Whatever it might mean,
I don’t want anything to fly
off the handle when I float
the news into your ear canals.
The messenger is never to be shot
by the recipient, for the fatal assault
would label the assailant
with cowardice for the rest of his life,
you hear me? That means years
in soiled jumpsuits and bland meatloaf for lunch.
I’m keeping my eye on you, Brutus.
What are you, 250 pounds? Jesus, you’re huge!
I might go buy a police bullhorn
so I can give you the news from a block away.
The telestrator really had a kick tonight, didn’t you think so?
Oh, I meant stratocaster. Don’t you roll your eyes at me!
Of all times to ignore me, this is your silliest yet.
How can a person eat cereal and grin like that?
Of all the places to ignore me, this is the crummiest yet.
How can a person pay 75 cents to fill his tires with air?
Of all the methods for ignoring me, this is your grimmest yet.
How can a person shove their entire arm into a honey pot?
Are you finally going to listen to me?
Of all the asinine comebacks, this is the filthiest yet.
How can a person know if their mother serviced USO show volunteers?
My name is Slapdash Claptrap Dingalingdong.
S. C. Dingalingdong, to you.
I was born with this name.
My parents had no part in it.
I’ve had a combative personality for most of my life.
I joined the military, wasted some enemies in combat.
Now I’m Colonel S. C. Dingalingdong.
Just call me Sir Yes Sir.
Anything past introspection is too much to bear–
cave-dwelling associations spring to mind, replete
with dank corners and piles of old books.
You hear it come from a minute away at about sixty miles an hour,
only to turn on a dime and squeal away with pie in its pants.
The dispatcher was a bit quick that time, but it’s no problem;
you’re used to it by now. Thought you didn’t have the time.
Squeeze it all into a sleeping bag sack and toss it over a bridge.
Who cares what the bridge covers? Let’s just call it a river, nosey.
R: This tiramisu is stale. Any chance you have something fresher lying around?
J: This tiramisu is only two hours old, sir. We make ours fresh every day.
R: Two hours, huh? I guess my palate is sensitive to restaurant bullshit.
J: Excuse me, sir?
R: You made it two hours ago and threw it in the fridge. I’m not eating this.
J: I’ll be happy to take it back and replace it with a new dessert, on the house.
R: Yeah, you’d like that. Some four hour-old chocolate cake, yesterday’s cannoli. You’ll stop at nothing to humiliate your customers’ good tastes. I’m outta here.
J: Sir, your check!
R: You can handle it. [huffs away]
J: No, I can’t afford $400 for a single meal when I work for tips five times a week! Pompous bastard.
One line is all it takes to fill a page.
Anyway, I’m looking across the room from under my ten dollar straw hat and I see the source of the odor: a potato chip bag with a hole through the bottom. I grab my hat and hoot at the waiter to get that sorry ass bag out of my sight, and he obliges immediately. It’s not typical of me to shake a man’s hand after such a menial task, but I really think he did a bang up job on that litter.