Conversations With Dead Celebrities


It was 2 AM in early December.

Bitterly cold. Difficult to remember

a time when inhaling didn’t sting the lungs.

My hands clung to a cup of steaming coffee.

I was on a curb with Salvador Dali

and a two-ton rhinoceros named Betty.

“Just relax,” said the Spaniard. “She’s not deadly.

Not unless she feels threatened.” I froze in place,

thinking her vision might be made based on movement,

but no, the great beast looked me right in the eye.

I was at her mercy. If she decided

to charge, there was nowhere to hide. I was scared

and disgusted with myself for feeling fear.

I had the ear of one of the ballsiest

artists in human history and all I

could think of was being gored by the huge horn

of a modern dinosaur. Over my left

shoulder I heard five gunshots and turned to look.

Suddenly I remembered how cold it was

and started shivering. When I turned around

Dali was on the rhino’s lap quivering.

Just below Betty, a puddle of urine

was forming. “Santa Cecilia!” Dali shrieked.

I groaned. Why must something always derail these…


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