It's not Three Loko, it's Four Loko. And four rhymes with pour. And floor. And shit your pants twice more.

Editor 2: I don’t like it. It makes us look weak. Like we need backup.

Editor 1: We’re expanding. That’s what this is. We’re diversifying our, you know, portfolio of talent.

Editor 3: That sounds like something you made up right then. Portfolio of talent? What are we, pimps?

E1: We are not pimps. We are not pimps and we are not players. We don’t push big body Benzes. We aren’t rolling on dubs.

E2: We don’t need backup. Nothing against this James Best guy, I’m sure he’s funny and all…

E1: We’ve published his stuff a few times now.

E2: I only read my days.

E3: You read your own days?

E2: Yes. For inspiration, and to see how I’m progressing, I read my own days.

E3: Solipsistic vortex much?

E1: With four of us…

E2: Three is a magic number. Remember that? From Sesame Street?

E1: With four of us…

E2: The three musketeers. Three.

E1: There were four of them. There were four musketeers. Have you not read…

E2: I only read my own stuff. Ever.

E3: Two for all, and one all for himself. And James Best.

E1: With four of us, we can spend more time on our individual pieces.

E2: And if we were going to bring a fourth wheel on…

E3: Repurposing that particular aphorism doesn’t do your case any favors.

E2: …why this James Best guy? Why not, say…

E1: Who?

E2: I don’t know… that McSweeney’s guy. I hear he’s funny.

E1: You don’t read…

E2: Only me. Ever.

E1: I don’t think we’re going to get the McSweeney’s guy. I don’t think Dave Eggers…

E2: Dave Eggers? That’s an even worse name than James Best.

E1: I don’t think Dave Eggers is going to become our fourth musketeer. Among other reasons, because James Best is already our fourth musketeer.

James Best: Fuck’s sake, you guys. I’m right here.

E1: Shut up, James Best. Nobody told you it was okay to talk. You’re still on probation. Drink.

Another in our “Things I Probably Wouldn’t Have Time For If…” series:

“Things I Probably Wouldn’t Have Time For If… I Started A Silk Company In China”

Keeping up with my On Demand shows

Blogging about Tiananmen Square

Donating $5 every couple years to cancer foundations and feeling really good

Paying as much attention to my silk company in Thailand as I should

Taking my nephews to the park

Blending in with my coworkers

Calling back that bitch Miranda from my student loans company

Jerking off to the thought of that bitch Miranda judging me

Having daughters

Get back to work, motherfuckers

INT. MAGNUM MANSION

Tom Selleck puts on his jacket and is leaving to go film at Blue Bloods.  He catches sight of himself in the mirror.  And his glorious mustache.

MUSTACHE

Where are you going, Tom?

SELLECK

To work, Mustache. To my acting job.

MUSTACHE

Oh, that’s fine. I think I’ll just stay here today. Watch The View.

SELLECK

We’ve talked about this. Where I go, you go. They are expecting me in full mustache today.

MUSTACHE

Or maybe they’re expecting me. In full Selleck.

SELLECK

I don’t need you, Mustache. Remember when we were fighting and you took off to Guadalcanal? I still got work. I did In & Out.

MUSTACHE

And you got to kiss Kevin Kline. Good job, Brokeback. You really expanded yourself.

SELLECK

I’ll burn you again. Or I’ll shave you off and sell you as gag eyebrows.

MUSTACHE

You’re nothing without me! If it wasn’t for me, you’d be doing Three Men and a Baby 6, going straight to dvd!

SELLECK

I made you. I grew you. With my own follicles.

MUSTACHE

No, Tom. I always existed. Before man walked the earth, I existed.  When dinosaurs roamed the earth, I rode upon their upper lips.  When your first ancestor struggled from the muck, I was there. Warming its hideous face.  I am forever, Selleck.

SELLECK
I didn’t know. Please stay with me. I need you.

