We’re all a little worried about Patton Oswalt.
Having known him since we were kids, it’s obvious he isn’t himself lately. He’s depressed, lethargic, and we’re all little bit worried.
But he’s a celebrity. It’s not like we can just check him into a hospital. So my wife and I and a few other friends go on Patton watch.
I take the first shift, spending the evening with him driving around town.
After hitting a few bars, we end up wandering aimlessly through the darkened streets. He’s got a very cool, fully restored 1970s van with wood paneling and shag carpet.
I look over at him behind the wheel and ask “So… What do you want to do now?”
He considers for a moment. Then he turns the wheel sharply, crashes the van through a small wooden fence, accelerates up over a hill and down into a small lake.
As the engine misfires and dies, we sit there bobbing along.
“I kinda knew you were going to do that,” I tell him. I figure it’s good he got it out of the system.
“Holy shit,” he says. “Do you think we’re gonna sink?”
I shrug. I figure were pretty buoyant for the time being.
We drift closer to shore. Relieved, I gather up my cell phone and an old dream journals I’ve been carrying around lately.
Then Patton rolls the windows down.
The van tips in his direction and water starts to pour in. I scramble out my door and managed to step onto the shore without getting too wet.
I look back as the van drifts away and sinks.
Patton Oswalt goes down with the ship.
I wait. After a few moments he surfaces, sputtering, covered in duckweed and laughter.
Squishing all the way, streaming gray-green water, we walk back to his house.
While he gets cleaned up, I make some calls. “The situation has gotten a little bit more complicated.”.
When my wife arrives, she is particularly worried. She reveals to us that Patton has surgery schedule for tomorrow, which is the source of his depression.
“Oh, right. Is this for his penis thing?” someone else asks.
Apparently Patton was born with a very small… member. It’s haunted him for years and he’s finally famous enough (and rich enough) to afford a surgical procedure to enhance it.
Still coming to terms with this news, I realize that we haven’t seen Patton in a while. After a quick search, it’s clear he’s snuck out the back.
While a few people go off to see if they can find him, my wife and I and another comedian — I don’t remember who now — sit and talk as the sun comes up.
At one point, the comedian gets out his marijuana and rolling papers. He offers the joint to me.
I tell him I not only don’t do drugs, but have never done drugs.
He gives me a look and I suddenly feel very old and conservative, like Don Draper hanging out with beatniks.
He puts in a VHS tape from the doctor who is performing the procedure for our friend. I have to admit the before-and-after shots are impressive.
Apparently the doctor Is particularly popular with rappers. Who knew?
Sometime later, Patton returns… a changed man.
He is glowing with pride and infused with glee. It’s a relief to see him, and see him so happy again.
“It went great!” He proclaims, hands on his hips. “The doctor says I’m ready for action again.”
“I’ll be the judge of that,” my wife says.
Patton unveils his majesty and, I have to say, I’m impressed.
Not only is it quite large, both in length and girth, but the doctor has also done some sculpting as well, giving it the appearance of a cartoon shark. Fiberglass teeth complete the hot rod look.
“I’m not entirely sure that’s what ladies want…” I say carefully, not wanting to hurt his feelings.
I’m awake before he can reply.