Paul Newman's Eyes Look Really Strange When They're Upside Down.

I would know. His head is at the bottom of my stairs. Paul Newman's head, I mean. I'm not quite sure how it got there, but every morning I look at it as I'm walking downstairs for my morning bowl of candy. Newman's head is flipped upside-down. I'm afraid to flip it right side up, because it would disrupt my daily routine. But his eyes look different upside down.

I'm ill. Apparently. That's what the candy tells me. It told me today. I had it in a paper bowl, and I noticed that the candy was experiencing an earthquake. A very frightening earthquake. A disorienting earthquake. I then observed that the candy's earthquake was caused by seismic disturbances inside my own body. Two tectonic plates were bumping together. They were either fighting or getting sexually intimite. Or maybe both. You never can tell. But either way, it was upsetting the candy. I went to see a doctor.

"Comedy should never involve scissors," I told the doctor, as he snipped away at my head.

"You suffer from a severe case of narcissism and a mild candy addiction," he observed, "1,000 dollars please." I shook his hand. Whenever my friends ask me about it, their voices are drowned out by a blistering harmonica solo. The harmonica solo is being played inside my head, by none other than me. I'm playing it for a football stadium full of clones of me, though most of them are older. With beards. And there are some girls too. All the people cheer. It's so loud it drowns out my harmonica. Which is mediocre. Then all the people turn into pieces of candy, and it all shakes, reminding me of my illness, reminding me of the doctor's scissors, and then more harmonica.

Paul Newman's head is on my stairs, but his face is upside-down and I can't tell if he's smiling or frowning.

807.