Help! I am a 42-year-old man who has been stuffed in a remote gym locker since high school. Can't anybody hear me out there?! I remember their ruse of showing me "something really cool" that was supposedly in the back of the locker. Then some big guy slammed my skin-and-bones body inside, and I've been here ever since. I've lived off of old "Spirit Club" candy wrappers and the paper from a box of Zepplin albums I found. There are also roaches (both the insects and kind to wrap pot in), bongwater, and water from the leaky ceiling. The janitor was in on the whole thing from the beginning, so he just laughs and calls me the spanish word for "geek" when I cry out at all hours. I'm not sure where I am, since I havn't been able to move more than six inches for 20 years. They've apparently built a whole new wing around me without anyone noticing. I try to call out to the few kids that come by here, but they just turn up their I-Pods. Plus, nobody reads my blog, since all my cultural references end with Styx. One of the jocks that put me here is now chief of police in my suburban town, and I suspect that he's ordered everything hushed up. No use rocking the boat when an emaciated man that looks like one of "The Mole People" suddenly turns up after being declared missing in the first Reagan adminnistration. If you receive this missive, please call my Mom, though she might be dead by now. In that case, try my old D+D buddy Billy McCheever.

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Keith Campbell <keith.maclean@gmail.com> wrote: