Well, it happened again. The fuel light on my car is on, and I’m almost out of gas. I feel completely helpless about the situation.

I guess after work I’ll have to head out to the parking lot, destroy my 2001 Toyota Camry with a sledgehammer, and set it on fire. Then I’ll take a taxi to the bank, apply for another loan, and buy a 2002 Toyota Camry in hopes that this won’t happen again with a newer model.

If George Bush had signed the Kyoto Protocol, this never would have happened to me.

I’m eating a cookie. Chocolate chip - my favorite!

Yum, I can taste the chocolate now! It’s inside my mouth!

Hmmmm…

Nevermind all that. This cookie actually tastes like poop. Like the stinkiest poop in the world.

Why did I like it so much at first? Was it simply a conditioned response? Was I merely obeying societal norms? Have I, in fact, ever liked cookies?

Oh, here’s the reason. It wasn’t actually a cookie at all. It really was a fresh hunk of poop that I found on the sidewalk in the rain this morning.

Up next: My review of Ciatti’s fine Italian dining!

Last night I saw a commercial for a new MTV reality show that follows around veterans of other reality shows like “Survivor” and “The Real World” as they struggle to remain famous and recognized.

I think we need to stop and take a collective breath to consider where we’re headed as a society.

Be assured, this is not your average reality show. This is a sub-reality show. This is a parasitic succubus that feeds on the discarded trash of proper reality shows, themselves cultural drain. This show can’t even summon the dignity of programs like “The Surreal Life”, which documents the downward spiral of former cast members of “The Jeffersons” and “Full House”. At least those people are a former something, albeit barely. This new program essentially presents the depressing struggling against the inexorable tug of public disinterest and the passage of time. Ironically, the mere existence of the show itself provides a futile glint of hope to the participants that people care, which we most certainly do not. As a matter of fact, I wish ill to them.

Anyway, the show airs tonight. The viewing party’s at my place at 9. BYO fudge.

My left hand is seriously messed up.

I somehow must have injured myself, because I’ve got a sharp pain below my thumb when I use my thumb in certain positions or apply pressure to it in any way. Even typing this is causing some discomfort. The pain got much worse this weekend after we went bowling - my suffering meant that Brogan could not celebrate in his usual, boisterous fashion.

Can any of you help me with a diagnosis? I saw a doctor yesterday, but I wasn’t overly impressed. His beard was long and smelled like fried chicken, and he insisted on being paid in brandy. 15 minutes into his examination, he collapsed unconscious right there on the corner of Franklin and Portland in south Minneapolis. Some doctor he was; I can barely even read his handwriting on my prescription!

Nevermind all this. I just did some checking on WebMD, and it turns out that it’s just seasonal allergies.

So what’s the deal, are there no Hardees left anymore?

Yesterday, as my wife and I were driving back from Rochester, she pointed out that the Hardees in Cannon Falls had closed. I wept vociferously as I began to recall the glorious times that I had experienced there. Many a night I made the 70 minute drive to my parents and would stop at this Hardees to order a monster thickburger, thus delivering a pulverizing attack on my heart and blood vessels. As Bridgette and I drove on toward the Twin Cities, my heart offered a strained, belated thump in remembrance.

Noted for its apathetic service and dismal waiting times, this Hardees had comforted me in sorrow, celebrated with me in joy, and commiserated with me in a successful eco-terrorist attack back in ‘02. Though its food was oft inedible, and its supplies of ice seemed marginal, it remained a sentinel of white trash gluttony and societal disregard. That is why this swift, sudden end is so troubling to my spirit. If only we had expressed our occasional satisfaction with Old Man Hardee earlier, this sorrow might have been avoided.

This just sucks. Now we have to go to fricking Arby’s.

Ever had the feeling that you were being followed?

I haven’t.

Ever had the feeling like a whole bunch of gorillas were about to jump out of the bushes and just beat the living hell out of you? Now that I have felt!

It all happened in the summer of ‘98. At the time, I was a junior in college. I recall that it was particularly balmy that evening as I walked alone down the sidewalks of St. Paul. I could sense something was amiss, however, and quickly deduced that an ape-fracas was imminent. I was certain that those hairy sons of bitches were dying to strike me about the head and neck with their taut, meaty arms. I’ve never felt this certain in my life about anything, and that includes my later decision to decline membership in the NEA.

Well, it turns out there weren’t any gorillas behind the bushes. No orangutans, either. Just a couple bums fighting over a dead squirrel. I officiated their fight and awarded the squirrel carcass to the victor before going my way alone. Later on that night, I probably watched TV for a while. I think it was Comedy Central.

This was Peter’s 37th contribution to a 50-article anthology of pointless stories that lose momentum near the end. Peter currently resides in Minneapolis with his wife Bridgette.