Little Red Riding Craig

It was 5:43 AM, and Craig's alarm clock went off, just like it did every morning. He had a unique alarm clock that sounded like five fat guys stomping in bowls of pudding. The other tenants in his apartment building hated it.

"Same time tomorrow, guys?" Craig said in that voice of his. The five fat guys shuffled out of his bedroom, each of them muttering under their breath about how much they hated Craig.

"Yawn!" Craig screeched. "It's a beeeeyooootiful day! Time to take a slice of room-temperature pizza to my brother-in-law."

He thrashed his way out of bed. This took twenty minutes because he could not figure out which end of the bed was the foot and which the head. He spent a good amount of time covered with blankets and yelling. The other tenants in his apartment building hated this too.

Finally extricating himself from his distressingly crinkly sheets, Craig pranced to his closet and opened the doors.

"I need something light and stylish, but good for travel by foot," he said aloud to himself because he was the only one who could bear to listen to him. "Aha!" he said unnecessarily, selecting his favorite traveling apparel: a big dopey red sweater with donkeys on it. "The same one I always select!" he tittered, invalidating all the time he spent picking it out.

Garbed in his riding sweater and carrying the pizza in a picnic basket, Craig set out. All the yelling and honking of horns and the subsequent return to his apartment to put on pants only slightly dampened his spirits.

"I shall go through the woods, because it is much harder to travel through them because of the sticks and creatures," Craig explained, entering the woods.

As soon as the trees closed in around him, the dense forest canopy darkening his path, he was accosted by the Big Bad Wombat.

"Hi, Craig," said the Big Bad Wombat.

"Oh no!" squealed Craig. "A wolf!"

"What?"

"My, what big haunches you have!" said Craig, poking the Big Bad Wombat with one of his terrible fingers.

"All the better to...hold on. What?"

"My, what big molars you have!" said Craig, poking the Big Bad Wombat in the eye.

"Goddammit!"

"My, what, like, four feet you have!" said Craig, poking the Big Bad Wombat in each foot.

"Aw, that does it!" shouted the Big Bad Wombat, running back into the forest fastness from whence he'd come.

"Hey! Aren't you supposed to threaten to eat me or steal my porridge or something?" Craig called after him.

"Eat yourself!" came the Big Bad Wombat's muffled reply from the underbrush.

"Ow!" Craig said.

After three hours of relatively unimpeded travel, Craig arrived at the front door of his brother-in-law's house. "Ding dong!" he squealed, poking the door knocker.

"Why, hello Craig," said the brother-in-law, suppressing his gag reflex.

"I brung you some pizza!" Craig said, holding up his picnic basket.

"Why are your arms all chewed up?" asked the brother-in-law.

"Oh, that? The Big Bad Wombat told me to do that," Craig said matter-of-factly, shrugging his chewed-up shoulders.

The brother-in-law sighed. "That's your excuse for everything. Well, you'd better come in so we can put some ointment on those bite marks."

"Oh boy! Oiiiiinnnntment!" Craig screeched.

The brother-in-law put the pizza down the garbage disposal and consoled his wife while Craig drank all the ointment he wanted. They all lived happily ever after!

He'll Make His Own

"Hello, welcome to Wendy's. What can I get for you?" asked the teen behind the counter.

"Ahem," said Craig, clearing his throat officiously. "I will have a foil-lined polymer space enclosure membrane filled to the brim with only the finest of Cheetos, their orange cheesesque flavor particulate spread most evenly, my good sir," he said in that aloof voice of his. "And make it snappy, for I have been paid handsomely by shadowy parties to be in proximity to their enemies for some reason, and I have a long list to get through!" he added, leaning forward conspiratorially and bonking his head on the cash register.

There followed a lengthy period where nobody quite knew what to say or how to stand while Craig slapped furiously and ineffectually at the back of the register.

"Have that foul machine drawn and quartered," Craig wheezed, wiping the sweat from his brow and flicking it into the deep fryer.

