MOSTLY SATIRE

I Was Ringwald-ed

No Michaels were harmed in the writing of this article

It was 10:35. I was in Cup o’ Joe, stroking my soul patch contemplating hard at a row of alternating pink and blue houses on a purple cobblestone street hanging by the register above the tip jar, then at the sky-blue door of the fish shanty in the picture over table 12. Then the mint-green window of a flat in London in the piece of work beside the picture window overlooking a sweaty shirtless guy puking into the planter of cigarettes and weeds by the No Parking sign.

In each picture —

—Molly Ringwald wouldn’t stop staring into my soul.

But when I left the comfy, java-infused cocoon of Cup o’ Joe, I hadn’t walked through a door of a musty, warped-floor college-town coffee shop — but through a rift in reality. I stopped on the sidewalk beside the bar-riddled street and was immediately inundated by red hair and genuine, innocent smiles.

I closed my eyes to the horror.

When I opened my eyes, Molly’s gravelly voice barked, “Outta’ my way, jackass!”

Three-hundred-and-fifty pounds of toothy, awkward beauty defied gravity and cardiovascular probability and trudged up the hill like a jalapeño popper and beer-fueled juggernaut checking me in the chest with an arm that resembled the hindquarters of David Hasselhoff. The red hair halo-ed the shy smile atop a cutoff Kill ’em All tanktop.

The smell of spoiled beef in a used gym sock wafted past me as visions of Sixteen Candles drifted through my head.

I bounced off sweaty Molly and saw that irresistible innocent smile had molded into everyone’s face, their heads having sprouted gravity-defying- Aquanet red hair.

I turned and had to step back and forth, awkwardly dancing side to side with a man with a green mohawk that slowly morphed into chin-length red hair, his mouth filled with Ringwald teeth.

Everywhere I turned there was red hair and shy smiles. The gravity of the situation pulled me to the ground.

Trampled by Mollys, I was roughly grabbed by my knockoff Nirvana shirt and cargo shorts so fast, that one of my Birkenstocks fell off.

I saw him. His scraggly beard distracted from the wreath of white fluff crowning his head. He was tall and strong — he held me up so we were face-to-face.

Standing alone in a sea of Molly’s, I saw my lifeboat. My beacon to the shore. My George to my Lenny — except where he doesn’t shoot me in the back of my head.

Before I could wonder why that reference was in my head, he spoke.

“I was today years old when I realized that Alex P. Keaton was not related to Michael Keaton.” He grew visibly morose and added, “Alas, there is no Batman connection. One is just a good anger-pouter and the other is an eternal pubescent who is endearingly conservative.”

It was right then and there I decided to change my life.

I moved to Idaho where I pump out surprisingly popular Michael Keaton and Michael J. Fox erotic fan fiction.

I blame Molly Ringwald.

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