Sunburn

From The Encyclopedia of Pointless

Goldspan's Perspective

Beat here. She like, mentioned Cheese or something so that's what you get.

Sunburns give you cancer. Not cool cancer either, sucky cancer. It sucks. I wouldn't want to get it. I might want cool cancer, but never sucky cancer. You know what I do want? Cheese. That sounds awesome right now. And I need to hire a contractor to build me a garden. A really awesome one with lots of flowers and stuff. I need it for... um... making my yard pretty. Now I just need to find a yard.

Oh yeah, I'm supposed to be writing stuff here. Um... Stuff happens and then people have sex. That is how life works. I know, I just blew your mind. Sometimes stuff happens and you get sunburned and then you die. That sucks. Dying is not as fun as sex.

• awkward pause*

Um... the end.

Maybe...

Yes, it is. Cause... I'm bored now.

Beat's Perspective

Get a job!

The creeping redness that scars our flesh and slowly transforms us into Clifford the big red dog! Well except for the dog part, I mean. To become a dog you have to go get bitten by a werewolf, and then it has to be a full moon. Unless you're like, one of those special kinds of Werewolves who can change whenever they want. And even then you're not necessarily a dog. Sometimes you're just a very hairy dude. And other times it just makes you a furry, like about half the kids on the Internet. But if you're lucky, you'll just turn into a large, mean wild dog that goes about infecting others with it's terrifying fangs. Or something.

To be honest, I respect werewolves. Vampires are always hanging out in huge castles, wearing tight leather clothing and drinking blood out of expensive chalices. Werewolves on the other hand, like, actually work for a living you know. I mean, they're just average dudes! Blue collar guys who gotta get up every morning and put food on the table and pay the rent like everybody else. It's not easy! And every morning on their way to the docks where they work loading shipping containers for ten hours a day, they glance up at the haunted mansion full of vampires, who are all slowly recovering from last night's undead cocaine party and are still wearing their evening gowns and leather pants from the night before.

I don't need Cocaine though. Robotussin 4 Life.

Paul's Perspective

Sunburn on my shoulders, bright red peeling scaling shingles. Woke up yesterday to roofers next door, went to take a pee and they were there. Eye level. coulda been watching me. Closed the blinds. Blinders on a horse. Clydesdales; I wonder if they feed the clydesdales on the leftover mash from the grain. I wouldn't, they use rice in that shit. Fucking Anheuser-Busch cheap-ass motherfuckers, advertising rice. ADVERTISING. On the label. I wouldn't even feed your dog that shit. The beer I mean. Rice is all right. If you prepare it well, anyway. Get a rice cooker. Fluffy and sticky. Or mix up some salt and sugar and rice vinegar in a pan, and some other stuff and make it into sushi rice. You don't even need the fish, just the rice. You can make sushi with it, or chirashi, or just eat it plain. Put it in a burrito. But not too much. Not like Chipotle, they put way too much rice in their burritos.

Fills up space, makes it look bigger, makes it look like you're getting more for your money. It's not bad but no burrito should have that much rice. Not even Spanish rice, just some like cilantro. Hope you don't think it tastes like soap. They should have a brand of soap flavored/scented after cilantro. Not to eat, just to scent. I wonder who would like that soap more: people who DO like cilantro or the people who DON'T. What does the average person look for in a bar of soap? in its scent? My friend made soap with his girlfriend once and made some ridiculous bullshit flavors. Like "Honey almond with a hint of ling-ling." Not ling-ling, I don't remember, but some bullshit. I guess that works though. I want soap and deodorant and general products that smell like gin. It's fresh! Juniper and pine! limes, even, if you want to get fancy. Hell, an entire line of body product made after alcohol. Get a deep, earthy scotch-scented cologne. Light, crisp gin. Sweet and savory spiced dark rum. Hoppy or dark, malty beermints. Or Irishman's Vomit, indistinguishable from the general scent of an Irishman. They got lucky over there with their springs smelling so good (or so the advertising would have me believe), but I guess it balances out with their food being bland as everloving fuck. The expansion of the British empire was all about trading tea and spices and stuff. Salt. Pepper. Some of the cruelest and deepest subjugations in history because of bland goddamn food, because maybe like two herbs grow on that entire godforsaken rock and they suck at that.

They went to India, they went to china, why? Because that's where the good food comes from. It's all about food. If people have a chicken in their pot, they're content. If not - uprising. Revolution. Food, man. The-

Weasel's Perspective

Now for the EMERALD KEY.

What is it about sunburns that makes them such horrible enemies of mankind? Is it the fact that they make us look more red than the surface of Mars is? Is it because when you get sunburn on your shoulders it is nearly fucking impossible to sleep comfortably? Is it because you can't wear socks because the skin seems to be slowly peeling off your feet, revealing the muscle beneath?

Or is it because it makes you crave for something... something that sort of acts as an information database for organic beings. As you watch the skin slowly peel off your body and the remaining flesh turn pale, you realize that you're craving for this ambrosia that is now the only object of your desire. You feel itchy but your fingernails are gone. You smell bad but you have forgotten about basic hygiene upkeep. The realization dawns upon you that you need the information contained within these tender infoclumps more than ever to stop the pain of forgetfulness. You wander your mansion home, incessantly searching for the object to satiate your hunger.

At last, you notice that a lone police officer has entered your home. You are overjoyed to see another face again and slowly shamble toward him, eager to give him a great big hug. Unfortunately, the police officer is your enemy and does not realize that all you wish to do is bring him love. He readies his shotgun and relieves you of the weight upon your shoulders.

As you lie upon the tiled floor, the officer takes the RUBY KEY from your remains and continues exploring the mansion.