Subjective Morality

Archive for March, 2009

I was on some sort of field, either a soccer or football field. I’m not sure which. Probably soccer. Anyway, there was a big crowd, and a man was running toward me with a knife. He caught me, cut my right ear off, and then slit my belly, disemboweling me. I blacked out after that. When I came to, I was on my parents’ couch, holding my intestines in my hands. I got up from the couch, feeling like a disemboweled person who’s had their right ear cut off, and carefully walked to the kitchen, calling for my parents. For some reason they, or anyone else, hadn’t thought to take me to the hospital or something. I laid my burdensome intestines on the glass table while I pleaded with my parents to take me to the hospital. They agreed. I was worried that my SO (Significant Other, for those of you who are less knowledgeable of abbreviations) would think I was dead or something, so I started crafting a text message to him, but I was interrupted by my parents who were dragging me to the car, suddenly worried about my health. I continued writing the text message while they were driving, but never sent it for some reason. My parents were talking about what hospital they were going to take me to, and my mom said something like “We’re not taking you to Wesley, we’re taking you to a real hospital.” Apparently she was still upset about her recent stint at Wesley, where she received subpar treatment or something. They told me they were taking me to an Oklahoma hospital, and they kept driving. We arrived at a gigantic, deserted parking lot in front of gigantic, foreboding gates. We got out of the car and walked to the gates with me dragging my intestines (I feel I need to emphasize the intestine-dragging), and entered the gates into what appeared to be some sort of pagoda city; the things were everywhere. A path wound through this bizarre architectural hell which we started down. All around us people were milling about, apparently with nothing better to do. I overheard some of them conversing (yes, it’s conversing, Mr. Ens) about me. “Did you hear about what happened to Alex?” “Yeah, I heard he’s dead or somewhat.” “I’s a shame, that.” None of them seemed to notice that I was right fucking there. You’d think they’d notice someone with a missing ear, dragging his intestines around. When we reached the end of the path, we found ourselves being dwarfed by an immense pagoda palace thingy with stairs leading to the top where a throne stood, and on that throne, I shit you not, sat Pamela Anderson. At this point I was wondering why the hell we were here. We ascended the stairs and Pamela greeted us with extended arms, marveling that I was alive, and asked how I was. I told her, “Well, my guts are hanging out and I’m missing an ear, but yeah I feel O.K.” My parents asked her which hospital they should take me to, and she never really gave a clear answer. We left after awhile and got back in the car. My parents started arguing about something and that’s when I woke up.

The spotlights all focus on the twelve contestants as they exit from behind the curtain and line up on the floor, all facing the moderator, who is standing on a dais and rather surprisingly looks nothing at all like Ryan Seacrest, but more like Dustin Hoffman with a severe heroine addiction. The spotlights now converge on the nameless moderator who then announces his name as Bill Osmo (good name for a moderator; short and easy to remember, which is one factor the TV shows consider in determining who they hire for their moderator. I doubt Mr. Seacrest would have gotten his job at American Idol if his name was Flangly Blingblam, but I digress) and he addresses the live studio audience in a voice somewhat reminiscent of a P.E. teacher’s, but not as harsh or strained from overuse. He introduces us to the general idea of the show (cleverly entitled “Down Your Neck”), which is pitting random homeless and/or bored and/or stupid people from the street in a competition of breathing. The contestant who can breathe the best is awarded a thousand and sixty-four dollars in check form, and the losing contestants get these adorable rubber duckies with the faces of popular U.S. presidents who have been rendered with inexplicably large foreheads in an attempt to make them look somewhat comical but really come off as looking incredibly creepy, which is why I like them and would prefer them to the thousand and sixty-four dollar check, but that’s just me.

Several crew members come out from behind the curtains and equip the guests with these machines that kinda look like scuba gear, the purpose of which must be to determine which contestant is breathing the best according to some predetermined scale of breathing. When the contestants all look comfy in their scuba-mask-things, the moderator yells, “Let’s get this show on!” which sounds rather lame for a TV host. You’d think they could come up with something less lame, wouldn’t you? Oh well. The moderator now briskly turns to face the contestants. The roar of the audience accompanies the spotlights as they turn towards the contestants as well. The Contestants wait for the moderator to start the competition. The moderator pauses, watching the audience with all their beady little eyes, like little chihuahuas’ eyes only creepier because they’re human and stuff. “Go!” the moderator shouts, giving the contestants a jump as they start breathing. There are cameraman all over the floor, getting close-ups of that breathing action. Yes, it’s very exciting.

About half an hour has passed. The audience is still on the edge of their plastic seats. Suddenly, but not quite suddenly enough to be considered sudden by, say, Spiderman, an audience member yells, “He’s wheezing! He’s wheezing!” while pointing franticly at the contestant on the far right who is indeed wheezing. Maybe he has asthma. I’m not sure. Posit a guess? No? Alright then. The wheezing contestant continues wheezing and the audience settles down again.

Five minutes have passed. The wheezing contestant is still wheezing, though it’s more pronounced, and he appears to be sweating vigorously.

Another five minutes have passed. The wheezing contestant is doing very freaky things. I don’t know what the hell’s wrong with him. He’s flailing his arms and feet about wildly, panting and sweating buckets. The other contestants have stopped breathing and are now stepping away from him. I don’t know why the crew members haven’t taken him away and given him some medical attention. Maybe they’re scared. Maybe they want this spectacle to continue. I hope they do soon. That guy don’t look too good.

Three minutes have passed. Oh God. That contestant’s head appears to have mutated into some sort of alien proboscis with teeth. He’s jumping on the moderator’s dais. He’s eating the moderator’s head. My word, this is fucked up. I’m leaving now.