Concussion Discussion.
It began as most beginnings do, with a start.
It was a bathtub regulated by an overbearing magnet-scarred fisherman from the early days of electromagnetic insemination. It was a bathtub where G.I. Joes battled the perils of shampoo lava. The bathtub sat atop a billboard platform overlooking the freeway below. During rush hour the disabled fisherman had to pull levers and push large red buttons releasing steam into the air. Everything reeked of smelling salts. They knew who I was, but I didn't. As we passed under the billboard I became aware of my shackles and mode of transportation. Tied to a red sled, wrapped like a mummy, thinking about how I came to travel in this manner. It was a brain on the defensive, a damaged electronic meatball sending out synapses in nonlinear form. Thoughts of pickled children, mortuary orgies, and iambic pentameter filled my head and all made sense (like a reality show that was anything but). I sat up and waived (elbow, wrist, elbow, wrist) at the children learning to snowplow.
When we finally reached the base of operations I was taken into a dark room and probed for several hours (not really). I explained that I was a pregnant teen forced to work in the cereal mines. They assured me I wasn't pregnant and I was in fact a grown man, but my sordid tales of abuse and neglect in the cereal mines did catch their attention. They asked if I knew what had happened. I quickly tried to change the subject to something more palatable, like re-enacting steamy bedroom scenes from the Love Boat with some puppets that I’d brought. They still wouldn't let me leave. Apparently my performance was less than "stirring".