Laurie’s Husband moaned all the way out to the front yard to greet him as the fireman stood next to a bunch of decomposing turkey legs.
“HOO HOO HOOOO!” I made him say to the fireman. “HOO HOO HOOOO!!”
“Come on, quit clicking on the urn,” my husband said. “I’ve been through enough. Don’t you want me to get on with my life? Hey, can we make a fake girl who looks like Kate Winslet now?”
“NO!” I protested. “I’m sorry, but did you or did you not just see me being incinerated like a Duraflame
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