The New and Improved Romie Futch by Julia Elliott Page A

philosophical echo of our particular situation, relationship with the power structure, I mean.”
    â€œExactly,” said Trippy, “with the deconstructionist infant writing smack to his pedantic parents and all. You’d think that—”
    â€œMy fellow carnivores,” said Al, “your chicken taste like jerky too?”
    â€œFrankenfood, bo,” said Skeeter. “Pretty damn depressing.”
    Al dropped his plastic knife. His hand crimped into a raptor claw from some kind of palsy. His eyes rolled back into their sockets demon-possession-style. He belched out a few guttural bullfrog croaks. But then he recovered, smiled politely, and dabbed at his lips with a paper napkin.
    In a posh New England accent he said, “Do you ever feel the weight of sadness bearing down upon your meaningless existence?”
    â€œWait ’til you’re my age, youngblood,” said Irvin.
    â€œDo you ever feel an overwhelming sense of hopeless despair, as though your flabby body contains no soul, as though your life is a tedious series of meaningless reps: eating processed food, shitting processed food, fucking on automatic pilot, shuffling data in an office cube? You may no longer enjoy activities that used to give you joy—like watching television, walking your dog, or playing Zombie Babe Attack on Xbox One. These are some symptoms of depression, my friends, a serious medical condition afflicting over twenty million Americans.”
    â€œWhat the hell?” said Skeeter.
    â€œDepression may be caused by an imbalance of natural chemicals between nerve cells of the brain,” Al continued. “And prescription Nepenthe works to correct this imbalance. Side effects may include urethral aplasia, sleep paralysis, hirsutism of the eye, and anal hemorrhaging. Nepenthe is not habit-forming. Call 1-800-N-E-P-E-N-T-H for more information. Get ready to strap on your parachute and jump back into life!”
    Al flashed a twitchy smile. His glasses were crooked. His buzz cut was looking a little bushy. His beard, usually fastidiously trimmed and groomed, was losing its shape. A convulsion shook his broad shoulders. He stared into space for a few seconds, his lower lip drooping. Then he snapped out of it. Swallowed. Shook his head and plucked a tater tot from his plate.
    We all smiled uneasily.
    â€œYou all right, Al?” said Trippy. “That was, like, a parody, right?”
    â€œWhat you talkin’ ’bout, Willis?” said Al.
    Chewing a cube of processed potato product, Al glanced around at our flushed faces.
    â€œSeriously,” he said, “what?”
    He shrugged, then squirted another blob of Heinz 57 onto his plate.
    â€¢Â Â â€¢
    That night in the Nano Lounge, we were all dishing about our friend’s odd dinner theater, hoping his quirks were an intentional parody but fearing some delayed manifestation of Gulf War syndrome.
    â€œSome kind of biological warfare bugging,” said Trippy.
    â€œMaybe the biowarfare is a bad mix with the BAIT downloads,” I said, “like mixing liquor and beer.”
    â€œY’all don’t think he’s joshing us?” said Skeeter.
    â€œDon’t know,” said Irvin. “Maybe.”
    Just then, Al came striding into the room sporting a plastic lei.
    â€œYou got leid , bo?” Skeeter quipped, and we all groaned like Inquisition victims on the rack.
    â€œWhat?” Al blinked.
    â€œThat garland of plastic orchids around your neck,” I said.
    â€œOrchid means testicle in Latin,” said Trippy. “You got plastic bollocks round your neck, dog.”
    â€œWhat you talkin’ ’bout, Willis?” said Al, whereupon Irvin rose from his chair to tug on Al’s floral wreath.
    â€œThis thing right here is known as a lei ,” Irvin said gently. “The Hawaiian word for garland .”
    Al removed his lei, bunched it up in his hands, studied the lilac plastic mass, and