patch them in before they tell more stories of doom.

the man glanced at his wristwatch.
10:32 p.m.
"Damn," he thought. "I missed more than half of 'ER.' Now i'm never going to figure out who did what to whom, who fucked up and who's getting fucked. Everything's fucked."
He knew he was probably going to miss his favorite show in the whole wide world that night. But he had other things to do. Things that were more important than watching TV.
The man leaned down and looked at his keys before inserting them into the tiny, grungy keyhole that lead to his castle.
"Castle. That's fucking hilarious," he muttered, while glancing around the shabby studio apartment. Dirty clothes were strewn everywhere. A couple of t-shirts on the couch, one stuck behind the couch that was spattered with blood from the stupid ass papercut he got the week before; piles of newspapers cover nearly half the floor of the cramped one-window apartment; dirty dishes sitting underneath the table simply because he was NOT going to clean those fucking things anymore; a weakly bubbling fish tank with several dead fish floating on top; and a knotty old recliner containing exactly 3 1/2 beer cans (one was ripped in half), two crusty plastic plates, and a ripped towel.
He picked up the remote and clicked over to 'ER.' Dr. Benton was pissed again. Goddamn, that dude is always mad! What's up with that?
Just then he heard a crash behind him.
"What the fuck?" he yelled while standing up quickly and glancing around the room.
On the ground lay a beat-up aluminum can, one of those old thick aluminum cans that coke and pepsi used to use in the 1970s.
There was a white piece of paper wrapped around the entire can, with the words "Unknown contents" scrawled on it.
"Oh no!" he yelled.
He bent down and picked up the can, split in the middle as if somebody had split the can apart with some sort of cutting tool.
He looked inside, spotting a small round object wrapped up in white cloth. It was oozing with some sort of thick, gelatinous substance.
The man pulled apart the cloth and put the object on the kitchen counter.
"Not good," the man muttered. "Not good."
It was a human eye, staring back at him. It was warm and gooey, with a small puncture on the side in what was formerly the corner of someone's eye socket.
The man knew this was not normal.
But he wasn't surprised.

Tune in again for more exciting and wondrous adventures of "the man who has an eyeball in his studio"

i am very tired monsignor.