Monday, October 13, 2008
So I took one of the napkins down from the shelf and spread it out on the TV tray where I was planning to eat lunch. It was a fine plan, but untenable. The bats I was keeping my eye on were unquestionably itching for a fugue. I played them one but still they mocked me, made me their figurative bitch. A literal bitch lived in my utility room, a very small one with webbed toes and a cute wet nose. I tackled everything from math to science, and everything in between, but no results attached themselves to my origins in the fields of western Kentucky. My bruise was threatening to swallow my charm bracelet, cutting off circulation to low-lying areas, including but not limited to bogs and mires. The captain's tires were shredding finely over the valley, were being skidded along without a care. My job was to contain the bejesus out of Old Hickory, the mayor of Casterbridge, last I heard. Yep, somebody got to him, and you know who that would be. Fortunately I never put much stock in his company, nor in that of his sister Elmyra. Hey man, I can't help it, I just get the willies every time I look at the silly old cow. It's messed up, dude. You can't even get a pint of, I don't know, beer or whatever unless you decide to show up unannounced, cultivating a false sense of security in the hearts of your dearest enemies. Not a bad idea, some would say. Not the worst at any rate. It seems they are looking for you, the constable said something, I don't know, something about you, General Grant, and widely spaced planters on the mall. Good, at least I know you're listening. Now don't let him feel you up the way he did me. Oh, it was fun at first, but as soon as I realized that he'd never speak to me again, I maintained a household comprised of over thirty members, each calmly assigned the task of butchering each other like, well, you don't want to know. I really can't say enough for them, but then again they say it so well themselves, I don't know why I'd even try. They play it as it lays, and then some. Who cares whether the rules are followed to a T? What matters is that mushrooms are no longer capable of abstract math, and I take the blame, despite never having entered into an agreement that could be construed to ensure such trivialities. Time is running out for them and they know it. It skates away like ham into the ether, the banjo music of the era. Your harmony, honey, is tied to another epoch.