The Banana Splits

It's never a good idea. It was never a good idea when I was a teenager or in college; but it's an even poorer idea now in my mid-thirties. Why I still do it is beyond me.

Mads, my Norwegian companion, came home the other night with a bunch of tabs of acid.

"I got a great deal," he said.

I was watching TV with our good buddy Ben, discussing the possibility of him starring in a Daredevil 2. We looked at each other and shrugged our shoulders.

"What the hell. You only live once, right?"

As acid trips go, it wasn't bad. I was feeling pretty solid, until I was coming down, and I saw all these scary things on the television. There were people in weird animal costumes running around doing silly shit. Their voices were dubbed in a mixing booth somewhere else. The bad laugh track I was hearing made it even harder to deal with.

That's when the racism started. There was a cartoon that made fun of Arabs. Then the people in animal suits went to a Confederate soldiers parade. I cringed as the animals walked around waving Rebel Flags. Finally, there was some serial called Danger Island. It had a character named Chango or something. I was waiting for Al Jolson to dance in in black face, it was so bad.

I was about to lose it entirely, when the next thing I knew, Bob Ross was on the screen painting fluffy white clouds. I couldn't believe it. It must've all been a crazy acid induced dream. I told Mads about it.

"You're a fucking moron. The acid wore off long ago. We were watching The Banana Splits. I saw the whole thing with you."

He must've been fucking with me. Yet, when quizzed, he knew the same minute details of the show I did. I waved my hand in front of me. It looked all right. I shook my head. No trails. I paused.

"Mads, you mean that show was real?"

"That was The Banana Splits. Don't you remember it?"

"No, my mom wouldn't let me watch it growing up."

I thought for a second, and looked around the room. Something was off.

"Hey, have you seen Ben?"