Sebastien Wilcox

(Previously on Vancouver 2010.)

The closing ceremonies of the 2010 Olympic Winter Games are on TV. Canada had a great Olympics showing and have been medaled accordingly. If medaled is a word, of course. But if isn’t screw it. My prediction of the mens’ hockey team winning gold came through, as I suspected. That much I know. Everything else in my world is pretty fucked.

I’m sitting on the couch next to myself. A much angrier and evil version of me. Guess you could equate it to the devil and the angel on either shoulder. But the couch is the shoulder. And I’m the angel. And the me next to me is the devil. Having trouble keeping up? Don’t worry, I’m confused, too.

I hear a THUMP THUMP THUMP at the door. My other self also hears it and dashes up the stairs. Then WHAM! the door flies open. Cops are in my living room. They’re holding guns and stuff. I feel really scared and really cool all at once. My mind wanders. This is where it drifts to:

The biggest cop asks me where Sebastien Wilcox is. I didn’t want to be a rat, so I didn’t say anything. But seeing that this cop is big and that I’m scared to death of going to prison and being penetrated by someone who’s male, I decided to point upstairs. Three of the cops run upstairs after the devil me. I wonder what I did I think to myself.

Moments later I come down handcuffed. You rat, I my mutter to myself.

One of the cops has a black metal pipe in one of those evidence bags that you see on LA Law. Next to it is Weird Al’s wedding ring, next to which is my letter to Dorothy Hammil and, next to that, an autogrpahed poster of N Synch. I sratch my head even though I’m not itchy.

Then another cop comes down the stairs. He’s holding more evidence – a pad of paper, a curly-haired wig, a fake moustache, and an endless amount of tacky button shirts. He’s also carrying hundreds, and I mean thousands of hand scibbled notes, lyrics and although I’m not fortunate enough to get a long, hard look at them, I do notice Fat, Eat it, Like a Surgeon and Smells like Nirvana scribbled and underlined – as if they were titles of songs or something absurd like that.

Then the biggest cop asks me why I stopped taking my meds. I say none of your business you fat fucking pig. I try to swing at him but the handcuffs won’t let me. I’m limping a bit, probably from tripping on the stairs when I ran upstairs. Fuck my leg hurts, I say, as I’m being dragged out from my own house. Do you know who I am? Do you know who I am. And just in case the cops are deaf, I say it one more time, only this time I scream DO YOU KNOW WHO I AM?

Then the biggest cop says yeah we know who you are, Mister Al Yankcovic Wannabe. And you’re under arrest. And I say WTF, yep, the actual acronym, because that’s the humour with which I roll. Then the big cop tells me I should stick to my day job instead of concoting storylines that are just plain weird and not funny at all. I say says who bacon ranch dressing?

And that was the end of that. I was locked away for 6 months for identity theft and disturbing the peace. Turns out parodying a parody within a parody with a parody about a parody parodying itself into a paradoxical reality world rubbed some people the wrong way. That, or screaming along to Girls Just Wanna Have Lunch after one too many wildberry wine coolers may of been my last proverbial straw.

In any event, turns out jail isn’t all that shabby. Anal sex doesn’t hurt that badly and I’ve become penpals with Tonya Harding. As far as Dorothy Hammil goes, well, she’s yet to respond. Probably on tour. Or something.

The moral of this post? Take your meds, Canada.