a telenovela

I’d rather not write about what happened today, nor would you, you, and mes.

Then what didn’t happen today?

Everything that happened before today?

Start with that.

First off, I doubt anyone taught me what to do when I or, especially, we, get pulled over.

Especially or specially?

What do you do when you are schizophrenic and get pulled over by the police, Jims?

Nothing at all.

Nothing at all?

Nothing at all that you or I or we wouldn’t know how to do.

What the fuck?

I’ve really only had a very small number of negative experiences with the police.

Everything else?

Pretty fucking polite.


I may or may not have deserved much worse.

What could be worse?

Mental hospitals aside.

Like them beating the shit out of you?


The worst?

Being left in the back of the cruiser all by my self.

Without us?

Before there was an “us.”

That sounds like the Jim Flannery I’ve heard of, “Jim the Nigger,” as someone calls him.

“Jim the Nigger”?


Who the fuck made up that phrase?

Someone who doesn’t understand what “Lucky Nigger” means to you.

To me?

To us, Jim.  To all of us, what the fuck does “Lucky Nigger” refer to.



Please don’t worry.

The police, Jims, not the NSA.

I’ve generally terrified of them, and I know that’s not fair, but I don’t know how to change how I feel unless you’re referring to magic.

Magic, Jim?


I feel better already.

Than when?

Than before I made that joke.

You’re a fucking joke, just say what you need to say.

I don’t have a particular problem with the police, and if it weren’t for my encounters with the mental health system, perhaps I’d feel a hell of a lot differently than I do now.

And Boston?

They’re pretty busy folks.



They sure seemed to come to your aid when you were in trouble, wouldn’t you say?

I’d rather not be in a position where I’m literally breaking the law defending myself at all.

We would too, so who you gonna call?

You could call 911 or, I suppose, there’s that new number you can call if you think it’s a mental health-related crisis or something like that.

What number, Jim?

That one from the Logic song?

No, Jim, the so-called “new” number.  Maybe 211?

211 might work, I suppose, however, I’d rather we had a better solution that everything we already have.

Oh really?

Sure, ‘cause what happens when you call a mental health hotline that is or isn’t going to happen if you call 911?

You’re talking about suicide hotline calls now instead of calling the police for a break in, so don’t worry.

Good point, it’d be better to focus on the police here and now rather than the mental health system at all.

You know and I know that I can’t quite talk about one without the other.

Then tell them that part, that you just, you know, Jim.

It’s pretty fucked up to be afraid of the police and wish to live somewhere they didn’t exist, since if they don’t exist you must be living somewhere pretty fucking safe, one might assume too, Jim, so then what do you do if you become a famous comedian or hip-hop artist or, well, yeah, Jim, the next President of these United States and you don’t even know how to tell the guy in Gainesville that he’s going to need more than two policers for our kickoff event?  Who is paying for this shit?  The police?  Nigga, who is paying the police in Gainesville to protect the next President of these United States?  How much police do you need when you’re inviting, what, over two-hundred thousand people?  You’re fucking nuts.  You’re fucking nuts.  Fucking these nuts right now, nigga, now don’t worry about everything, just tell me why you don’t lock your door.

Who the fuck says I don’t?  Ever?  I’m telling you, man, I lock my door.  When?  Tell me when.  I don’t want to know when you lock it, I want to know when you don’t lock it.  What about when I unlock it?  When you unlock it?  Yes, tell me mores.  Dude, I got nothing left.  About the police?

Fuck it: Boston, San Diego, Rhode Island, New Jersey, New York, New York again and again probably, possibly Vegas, someone said Arizona apparently too, nothing in Northampton?  Northampton, nigga?  Check the bridge.  Which bridge?  Fuck you, Jim, again and again.  You forgetting something or somewhere?  Someone.  Someone my ass.  Who’d you forget then?  Nothing about Middletown, Connecticut, Jim?  Not that I’m aware of.  You fucking ass hole.  I don’t know anything about Middletown, not even about being in Middlesex Health.  Not even about the Buttonwood?  I hear it’s an awesome venue.  Awesome?  Got you there, nigger.  Nigger?  Who the fuck?  What the fuck?  What?  You remember now?  Something more, about the police, Jim?

You want me to write about Lauren?  What the fuck do you think she has to do with the police, Jim?  Everything?  Everything?  Everything, Jim, it’s always everything or nothing with you, nigga, isn’t it?  Sometimes always, and sometimes never, Jim, so never do that.  Again?  Never, Jim.  You’re not that bad at this, Jim, just don’t let her get to you.  I don’t know what to tell you either, Jim, just don’t go stealing any of her books or her jewelry.  Jewelry?  What jewelry?  I think what we’re trying to advise you on, Jim, without using the word “advise” is don’t steal any of her shit, but if you’re going to steal it, steal her food or something.  Off her plate?  Off her plate, nigga, right in a public space where she’s eating it so that you can make a clean get away, just don’t go busting into her home and doing it, and especially pull any shit with Uber Eats or anything just to get a bite of her fucking sandwich.  Nigga, what do you know about what she eats?  What she eats?  Yeah, what she eats.  I don’t know anything more than you do about what she does or doesn’t eat.  You truly are a fucking ass hole, Jim.  We know.  What do you think she eats?  Nothing, Jim, nothing at all, she lives on the air alone.  The air?  Yep.  You couldn’t just write “oxygen,” you fucking tool?  Just write whatever you want to write about, Jim, just don’t worry about calling 911 ever again if you can’t just say “thank you.”  Who said I don’t say “thank you”?

And the NSA?

They’re not the fucking police, Jim.

That explains a lot, Jim, that explains a lot.

They might as well be?

For whom, Jim?  For whom?