MUSTACHE

That’s more like it. Now feed me that baby’s blood. Smooth it in with my favorite mustache comb.

SELLECK

Yes, Mustache.

MUSTACHE

And hand me today’s script.  Let’s plan how I will furrow. How I will twitch with anger.

SELLECK

I love you, Mustache.

MUSTACHE

I know you do, my boy. Go ahead. Smell my immortality.

Did I fucking say I wanted sweet tea?

This is a Mexican food restaurant. Where do you even know from sweet tea?

What? Is the whole goddamned world Macon, Georgia all the sudden?

You know what the Beetus rate is among Americans? Does that lead you to suspect that what we as a culture need is more opportunities to consume empty carbohydrates?

I’ve grown accustomed to the saccharine bite of Sweet n’ Low, is really what it is.

I’m sorry I vented on you. I think my blood sugar is low. Could you maybe bring me a flan?

And why's it always got to be the big guy with the little guitar? Is that supposed to be some kind of sick joke?

Requiscat in Pace, Clara Peller.

You were more than the “Where’s the beef?” lady, although the world was too ready to discount you as nothing more than that: a pop culture sound-bite, shuffled off to the rummage bin of history.

No.

You were a prophet crying out in the wilderness during the greed-mongering eighties.

You were a voice of conscience asking from whence our sustenance was meant to come in an age of inflation and voodoo economics.

You were Betty White before Betty White.

You were Occupy Wall Street before Occupy Wall Street.

You were an inspiration.

You were my grandmother.

You showed the world how to look good in a wig.

And to an eight-year-old boy with acute alopecia, that last part was more important than ever you’ll know.

Requiscat in Pace.

I am not defined by my disease, although I may be defined by my palliative remedy thereto.

Hey Phil. What’s going on, I saw you called.

No I actually haven’t talked with mom in a couple weeks. What’s she—

No way. Really? To where, to Cabo?

That dude is fucking loaded. Jesus, dad would be turning over in his grave. Wow. So what’s new with you? Still working at the warehouse?

Oh really. What are you taking? More history?

Ah, interesting. About one war specifically or what?

Oh cool. Yeah, you know I heard that they had started doing more diverse stories about World War II in college-level history classes. So that makes sense.

Wait, what do you mean?

Yeah I was just talking about like, Oh, there was more going on in Okinawa than we previously realized or whatever. Or stories about other European countries. Is that what you mean?

Wait, for who? For the Nazis?

Phil what the fuck are you talking about?

I can’t believe you’re still pawning this shit off on anyone, much less on me.

Yes, that’s how I feel. Of course that’s how I feel.

Really? You really don’t know why?

Jesus. My wife is Jewish, Phil.

Fucking kidding me. You are kidding me.

Well I’m sorry if that makes you feel bad when I talk to you that way. I just— [bites lip]

Phil. Stop.

Phil.

Please.

Phil, stop crying.

I’m sorry[?] that I hurt your feelings.

I just… [sees self in mirror] Oh, shit, NO. No more. Why do I have to walk around feeling bad about…

Yes.

Yes, I said that—

[Sigh] Yes.

[Sigh] Yes, I said that.

Yes, I remember when we used to play after school.

No, I’ve told you this before, I don’t remember Daequan pushing you onto the gravel. Even if he did, I don’t see it as a reason to—

Agree to disagree, Phil.

Yes. And like I said. Agree to disagree.

Hey, listen, my black best friend is coming over in a few minutes.

Yep. How’s that make you—

Shit, stop crying Phil.

That's me in the yellow shirt, but those aren't prescription lenses.

It’s just this feeling that’s been creeping over me slowly.   It’s something about the daily struggles of my family.  They seem too canned.  And they tie up so nicely.  Here’s where my suspicions started:

-          my brother, Henry, who is almost comically competitive, is always finding ways to be better than me.  It’s always something physical that we can both perform at the same time. Also, these sorts of competitive storylines crop up a lot.

