Simmer on a gold top hat while I button this vestibule.
Fall down and scrape that eggshell off your face.
Well I told you raptors prefer snakes over ferrets!
Beautiful, beautiful sloth babies, where have you been hiding?
Now and forevermore shall be known as the time that a little black poodle jumped the fence and onto Mr. Jefferson’s patio.
Pink flowers line the coffin, skirts ruffle under tarred feathers. An irresistible spark lights our magnolia tree ablaze and lets the entire town go to ashes. Nobody said it was anybody’s fault, but everybody’s looking around anyway. Creaking pews, clinking glasses, crisp newspaper folding and expensive molasses. These are the signs of wealth, the bounty upon which all great men must stand if they are to become regal and noble. Regal and noble they are to become as they kick wheelchairs out of their way in favor of sports coupes and solid-gold yachts. Out to sea they’ve never been, yet they puff out their chests like old sailors. They hold the floor in the local saloons as they slander good men for no good reason. We all see this time and again, but we fail to stop them. Why? They have materials that we could possibly use when they’re done wiping their asses with gold leaf.
And for the moment I was there, carving out a little place in heaven for the one they call Christy Mathewson. No, not the pitcher, like you’d ever heard of the man. I mean the exact doppelganger who never picked up a baseball in his life. Nope, not once, if you can even believe it. What kind of red-blooded American man never indulges in his nation’s favorite pastime? This particular specimen was more intelligent than average, so his disinclination to engage in sport isn’t chalked up to a lack of wits and determination. No, this man had a keen eye for balance and a genuine panache for the written word.
And so as we enter another phase of existence, we must turn to ourselves and ask: “Why are there so many penguins on the road? I swear I didn’t see this many yesterday. Did you, Gertrude? Ah well, don’t worry about it. I’m sure they’re just on their way to some fast food restaurant to get milkshakes. I believe the average penguin prefers vanilla over chocolate, because the color is truer to the hue of their feathers. Many an argument has been made that penguins would like chocolate, but there are few penguins with such brown plumage.”
Dipsy was your run of the mill birthday party clown. He had all the usual apparel–big red nose, rainbow pants, huge shoes, the whole bit. Well, almost all of it. It was on this particular Tuesday that Dipsy would grow to wish that he could afford an automobile. It would only have had to fit him and a couple of his clown buddies (but who was he kidding, he had no friends). He didn’t understand how much he needed to shield himself from the cruel reality of no-good street thugs who could spot an easy target from a mile away. Before Dipsy even knew what had happened, his inflatable wallet and waterproof watch were gone and down the street. Dipsy was by no means a vindictive man, and assumed that these unfortunate souls needed the cash more than he did. He did acknowledge how poor he was, but he at least had a gig to make it to in… shit, he had no idea if he was on time, since they’d made off with his watch too. That made Dipsy slightly miffed, but he still didn’t press charges.
As we imagine a place understood only by a select few, this establishment meant for sordid trivialities, we languish in guilt and wonder why we deserve such a dubious honor.
But then we look at the scenario once more. Sure, we’re in rarified air, but what does that really mean? Do we need this separation from the common folk?
I mean, it’s not like this McDonald’s is anything special.
Wrap me up in a curtain and give me a lobotomy, I’m starving!