Ben

16

The sun rose and everything fell. Except for the sun, which, as previously stated, rose. The falling was mostly done by Alex Jones, and, both luckily and atypically for him, it was good falling. It wasn’t into the unwelcoming path of a vehicle or a body of water, but rather into the blissful rapture of sleep. A few other irrelevant things fell as well, like a nuclear warhead on Yemen and a stupid child into the Grand Canyon, but the most important falling was done by Alex. He needed it. Alex had spent the entirety of the night drafting a letter to his local newspaper, endearingly and coincidentally named “Local Newspaper.” His repeated letters to Local Newspaper had rendered him effectively nocturnal; the best requests, Alex figured, came to him at night.
“Dear Local Newspaper,” it read.
“It’s me again.
I understand your rejection of my most recent proposal, although, admittedly, it leaves me slightly disappointed. If you do not recall this rejection, I’ve reattached your harshly written letter below for further examination, and, perhaps, reconsideration.

Dear Alex,
We do not possess the power to “make hyenas less happy” nor do we understand what that means.
Please stop sending proposals.
Warmest regards,
Local Newspaper

I have a new proposal.
As a child, I was often described as “petite” or “looking like a female.” Other boys would point at my high-waisted hips or my soft facial features and laugh. Often times, following these traumatic emotional punches, they’d raise their wide-set shoulders in preparation for additionally traumatic physical punches. The orthodox male physique is optimal for delivering bruise-causing and, subsequently, skin-lacerating punches.
I had dreams that my fairy-like body would lead me to a life of dancing. I used to spend late nights dancing my cares away at Donna Summer’s Boogie Bonanza Dance Club until Donna died and it was turned into something called "The Unwieldy Penis." I no longer go there.
I thought, perhaps, that I could instead take up the hobby of feeding the ducks at the nearby duck pond. To my dismay, I learned that ducks are profoundly misogynistic. Upon arriving at the duck pond the first time (and every single time proceeding), I find that Juan Carlos is there. He speaks little English, but his sinewy muscles and toned body speak for him. The ducks favor Juan Carlos. Whenever the ducks gravitate toward him, he rewards them by removing his shirt. They cheer and applaud his masculinity (You can’t hear it, but I know they’re doing it). He’s also always sweating. I’ve attempted removing my shirt, but the ducks confuse my frail body for that of a woman’s and therefore tend to avoid me.
With nowhere left to turn, it’s often the case that I’m somewhere in my mother’s house, cradling my knees and whispering the lyrics of Donna Summer’s I Feel Love ever so gently to myself for hours. My mother requested that I “leave her house because she’ll never find a lover this way.”
How can you help me? Good question.
I think it may have been God (or perhaps a member of the papacy) who said, “Bones are a privilege, not a right.” I find this statement incredibly profound. If all bones are removed from every male’s body, members of the daintier crowd (like myself) will finally feel on-par with the masculinity of other males. Biomedical research (that I’ve conducted) proves that this is possible. I understand your concerns regarding my biomedical research, which I’ve additionally attached below for reconsideration.

Dear Alex,
Please do not conduct biomedical research.
Warmest regards,
Local Newspaper

When all men take on this amorphous form, we will become more or less indistinguishable from each other. This way, we will be able to refocus our hateful energies away from feminine men and turn them toward the real problems like ISIS and hyenas. We’ll still be able to enjoy all of the fun activities that have not been forcibly taken from me, like the following:
Consciousness
Sleeping
Did you know that government-ordered executions cost the taxpayers up to 45 billion dollars every year (I’d imagine)? With my new system in place, euthanizing a death row convict costs no more than a shallow pool of water and a heavy lead weight. I recently purchased a baby pool and 30 pounds of lead for under 12 dollars. That’s it. No more squirming or resisting from those pesky bones of theirs. They’ll lie dormant under the surface of the water until they eventually inhale enough water to die.
Women would benefit greatly from my proposal as well. Think about all those abusive husbands back home. In the post-bone era, those classic binge-drinking-followed-by-beating sessions become much more tolerable. And all those vacations to Baja you wanted to go on with your girlfriends? Now your husband won’t be able to physically or verbally protest in the slightest. Plus, no more nights doubled over in the kitchen cooking your husband his favorite meal. His favorite meal is tap water now. It doesn’t matter. What’s he going to do?

Look, the point I’m trying to make is this: I really want this to happen.

Please do this.

Yours now and forever,
Alex Jones”

Alex woke up several hours later, glazed in a post-sleep syrup of sweat and literal maple syrup. He picked the letter up from his desk and read it in the light of a new day. It was good. Too good, perhaps. He was shaking at the sheer power that this letter possessed. It was his best one yet. There was no way that they could reject his request this time. He walked to his door, clutching the letter in his hand.. As he glanced outside at his mailbox, revelling in the imminence of the future, he almost felt bad. “Almost,” being the operative word there, as in, “he never quite got to the point where he even felt remotely bad.” His shaking was due entirely to self-involved excitement. All it took was a trip to his mailbox, and he would be assured a perfect life. It was a cold fact that Local Newspaper would finally carry out his request. Alex stared at the door handle and slowly turned the knob.