War Games With Merbaby

So I was lounging in the hotel pool one day when a merbaby got tangled in my hair. I fig she must’ve been conceived at the dayclub and then birthed during the annular eclipse ring-of-fire wave rave. I mean there were so many beautiful people pretending to be drunk on blended iced cocktails at the Cosmo, my merbaby could’ve come from any one of them. And she was super cute: crocodile emerald eyes, sea foam green ringlets and a mossy mahi-mahi tail swishing to-and-fro. I decided I had to keep her. To not arouse suspicion with hotel security (I mean they could call child protective services or animal control), I snuck her out in my Starbucks coffee thermos. I was a little worried they would think I was too ombre to be a mom, but I just couldn’t help myself. I felt useful now that I had something beautiful to care for and nobody, not even a seven-foot bouncer with UFC arms, was going to take that away from me.

It was a couple months before I realized she was a militant merbaby, and I was her strategic set of legs (a damn fine pair of legs).

“I don’t want to take you to the Pentagon,” I told my merbaby for like the millionth time. She never understood that I was just trying to keep her safe, not stifle her career ambitions, like my parents had done to me. Her ideology aside, there was a problem with portability. My merbaby was growing up. She’d transitioned into the Great Biggie, then the KFC Jug, The ARCO HUMungous Beast, the Super Double Big Gulp, and now had graduated into the Mega X-Treme Team Gulp. It was hard to be inconspicuous lugging around a bright red plastic thermal mug as big as a Keystone Keg (though my arms had never looked so good, even after six months of Body Pump).

http://www.joomag.com/magazine/psychopomp-magazine-winter-2015/0442594001414681038?short