Things We’d Like to See in a Perfect Parallel Universe

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  • No necks
  • No one has a chin but me.
  • What if, instead of having a regular mouth, like, we had the mouths from the movie Alien, where the alien had a mouth inside of his mouth.
  • Everyone’s always a little taken aback.
  • 2 more Jonas Brothers
  • a Tinder where you get pictures of nearby people you kind of know but don’t know well enough that you have to say hi to them and you swipe right if you don’t want to acknowledge them and the app let’s you know if it’s mutual
  • “That’s So Raven” is still on the air, but Raven is getting older, and she’s living with her increasingly estranged father Victor, who has become addicted to morphine and can no longer piece together a sentence. The show’s ratings are at record lows, but the cast and crew are forced to continue the show for my viewing pleasure. Raven occasionally addresses the camera by my name, fear in her eyes, as she reflects on what’s going on or offers personal character reactions. She and the rest of the cast are under a contract to keep the show running until ten years pass or a principal actor dies. They are confined to the studio, with isolation breaches allowed only to sign autographs for me. I burn them.
  • Every human baby is born with a dedication, “To Janelle”, printed across its chest. No one knows why.
  • The moment someone dies, their body recites the entirety of Jeff Foxworthy’s stand up set “You Might Be a Redneck If…”. They cannot be stopped.
  • A world in which some people are taller
  • No egrets
  • Butt nipples.
  • OJ that finally comes premixed with toothpaste so I don’t have to do it myself
  • Only one rule: no rules. It’s a bloodbath.
  • Elevator music is death metal
  • Every month is called “the last month”
  • Not only does chocolate milk come from chocolate cows, but every object in the known universe comes from a cow of a corresponding type.
  • Instead of domesticating animals, developing specialized labor systems, and inventing the infrastructure to support settlements, early humans spent all of their effort playing rock and fucking roll. It is 1873. And still, a single city has yet to be established. Nomadic tribes roam the earth, in great caravans, miles and miles long. They strum from huge guitars carved from mountain rock and rhinoceros horn, carried on the backs of sleeveless, denim clad techies, each string manned by seven to eight ‘pluckers’ who pull the wire, a tense mass of tree trunks and reeds, down and up with every note. There are no sleeves in this world. And no goddam posers. The drummers went underground millenia ago, forsaking the overworld for the reverberant stone and mad acoustics of the earth’s interior. They are now the stuff of fables, mystical creatures that exist only in the imaginations of children listening too long to the drunken ramblings of an aged sound board technician performing lore-songs beside the campfire. Still, some guitarists whisper of seeing drummers emerge from within the rocks, their bodies pale and lizard-like, covered in tattoos and runes, their arms hideous and bulging, their fingers hardened and stretched over years of competitive evolution into organic drumsticks. Some tribes believe the drummers feed on the overworlders. But no one can be sure.
  • Some kind of alternate dimension where you just leave me alone, mom

— Staff

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