HOW I MET YOUR MOTHER (2005 — present) is a television show about a man’s narration to his children on how he met their mother.
12/01/09 | Television

How I Met Your Mother

by Joseph Goosey

Everything was cold and snot went zoom down my nose and onto my nipple and she said are you ok and I said of course not.

My cat is dying, I told her. My cat is dying and I failed the Law School Admissions Test even though that test is not administered on a pass-fail basis.

I understand, she said, handing me an avocado slice. None of the dresses I ordered and paid for are coming in from eBay. The bank won’t cash my checks. I eat ice cream every night with a boyfriend who pretends to fall asleep because he can’t stand the sound of my speeches on the vegan lifestyle. Have a cookie.

She handed me a white chocolate macadamia cookie. I ate it and went into the bathroom puked all over. The front desk clerk appeared to be moderately concerned. I thought about shoving her up against the shelf of free VHS tapes, lifting up her popular culture skirt, and stirring my eggs inside of her. I refrained.

She asked:

Do you like Bradbury?

No.

Do you like cake?

No.

Fireworks?

No.

Spent time in the asylum?

Briefly.

Jail?

I wish.

Traffic court?

Frequently.

We entered the elevator and failed to designate our respective floors. She kneed me in the balls. I liked it. She could tell that I liked it. She bit my lip. I didn’t bleed so she bit it again. Sometimes I think blood is lemons and lemons are delicious.

Science fiction novels, she began while running an index finger along my lemons, often have nothing to do with science but are actually wholly political in nature.

I prefer neither science nor politics, I said. I prefer screaming across the sides of Pacific cliffs. I prefer for a burning, wax-like hollandaise sauce to be poured all over our quivering thighs.

Correct, she said, inserting that index finger into her mouth. Tell me your favorite, she barked.

My favorite?

Your favorite. What is it?

Well, I said, I guess that one time I knew a woman whose last name was Rosenblum but then her daughter got chopped up in a speed boat propeller because the speed boat operator had eaten too many Roxies. The woman held a séance with four friends in the basement of her local library and insisted that her daughter showed up and smacked her across the face. Now her name isn’t Rosenblum anymore it’s Smith but she refuses to admit that her name was ever Rosenblum at all. I suppose that is my favorite. Yes. That is most certainly my favorite.

That’s acceptable, she said. I want you to punch me in the face while thinking of marmalade.

I’m not sure I’m very in love with marmalade.

You’re a genius, she said.

Can I think of blackberry jam instead?

Then the atmosphere went yellow and all I can tell you is that we have been chugging pints of Anchor Steam together in this same pub every Saturday since.