Bizarro is brought to you today by Happy Lucky Freaky Phone Call.
When I was a child in the 1960s, my imaginary friend was a long-haired, pot-smoking, peace-loving hippie dude who played bass for Janis Joplin and whom I called, "Yip."
Yip would hang out in my room, smoking, playing his guitar and recounting stories from various bars and hotels from his latest tour. My parents were cool about it, though they would occasionally complain about the noise and the "oddly sweet smelling smoke" that always filled my room. They couldn't see Yip, of course, but they humored me and pretended they could. When I told them about the time he got so drunk that he fell out of the tour bus window outside of Indianapolis and the whole crew, driver included, were so wasted that nobody noticed until they had gotten to Cleveland, they laughed appropriately. In later years, they confessed to pressing their ears against my bedroom door and marveling at how good I was at switching voices during our conversations.
Then one day it all came to an end when they entered my room without knocking and Yip didn't have time to hide. Mom fainted, Dad called the police and I never saw Yip again.
I guess we all have to say goodbye to childhood sometime.