Aloha amigo, this is America's greatest international export, Nicolas Lil Sebastian Cage calling on behalf of all cannon ballers, both into pools and all that old time Monty Python jazz. No but seriously, I am calling to report to a human, some person, any individual who will lend an ear (preferably one that has been recently dug out with a miniature garden hoe during a holiday in Thailand) to a fallen friend til the end which may be very soon, in fact, as I am currently buried waist high in a vat of highly dangerous quick sand off the coast of Northwest Madagascar. If you are hearing this, please alert the local authorities about my status and let them know that I am in grave danger as quick sand is one of the few foes that I have not yet figured out the cure for, along with trans fat, traffic and the New York Times Sunday Crossword puzzle. It appears that an extended family of particularly callous muskrats have just moved in to the tree stump next door. Papa Bear has been eyeing me for the past few hours and needless to say, I am absolutely terrified of the upcoming muskrat brigade (Muskrat Brigade is my favorite new show on the Animal Planet, narrowly edging out Tarantullama, which introduces a terrifying Human Centipedish kind of animal that should be locked in an attic and fed fish heads for the remainder of its certainly brief lifetime, Spider? I Hardly Know Her!, a reality-based, hidden camera show about a housewife who runs into her biggest fear other than her dreaded ex-husband, and the former holder of the number one slot, Dinosore, a fun loving cartoon for people of all ages (in addition to Baby Boomers, they even welcome those who hail from the Mesozoic era which was much closer to the Big Bang on the ol' world timeline) about a Tyrannosaurus Rex named Greg who is battling an almost crippling bout of aching muscles, so horrible that it is nearly bringing him to his knee (do T Rexes have knees? Let's just say it is nearly bringing him to his scales, you know, for good measure) after he has picked up a new hobby: Ultimate Skateboarding...But what is Ultimate Skateboarding? Ultimate Skateboarding is when you ride a skateboard down the sidewalk while playing Tony Hawk's Pro Skater on a Nintendo Switch...I can hear what you are asking and the answer is yes, yes it does have to be a Nintendo Switch...Why? I don't know, I didn't create the rules of Ultimate Skateboarding, you'll have to ask Tony Hawk's agent who is actually just Shaun White in an Elvis wig because extreme sports athletes don't have a solid grasp on what agents do exactly.) that may be sent in my general direction if I make any sudden movements (which seems unlikely at this point, as you will remember that I am now buried six pack high (buried up to my ribs, I'm not high on a six pack of Dos Equis, as much as I would like to be because I am actually, legitimately the most interesting man in the world, you know, that old grey wolf dude or the Michael Phelps who used to work at a Men's Warehouse (which is the facility that looks like a giant pocket square where all the inventory of suits, ties and colorfully patterned socks for Men's Wearhouse are safely kept, far away from the throngs of thirsty Wall Street walkers, what with their fancy belts from Milan, Italy with three Blackberry phones strapped to them, one for each of their babies, which is what they call their Rolex watches) in a vat of highly dangerous quick sand adjacent to the cliffs of Northwest Madagascar. For some reason it appears that there is a dog washing station just down the road although it seems to be more useful as a substitute alpaca washing station at this point. In a strange turning of the tables, Strideline Socks has created a whole new skyline design in honor of my present situation after sending out one of their marketing representatives to check out Hootie and the Blowfish (In my newfound spare time I have since dubbed myself Hootie and the several Pufferfish that have been circling me in this godforsaken infinity pool of quick sand like the worst knock off of The Meg of all time are my Blowfish.)
You are probably wondering what I am doing on the outskirts of the seaboard of Northwest Madagascar. I was brought here after thoroughly and tirelessly combing over the life work and not just reading but straight up, full fledged chowing down on the autobiography (like a Thanksgiving feast with an extra scooping of gravy) of one J. Peterman, the foremost individual in my personal ring of honor, alongside the Kool Aid dude, Rachel from Friends, THE one and only Eddie Bauer (and all those fleece donning, travel cup of black coffee sipping, Steve Zissou beanie popping, campfire kindling collecting, Kindle app on the new iPhone reading, speed interval pup tent setting upping, weird mushrooms in nature studying, marvelous rare hidden gems of people mixed with Golden Retrievers from the catalogs), Effie Trinket from The Hunger Games, Lindsey Vonn before she dated Tiger Woods and Lindsey Jacobellis after she fell in the 2006 Winter Olympics in Turin because she was Puig-ing it with the gold medal within her amber goggle tinted sight (I would have done the same thing except the only difference is that I would have done the first ever back flip 900 and landed the sonofaBlitzen, without a sliver of a Jello Christmas tree of a doubt), Effie Trinket from that hustling and bustling psychic office at the strip mall down the road, Monica from Friends, everyone who has ever been on a reality television show and miraculously, somehow made it through the gauntlet of goofies to weave a TMZ infused spider web of their days of pour(ing only the fruitiest and sauciest of the libations before finally snoring on the arctic tile flooring) (bonus points for those brilliant individuals who ventured so far as to fling bits of food at their foes (and even friends, sometimes if the case called for it, but not Rachel or Monica, never Rachel or Monica, only Chandler, it's always Chandler), toll booth operators, specters of toll booth operators, Effie Trinket from the Ulta at the mall, Santy Claus, Mrs. Claus, Independent Claus, the Easter Bunny and, finally, last but certainly not least (well, perhaps the least large, but that's neither here nor fair, but then again life is not fair, nor is life a county fair, no matter how much you may be desiring elephant ears because they are impossible to forget) the Notre Dame Fighting Irish Leprechaun mascot.
