Conversations With Elmo

elmo is a cat, he has 4 ears.



(Elmo hopped out of the truck and crouched down to pat Jason on the back.)

Elmo: Man, you hearing these heaving-type sobs, whitey?

Me: Are you addressing me?

Elmo: Get your foolish ass out here and fetch me some twine from the security guard man inside.

Me: I don’t think the security guard -

Elmo: Write me a sonnet about your thoughts and maybe also nature and the night stars later, foolish fool -

(When Elmo became redundant I knew it was no time to cross him. I went inside. Strangely, the guard did in fact have twine.

Elmo took the twine from my hands and began binding Jason’s limbs.)

Elmo: (singing) Ima sing a song, a binding song, about how I hog-tied my friend and uterus-brother-type-guy. Ima sing a song, a Jason song, and then I’m gonna do him like I would an uppity homeless pig maaaaaaan.

Me: Why are you tying him up? Is he okay?

Elmo: Some ornery bastards such as calicos think that they can fool you with their tears. But I know the mark of the beast when I see it.

(ELMO kicked Jason in the abdomen.)

Elmo: Your salt sways me not, troll fucker!

Me: Did that guy really fuck trolls?

Elmo: Let’s eat his wig hair.

Me: We are going to get arrested.

Elmo: Don’t you know I run this world?

Jason: (singing quietly to himself) ‘Ima sing a song, a Jason song….’



(We pulled up outside of a local news affiliate in the suburbs of greater Detroit.)

Me: We going on the news?

Elmo: I’m amish. I don’t believe in face eating technology. Or outer space.

Me: I think maybe you might be confused about your religion.

Elmo: Also we believe our blood is weightless and that angels weep pre-cum.

(Before I could respond, this one cat walked out of the locals news affiliate’s office on two legs wearing a white blond wig.)

Elmo: JASON! How are you? How is your wife? How is your butt?

Jason: It’s hard to walk on two legs.

Elmo: You are such a card.

Me: Who is this guy?

Elmo: This is Jason! I think our mom was the same mom. Jason, show her your itchiest part!

(Jason started cry which made him lose his balance and fall on all fours. Elmo just looked down at him from inside the pickup.)

Elmo: Life. She’s one acid-titted bitch.



(When we got to the car, Elmo didn’t want any music. He scrounged around between the seats while driving.)

Me: What are you looking for?

Elmo: My dictaphone, Ace of Base-Face.

Me: Your dictaphone?

Elmo: Aw, look ma, I got me a people-parrot in the flatbed. Hell yes my dictaphone!

(He was getting mad, so I flinched because now I was very afraid of him.)


Elmo: I’m working on my memoirs. I have lived a full and interesting life.

Me: I think you should include recipes in your memoirs.

Elmo: Do I look like some sort of charcuterie humping notion-having fool to you?

Me: I just meant to make it marketable.

(Elmo glared at me, in apparent disgust I guess. Then he found his dictaphone and pressed ‘record’.)

Elmo: Children of Mrs. Johansson’s pre-K class, I’d like to tell you a story about qualudes, brown hen mushrooms in a tarragon sauce, and how one boy became a man in the dugout behind the special needs middle school during a flashmob wherein the superintendent of the boys school was brutually murdered.

Me: I love taragon.

Elmo: Me too!

(Then we high-fived.)