Poet: I got a steal of a deal on turkey today! I’m unreasonably happy right now.
Accountant: So… why’s that? It’s just turkey.
P: Well, someone dropped one of those shrink-wrapped breasts on the floor, and it had already been opened, so their policy was that they had to toss it.
A: Let me guess, you–
P: Yup, got it for free! Gino was working behind the counter today and came out back on his break to “dispose of it,” i.e. let his buddy have an ample supply of salty fowl meat.”
A: Gross.
P: I didn’t see it fall, but Gino said it got picked up in about a second, and the floor was pretty clean at the time.
A: Pretty clean?
P: Come on dude, I get floor food all the time and yet never get sick. Coincidence? I think not.
A: Well… you might be onto something there, but you’ll have to walk that tightrope without me.
P: How very cryptic, yet obvious. Did you think I was going to try to share this miraculous bird boob with you? Fat chance, señorita.
A: Señorita?
P: Yeah, I’ve been starting to call white cisgender males señorita lately, to get them to question their binary perception of sexual and social roles (unless they already think about these things, in which case they’re cool with it anyway).
A: Good to know.
P: Back to the point at hand: you were insinuating that it’s only a matter of time before I ingest a floorbound grape and contract some horrific illness. Sometimes I wonder why it is that you actively root for my destruction.
A: Geez! Where did you get all that from?
P: Tonality, body language, eye movement, the usual.
A: Well it’s not true, dude! You really take things too far sometimes.
P: Yeah, whatever. That’s what they all say. All those… “people.”
A: People, sheeple, I know where this rant is going.
P: Fine, then let me localize my argument to this room and the mind straddling the body in my vicinity at the moment. I have been observing for some time that you repress your instinctual side, and the passive-aggressive comments you make on a fairly regular basis are vessels for your packing-up of creative frustration. You lob them–like grapefruits–right down the pipe and I hit tape-measure blasts from time to time, depending on my energy level at the particular moment of said pitch. My diagnosis: Boredom-itis. Prescription: Weed and painting classes.
A: Ooh, ow. Oh yeah, you really pegged me, you bedraggled son of a gun, you.
P: Glad you at least acknowledged it this time.
WHARVED 