The exquisite misfortune of running into such a plucky, unlucky band of stooges (we can get into their whole deal at a later date) seems to have gotten my blood boiling just enough to reach the base camp upon which many valiant knights have trodden, though few have ever reached that precipice and thought “maybe I should turn around while the going is good, no sense in letting my head get too big.” You know, someone whose head inflates to the size of a respectable novelty beach ball isn’t the sort of person who also would have considered bringing a helium tank along for the lightening of average air density within said cranial cavity, rendering him utterly unfeasible for casual rock concert use.
Category: Abstract
MonkeyMoney®
Who told you the Kerplunketts had more to say about a particular sauce pan or arbitrary bagel strategy than I do? They don’t know a damn thing about honorary ombudsmen or the never-ending sequence one would normally associate with a guerrilla Cruella Deville kinda thing.
But one must not distract from the fact that innumerable steel MonkeyMoney® generators–installed gradually over the course of the past several generations–have only now begun to bear fruit in the way their creators had intended from the start.
It would appear as though our sanctimonious steelsmiths have contrived their “fix” to the public discourse just enough to lull the unthinking masses into a period of deceptive comfort that swiftly comes to a close as the recipients of the easy life (white people) are rudely awoken (but rarely awakened).
Roly-Poly
Endangered,
becoming radlerified by the dozens,
the pulsating schooner and
soon-to-be beer schnitzel founder matrix
has gotten one step closer to inverting
McGillicuddy’s flounder station ingress.
Something like a flower empowerment extravaganza
for the sake of all that is roly-poly
and nothing much more than that unless
you’re really looking for a tangential crime
to pin on the succulent ape tendril, chilled
(in season between September and July).
I poured myself a Laura Palmer and sprang into action,
working harder–certainly–than any chimp I’d ever seen
(though still a paltry output when compared to our founder
and glorious leader, Ubaldo: Eagle Veterinarian to the Stars).
Just Fine
Chicken cartridges
bestow great tidings
upon the nevertheless grand
mineral campaign engineers,
even if you choose to ignore them,
just like so many others out there.
What a callous move to make
if you want to get anywhere
in this city council race.
These chicken cartridges
could just be our ticket
to easy street, fella.
Just calm down and
do as I say,
and we’ll be fine.
Just fine.
Typecast
A palletful of organized criminals has just suffered the worst possible fate imaginable–at least from the vantage point of an ordinary human with access to some kind of means (or even just innate privilege). The fate? To be typecast as tycoons when they’d really prefer to just joust about with their bodacious buddies at their weekly jousting outing. Is that too much to ask? The sunflowers sure don’t think so, no sir. No sir, indeed. Just catch up to that vacant laundry (propelled by propane gas) and hand me that cheddar–while we’re young. The cheddar, however, must be somewhat aged (24 months, or best offer). It will complement the sunflower seeds we’ve sown over the past couple months. That, and the red-berry jelly.
Youse
The caddie to-do wasn’t ever much more
than an anglerfishworth of gender trappings;
our souls’ faint inner-shirkings
beg to interrupt the rat race formula
so conveniently laid out for us.
Failure is a foregone conclusion
when you stack the chips a certain way.
Of course, we all must stray
from our internal clocks
for the convenience of our plutocratic overlords.
Demean yourself so you can put food on the table,
then you’ll be the richest of us all, I tells ya.
Then maybe one day you can afford
to take a ride on the merry-go-round
of solid gold. Only one ride though,
are you crazy? We’re not running a charity here.
Or perhaps it would be easier to imagine that we are,
if that’ll help you sleep at night. Anything
to shut youse up for a couple hours, you’re exhausting.
Now go play with the TV in the other room for a while,
and try not to get electrocuted like last time.
The High Road
An intricate series of hoofprints
on the stale lithograph
we’ve come to call home
has bled insignificantly–
but not unnoticeably.
Yes, that’s correct. Hoofprints
have bled just enough
for this observer to comment.
Now, I’m aware that there are countless crackpots
who espouse the virtues of anti-vaxxers and birthers,
and this would be right up their alley.
However, I choose to take the high road.
A wise individual once told me
that the low road is the slipperiest,
because the maintenance people need to mop
more often than on the high one
(they have the kind of smelly chemical
floor cleaner that doesn’t dry as quickly
(and they’re always out of wet floor signs)).
WHARVED 