Diluting the Solipsism

REESTABLISHING THE EXISTENCE OF OBJECTIVE REALITY

“Tow trucks aren't allowed inside Baalim Stadium," said the turnstile attendant, a finger generously inserted inside his nostril.

"Excuse me?" asked Mr. Sniffles.

"We don't have appropriate seating for tow trucks," the turnstile attendant explained, praying for death.

"What kind of Nazi BS is that?  I ought to ruin your life for such a blatant display of racism."

"Sir, I'm being threatened with gulag by a unicorn with seemingly zero regard for the construct of objective reality.  You can rest assured that my life is already ruined."

"Are you going to let the tow truck in or not?" asked Mr. Sniffles, unwilling to give up on his dream of watching the Toilet Bowl on the fifty yard line with his beloved tow truck.

"Please just get the hell out of here," said the turnstile attendant, waving these creatures of perdition inside the venue. Mr. Sniffles cheered because his perseverance led to the realization of his desire, no matter how unreasonable it might have been. The unicorn was willing to destroy any semblance of sanity in order to achieve his dreams.

“I hope we don’t get in trouble for trespassing,” said Antarctica.

“Why would we get in trouble?” asked Mr. Sniffles. “The turnstile attendant waved us inside. Why are you being so paranoid?”

“You never know when you’re going to catch a bad day,” said Antarctica.

“What you need is a dose of moonbeam,” said Mrs. Coinhead. “It will help to calm your nerves—you’ll have zero regard for anything minus the immediate task of having a good time.”

“Maybe I should get some moonbeams directed at my brain,” said Swine. “I’m starting to realize that I’m not having any fun at all.” Swine placed his behind onto the ground and began to pout.

“If you don’t pick yourself up off the ground, I’m going to drown you in reptilian milk,” Mr. Sniffles growled.

“Don’t threaten my boyfriend,” Mrs. Coinhead yelped.

Swine took his tinfoil beanie off so he could absorb some depression-alleviating moonbeams into his skull. After three minutes, he felt rejuvenated, feeling gratitude for his engagement to Mrs. Coinhead and the circumstances which led to the occurrence of being able to attend the Toilet Bowl, sports enterainment’s most exciting spectacle.

“Let’s get to our seats!” said Swine, excited by the situation he was currently experiencing.

Because the architecture of Baalim Stadium wasn't designed to accommodate tow trucks, she blazed a trail of destruction as she made her way toward her seat on the fifty yard line.  By the time this gang of miscreants sat down for a relaxing dose of endorphins produced via the passive consumption of ball-tossing spectating, several hundred people had been killed.

"Make way for the big yellow truck!" Mr. Sniffles screamed as the tow truck ran over presumably innocent spectators in gruesome fashion.

"This situation is causing me to reevaluate my normalcy bias," said one of the victims immediately before dying.

"I love the tow truck so much," said Mr. Sniffles, justifying the devastation to a newspaper reporter who witnessed this semi-atrocity.

“Do you have any regrets?” asked the reporter.

“My only regret is that a trillion innocent bystanders weren’t sacrificed so my beloved tow truck could view the Toilet Bowl on the fifty yard line,” Mr. Sniffles responded.

“How do your associates feel about the carnage?” asked the reporter.

“Who cares what they think? They’re a bunch of morans.”

“I am not a moran,” said Swine. “And for the record, these deaths are ridiculous. Why should people have to die so a stupid tow truck can watch the Toilet Bowl? She could’ve watched it on the information superhighway and all these people would still be alive.”

“You can’t call the tow truck stupid,” said Mr. Sniffles. “That’s a hate crime. I hope you’re put up against the wall so my hurt feelings will be assuaged.”

“How about you, miss?” asked the reporter, not particularly interested in the unicorn’s POV.

“I suppose I don’t care one way or another,” said Mrs. Coinhead. “My mind is currently being controlled by beams from Earth’s moon—they’ve really done a number on my empathy.”

“Only simpletons allow their minds to be controlled by Earth’s moon,” said the reporter, veering into editorialism.

