Stalky the Stalker – A Valentine’s Day Tale

In honor of Valentine’s Day, I’ve decided to post an excerpt from my life story, The Life and Times of Car Johnson. (Well, fictional life story, since I’m not actually a real person, just a character in a book. Yes, fictional characters are becoming self aware and starting their own blogs. Beware!)


Stalky the Stalker

I started being stalked a few weeks ago. Someone kept following me around, leaving notes on my car’s windshield, telling me how much they loved my singing and how my hair reminded them of a burning trash fire and they wanted to shave it off and weave it into a shirt. After reading these notes, I danced for joy. Someone actually liked my work enough to stalk me!

So, I saved every note in a scrapbook and shaved my head and left a box of hair on my car for my stalker to find, even adding some toenails into the mix. A few days later, I found an envelope attached to my windshield, with a photo of a rockin’ Car hair shirt inside, plus a thank you note written with my toenails glued to a piece of yellow construction paper. I showed them off to my family and my girlfriend Candy, then had them laminated and glued to my bedroom ceiling, so that I could look at them while I was going to sleep at night.

My stalker, who I decided to name Stalky, started to leave little Car dolls scattered around my front yard, each one made out of a different type of candy wrapper and with a small origami cow fetus in their tiny hands. Candy helped me gather them all up and put them around my house, creating a mini-army of myself to cheer me on while I went about my day. They smiled at me with their foil mouths and gave the house a happy vibe.

To thank Stalky, I made a six foot tall statue of what I thought she looked like out of old yogurt containers and stuck it on my front lawn, along with a special note:

Stalky (may I call you that?),

I just wanted to let you know that I think you’re awesome and I’m glad you chose to stalk me. If you ever want to get together, I’m all for it, but I know that might be impossible… since you’re my stalker and all.


I made you this statue. You are a six foot tall female mime, right?

Forever stalked,


Stalky replied to my letter by tying a giant stuffed Car dummy to the tree next to my house, dressed in some clothing that had gone missing from my drawers and wearing a necklace made out of photographs taken of me in various places around the city. She also left a small note embroidered on the dummy’s chest. Meet me at the abandoned amusement park on State Street – tonight at 8 pm. Tell no one.

Yippee! I was going to meet my stalker! So, I spent the next twelve hours picking out clothes I thought would impress Stalky, finally settling on a pair of pants made out of AstroTurf and a white tee-shirt with “Officially Stalked” written on it with black magic marker. Then I cooked up a big batch of microwave popcorn and put it all into a giant garbage bag to sling over my shoulder and present it to my stalker like Santa.

After putting another layer of raspberry infused olive oil into my hair, I drove over to Joe’s Happy Palace, a once thriving amusement park shut down for graphic images of gruesome diseases and the fact that most of the rides were made out of painted over Popsicle sticks. All the way over, my heart beat faster than a mechanical monkey powered by espresso. What did Stalky look like? What would we talk about? Would they like my new greasy hairstyle?

Well, now was the time to find out. I parked in front of an old diorama of a family suffering from flesh eating bacteria and looked around for my stalker. There, in the shadows, was a figure holding up a glow in the dark sign that said “Car’s Stalker.” I stepped closer and a shaft of moonlight cast down on their head like one of those cheap flashlights that don’t have much power, but work okay, so you never throw them out.

My heart stopped at the sight of her. The woman before me, my own special Stalky, was my girlfriend Candy! Her more obsessive personality had been so quiet lately that I’d forgotten all about it. This, though, was way more involved than anything she’d ever done before. There was no denying it. This was the most romantic thing anyone had ever done for me.

The end.

I hope you all have all have a wonderful Valentine’s Day with your special stalker.


Idiot’s Manifesto

My mother’s favorite line was “they can suck on that.” She’d it say after doing whatever the hell she wanted. I try to live up to her example. People always say things like, “You can’t say that, Car” and, “You shouldn’t eat that, Car”, or, “That isn’t edible, Car.” I just give them the finger and continue to do what I was doing. (Unless it’s something that’ll get me arrested. “Disturbing the peace.” What kind of law is that?)

And you know what? People respect me for having my own mind. My friends are always following me around with cameras. There are a bunch of YouTube videos of me floating around the net. The fact that they’re all titled “idiot does x” really doesn’t mean anything. I could never gain respect by normal means. It’s not like I could become rocket scientist or a famous tennis player. Being an idiot is my shtick. Everyone has a special talent and mine is doing things other people find insane.

There’s an art to being my type of idiot. It isn’t just running around wearing a cape and pretending to be Superman. It takes a bit of genius to race through the city in nothing but a pair of cellophane shorts, while pretending to be the invisible man.

And it’s not like I’m stupid. There’s a difference between being stupid and being an idiot. A stupid person walks by a tree and just sees a tree (or maybe they think it’s some sort of funky looking telephone pole.) An idiot walks by the same tree and thinks that a couple of oversized rubber bands attached to the branches would make a great slingshot. A stupid person stares slacked jawed at a funeral procession and wonders why traffic suddenly slowed, while an idiot sees a perfect opportunity to ask the black veiled widow out on a date. (And that’s actually worked a couple of times.)

If I was stupid, I’d be dead by now. You need at least half a brain to make it through the things I have. I’ve been burned, beaten, cursed, cooked, clobbered, stabbed, steamed and otherwise maimed. Of course, most of my survival and success has been through blind luck, but not all of it. I even went to college. It was a massage academy and I just did it to be able to rub the butts of pretty girls, but that doesn’t change the fact that I went. Of course, I was kicked out for attempting to create my own escort service, but I got good grades until then!

And it’s not like I don’t read. Mud Wrestling Weekly has very interesting articles. And I have a whole collection of books and none of them have pictures. Reading is a great way to pass the time if you’ve accidentally blown out your fuse box trying to see just how electric an electric eel really is, or if an angry ex has sent you to the hospital and the television in your room only plays one cable access station.

And I’ve read all the classics. Well, I’ve watched the movies and borrowed my university attending cousin’s CliffsNotes, but it’s practically the same thing. That makes me even smarter, since I don’t waste my time reading long piles of wordy crap that are only famous because they’re old, and I still get the basic info so I can chat with all those egg heads who most likely didn‘t read the books, either.

Did I mention I won an award in high school? It was for the best and most creative use of a contraption built for one of those egg drops. I modified a cannon and shot an ostrich egg (don’t ask me how I got it) over the heads of the student body and faculty. Actually, that just got me suspended for three weeks. My mother created the award to make me feel better. I did end up a legend in my school because of it, though. It made up for the fact that most of my peers called me “that ugly kid who always tries to sell us homemade soap after gym class.” (This was before my plastic surgery. Back then, the only girl I ever slept with was the creepy chick who collected the toenails of her crushes and wore them around her neck as some sort of talisman.)

So, I may not be the next Einstein, or even the next CEO of CBS, but I’m not the next Gomer Pyle, either. I am an idiot and proud of it. Idiots of the world, unite! Wear your shirts made of shag carpet and your bottle cap jockstraps. Laugh in the face of danger, even if that danger is an oncoming train. And above all, no matter what anyone says, don’t try to wire up your own homemade microwave. Trust me, I know.

-This is an excerpt from my life story, The Life and Times of Car Johnson. Yes, even fictional characters can have life stories.