"I'm sorry, sir, but we don't serve Cheetos here. Could I interest you, perhaps, in an order of our delicious fries? They're roughly the same shape and color," the teenager said, gesturing to the menu because he mistakenly thought Craig could read.

"WhUUUUUUUUUt?" Craig howled. "Flabbergastery and plimshaw!" he howled further. "Doesn't that just beat all! Well, my friend, you have made a powerful enemy, which makes my calling you 'friend' a moment ago seem all the more sinister, I expect. I shall take my leave of this place permanently, and I will never come back! Nor shall I return! I will make my own Cheetos, thank you very much. And they will be of unfathomably higher quality than the ones you don't sell!"

With that, he swirled his cape about his shoulders, chased it down, picked it up and donned it, fastened it this time, and swirled it again. He left the building in a huff and failed in all endeavors.

The teenager checked the wall clock.

"Yep. 7:30. Right on time."

On The Origin of Species' Distaste for Craig

A couple of days ago, I was at the zoo when I started feeling queasy. If I tilted my head just right, I could hear dreams being trampled.

"Craig..." I muttered to nobody in particular. Nearby, a couple of flowers shriveled and the monkeys became riled.

Then I realized I'd already written about Craig at the zoo, and went off to do other things.

No Waffling on This Issue

Today, I drove to Toledo, Ohio to go to the Waffle House. That one is the closest to where I live, and it's about a two and a half hour drive. It was worth it, though, because you just can't get this kind of food at the IHOP or Denny's, even though they come close.

That, and I just like the kind of low-key atmosphere at the Waffle House. It's like a truck stop, but without all the truckers. The waitresses call you "hon" and greet you as such when you walk in.

I walked in and got called "hon". It was swell.

Then I saw the menu, and swell became paradise. I ordered me up a whole bunch of the deliciousness. The waitress delivered it piping hot to my table faster than I would have thought possible given the care with which it was prepared.

"I'm sorry, hon, but I didn't ask if you wanted mayonnaise with that! Here's a couple of packets," she said, dropping the silver tubes of hatred onto my table. They landed like two vulture turds, hitting the table with a dull splat. The jukebox stuttered twice before the music died altogether and even the air in the building seemed to stop moving.

"But...but Craig likes mayonnaise," I muttered.

So yeah. Great. Now I can never go back to the Waffle House.

Reading is Power

I drove out to Wayland, Michigan today. I wanted a book that only their library had, and I was willing to make the trip in order that I might better my mind, unlike a certain individual everybody could name.

I had not seen the Wayland library before, and was pleasantly surprised to find it a quaint little stone affair with one of those ceilings that is all over patterned white plaster. It looks like a wedding cake. Unlike a certain individual that nobody in their right mind much cares for, I did NOT climb a stepladder and try to eat it.

"Hello, staff!" I greeted the library staff.

"Stop talking to that stick," the staff person said. "We have a guy comes in here and does that all the time."

"I think I know the fellow," I said, shuddering involuntarily. The shudder was so severe, every single article of clothing I was wearing vibrated off and flew into the far corners of the building. All except for one sock.

"I'm terribly sorry," I said, displaying social grace that certain individuals would require years of training and research to acquire. "Awful mental image." I began to gather my clothing, which was recently washed, unlike the clothing of one person in particular.

"Don't worry. It happens all the time," the library staffer said. She sighed. "More often than I care to admit, actually. Can I help you find something? Certain people need help with everything, if you know what I mean."

We exchanged knowing nods, and I went to find the book on my own, relying on my own resourcefulness; resourcefulness that would be the envy of a certain individual if only that certain individual were capable of appreciating such nuances of personality.

Bringing the book up to the checkout counter, I remarked "I found everything okay, just in case you were wondering, unlike some people I could mention who couldn't find their way out of a paper bag and who sometimes fart on war heroes."

"Glad to hear it, sir," the staffer said, taking my library card. The library card gives one free access to a wide range of educational materials, and unlike some smelly men, I take advantage of it.

