Ukulele tragedies beget other instances of monstrous buttress shattering, save the few modern conventions we [the contemporary sample-chompers of northwest Indodelphia] have been taking for granted lo these past several weeks.
But fret not, a squalid interpretation of the Menomenina Walk of Fame will never sully the legacy set forth by the downtrodden experts who sought the anthropological understanding previously granted by theologians–and subsequent scientists–throughout the generations, only to come up short when confronted with the fickle nature of exaggerated Middle American townsfolk, their collective backs up against their respective walls and in no position to exercise caution anymore.
As a younger man–though old enough to know better–I once navigated a rather cryptic epoch during which I chose (wholeheartedly or pigheadedly) to stick with my plague-rich mentality of promotional ice cream lotteries, confident in my god-given ability to strike it rich. With my trusty two and a quarter inch nail at my disposal, I scribed the five luckiest numbers ever known to man and beast in my favorite subterranean cave, positively declaring an end to the ceaseless turmoil of fumbling around in the cosmic muck for a few measly digits that–at one of my lower points–I thought would elude me as long as I were to inhabit this particular body. I then hastily chucked good ol’ Rusty (that’s what I called my long-suffering galvanized friend, knowing that his kind doesn’t rust for decades–a joke we shared on countless occasions) into the nearest ravine, a flourish that would–by all accounts (payable or otherwise)–bring this self-imposed trudge to a meaningful conclusion.
Boy, what a boneheaded mistake. No sooner than I’d comforted myself with that symbolic nail toss, a magpie hopped on by and casually reminded me that the most lucrative lottery drawings typically have six numbers. I wept, knowing that I’d severed the most rewarding relationship of a lifetime under the false pretense of a free scoop of rocky road at a participating Neddy’s® Frozen Custard.
I shaved and went back to my old CPA job.
Don’t knock the verdict ‘til you’ve read the effervescent love stories of an older gentleman who reminds us all that a lake of justice may only be multiplied by itself as many times as would be appropriate for a spam wrangler embroiled in a cosmic prayer for guidance.
And not that we’d have to succumb to the specious reasoning
subjecting border collie manifestations to undue criticism
simply because of their perforatory nitrous oxidation theories;
as hair-brained as they may sound to the unindoctrinated few
with access to local channel 16.17–WESC: “The Glaring® Sound
of Beatniks All Around”–a smidgen of trust
for our ovine-herding counterparts will doubtless reveal
innumerable quality chicken sandwich sources within
a seven-mile radius, and for that we should stand and applaud.
tweaks recognition, that
of carnival barkery.
At its finest,
you’ll see Jeffrey Finito——
attractive man of misery
and attentive sham of Mister T——
down the underweather pass to
transfer schmaltz patterns
to his underwater dentist’s
one schmutz at a time.
scraps of litter
like they have a
mission to distract
from the vague commissary indiscretions
plaguing our unions and,
generation of handicraft hamburglars
and overwrought Jangle-Changle Men——
while they can still stand
Goodman-gambling jam-a-matrons sorting flame-retardant restraint algorithms——with a turkey atop the sundae for maximum flavoring——would be the thing I like to observe on the days when it’s rainy and there aren’t any suitable forms of chocolate pudding lying around on the ground floor with a tambourine satchel hanging from the rafters like a discombobulated raccoon taking steroids to prepare for the big race (which, sadly, may never come).
furry Nielsen ratings
to be meted out
over the course
of several media-consuming generations,
whether we like
the toast on these croutons
The damn megafauna just had to make a point of sinking into the same bogs as each other, an act of cliquey defiance of the edicts decreed by the lord of all our enchanted brethren, stunted today and tomorrow (though the past never posed much of an issue to them). To be perfectly honest, we all never should have interrelated so quickly. As it stands, the majority of our mammal-to-mammal relationships fade rapidly into the carpetbagging alliance that supposedly would have reconnected the Jabberwock’s offspring through social media penetration, for better or worse.