Halloween with Ruth and Tom Dillon
900 S.Coors Dr.
It's so cold that you can hear your breath crystallize as you exhale. Even your eyes feel like they're starting to frost over. You can hardly make out what's right in front of you anymore. "My god," you whimper, "it's so cold. I don't think I'm going to make it." A tear just barely makes it onto your cheek before turning into what looks like a really cheap fake diamond, like the ones that Morgan Fairchild tries to sell at 3:30 in the morning.
"Why did I leave the comfort of my room? I was warm. I had a TV. I'm probably missing a pivotal episode of The Jenny McCarthy Show." This time you hold back the tears. But just barely.
You feel that you must have had a purpose in subjecting yourself to such an ordeal. Pounding your head doesn't seem to bring any clue of what the task must have been, only pain. You've lost your direction. You're sinking fast now. The end must certainly be near.
Then, as if from nowhere and everywhere at the same time comes a soft voice. You can just make out the words, "Go into the light." You see the light. You're compelled to go into it. You see where your destiny lies. "Sparky. I'm coming to see you!" you say as you remember the hamster you had as a child, which died in a freak model rocket accident.
The voice comes again. "Get me a light."
"Get me a light?" you ask aloud.
"Yeah. Get me a Coors Lite," says the voice, more distinct this time. "And quit standing there with your head in the refrigerator."
"Uh... Hold onto your shorts man! I'm looking for a Guinness Extra Stout. There must be one in here somewhere."