I arrived on the rocky, earthy banks of Northwest Madagascar via paddle board (of the stand up variety, obviously...my favorite stand up paddle boarder used to be Dane Cook but nowadays I am more partial to Amy Schumer's stand up paddle boarding routines) with nothing more than a crossbow that I got at Cabela's as a reward after I demolished all the records on that giant golf simulator game (many of which belonged to the one and only Tiger Woods which he amassed before he dated Lindsey Vonn, of course), a raggedy, self-camouflaged loin cloth (I meticulously gathered up several bushels of Evergreen fronds in my time off from filming a movie about a wayfaring chap who makes the groundbreaking decision to venture deep into nature only to find out that he is actually a descendant of the wolves that like to terrorize Liam Nissan and hemmed them together with Gorilla Super Glue and also buoyed by my blood, sweat and jeers) and an iPhone XS with disabled GPS capabilities so my ex wives, directors and the piles of millions of Nicolas Cage Fan Club cardholders will never be able to track me down, even if they manage to hunt down a hidden treasure map on the back of the Declaration of Independence and Angelina Jolie's dad is there too.
You are probably wondering what I am doing on the outskirts of the seaboard of Northwest Madagascar. I was brought here after thoroughly and tirelessly combing over the life work and not just reading but straight up, full fledged chowing down on the autobiography (like a Thanksgiving feast with an extra scooping of gravy) of one J. Peterman, the foremost individual in my personal ring of honor, alongside the Kool Aid dude, Rachel from Friends, THE one and only Eddie Bauer (and all those fleece donning, travel cup of black coffee sipping, Steve Zissou beanie popping, campfire kindling collecting, Kindle app on the new iPhone reading, speed interval pup tent setting upping, weird mushrooms in nature studying, marvelous rare hidden gems of people mixed with Golden Retrievers from the catalogs), Effie Trinket from The Hunger Games, Lindsey Vonn before she dated Tiger Woods and Lindsey Jacobellis after she fell in the 2006 Winter Olympics in Turin because she was Puig-ing it with the gold medal within her amber goggle tinted sight (I would have done the same thing except the only difference is that I would have done the first ever back flip 900 and landed the sonofaBlitzen, without a sliver of a Jello Christmas tree of a doubt), Effie Trinket from that hustling and bustling psychic office at the strip mall down the road, Monica from Friends, everyone who has ever been on a reality television show and miraculously, somehow made it through the gauntlet of goofies to weave a TMZ infused spider web of their days of pour(ing only the fruitiest and sauciest of the libations before finally snoring on the arctic tile flooring) (bonus points for those brilliant individuals who ventured so far as to fling bits of food at their foes (and even friends, sometimes if the case called for it, but not Rachel or Monica, never Rachel or Monica, only Chandler, it's always Chandler), toll booth operators, specters of toll booth operators, Effie Trinket from the Ulta at the mall, Santy Claus, Mrs. Claus, Independent Claus, the Easter Bunny and, finally, last but certainly not least (well, perhaps the least large, but that's neither here nor fair, but then again life is not fair, nor is life a county fair, no matter how much you may be desiring elephant ears because they are impossible to forget) the Notre Dame Fighting Irish Leprechaun mascot.
I arrived on the rocky, earthy banks of Northwest Madagascar via paddle board (of the stand up variety, obviously...my favorite stand up paddle boarder used to be Dane Cook but nowadays I am more partial to Amy Schumer's stand up paddle boarding routines) with nothing more than a crossbow that I got at Cabela's as a reward after I demolished all the records on that giant golf simulator game (many of which belonged to the one and only Tiger Woods which he amassed before he dated Lindsey Vonn, of course), a raggedy, self-camouflaged loin cloth (I meticulously gathered up several bushels of Evergreen fronds in my time off from filming a movie about a wayfaring chap who makes the groundbreaking decision to venture deep into nature only to find out that he is actually a descendant of the wolves that like to terrorize Liam Nissan and hemmed them together with Gorilla Super Glue and also buoyed by my blood, sweat and jeers) and an iPhone XS with disabled GPS capabilities so my ex wives, directors and the piles of millions of Nicolas Cage Fan Club cardholders will never be able to track me down, even if they manage to hunt down a hidden treasure map on the back of the Declaration of Independence and Angelina Jolie's dad is there too.
Buy Chris's books SPONGE CAKE & WHAT'S IN THE FRIDGE? on Amazon
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