beat a gift egg
in the horse.
beat a gift egg
in the horse.
Relative anger need not dominate discourse
for at least another half a millennium.
Such vitriol achieves nothing
other than misunderstandings and bloodshed.
We don’t need that contrariness in our lives
on any kind of basis, let alone a consistent one.
Give it a second thought and then toss it
out the window, because that’s the last time
it’ll ever be addressed. You can
mark my words on that, or my name isn’t
Phineas Q. Arlingfestration Gimbleblotz III.
And even if that isn’t actually my name,
do you really need some stranger’s endorsement
as justification for being a decent human?
May god have mercy on us all.
Jeffery Wildlessness is quite perturbed
when he learns of his betrothed’s
useless dental insurance policy,
which permanently prevents her
from receiving adequate treatment
due to a loophole that would
irrevocably alter both of their lives
in the upcoming drama:
“Dental Insurance from Hell”
starring Wenzel Dashington
as the firm but affable yoga teacher.
Bajillion Peregrinus started his day off right today–with a succulent cobb salad and a couple of margaritas. Slippery slope, margaritas, but as a denizen of the night, Baj has always managed to avoid that whole “too early in the day to imbibe” faux pas. However, considering the depth of his late-night cavorting, he often finds himself breaking that rule by pulling all-nighters and keeping the party rolling well past dawn.
This particular day wouldn’t normally prove to serve Baj’s personal agenda, seeing as how he needs to knock out some domestic drudgery and then immediately tuck into a full-blown work shift. Not very much time to himself at all. Just another one of those days. It’s not like he’s not used to this kind of treatment; he’s become quite accustomed to it at this point. Bills and impulsive expenditures (food delivery and designer headphones) necessitate his daily drudgery–for the most part. The remaining part of the pie chart (as far as he could figure): his intense, immense sense of self-loathing, which he quietly carries around on his shoulders like a hobo’s bindle–not too heavy, considering the unbearable lightness of being, but always noticeably uncomfortable.
As far as he sees it, he figures that the self-deception is a byproduct of his unfulfilled human potential. Well, not his own perception of failing, but the societal norm facilitating the “us vs. them” mentality that sends the vast majority of rat racers into skill corners, where they’ll proceed to bang their foreheads against brick walls for the rest of their lives, restricting whatever semblance of freedom to a 15-minute meditation session sometime between breakfast and work (otherwise known as their morning commute). The mental elasticity of previous generations is systematically eroding.
Baj is rather sensitive and internalizes most everything he comes across; most of the time he has no idea how it will surface, since the nature of the universe is that of uncertainty and chaos. In the case of human devolution, however, Baj knows for a fact that people are losing their sheen at a rapid clip.
Because of all this, Baj understands that, no matter what he does, he will always come up short in a financial sense. Just as his mother and father had, and their mothers and fathers before that, and so on and so forth. He’s recently begun to trace back his lineage on one of those newfangled ancestor websites, all the way back to a point in medieval Europe where some sort of town fool or drunk owed a debt to the local magistrate, and the interest is still accruing to this day.
Intermittent bouts of solemnity douse the overall taramasalata stallion festival, though not for lack of trying, as Mr. Finch would tell you over a certain batch of sour grapes (the varietal is not a matter of import at this time). His method for reaching extraction technology milestones may only be described as giddy triumvirates of spellbinding skullduggery punctuated by ornate grandstanding of the second-to-highest order (the highest order being wallaby interferon proceedings that benefit only the best and brightest marsupials of any given generation, whether or not we view that as classist).
it’s truly a marigold.
But you know what?
It’s this very kind of
that I’ve been meaning to avoid here,
amongst all the sordid
that seems to define our times
all of a sudden.
Wasn’t integrity of character
ever something to strive toward?
Maybe not in this system of
checks [cashed] and balances [slashed].
Though perhaps I’m as guilty
as any other layabout milquetoast out there,
lounging around the house
sipping my pink lemonade martinis
(my live-in mixologist’s proprietary recipe)
and grousing like one of my commoner counterparts.
I preyed upon myself
through lack of imposed restriction
and dearth of self-shepherding.
Anything was–and still is–possible
when given the proper attention
or suitable elbow grease.
But who did I think I was fooling?
Certainly not myself:
Enigmatic Pilgrim Extraordinaire[!]
performing dichotomous dives
into shallower waters for all to watch–
on an annual basis.
I could have sold tickets
to these affairs. At least then
I wouldn’t be mired in so much debt.
If only I brandish a magic wand
and distract that Paleolithic peabrain
while my other hand composes tarantellas
or masters new guitar chords
to incorporate into the cliché magnum opus
that I’ve been planning since,
oh I don’t know… birth.