The Anomalies Read Online Free

a human to be taken seriously, then and only then will I be able to exert my inter-galactic clout in an effort to change the spin of the Earth on the axis that represses, a spin for the better, Lady Sajak. This is me being an idealist.
    Robert Penn Warren wrote, “If you are an idealist, it doesnot matter what you do or what goes on around you because it isn’t real anyway.” I could not agree more.
    I do not consider the humanoids to really be there. They are merely holographic projections of what they think they are supposed to be. You are what you pretend to be. And even though they are not really there, the humanoids manage to be the bane of my existence. And yet I do not like to see another human cry. And I want them to love me.
    Off the bus and into work, my tightly tied shoes drag me through the petty wage days, starting me all over again at the end of a line of clock-punchers. One by one, we volunteer for another nightmare day.
    Love me. Love me tenderly. I want to be loved. Perhaps my overwhelming need for love stems from growing up as the middle child in a house with 12 brothers (all named Jerome). Maybe I needed more attention and affection. Maybe I want to rock you like a mild thunderstorm.
    No one has ever fallen in love with me. I think this is because I am so fucking weird. The truth is, I have nothing in common with anyone.
    I now push a cart full of beer cases through the area underneath the grandstands while many of the spectators squeal above. This duty is somewhat difficult because so many idiot patrons get in my way. Most of these patrons are dirty men and look depressed because they are losing their money. When they do win here, they are losing. No matter how much money they get, it will never be enough. You simply cannot win betting on bitches. You simply cannot win, and there is always a camera on you.
    “Hey, man, you can just put that beer in the back of my truck,” says a patron.
    I hear this or a variation of this comment at least ten times a day. I stopped making any sort of response years ago. These men, along with their fathers and sons, mothers, wives, and daughters, are all hooked up to the same giant mechanical brain.
    This brain hovers above the stratosphere in the big black sky and has nothing to do with God. It is man-made. From it hang billions of wires that are skinnier than rat hair. Most people (id est—the humanoids) cannot see these wires. But on a clear day, if I squint hard enough, I can see all the wires playing Dr. Tangle and entering the base of everyone’s brains at the back of their necks. I cut mine long ago, and it was a painless procedure, seriously.
    Nevertheless, I would like to think that I serve a worthwhile purpose at this racetrack. My beer will make some sad men happy, if only for the few fleeting moments of artificial happiness that a buzz provides. But in reality, the alcohol I supply to these patrons is not intended to make them happy so much as it is to impair their wagering sensibility. I help loosen their wallets by subtly drowning out their memory of how badly they suck.
    When one of these sad men bets a twenty-dollar exacta on the two and five dogs, the mutuel clerk types it in the United Tote machine, which prints out a little ticket. If his bitches do not win (which will be the case), then this man just paid twenty dollars for a little white piece of paper, a two-minute scrap of hope. The money their own nightmare days afforded them is being spent on nothing. But everything makes perfect sense as long as I keep squinting.
    “My truck’s parked right out front, buddy.”
Boss
    Just how he looks is bad enough—a big, tall black guy with that big, Jheri-curled hair and those gay white dress shoes. But then he’s gotta be talking crazy talk to himself, talking one minute about how he hates everybody and can’t stand being around ’em and the next how he loves everybody and wants to save ’em all. He ain’t right. Here he goes again.
    “I am a