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).

Just Gregs

All the glorious Steinham impressions done over the years by various people named Greg (not Gregory, just Greg) have accomplished nothing more than stoking the flames of prejudice.

I’m unsure why it’s just Gregs, to be honest. Craigs have names eerily similar to Gregs, yet they’re never culpable for any of the insane crap that Gregs seemingly can’t stop themselves from doing. Wait a minute, could that mean that Craigs have been longtime instigators of Gregs? Do they commit casual inconsistencies and blame them on the Gregs by default?

What could possibly be the reason here? To find out, I’m interviewing a lifetime Craig who specifically told me one time (over macchiatos) that he hates Gregs’ guts.

Me: Okay, but which Greg do you specifically hate the most?

Craig: Oh no, it’s all of them. I guess I didn’t make myself clear the first time

Me: Ah, that explains the vagueness of your threats.

Craig: Yeah, those “Greg” dudes don’t understand how to handle a true monosyllabic name. They were given a trisyllabic name at birth, and one way or another they managed to bastardize it to the point where you’re left with a foreshortened nub of a name that has no real meaning or context. It’s what you would name your dog, dude.

Me: Damn Craig, you really have some strong feelings about this. Is there anything else you might want to get off your chest at the moment?

Craig: No, that was really just about it. Although I do have somewhat of a bone to pick with balsamic vinegar. Are you sweet? Are you savory? What the hell are you, man?!

Me: Wow, you have some interesting priorities.

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).

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)).

Rest Easy

Enter Groucho Violent,
star of the nerves and streets,
a double threat if there ever was one.

His reputation precedes him as witty enough to turn a phrase and hard-knuckled enough to know when to admit defeat in the face of a petulant and pernicious foe who, in all likelihood, believes that their position of power has been handed down to them from the LORD ALMIGHTY, and any little rivulet of diarrhea that escapes their corpulence is to be rendered an earth-shattering development in the field of extrapersonal material management, now and forevermore.

Groucho is no stranger to the justice-enforcement arm of things. When his even-keel demeanor and righteous self-taught martial arts techniques combined on one fateful and blustery Flag Day eve, the Justice Jab was born. If you’re still unfamiliar with the singlemost effective crimefighting maneuver ever concocted by man or beast (in Mr. Violent’s last-ditch effort to uncover the overall reason as to our lack of humility when confronted with reasoning), you have some real catching up to do.

The Justice Jab is a miracle worker when the recipient of said jab needs to be awoken from the haze that they’ve come to accept over time, through sheer laziness and self-disrespect. The haze’s effect causes but is not limited to: depression, sluggishness, flatulence, lack of interest in things one would normally enjoy, unjustified sporadic agitation, and death. Such a disconcerting malady comes as a direct byproduct of this world we’ve inherited (through no fault of our own). Rather than face the music, the vast majority of we, the privileged few, have chosen to consume the content created specifically to manipulate our emotional and physical dependencies more efficiently and cheaply than cocaine ever could.

So the next time you see Groucho Violent
meting out swift street vengeance,
you can rest easy
knowing that he’s doing humanity a service.

Eatery / Watering Hole

It’s that time of year again, Linda! All the kids have been plunking themselves down in front of their TVs this evening for one reason and one reason only: The 46th Annual BacArthur Restaurant Industry Genius Grant Conferment Ceremony, brought to you by Susan and Thomas Q. BacArthur, The Gene F. and Billy D. McGillicuddy Foundation, viewers like you, and several billionaires. The festivities kicked off a few hours early this year, with a charming cocktail reception that appears primed to become a yearly tradition, should the food and beverage industry continue enjoying unprecedented growth–our economic experts unanimously agree to this trend’s sustainability as we close out 2019.

Several of the past year’s top emerging bartenders have been hired to wet the whistles of the greatest eatery / watering hole luminaries in our tri-state region. If you look carefully, you might just see the glimmering looks of magnanimity in the eyes of all these foodservice professionals as they wait with bated breath to find out who’s the lucky recipient of the prize that will allow them to explore their more scholarly pursuits for at least a week–perhaps a fortnight, depending on their current cost/s of living–without having to pick up a desperation shift at the last minute next Friday night.

Truly the American Dream, Linda.