the black cocaine

My Vacation with Oprah Winfrey.

June 4th, 2010


oh god.

It is not often that I am able to tear myself away from work these days. With my full-time job, and all the projects that I am involved in on top of that, I scarcely have even a Saturday afternoon to lie in the proverbial hammock and drink proverbial lemonade under the proverbial sun. A vacation, however, when thrust upon you, is not something to ignore.

Several weeks ago I received a call from a mysterious woman named Gale King, whom I did not know, but who got my phone number somehow, probably because I am internet famous these days. She dialed me in tears, obviously in a chasm of distress. When I tried to put on my soothing voice to comfort her, she only responded in anger. It would seem that her best friend, Oprah Winfrey, had told her that they were not best friends anymore, but that I was now her best friend, and that Gale was only her second-best friend. “I am just calling to tell you,” she sobbed, “that the boat is coming to get you… MY BOAT!” She then continued wailing hysterically, tears spattering all over her doubtlessly ugly dress. “What do you mean,” I inquired. “I paid for that boat with my own money that Oprah gave me! But now Oprah wants you to go on vacation with her instead of me, so… so… just… just go! Oh, and… bring your gun. And only two bullets.” And she hung up. I was a little confused, but I did not let it distract me from my strip poker game with Megan Fox, who was definitely already naked.

We were at that stage where she had nothing else to take off, so when she lost her next hand, we were trying to think of something she could do. This triumphant moment was destroyed when I heard a knock at the door. Annoyed, I got up and approached the door, wearing nothing but a shirt, tie, dinner jacket, top hat, monocle, argyle socks, shoes, and white gloves, but no pants or underwear. At the door was a yacht captain, who informed me that Oprah was aboard and that we were to set sail immediately. “Aboard what,” I asked. “What yacht? We are in Kansas, a landlocked state.” “Ms. Winfrey has provided transportation,” he told me. Behind him was an above-ground water channel which had been built right to my door, in which were three glorious dolphins. On one of the dolphins sat the wicked billionaire herself, Oprah Winfrey, in a dazzlingly grotesque one-piece sequined rubber bathing suit. She waved at me. “GET ON YOUR DOLPHIN, CHUCK,” she screamed, “WE’RE GOIN’ TO THE SEAAAA!!!!”

After apologizing quickly to Ms. Fox at the table, who was definitely as naked as you can get, I threw on some shorts and ran out the door, being sure to grab my revolver from the secret drawer of the china cabinet in the foyer. “You won’t be needing that firearm, sir,” said the captain. “Oh yes we will,” I replied, using that tone mostly because I was completely drunk from all the whiskey I had drank off of Megan Fox’s body. I hopped aback the shimmering cetacean and we were off. The water channel was meticulously constructed and led all the way to the west coast, which was a very long journey to go to a yacht, I thought. “Don’t worry,” said Oprah. “But how will they make it to the coast in any reasonable time,” I asked. “That is like two thousand miles away!” “No,” Oprah said, “these are special dolphins. They were purchased from Robert Downey, Jr.’s special dolphin ranch.” For a moment I failed to realize what this could have to do with the stamina of the dolphins, but then it made sense. “Oh,” I said. “Yes,” said Oprah, “they are full of cocaine.”

When we arrived at the coast, a yacht made of ivory and gold awaited us. Oprah’s dolphin flipper kicked her aboard, but I opted to use the ladder. The captain back flipped off of his dolphin and landed at the helm. “Where to, Ms. Winfrey?” he asked. “Just take us out to the open sea, Jeeves, and I’ll take it from there.” “Excuse me, Ms. Winfrey,” he said, “take it from there? But I am the captain.” “Yes,” said Oprah, “but when we get out into international waters, I am going to demote you to first mate.” The captain did as she asked, because she was vice president of the world somehow, and we set sail for the open waters of the pacific.

When we got to about 25 nautical miles off the coast of San Francisco, Oprah, with opalescent margarita dripping from her lips, turned to me and said, “I trust you have that gun, Chuck.” I did. I said that I did. “Give it here, ok?” she said. I caught the crazy in her eye for a moment, but I was unable to refuse the world’s most powerful woman. I complied, reaching into my waistband and withdrawing the revolver. With the power of a gun athlete, she removed it from my hand and stood up, placed the gun at the back of the captain’s head, and blasted his confused thoughts all over the pearly steering wheel of the yacht. Fragments of his scalp and skull atomized into a bloody plume that slapped to the deck with a wet sound. She handed the gun back to me. “Now,” she said in a deep red tone, “we hunt the whale.” My widened eyes were all the response she needed. She stepped confidently forward and seized the pink, wet steering wheel, planting her stubby legs atop the dead sea captain’s lifeless body. I knew then that we would not be coming back.