I waved goodbye to the library staffer, and she waved goodbye to me as I left the building. Unspoken, but communicated clearly though our wave was the universal truth that nobody likes a particular individual.

Guys' Night

I invited a friend over tonight for some video games and laughter. This friend, displaying a sudden and unfortunate lapse in judgment, invited Craig to join us.

This upset me for obvious reasons. I don't think it's too late to turn off all the lights and pretend I'm not home.

Only A Jerk...

I saw Craig at the zoo today. He was standing by the penguin pool yelling racial epithets at them. With one hand he was swatting the ice cream cones out of the hands of toddlers and with the other he was prank-calling nuns.

Only a jerk yells at penguins.

At The Mall

A couple of days ago, I was at the mall because I needed to buy some expensive gifts for my eight girlfriends. Something that showed that I was a caring individual with depth and soul and rhythm and jive. I made my way to Frederick's of Hollywood.

On my way, I bent down to pick up another one of the fifty-dollar bills I keep finding, and when I straightened up, I saw him.

He was standing with his knees bent for no reason at one of those mobile phone kiosks. Just standing there being terrible. It was Craig, of course. That explained why all the shoppers had started to look angrier and angrier the closer I got to him.

"That guy's awful," said a man, hooking a thumb over his shoulder at Craig as he walked past me.

Thinking quickly, I concealed myself in a potted tree before Craig noticed me. In retrospect, I don't know why I bothered. He doesn't notice anything happening around him unless he's actively being squirted with a fire hose.

I saw that happen once. He was asking some firemen if he could pet their "damnation" dog and drawing armpits on their truck with a dented Sharpie® marker with toothmarks all over it. The firemen finally blasted him across the street with their hose. He got all confused because he didn't recognize that side of the street, and walked soggily off. I hear he was missing for three days.

I squinted through the leaves. He was drawing armpits on the Sprint banner with a denty old Sharpie® and asking the kiosk operator if he could pet his damnation.

"Sir, I'm not entirely sure what you're asking. Do you mean dalmation? Like the dog?" the man said, quickly pulling the banner away.

Craig stopped and thought for a moment. He scratched his temple with his marker, scribbling all over the side of his head. His hat fell off. When it hit the floor, a couple of dirty pigeons fluttered out.

"Oh!" he finally squealed. "I want a Chalupa!"

"Sir, the food court is back that way, up those stairs," the kiosk man patiently explained. "Could you please take that phone out of your mouth?"

"What phone?" Craig asked, his voice muffled by the phone in his mouth. He spit the phone out onto the floor, where it landed on his hat. A couple of tattered old skunks waddled out from underneath it and disappeared into the Bed Bath and Beyond.

He leaned in closer, actually climbing onto the kiosk's counter and sticking his head under the canopy. "Did you know that typewriter ribbons can give you boils if you eat enough of them? See, look!" he screeched in that voice of his.

Finally, the kiosk man couldn't take any more and blasted him across the aisle with a fire hose. I chose that moment to make my escape before he could ask me if I had any corn flakes I could spare, like he usually does.

I haven't heard from him since. He's probably still in the parking lot drawing armpits on people's cars.

That Feeling

You know that feeling you get when you stuff too many marshmallows in your mouth? How you figured it'd be fun because one marshmallow is tasty so it stood to reason that twenty would be that much tastier? And then you realized what a grievous error you had made, and suddenly the marshmallows were filled with soggy regret and you were angrier at yourself than you thought possible?

He's kind of like that.

The Congregation Weighs In

I went to church this morning, and wouldn't you know it? The sermon was all about how decent upstanding folks should avoid Craig.

"For he lurks in the shadows, seeking whom he may noogie!" the preacher said, spraying the front row with spittle and striking the pulpit with his fists. "The Army of God must stand firm and guard our hearts and minds against this menace, because lo, nobody likes Craig!"

And then everybody cheered and threw hymnals at an effigy.