A Slap Upside the Head

April 13, 2012
By , Staten Island, NY
In a World where anything is possible, there exists a being; this being’s name was Paul. Let us call this variable “World” Enchilada. In Enchilada everything that he can imagine exists. Every morning he chooses between two different types of transportation to travel to his job as an accountant: either he flies his helicopter from his abode in the Pennsylvania countryside, or he chooses to teleport there from his crib in Tahiti. Once Paul arrives at his workplace, he plops himself down upon the fusia waterbed in his private office and begins to dictate to his highly attractive secretary what and exactly how she should carry out his “work load” for the day. For the rest of his day he naps, curled in fetal position, on his most treasured rug made of a combination of pigeon feathers and rabbit fur that he had caught himself on a classy hunting trip with his old boss. Putting this rug in his office made him feel a sense of pride over beating his old boss to the top and getting promoted. This is why Paul would rather sleep here than his water bed; because it gave him confidence and the emotion of victory over defeating his boss, the rabbit, and the pigeon even as he slept curled up in a defenseless ball. Frankly, these are most likely the only things that Paul was good enough to catch, judging by the size of the rug. The rug also happened to be the size of a two by two foot amoeba-shaped figure that vaguely resembled a circle because Paul had only actually caught one rabbit and a pigeon and a half. After taking his seven-hour long, mid-day nap, he would stretch, yawn, and let out a loud bellow for no apparent reason.

This is his routine, everyday, every time he wakes up. Besides this eccentric idiosyncrasy, Paul had few others in Enchilada. After he wakes up, he usually gets a cup of hot chocolate, brewed to perfection, from his second secretary, John. Paul always had his hot chocolate the same way, with seventeen mini marshmallows and half a cup exactly of whipped cream atop it. If Paul’s hot chocolate were ever at any point unsatisfactory, he would intentionally spew it out, habitually, on John (as the deliverer), and fling the mug across the other half of his luxurious waterbed in utter contempt. Then he would proceed to say something along the lines of, “Go take a lap and then make me another, Johnny Boy!” even though “Johnny Boy” was roughly thirty years or so older than Paul. Seeing as Paul was John’s boss, John would do as he was told and jog one time around all of the other lame, miniscule cubicles that surrounded Paul’s office like medieval peasants’ homes once surrounded the King’s castle. Immediately after, John would return to his own practically microscopic cubicle and quickly mix another cup for Paul in record time using his periwinkle blue hot chocolate maker located next to his file cabinet on his desk. Eventually after several repeats of this situation, Paul could be satisfied and then would return home to his wife and three little boys, Raul, Zac, and Gisele.
Once at home, each one of his children would grab one of his various appendages and hug it for an extended period of time, simulating love. His wife (twice as attractive as his primary secretary) Latoya would give him a big smoochie, also attempting to simulate love for Paul, but failed much more miserably than the children did, because they had already been taught from a very young age to “love” their father. This is generally how life went for Paul in Enchilada, day after day.
For Paul, Enchilada was an exotic, vibrant, escape from his everyday life. You see, this “Enchilada” does not actually exist in real time or space, only in Paul’s mind.
In real life, Paul has a relatively mundane lifestyle; well realistically he has possibly the most mundane lifestyle of anyone he knows. He actually still does work as an accountant in real life, but unfortunately, he does not travel to work by helicopter, nor does he teleport there from his crib in Tahiti. In reality, he lives with his mom in Stuyvesant town, where he has the mind-blowing choices of either taking the subway or waiting at the bus stop on 1st avenue! He then buys his own, frankly, lame, hot chocolate without any of the ingredients he loves, but yet again, like every other real day, he resists spewing it out of his mouth onto the person sitting next to him on the subway, probably having a very strange look on his face as he forces the hot chocolate down his throat. He finally goes to his work building on the corner of Broadway and 34th street where he sits at his microscopic cubicle, slams his hot chocolate angrily on his desk, and starts his actual work load for the day, doing it all by himself with no attractive secretary in sight. After work, he receives a paycheck that was almost as small as his cubicle, and he then sulks on his way home. When he arrived home he attempts impressing his wife Barbara by handing her the check. Every time she looks at it, her eyes lose their once beautiful glimmer, and she slaps him upside the head with a grunt.


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