I was sitting at my desk, writing articles for the eReel when all of a sudden, the typewriter began to melt. "Jesus!" I shrieked, and promptly fell out of my chair. The carpet welcomed me with a wet splash. That was odd. I tried desperately to remember what carpet sounded like, but the only thing I could come up with was "ping."

Just about then, someone said "Tequila" I nearly peed myself before I realized that I was the one who said it. I stumbled over to the cabinet, grabbed the bottle of rum, poured myself and the floor a glass, and found myself at the desk again. The typewriter had stopped melting. In fact, it was starting to sprout hair.

Not letting the increasing furriness of my once cold and trusting companion deter me, I returned to my work, but the keys decided that they were much happier dancing than they were typing. Who was I to deny them this pleasure? I decided that I needed to take a walk. On my way out, I detoured past my cabinet, and made myself a whiskey sour, not so much sour as it was whiskey. With that in my right hand, and nothing but God's green sky in my left, I left my office.

Outside the relative normalcy of my office, I found that out in the halls, madness was king. The floorboards, worn with the endless tramp of the poor writers of the eReel, writhed in pain. The straight lines and graceful scuff marks oozed sideways as if some godawful soap was trying to wipe them off. I took great pains to walk along the ceiling at that point, for the snakes living in the light fixtures were much friendlier looking.

I passed Ozrael on the way to the water cooler. I didn't like the way he looked at me. His eyes turned red, and flames lept from his shoes. I hid amongst the flowers in the wallpaper. He lost me as I took a right at the begonias, and he sloshed off through the hardwood. I came from behind the zinnias, and I proceeded along the ceiling into the unknown depths of the eReel offices. Whiskey Jack appeared with a bang, and a cloud of green eggs. He waved a shotgun at me. Wary, I pretended to be a lemur. He shouted something that sounded strangely like "How many chorizo con huevos chili con carne?" I of course answered him with "No thanks, I like to chew quickly. It's your turn to drive." Confused, he shot me. I let out a war whoop of triumph and fell unexpectedly to the ground.

It was just as the mysterious old man had said. It wasn't the fall that hurt, it was the sudden stop at the end. When I awoke, I found myself back in my office. The floor was knee deep in gray water. I had a coke can taped to my head, and an mp3 player tied with parachute cord to my back. I got up, my waders making rude noises as I stepped through the muck. God knows how many awful days and twisted nights I had been asleep. Half formed flashbacks of convertibles and underaged prostitutes teased at my memory. I opened the door to my office, and I went home.

Thats the trouble with this culture, we spend so much time bitching, that we have no time to see the jello that really matters. It's like the man said, there's always room for jello.