For three weeks we scoured those frightful waters miles beyond the ghosts of Alcatraz, through blazing sun and battering storm. Oprah had not accounted for food supplies – or, perhaps, she had, – for we had begun to cut apart the flesh of the dead captain and cook it in the yacht’s George Foreman grill below deck. At first it was difficult to stomach the stringy tendons and fatty slabs of human steak, especially considering the strange texture and spongy toughness of the meat and how long I had to endure that taste in my mouth. But after the initial few days my will to survive took over that dark part of my mind that tells me how it’s wrong. Soon, other moral objections followed those down the dark, inky drain as well. At night, Oprah would use me to relieve the build-up of insane frustration that amounted from her failure to locate the whale, and during those sessions I would become little more than a mindless doll to her, a sick plaything. It is those times I recall most vividly. The grinding of her coarse fatty skin against me and the guttural slapping of wet flab still haunts me. I would trade those memories for a lifetime in prison. However, these experiences could not possibly prepare me for the horrors that awaited us out there on the open sea, our tiny yacht nothing more than a white dot on the blue universe of water.

Near the end of the third week on the open sea, the arid sun having nearly dried my reddened hide, my bleached clothing threadbare and hardened with salt air, we encountered the whale. Oprah was as jubilant that morning as she’d been since we set sail, but when she spotted the beast through the spyglass that afternoon, the drool just glistened at the corner of her hungry maw. “Brace the mizzen mast!” she screamed, “close haul on the port track! THAR SHE BLOWS!!” It was all my sun-stained eyes could do to take in the massive wash of blue-gray skin breaching the sparkling ocean waves. “But Oprah,” my sandpaper voice croaked, “we’ve only one more bullet. My revolver had only the two, on instruction from Gale.” Her giant evil head swiveled around slowly to meet my wavy gaze. “We’re not here to kill the whale, Chuck.” My confusion was barely noticeable over my lifeless fatigue. “Then… why are we hunting the whale?” I asked. The massive head swiveled back towards the behemoth ahead and tilted back to let out one single ominous, skin-crawling cackle. Suddenly, her grip tightened on the boom and threw it hard to port. The boat lurched and picked up hellish speed and we began to build up speed straight at the whale, which seemed to be swimming straight at us head-on. I was hardly able to clutch the gunwale before she stomped right up to me, grabbing my collar and pulling my leathery face up to meet her grease-covered jaws, screaming, “WE’RE GOING IN, CHUCK!”

The next thing I knew the water around us began to spill hard downwards as the shadow of the beast’s head obscured the sun and threw the boat into darkness. This horrifying scene lasted only seconds before we were swept into the throat of the leviathan, the feeling not unlike the semi-weightless sensation of the drop of a rollercoaster. I screamed a frog-like scream as we dropped straight into darkness, knowing the whole fall that the last few seconds would be the last I would ever see of the sun. The yacht crashed hard against the stomach cavity of the whale, and I was thrown hard against wet, spongy innards. Recoiling from the sudden stop at the end of the fall, I was able to scrabble to my knees, feeling the soft ground stretch and twist under my knees, my hands grabbing at slick mucous stomach lining, and then a rush of hot fluid washed around my knees, and I could tell from the burning sensation that this was the whale’s stomach acid. I knew death would be long and painful. Already my ankles and knees began to tingle and burn, as my useless eyes searched blindly in the pitch black cave for some sign that this was not the end. Against the background of the reverberating, cavernous groans of the beast’s innards, I could hear Oprah’s steps, squish-squishing mere feet away, coming towards me. I could not in a billion years fathom the intent of her descent into this cave of death below the sea, much less her purpose for forcing me along in her suicide escapade, so over my reeling thoughts of torture and fury I asked her with my croaking throat, “why?”

And in a blaze, match-light sizzled to life before me as she lit the candles of a cake on a small wooden table, rocking back and forth on the uncertain stomach muscle. Above the burning orange and yellow-white of the frosting I could see Oprah’s insane, soulless eyes drilling right into my skull as she screamed into my face, “HAPPY BIRTHDAY, CHUCK!” Instantly, I forgot my ire, pain and fatigue, and gave her the biggest mucous covered slime hug I could manage with the last ounce of my strength, and hissed, “you… remembered.” With my dying breath, I blew out the candles. Death came painfully and filled with yummy bites of cake. The last thing I heard was the explosion and echo of the revolver as Oprah took her life.

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