“I could have your will subverted quicker than a jackrabbit on a date,” Mr. Sniffles claimed.

“There’s no such thing as mind control,” scoffed the reporter. “What you jokers need is a syringe filled with reality juice.”

“Ma’am, why exactly are you following us around?” asked Antarctica.

“I’m covering the Toilet Bowl for The Daily Douche,” the reporter explained.

“I think you should stick to the action on the field,” Antarctica suggested.

“I don’t really like sports,” said the reporter “My focus here is on the human interest side of things.”

“Well, dumdum—the tow truck clearly isn’t human, so how about moving along?” Antarctica wanted the reporter to go away because he didn’t like her haircut.

“I will concede that the tow truck isn’t human, but the carnage she created is filled to the brim with dead human bodies,” said the reporter.

“We have no regard for human life,” said Mr. Sniffles. “What’s it to you?”

“I actually view human life as sacred,” said Antarctica. “All lives matter to me.”

“I actually view human life as sacred,” Mr. Sniffles mocked. “Who are you trying to impress with such an inane platitude? If I roll my eyes any harder, I’ll be looking myself right in the pineal gland.”

“Your nihilism is becoming a bit tedious,” said Antarctica.

“This is great copy,” said the reporter, licking her lips at the prospect of winning an award for outstanding journalism.

“I don’t want to be in your stupid newspaper,” said Mr. Sniffles.

"The Daily Douche isn't stupid," the reporter replied, genuinely surprised that anyone would make such a claim.  "It's reality's most trusted source for perception management."

"Are you going to be sitting here the entire game?" asked Mr. Sniffles.

"That's the plan—I'm going to cover Swine and Mrs. Coinhead's halftime wedding."

"How do you know about our wedding?" asked Swine.  "We never sent out invitations. Nobody even know about the event outside this pernicious little cluster of nutjobs in which I’ve become entangled.”

"I've been watching your livestream for the past couple weeks," the reporter admitted.

"What livestream?  I'm not on the internet."

The reporter showed Swine her device, on which was playing the events of his life in nearly real-time.  Swine was flabbergasted by the lack of privacy in the world.

"Who would do such an awful thing?" Swine lamented.

"It's probably that cash register thief, Antarctica," Mrs. Coinhead speculated.  "He's probably selling your footage to yucks on the online.”

"I'm doing no such thing," said Antarctica.  "I barely know how to read."

"You are an illiterate dunce," Mrs. Coinhead conceded.

"It's probably the tow truck," Antarctica sleuthed.  "She just killed a ton of people; therefore, she is broadcasting Swine’s life on the computer.”

"Just because she ran over a few social undesirables doesn't mean she's selling candid footage on the world wide web," said Mr. Sniffles.

"The information superhighway is going to change the entire game," Antarctica prophesized.  "Did you know that I can watch a movie on my computer while simultaneously sending instant messages to my comic book comrades at the exact same time?"  Antarctica was so impressed with the pace of technology that he began to drool.

"Nothing makes me angrier than a free press," said Mr. Sniffles.  "I think information should be compartmentalized and distributed on a need-to-know basis."

“Are you trying to change the subject?” asked Mrs. Coinhead.

"The Daily Douche disagrees with the unicorn’s sentiment," said the reporter.  "We're the only thing standing between you and complete tyranny. You’re what’s known in The Daily Douche cafeteria as a silly-billy.”

Mrs. Coinhead had a good laugh at Mr. Sniffles’ expense. In response to the reporter’s scathing insult, he retrieved a balloon from his neon pink fanny-pack, filled it with carbonated beverage, and threw it at the reporter’s face.

“Now who’s a silly-billy?” Mr. Sniffles rhetoricized in triumphant fashion.

Several spectators in the vicinity found Mr. Sniffles’ humiliation of the uppity reporter to be an absolute delight. They began pointing and jeering at the reporter as a means of conveying their casual sadism. Shortly after this ballooning comeuppance, it was time for kickoff.