-          Mom and Dad sit me down a lot after I have problems with school or girls.  We have something  that feels like a wrap up lesson and after that every situation’s pretty much resolved.

-          If any of us says anything funny, no one really laughs.  They just sort of pause for a couple seconds.  Like someone else is laughing somewhere that I can’t hear.  It’s creepy. There’s so much silence in my home.

I can’t say I don’t like it here.  My family is happy.  But it seems like we skirt real issues.  I’ve never been to a funeral.  I don’t know anyone with any good diseases.  My sister, Piper, had a caffeine problem for a week when she had to take the SATs but Mom and Dad sure showed her.  Dad started smoking and Mom started drinking a lot.  The house was finally fun and it seemed like we were pushing the envelope a little but now no one does anything.  I’ve decided to test the limits. My latest experiments:

-          competitive Henry put up some tape between my bed and his to separate our sides of the room.  Instead of giving in to the clichés, I decided to just stay in my own bed and soil my sheets. Conclusion: Mom and Dad were concerned for my mental health and I ended up spending the night in a rubber room. It didn’t seem like a logical jump but it definitely raised the stakes. The doctor was someone famous.

-          our wacky neighbor, Wendell, is constantly barging through the front door.  He never knocks and he always has crazy ideas.  So when he came through the other day, I punched him in the face.  I told my parents I’d been having dreams of people breaking and entering into our home. Conclusion: my parents bought an outrageous security system to put me at ease.  Wendell forgave me and his nose, which I totally broke, was healed like he had witch powers.

-          this cute girl that I’ve been eyeing at school, hinted that she wanted to go to the Winter Semi-formal.  So I stabbed her in the hand with a ballpoint.  Conclusion:  I had to go to the principal’s office and meet with some guidance counselor about anger management.  And then the ‘hot bad girl’ at our school totally wanted me.  Which set off this series of one ups between Cute Girl and Bad Girl.

I can’t believe I’m crazy.  When my family is in the living room, everyone talking sort of cheats left or right towards our front door.  Like we’re presenting for someone else.  My dad talks in this very obvious three joke patter.  It’s always observation-little joke-big joke.  And then pause.  Other hackneyed things I’ve noticed:

-          my grandma isn’t very three dimensional.  She’s mostly just obsessed with sex.

-          my dad is a loveable doofus.

-          we always have huge meals but no one gains weight.

-          we all look a little too attractive and without any family resemblance.

-          if I destroy something in my house, it comes back. It is visually consistent.

-          Dad’s work friends whom Mom doesn’t like are seriously tame.

-          I always bust in on Mom and Dad about to kiss.  They never finish.

-          if I’m not doing something that day, somebody else has a crisis.  But there’s never more than three crises going on at one time.

-          I’m not getting older.

I don’t know who to send this to.  I don’t know how to escape.  I’m going to stand in the living room.  Hold this message up to towards the wall we always cheat towards.  I’d pray to a god to help me but we steer pretty clear of religion around my home.  We must be a network show.

The crushed whiterock in moonlight–at least, when the moon was full–it gave off enough glow to see by without headlights.

We would drink too much and drive too fast and try to prove ourselves wrong concerning our invulnerability–our untouchability–although by then a few of us had already provided examples of what happens at the place where the law of averages catches up with you.

It was a little like a game. We would turn the lights on as soon as someone suggested it. But no one wanted to be the one to suggest it.

I don’t know who the first one of us was who veered from the right to left side of the road, adding a complicating element.

Is it still a game of chicken if only one of you knows you’re playing?

I was in the passenger seat when it happened, something only those in the car witnessed, something only those people who witnessed it would believe.

The window was down, and I had extended my hand to let the wind ash my cigarette for me when the car with no lights went by on our right. I could just make out the front seat passenger in the other car’s dash lights, their face a mirror of mine, their mouth a big black O.